argentina (NEW!)

    

argentina

     There was not a single ugly person in Argentina, except for us rugby players. We were hosted by a team who played on the grounds of their vineyard. We feasted on blood sausages

and drank mucho deliciosa vino. Somehow I became some sort of interpreter for the team since i knew how to order 'aqua con gas'. A retarded interpreter. The perfect rugby analogy. The guy with multiple concussions that they depend on for random acts of senseless violence. The man that goes head to head with their most-violent assortment of sub-humans, the tight five. Definition. This guy now becomes the key player in real life as well. My “translation” method was simplicity itself. I simply would put an 'O' on the end of an English word or try some French on them. To team mates it looked as if I spoke Spanish, which was hilarious.

Rugby teams do that “Tom Sawyer” thing with me. The fence needing paint was the scrum. A scrum is a nasty place for a sensitive soul. They took one look at my bull neck and said “prop.” The prop is the focal point of sixteen dudes trying to push each others heads out thru their respective bowels. At the time there were occasional news articles about paralysis in rugby, circulated when I started to play. And the other ones about how the French will bite you, how rugby players eat their dead. Movie link “Alive” When 8 big dudes are jamming their heads and necks against eight other troglodytes, shit happens. We used to really bang in there, like mountain goats. Idiotic fun. Grr.

So the genius Tom Sawyer, rugby captain takes on look at the new recruit, fresh off the farm and says prop. City slickers. I protested that I was a wing forward, the free ranging and elegant antelope of rage and destruction. They said prop. This was Washington DC, home of the National Champions. We would pay them twice a year and they would destroy our team, Club Sud Americana de Rugby. The props would have to face off with the Irish National Selection for the US Eagles, Gerry MacDonald. He made props want to quit playing rugby. This is why there was a position open in their front row. What did I know? Nothing. I knew that the only other alternative was to let a Beta male get eaten up alive in the scrum. I knew that I was not fond of losing. I knew that fear was a powerful incentive to listen and learn a new skill. Those guys were total assholes, They would typically taunt both of your teams as they demoplished you and then blow off the party. Laughing as “one-armed-willy” would club you with his stump as you tried to tackle him. That shit hurt. But pain is another great motivator.

So some rugby geniuses decided to sacrifice my neck to the rugby gods like a Mayan virgin, but something else happened. I ate that shit for breakfast. I channeled my fear and rage through my hyper competitive Napoleanic mentality and a new kind of creature was born. They called me “Magilla Gorilla. In college I was known as “buffalohead” or “Sasquatch”, depending on who you talked to. Division one mens rugby in the same division as the defending national champs. This was life in the fast lane and it suited me just fine. Sure, there were many times on a Sunday morning when I had to crawl to the bathroom, but I could usually slowly limp there by the afternoon. Usually. And since my bar-tending shift started at four, there was incentive to get out of bed and move. My neck would often not swivel until Tuesday or Wednesday, forcing me to turn my whole body to check my mirrors in the car, but fuck it, I was a 23 year old force of nature. Wrecking shit. Someone had to be the fission rod in that nuclear reactor. That was me and my neck and no problemo. I had some issues to deal with myself. They needed a brute, I do not like to lose, and I was able to get some real work in, on the weekends. Real anger counselling, the catharsis of violent real life cause and effect. Punch me? Stomp you.

      There was another guy on the trip who did speak some Spanish, but Spanish numbers are tricky. He What he thought were two reasonably priced hookers at 50 pesos were over priced at 500, but we were already in the room, and he was a stockbroker or something. The hookers washed us off in the sink beforehand. Very professional. Poor fellow was suffering from performance anxiety in the single bed next to mine. I left to go to the adjoining room, but some combo of alcohol, stage fright or something just took the guy off of his game. I was ready for round  two so I chased his girl around a little with my boner playfully. Then the African Prince woke up and quickly got involved. As I wasn't part of the financial equation any longer, he wanted them both. Money talks. bullshit walks. I walked. In Argentina they say "Leche,Leche" when they want you to produce a milky glandular substance. I learned that one by context. Real vocabulary gains are made when the language is understood contextually, automatically. I was saying baby, she was saying milk, we figured it out. Here at Action English we have many ways to learn from single mothers who only speak spanish. 24 hour languages services, delivered to your hotel room. Ask about our mid-week specials.

    We had a wonderful game with another team near the gambling Mecca at Mar Del  Plata. The Payaya plate was huge, full of huge shrimp with their heads still on, antennae entwined with clams and other mollusks, Chorizo and chicken. Served in a huge round shallow pan, enough for two hungry rugby teams, beautifully presented and a food highlight I still wake up tasting.

The conversation over this dish was simple. "prop,pillar, prop,pillar" was the extent of conversation with my opposite number there. But sometimes that  is all you have to say. Hospitality, smiles, more wine? Why not? Gracias! Muchas Gracias!te was huge, full of shrimp and other seafood. "prop,pillar, prop pillar" was the extent of my conversation with my opposite number there. But sometimes that  is all you have to say.