Flashback Fridays: Dinner with a millionaire

Flat Iron district, New York, 1998
My roommate at the time was not very clean. The bathroom had 2 inches of mold in the corner the day I moved in. She would let her cat lick her finger and then lick it herself to get whatever food the cat had left there. Going home after work was not very appealing. Eating dinner there was even less so. Which means that for months I ended up at Au Bon Pain to eat a soup (with lots of free bread) while reading compulsively 18th century British novels.
One night, however, I was so tired that I even considered going home. Irresolute, I stood at a corner next to the Flat Iron. A man wearing a cheap suit and fake Armani glasses approached me. He was a millionaire, he said, and would resolve my problem by inviting me for dinner. He apologized that he not take me to Le Cirque, since it as too late to make a reservation, and then proposed an Indian restaurant on 6th street (average bill: $10 per person.) He bough a (cheap) bottle of wine on the way (although I warned him I didn’t drink). Towars the end of the dinner, after drinking most of the wine by himself and telling me all about his “house in the Hamptons” as well as his multiple yachts and helicopters (private jets are so naff,) he started to (lose it and) ask me a few questions:
Alleged millionaire: So what do you do?
Lily: I’m a… (think, think, Lily) secretary!
Alleged millionaire: But you are studying to be something more, right?
Lily: Eh… no!
Alleged millionaire: You should study, or at least read! Do you read?
Lily: Oh, yes, absolutely. I’m very literary*. I read Cosmopolitan AND Glamour!
Alleged Millionaire: You see: that’s why women don’t make it. They always expect people like me to take care of them. They don’t want to grow. And in your case, it's even worse. You are a foreigner. You came here for a chance to improve your life. And what do you do? Work as a secretary. No ambitions. No culture. Pfffff. Who would want someone like you?
Lily: Oh… I always believed that "imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charm."**
Alleged Millionaire: Suspicious stare (Was that sarcasm? Was I quoting Glamour? Is Glamour being written by eighteenth century writers?)
Lily: Candid stare.
Alleged Millionaire: (Starting to sound slurred) Well, don’t worry, I’ll take you on my yacht. Maybe there you can learn to be useful.
Lily: Giggles. I would love to. (Dream on f-er!)
At the end of the dinner he was so drunk I had to walk him home. He lived on 5th street, in a run down building that screamed unemployment or useless sales person who hasn’t seen a commission in years. When we said goodbye, I left something in his hand: a business card with my title as W_ magazine's executive editor. I would have paid a dinner at Le Cirque to see his face when he woke up.

*Inspired on the Sex and the City's “Modelizer” episode.
** Quote from Jane Austin’s Northanger Abbey.

Lily Doolittle?

Today seems to be in "fast forward," which means no time to write. But wanted—at least—to post the link to the free e-text for George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. It's "bloody" good. I could use a few sessions with Professor Higgins myself.

Spanglish nightmare

Literally. I woke up with a dream fresh in my mind. I was saying: "Send tu recomendación." Like it was normal. Or OK. Shame on my Spanglish subconscious.

The other Uruguayan

The other day I was waiting for a friend at a coffee shop. I was reading a Bryce Echenique book, when I was accosted by a thin, pale guy in his early 30s.
-Is it a good book? he asked. My ex-girlfriend—a Peruvian poet—recommended it to me.
Amazed at how much unwanted information he gave me in just one sentence and amused by his languorous look ruined by thick glasses, I answered that yes, the book was great, that it was not in the magic realism style, which characterize Latin American authors, but more in a strange Woody Allen turned Peruvian in Paris style.
He introduced himself: he was a sculptor from Uruguay, had lived in NY for five years, and was considering moving back. He was here visiting his sick teacher (90 year old). He just arrived that day and was even carrying his luggage with him. When my friend came, he wanted to invite us for a beer at the Burp Palace (the best place for beers ever) but my friend dismissed him without mercy (she hates artists, unless they are especially hunky.) He looked so forlorn that I couldn't stop myself: I invited him to the party we were going afterwards: the party of another Uruguayan artist.
You see—there are almost no Uruguayans in the world, and even less in NY. So the fact that I came across two Uruguayan artists in one night was just too bizarre/funny.
When I got to my friend's party, I said:
-My birthday present to you is another Uruguayan artist.
-That's impossible. I have not met an Uruguayan since I left Uruguay as a teenager.
-Truly, I just met one at the coffee shop.
Everybody laughed at me thinking it was a good joke until we saw a thin shape carrying a huge carry on coming into the bar.
The other Uruguayan artist.
When I left at one a.m., both Uruguayan artists were equally drunk and happy in a strange, symmetrical way.

Ripley's Believe it or not ad of the week

Magazines are folding. Internet blog-papers are imploding and, in the words of two girls who came out of Penguin Publishing "There has not been a worst time for writers since the Middle Age, when, like, seven people could read." When I read this kind of ad (posted last week in Craigslist) I tend to agree with them:
"That's why pnn.com, a new blogging community for women, is looking for a highly creative contributor to cover the complexities of navigating relationships with our girlfriends, significant others and even co-workers (if you still have them). And yup: This is a paid job. You'll get $100 per month to start."
Since when has writing become a free commodity? A hobby that makes less money than a lemonade stand? Can somebody go and kick these people's ass?

Collectible words

I'm collecting words that are difficult to pronounce for foreigners. Up to now, some of my favorites are:
-Downheartedly
-Pizazz
-Thoughtful
-Taught
-Genre
Any brilliant suggestion?

Flashback Fridays: Finish, Belgian... it all sounds the same

East Village Cinemas, January 2005, New York.
My friend Julia had a date with a guy whose job was to destroy toys* and since she felt a little freaked out (reasonably), she asked me to tag along. I would not be a third wheel. I would have my own toy destroyer or similarly employed guy. Since it was like 12F, we opted for the cinema. Before the movie, they were showing the preview of a very intense and dramatic Finish movie.
My very unattractive, freaky date: I guess you must be laughing your ass off.
Lily: Eh?
Freaky (for short): Yes, you can understand all the jokes. You speak the language.
Lily: Me?
Freaky: Yes, yes, you, come on, tell me the jokes!
Lily: But that's Finish. I'm Belgian.
Freaky: Are you sure that wasn't Belgian? It really sounded like Belgian. I am SO sure that was Belgian. Come on, don't be mean!
Lily: Really, it is no Belgian. It can't be since there is no Belgian.
Freaky: Ha ha ha, I know you would be a witty one. Come on, baby, teach me some Belgian.
Lily: Tu Kann aller zum fücksteinch dëineself!

*seriously, it's a real job, they call it "pre-employment testing".

So relieved...

...that Top Chef is taking a vacation of judge Toby Young. He's quite un-funny and un-witty for a Brit.

A Peruvian State of Mind

Rereading Bryce Echenique's La Vida Exagerada de Martín Romaña but really excited about my latest acquisition, Travesuras de la niña mala, from Mario Vargas Llosa. Since both are Peruvian, here are a few funny words in Peruvian Spanish (with pronunciation tips!):
-Cachimbo - kah-CHEEM-bow - Recently matriculated university student.
-Calato - Kah-LAT-o - Naked.
-Chancha - CHAHN-chah - A bottle of beer, soda, or another drink shared among several people.
-Chibolero - chee-bowl-AIR-oh - Someone who dates generally younger people.
-Huachafo - wa-CHA-foh - Tacky, repulsive.
-Huevear - wave-ee-AR - To screw with someone, also to mess around.
-Lorna - LORN-ah - Stupid/annoying.
-Misio - MEE-see-oh - Poor, broke.
-Tombo - TOME-boh - Policeman.
You can find the complete list here.

The "ethical" life

An "interesting conversation" with Salim, a New York taxi driver I had the (mis) fortune to meet.
Salim: Are you married?
Lily: No.
Salim: I know you, New York girls: it's all about sex. You change boyfriends like shoes. That's normal in men. Men are dogs. But women should take care of themselves.
Lily: Eh...
Salim: I know you are upset but believe me, you have to change your ways. You need to live the "ethical" live. Get a husband and build a life together. Have kids, work and buy a house. What you're doing now is bad and you'll pay for it during many reincarnation.
Lily: Eh...
Salim: How do I meet this man, you ask? Well, I'll tell you, it's not about love, it's about common goals. For example, I can find you a nice husband. It would not cost you very much and then you can marry. At first for papers, but then you'll realize that you can stay with this person for life. Who cares about feelings! Life is about long term investments.
Lily: Eh...
Salim: And if you're American, even better, I can help you make some money. Nice Latino men for you. Husband and cash. Isn't it a great deal? Papa Salim loves to help. Here is my number. Call me.

Mourning for a "Yes"

Still can't believe Chávez won the referendum by 10%.

Flashback Friday - Blame it on Rio

For a few weeks, Fridays will be dedicated to reminiscences. Sorry, feeling nostalgic lately. Also, life has been quiet and nice. Which I guess is great, but very productive when it comes to posts.
--
October, 2002 — Rio de Janeiro
I'm staying at the house of a friend of a friend of a friend who decided to take (literally) poor me to Rio's Yachting Club. We are sitting at a table, sipping fruit juices and watching how people greet José Serra—the PSDB candidate for president who although a favorite with the elite, ended losing against Lula. Everybody has a tan and wears Gucci. I'm green and my clothes (the good ones) are H&M. Suddenly, a strikingly handsome man in his late 40s sits at our table. After explaining that he just arrived from Sao Paulo, where he was racing his antique Alfa Romeo, he faces my way and asks:
-So, where do you live in NY?
-In Astoria.
-Why would you do that to yourself?
-Ehh...
-You should always stay at the Trump. The service is much better there than at the Waldorf Astoria.
-Eh... right. Talking about service: more fruit juice anyone? I'll be right back... 

The amazing ROI of immigration policies

According to a post in the Latin Americanist "a $2 million grant was spent on the hidden border cameras and the result has been eight arrests and four drug seizures."
That is a ROI of minus how much? And then we complain about Ponzi schemes and wasteful rescue packages.
(...)
Wondering: How many martinis can you get with $2 million? Hum... Approximately 165 thousand... Or one a day for the next 450 years.

And now I'm being followed by the Dalai Lama

On Twitter, that is.

I'm been followed...

...by someone named (or should I say screen-named?) VaginaDrum. On Twitter, that is.
The Vagina Monologues. Sex and the City Vagina paintings. And now VaginaDrum. Great.
What's up with vaginas. And why does that word seem to be the new feminist flag for English-speaking woman? Can we go back to burning bras, please? Especially the itchy, fake lace ones?

When it comes to culture, size does matter

I have beautiful hands. Or so it seems. Lily has been telling me so for years (Oh, Bart, you could pose for Rodin...) and I just answered: whatever. The other day a photographer friend saw my hands and said: "beautiful hands." In a Pavlovian fashion, I just answered: "whatever." "No, seriously," continued my friend, "I'm shooting this Latino juice campaign and I need a hand model to grab the can, would you mind doing it? I would pay for the manicure." Hum... a model. "OK, I'll do it... because of the free manicure," I lied. I didn't want him to know how flattered I felt.
The following day I showed up with my manicured hands (I made sure they remained well moisturized) and proudly grabbed the can.
The photographer moved here and there, went up on a little cube thingy, then went down on his knees.
To no avail.
It seems my thumb is to short to grab a Latino juice can.
They gave the job to a Mexican hand model.

More evil tongue twisters

"If a Hottentot taught a Hottentot tot
To talk ere the tot could totter,
Ought the Hottenton tot
Be taught to say aught, or naught,
Or what ought to be taught her?
If to hoot and to toot a Hottentot tot
Be taught by her Hottentot tutor,
Ought the tutor get hot
If the Hottentot tot
Hoot and toot at her Hottentot tutor?"

This one is rated 5 martinis. Very dry.

Evil Tongue Twister

"I thought a thought.
But the thought I thought wasn't the thought
I thought I thought."
Tongue twisters like this and sentences such as "Although I ought to be thoughtful" are what drive me to martinis.

My day in numbers

Amount of things to do: 391
Brain speed: 99238 trillion cps
Level of cherence: 0
Number of brilliant ideas in Spanish: 0
Number of brilliant ideas in English: 0
Number of brilliant ideas in any other language: 0
Number of tasks accomplished till now: 0

I am SO f..!

When it comes to layoffs, is there a magic number?

Everyday I hear about a different company starting a new round of layoffs. Which is freaky. But what makes me curious is that all of them decide to shed approximately 10% of their force. Not 15%, 43% or 6%. The number is always 10%. Is this a magic number? Is this the percentage of people you can cut without affecting productivity? Has it been proven in a study? And, does it apply to American corporations only? Or to the rest of the world as well?
(...)
PS; Won't talk about my suspicion that some companies actually relish cutting 401K matching, health insurances, and other benefits. I also suspect that—although the economy may recuperate* in time—we, the workers, have lost more ground in 6 months than we have gained in the last 20 years. The system maybe going under, but the surviving corporations will come out of this as lean and mean machines. Emphasis on mean.

*The "may recuperate" is because I'm a born pessimist. Also, I grew up in Venezuela. And that country never improved. It kept going down and down, despite people saying it couldn't get worse. Lesson learned: it can always get worse.

What's next? Oblige us to wear an armband?

Really scary piece of news.

Some odd results of the cultural melting pot

Some "intriguing" rolls at MamaSushi, a Dominican sushi place:
The MamaSushi: chicken tempura, bacon, cream cheese, lettuce & topped w/ sweet plantain
El Campesino: crispy salami, crispy white cheese, avocado & topped w/ sweet plantain
The Merengue: salmon, avocado, cream cheese & topped w/ sweet plantain
I have to admit I'm tempted by the the Campesino. May even trek all the way to Washington Heights... Or maybe not.

And then they say Hispanic copywriters suck!

Wtf?

I want my baby to speak English!

Last Friday, I was having dinner with Bonito at the U_ Restaurant in Tribeca. The place is tiny and always crowded, so we ended up on the (micro) communal table (bingo!). Next to me were a blond woman (just turned 30, highlighted hair excessively blow dried and mother of a firstborn) and her husband (dark paste intellectual glasses, hair gelled and skin pink from harsh scrubbing, which inidcates moderate to out of control germophobia). While I was sipping a delicious martini (leechee rasbery), the couple were discussing what they were looking for in a nanny:
Him: I think she should speak Spanish.
Her: Spanish? Why? I want my baby to speak English!
Him: Yes, and the baby will speak English. But Spanish is becoming more and more important. Also, if the baby hears another language, it maybe easier for him to learn a second language in the future.
Her: I don't want my baby to have a Spanish accent! I want my baby to speak English!
Him: But...
Her: Besides, we don't speak Spanish.
Him: But for the future...
Her: Exactly: the future. What about his Italian. It may impair his Italian!
Him: Italian?
Her: Well, if he's going to speak a Latin language, let it be Italian. At least it's glamourous.
Him: silently picks at his food and then puts on the sadest smile non-financialy related I've seen on a banker for a good while.