Thursday, August 1, 2013

Trail of a Lonesome Gringo (III): Cards

I keep telling the fucking guy, the dude in the mirror, that holy shit, he looks exactly how I feel!  It’s uncanny.  Just un-fucking canny really.  Every time I go there, be it crying or snoring, he looks exactly as how I feel.  Anyhow, the night of the card game started off like no other night, a few very different people crammed into a small room in some small town in Chile.  I kept thinking how funny it was that certain traits existed.  For example, people from California seem to have a very distinct vibe.  They use words and contexts in such a cool and funny way.   It’s almost ultra-personal, so that despite no one else understanding exactly what the words mean, the ideas get across quite easily, as well as the vibe of the whole deal.  It’s quite excellent and pretty entertaining in the right contexts, the right chemistries.  So as night fell, the game began, without my even really realising it, and uncannily everyone fell into place to make a comedic situation which I could write about, especially because English people are so fucking funny when they’re drunk.  Like what’s-his-face out of Black Books.  Anyway, I’d never played the game before (I’ve always played the game), but everyone was all like, shit, where are we and what are we doing, and where in gods’ names did our inhibitions go?  So it was funny of course.  Si, claro.  I was outnumbered a hundred to one, but I played anyhow.  Bitches everywhere, in the most conventionally respectful way possible; it’s just funny to refer to them that way sometimes, especially if you’re a spot of testosterone (if that) in a cloud of oestrogen, struggling to rise for air but pleasantly accepting of the extensive moonlight shining all around you.  The night was so young the whole time, like a night that never got out of the house.  Those are generally the best nights too!  An Australian dude, an English girl, two Californian Americans, an Austrian and a German, as well as a Chilean host.  I mean, fuck…it just makes the best juice.  For one, how funny is it how English people get drunk as fuck and tend not to pronounce the ends of words, so they’re all like leaning on their shoulders and mumbling shit that sounds again like it’s from Black Books: “No-, but-, I fough- ‘at ‘a ‘og ‘as ‘arin’ a’ me!”  Honestly.  It’s so hard to write, but so easy to laugh at.  Well, you’ve been traveling almost a year, so maybe it’s no surprise that you’re lonely and drunk, and quite possibly out for something hard and stiff, like a drink.  Nonetheless, much humour, and quite frankly I admire the card tricks you perform.  She once left for the night, said goodbye to the lot, then reappeared to play a card game, as if nothing had happened.  With a bowl of cereal.  After walking into a wall.  It seems like some English trait, for a drunken English-person, to not really be phased by the fact that they’ve said anything at all; they just leave, come back and join back in, as though their departure were dreamt up by those around them.  Completely irrelevant; and rightly so.  Excellent.  Also, the chemistry with the Californian people is something from another planet.   Like, yo, wassup bitch, damn girl, and all this mad lingo shit, up against this like ey, ‘asup ma’e, ne’a knew you was li’e, drinkin’ an shi’, li’e, do’n worry ‘bout i’, ai’?  And so on and so forth.  Then she bends her eyelids around looking like a fucking zombie and everyone freaks but fuck, for a person as drunk as that I’m terribly impressed.  Poor lonely soul.  Maybe.  Or am I that?  I judge only because I can’t trust the man in the mirror—thanks MJ, I thought I knew you.  Anyhow, what if it touches me in the night?  It’s not at all funny like you might think.  We make fun of a lot of things that are actually, plainly, quite sad.  But yes, onwards and upwards, so on shall we go until the soul is reached and is SOLD, two for a dollar.  I suppose it was a pretty fun night, left alone for a minute or two.  See the English girl kept trying to leave and bumping into walls and what not, showing us pictures of her and a giant turtle, attempting to convey something, and we all laughed but I did feel for her, because she was a lovely lass, with lots of things to say and a great sense of being, but crikey, they could all drink a bit.  I mean, I planned not to, but from the get-go everyone had a drink and I didn’t quite realise it’d be an all-or-nothing -type thing, so I inadvertently joined in and tried not to be the strange, quite, “Aussie” guy with not as much to say as the next Aussie guy who seems to know everything about everything and also want to tell everyone about it.  Big old Callie girls, good for a laugh and a chat when you twisted the conversation to something remotely serious; and also, when they found something really obscurely humorous about the English thing, I could see it clearly and thus was very, very amused when they couldn’t stop laughing at say, her bumping into the wall when she said goodnight, or her getting utterly confused at the card game we were playing, or even more impressively, her card trick which defeated us all when we all thought she was too fucked out of her brains to do much like anything at all.  Or when she asked me out of nowhere whether I’d like thirty gigabytes of media from her computer.  Crikey, what a thing.  Where did all my food go?  Big Cali girls; they know what the fucks goin’on.  I knew it, as soon as I brought those brownies out, or those Pringes, or the nuts—all gone within seconds.  Mere crumbs remained of that one brownie I spared.  Crumbs on a table of festivities.  Christ.  I knew it.  So why complain?  Onwards and upwards.  The night ends with a subtle twist to the left, see, an older German lady was hanging with a teenage Austrian girl and of course the pull of conversation wins when I turn the corner and chat away to the Austrian first about a comic kids’ show she’s watching on TV, then literature and then politics and all sorts of shit, because it’s awesome and easy to talk about for me, and who cares, and what not.  I think she’s some kind of genius, about ten years ahead of her age and shrewd as a shrew.  I keep thinking now about how as I ‘grow’, as they say, all I do is become more like a kid, enjoying more infantile things like getting dizzy; and all I do is become more drawn to kids and teenagers that still have innocence—not in a sexual way—but because they’re less heavy with shit than the others, less burdened with some weird sexuality, some petty adult concern that needs a feed like the guinea pigs in the back-yard, less drawn to “grown-up” things which I find myself less and less drawn to (but more and more drawn to at the same time, like a bad magnet); and I guess, most of all, that lack of pressure which conversation with a clever European teenager takes for granted.  Really, I mean, really, is it not that we get more and more messed up as we age?  That the more we are engulfed by the systemic world, the more we are drawn away from it, given that we have natural urges?  Christ, let us free.  We are, after all; there’s no turning that about.  Anyway, the beer was free and the game is long over.  Pesos are all yours, ladies.  Keep it real on the west side.  Cali forever, poesia para siempre.  Eternal like the flame.  Until tomorrow…

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