3.27.2004
Party At Ground Zero
I awakened at noon on the dot, without a trace of nausea in my gut and without the wet, gray cloud of grogginess that's been circling over my head since I arrived on Monday. Perhaps it's the fact that today our weather has been merciful; sure, there's still a touch of sunlessness, but there's warmth tempered by a nice breeze occasionally floating in. I was worried that today would have been a sequel to yesterday's ongoing battle with physical misery. I rolled into work around 2 pm and despite my best attempts, found it impossible to put myself back together. Imagine a fatter, paler Humpty Dumpty after his fall, and you'll get the picture. In fact, that reminds me of a frightening drawing a saw years and years ago, when I was a child: it was the cover of a book of rhymes featuring Humpty Dumpty lying in pieces but still alive, his eyes full of pain and terror surrounded by a pool of yolk and fractured eggshell. I was profoundly disturbed.
(I'd like to add that at the time of this writing I'm at Lucky's Cafe in Tremont, and that the 80s satellite station is playing an XTC song I don't know but am profoundly enjoying. Why is it that almost every time I hear an XTC song it sends me into pure pop exstacy?)
Last night the New Lou Reeds played a reunion gig of sorts. Keep in mind that I've been gone for quite a while and that the band had to solider along without me on the 18th of this month, where it last played at Touch Supper Club with somewhat less than satisfactory results. That is to say, according to Stephe and Jeffo, that the gig was a dud. Ben, from the Dreadful Yawns, was asked to fill in me in my absence, and I've been told that he passed with flying colors. This time I was back in the fold, and after one quick n' dirty rehearsal, we bellied up to the Beachland bar to play with our new friends the Volta Sound and raunchy Mississippians The Preachers' Kids.
Due to a logistical screw-up on my part, I didn't have the Big Bass this time around (the Fender Jazz). I asked Beachland staffer Dave Geddes (formely of the Volta Sound) if I could borrow hisSG-lookin' bass. The exact model name eludes me, but if you're curious enough to follow that link I just posted, you could get a rough idea of what it looks like, except without the pickguard and the overall flashiness of the pic. I was happy to play an instrument that had seemingly a fraction of the weight of the Big Bass, yet at the same time, the lightness of the bass didn't instill the confidence I needed to really dig into the drums. The action was low, too--that's referring to the height of the strings, for those of you not in the 'know'--and even though my fingers have lost some agility due to my vacation from music, I still felt as if I was overpowering Dave's bass. Why, I think I may have been knocking the poor thing out of tune! At the same time, the Gibson sounded pretty hardy, and when I switched around my positioning and played with the head of the bass pointing upward (kinda like an upright bass, if you will), things made more sense to my hands, ears, and brain. When I was done with our set, I told Dave that his bass was 'very masculine'. That was the only way I could really phrase how I felt: it just didn't have the kind of reaction and suppleness that my more 'feminine' Fender has. Nonetheless, it played well. Just different. See where I'm going with this? Yes, in fact, I AM a weirdo, and you should count yourself lucky that I'm using some silly gender-specific metaphors as opposed to my usual culinary verbiage.
I'm sure you've had enough of this post for now. I am going to clock out of this joint, light up a smoke, and walk from Tremont to Ohio City while Graham Parker rocks the hell out through the speakers above my head. Who knows when it's going to snow again? I might as well enjoy the relative beauty of today while I can.
(I'd like to add that at the time of this writing I'm at Lucky's Cafe in Tremont, and that the 80s satellite station is playing an XTC song I don't know but am profoundly enjoying. Why is it that almost every time I hear an XTC song it sends me into pure pop exstacy?)
Last night the New Lou Reeds played a reunion gig of sorts. Keep in mind that I've been gone for quite a while and that the band had to solider along without me on the 18th of this month, where it last played at Touch Supper Club with somewhat less than satisfactory results. That is to say, according to Stephe and Jeffo, that the gig was a dud. Ben, from the Dreadful Yawns, was asked to fill in me in my absence, and I've been told that he passed with flying colors. This time I was back in the fold, and after one quick n' dirty rehearsal, we bellied up to the Beachland bar to play with our new friends the Volta Sound and raunchy Mississippians The Preachers' Kids.
Due to a logistical screw-up on my part, I didn't have the Big Bass this time around (the Fender Jazz). I asked Beachland staffer Dave Geddes (formely of the Volta Sound) if I could borrow his
I'm sure you've had enough of this post for now. I am going to clock out of this joint, light up a smoke, and walk from Tremont to Ohio City while Graham Parker rocks the hell out through the speakers above my head. Who knows when it's going to snow again? I might as well enjoy the relative beauty of today while I can.
3.25.2004
fever to tell/fever to spread
I have returned to Cleveland with very little gladness in my heart. Mostly what fills me at this point is an unnameable illness.
On the very Monday of my return I was struck down hard by food poisoning. By the time we'd scoured the center of Buenos Aires looking for gifts, knicknacks, useful items (for instance, sweaters, to help us deal with the 40 degree differential we'd be facing upon our return to Ohio) and other touristy items, I started feeling the first flush of illness. By the time we got to Ezeiza airport, I was a wreck. I found it impossible to lift anything or walk in a straight line or have a coherent conversation. Had I not been ill on Saturday I don't think my reactions to the food poisoning would have been so violent; however, I didn't have much of a recovery time. Only one mere day.
We went to a pharmacy at the airport where I purchased meds to quell the nausea. I can't remember the name now. I do know that in the States it can only be purchased with a prescription. There, they practically handed me the thing for a mere $15 pesos. That's five bucks, American. I dosed myself with it, and thankfully, it did the job. However, there was still the matter of the 11-hour flight ahead of me.
I won't go into extensive detail about that. Suffice it say that it was one of the more illuminating yet painful experiences of my life. I've learned that when I become gravely ill, I start hallucinating. I'll tell you, this isn't the worst thing ever. If the flight was simply one long fever dream, I wouldn't have objected: the waking dreams would have made the cramped quarters and general discomfort I always experience on trips quite a bit more bearable.
However, I did finally become good and thoroughly sick at some point during the flight. That is something I'd only wish on my worst enemies.
After that long haul and various periods of losing lucidity, I made it back to Cleveland with the family. Since then, I haven't been quite the same. I don't have much energy or what one might call an attention span. Whatever has cursed me refuses to release its hold on my body and mind. Furthermore, I'm experiencing culture shock. It even feels strange to write so extensively in English.
Until my illness breaks for good, I am NOT going to be having an ounce of fun. I will try, however, to re-integrate myself back to the world of rock n' writing. Good friends and family will definitely be a part of that recuperation period.
And long, hot baths, too. I feel like such a milquetoast--tea for breakfast followed by a hot bath. No Argentine asados or empanadas or rush hour Buenos Aires midnights or endless oceans of stars dancing above my head in Vista Alegre. Nope. It's all gone now. All I've got left is this nausea.
On the very Monday of my return I was struck down hard by food poisoning. By the time we'd scoured the center of Buenos Aires looking for gifts, knicknacks, useful items (for instance, sweaters, to help us deal with the 40 degree differential we'd be facing upon our return to Ohio) and other touristy items, I started feeling the first flush of illness. By the time we got to Ezeiza airport, I was a wreck. I found it impossible to lift anything or walk in a straight line or have a coherent conversation. Had I not been ill on Saturday I don't think my reactions to the food poisoning would have been so violent; however, I didn't have much of a recovery time. Only one mere day.
We went to a pharmacy at the airport where I purchased meds to quell the nausea. I can't remember the name now. I do know that in the States it can only be purchased with a prescription. There, they practically handed me the thing for a mere $15 pesos. That's five bucks, American. I dosed myself with it, and thankfully, it did the job. However, there was still the matter of the 11-hour flight ahead of me.
I won't go into extensive detail about that. Suffice it say that it was one of the more illuminating yet painful experiences of my life. I've learned that when I become gravely ill, I start hallucinating. I'll tell you, this isn't the worst thing ever. If the flight was simply one long fever dream, I wouldn't have objected: the waking dreams would have made the cramped quarters and general discomfort I always experience on trips quite a bit more bearable.
However, I did finally become good and thoroughly sick at some point during the flight. That is something I'd only wish on my worst enemies.
After that long haul and various periods of losing lucidity, I made it back to Cleveland with the family. Since then, I haven't been quite the same. I don't have much energy or what one might call an attention span. Whatever has cursed me refuses to release its hold on my body and mind. Furthermore, I'm experiencing culture shock. It even feels strange to write so extensively in English.
Until my illness breaks for good, I am NOT going to be having an ounce of fun. I will try, however, to re-integrate myself back to the world of rock n' writing. Good friends and family will definitely be a part of that recuperation period.
And long, hot baths, too. I feel like such a milquetoast--tea for breakfast followed by a hot bath. No Argentine asados or empanadas or rush hour Buenos Aires midnights or endless oceans of stars dancing above my head in Vista Alegre. Nope. It's all gone now. All I've got left is this nausea.
3.22.2004
is that all there is?
i am sad to report that i will be leaving argentina tonight and arriving in cleveland ´round 8 pm.
i never much comment on my state of mind on these pages, but this is a special case. suffice it to say that i´m a little bit bummed.
enough hand-wringing. i´m off to get a bite, then do a few family things before heading to ezeiza airport tonight.
see yous in the funny papers.
e
i never much comment on my state of mind on these pages, but this is a special case. suffice it to say that i´m a little bit bummed.
enough hand-wringing. i´m off to get a bite, then do a few family things before heading to ezeiza airport tonight.
see yous in the funny papers.
e
3.21.2004
...more tales from Calle Cordoba
I´d send you a link to the hotel we´re staying at, but I can´t find it right now. Suffice to say I got to know it very, very well, yesterday.
After kilometers and kilometers of walking from the Hotel, which is on Calle Cordoba (Cordoba St.) to the Retiro train station, we took a bus ride to the neighborhood of San Telmo, which is one of the touristic hotspots, namely because of its place in the argentine myth of tango. All the old streets are there, with shops, restaurants, and rickety streets, all with beat-up sidewalks and narrow streets and the old buildings that give the place it´s old 40s charm. We walked into a feria de libros(book fair) that had me aching about the fact that I really couldn´t spend any money; there were so many wonderful old collectible books and posters that I could never find up in the States. What little dough we had we invested into eating at a restaurant on Calle Dorego. We ate sandiwiches of mortadela and cheese, and I drank maté cocido, which is the herb yerba in a little teabag served with hot water. Normally one would drink maté with the yerba in a little gourd with a metal straw called a bombilla, but this is another option. It´s delicious, invigorating stuff.
Despite the lovely view and the good meal, I felt pretty lousy. In fact, I´d been feeling pretty lousy the whole day, from the moment I woke up. Achy and lightheaded. The long haul on foot back from San Telmo to the center of Buenos Aires and the heat (about 80 degrees) didn´t make it any easier. By the time I got back to the hotel, my head was swimming and my body was simmering with seemed to me to be a fever of some kind.
I konked out--or at least tried for several hours. I came to a bit, only to start talking to myself about this, that and the other thing. I was simply talking to myself. It was like coming down from some drug. I was in a great deal of pain but couldn´t stop having conversations with the air as ideas were popping into my head: songs, conversations about cartoons (yes, really--like little movies with very vivid reenactments), and the like. Finally, they stopped, and I feel into a restless sleep as the fever beat me mercilessly. Whenever I woke up, I lost my mind again, and instead of succumbing, I spent the time checking out marvelous performances by Juan Carlos Caceres and a tribute to the great tango singer Roberto Goyeneche sung by such modern tango singers as Adriana Varela (I´m putting her here because she´s one of the only ones I remember, and, most importantly, at her age, she looks pretty damn fine). Watching them kept my head together.
Meanwhile, my sister had contracted some stomach illness from drinking tap water. As you can imagine, Saturday was no fun. I did manage to go out, but only with great effort; it caused me pain to even lift myself off the bed and get dressed only to toddle down the street oh-so-slowly. At least my delerium brought me some pleasure. This time I felt like I was dying.
Today, things are quite a bit different. I´m still weak and a little bit slow to get my move on, but the fever has altogether abated and I´m glad to say that even my sister is being her bubbly self again. I´ve been moving around up and down the streets of Florida, Lavalle, and there´s some kind of acto going on near on the huge Calle 9 de Julio, which I´m now going to try to photograph and document today. It´s a nice day out; I couldn´t think of a better way to recover than to mill around the streets of Buenos Aires some more.
After kilometers and kilometers of walking from the Hotel, which is on Calle Cordoba (Cordoba St.) to the Retiro train station, we took a bus ride to the neighborhood of San Telmo, which is one of the touristic hotspots, namely because of its place in the argentine myth of tango. All the old streets are there, with shops, restaurants, and rickety streets, all with beat-up sidewalks and narrow streets and the old buildings that give the place it´s old 40s charm. We walked into a feria de libros(book fair) that had me aching about the fact that I really couldn´t spend any money; there were so many wonderful old collectible books and posters that I could never find up in the States. What little dough we had we invested into eating at a restaurant on Calle Dorego. We ate sandiwiches of mortadela and cheese, and I drank maté cocido, which is the herb yerba in a little teabag served with hot water. Normally one would drink maté with the yerba in a little gourd with a metal straw called a bombilla, but this is another option. It´s delicious, invigorating stuff.
Despite the lovely view and the good meal, I felt pretty lousy. In fact, I´d been feeling pretty lousy the whole day, from the moment I woke up. Achy and lightheaded. The long haul on foot back from San Telmo to the center of Buenos Aires and the heat (about 80 degrees) didn´t make it any easier. By the time I got back to the hotel, my head was swimming and my body was simmering with seemed to me to be a fever of some kind.
I konked out--or at least tried for several hours. I came to a bit, only to start talking to myself about this, that and the other thing. I was simply talking to myself. It was like coming down from some drug. I was in a great deal of pain but couldn´t stop having conversations with the air as ideas were popping into my head: songs, conversations about cartoons (yes, really--like little movies with very vivid reenactments), and the like. Finally, they stopped, and I feel into a restless sleep as the fever beat me mercilessly. Whenever I woke up, I lost my mind again, and instead of succumbing, I spent the time checking out marvelous performances by Juan Carlos Caceres and a tribute to the great tango singer Roberto Goyeneche sung by such modern tango singers as Adriana Varela (I´m putting her here because she´s one of the only ones I remember, and, most importantly, at her age, she looks pretty damn fine). Watching them kept my head together.
Meanwhile, my sister had contracted some stomach illness from drinking tap water. As you can imagine, Saturday was no fun. I did manage to go out, but only with great effort; it caused me pain to even lift myself off the bed and get dressed only to toddle down the street oh-so-slowly. At least my delerium brought me some pleasure. This time I felt like I was dying.
Today, things are quite a bit different. I´m still weak and a little bit slow to get my move on, but the fever has altogether abated and I´m glad to say that even my sister is being her bubbly self again. I´ve been moving around up and down the streets of Florida, Lavalle, and there´s some kind of acto going on near on the huge Calle 9 de Julio, which I´m now going to try to photograph and document today. It´s a nice day out; I couldn´t think of a better way to recover than to mill around the streets of Buenos Aires some more.
