If Elvis Costello can grow out of his angry young man phase, then, why the hell can't I? Will I remain this way well into my nether years, until the day time catches up with me, and nature deprives me of any semblance of "young." Will I just be the "angry old man" then?
I have decided to spend this day alone. I could not sleep last night. Not at all. Lying in bed, I felt as if my own skin didn't even fit me anymore. I don't know if it is because of the weirdness I've been feeling lately, or because I am in the process of shedding it. My Rio girls all call and offer me options, but I am determined to spend the day solo. All I really want to do is get drunk today, something I have yet to accomplish here. An offer from Isabel to join her and a group of friends at the beach in Ipanema is enticing. But, why would I want to do that? I already have a sunburn. The rest of my skin (parts not burned), is pale white. And, I would feel entirely too odd in that damn Brazilian bikini, which I guess, I still think was far more Isabel's idea than mine. But, it's not like I'm angry or anything.
At a pub, my day's mission underway, I run into a couple of foreigners, one American, the other, English, but of Brazilian descent. They apparently, have both moved down here permanently Their reason? For the women. Now, I had already realized this during my prior trip, right before I left this country. But, my conversation with these guys confirms and reminds me that the magic and appeal of this place is well-established, and that I, am not, as I kid them, the "biggest stud on the face of the planet." But, I'm not angry about that.
Later, at the same pub, I happen to overhear a name not heard for a while. It is that of a beautiful waitress who I developed quite a fancy for last trip, but things never really had a chance to develop between us. I can't help but eavesdrop. They talk about how huge her family mansion in Barra is, and how she also has her own apartment in Gavea. Oddly then, as I recall she is attending university, to become an engineer, and despite her family's wealth, she has taken a job as a waitress, where the pay is negligible. Very very odd for here. I gain an added sense of respect for her. But, this guy here? Has he been to her house? I can't help but feel a little jealous. But, I wouldn't say I was angry.
I've got a mission to stick to. I am going to get drunk. Moving on to the quaint Irish pub, I find Clark again (the bartender from Florida). He asks how Florida has been since I returned, and I tell him about the clueless pretentious women there (a point he concedes, adding how happy he was to be back in Rio, after his last visit). We decide to henceforth speak only of Brasilieras, after I close the prior conversation with the story of the semi-tall girls (which he agrees are "typical"). {*2} But, I'm not angry at them.
As for my girls, I am trying to avoid them tonight. I remain steadfast insistent, but they, in turn, have both grown more persistent. So, I meet Flavia at my spot, the yellow chair kiosk by the beach. I did forewarn her, if she just "had to see me today," it would be for a short time, and she would have to deal with, the fact that I would not be myself, due to how I feel today. First of all, she gets rather pissed off when she inquires and I divulge that yes, I did see Isabel first while she was out of town this weekend. [But, again, why was she out of town the weekend I was coming anyway?] She storms off in a huff, adding that I am also "being weird and not myself" today. [Did I not tell her this up front?] I guess I will now have to scratch the name Flavia of the list labeled "my Rio girls." Though, I'm not angry.
I am also forced to see Isabel shortly after, as she calls me in tears, saying she needs to see me. But, these tears she's shedding, are for some other guy. "So, you found another joker who you think can love you more?" {EC} Still, she does put up with my weirdness, and agrees to leave me to my mission after we talk. But, just before she leaves, she goes from sad, to pissed off, upon discovering, that I saw Flavia earlier. [What right does she have?] Still, I'm not angry.
I have learned, that, in the summers here in the southern hemisphere, they set their clocks an hour ahead, while, at the same time in our corresponding winters, we set our clocks an hour back. Hence, the time difference moves from one to three hours. I didn't think this piece of trivia would impact my life in any way until tonight, while trying to watch the Sunday night football game between the Bucs and the Saints, two of my favorite teams, and the pub I am drinking at starts closing. So, I have to move on to Shenanigan's, which I hate, as any time you try to leave that place after 11:00 PM, you could end up waiting nearly an hour to do so. The reason for this is that even though they may have multiple servers, they only have one woman who can take money. So, it's best avoided late, as that time spent in exit queue could eat well into your night. But, I guess, tonight, I have no choice. But, I'm not going to be angry about that.
At Shenanigan's, I find the other American I first saw while saying good-night to Isabel earlier, who I, in response to his desperate pleas of, "where can I watch the football game," directed to this place. As we talk, we find we are both from New York. As I tell him that, I've since moved myself down to Florida, where most of my stuff is still in boxes, he begins his tirade about how Florida is the second-chance state for New Yorkers. I contemplate explaining the intricacies of my personal situation and how that doesn't apply to me. But, why do I have to reason my existence to this pathetic all-knowing sod? "Spend all my time in the vanity factory, wondering when they're gonna come and take it all back." {EC} The fourth-quarter begins and this bar closes too now. So, much for the football game. And, I'm stuck in this fucking queue. No, I'm not angry.
Time spent sobering up in that queue, makes me recall of earlier today, whilst sitting down at my cappuccino cafe, scribbling madly into my little note book. When I got up to leave (you guys should already be aware of my oblivious nature), I looked over at the guy one table over from me, thinking he looked familiar. Our eyes met and there was an uneasy acknowledgement of each other. Now I remember! He's the same guy that was sitting there yesterday scribbling madly into his little note book and here was again today. Dude! That's my look. This is my hood. Mother fucker! I'm not angry.
At Emporio, I meet a Norwegian girl who is surprised I so easily guess at her origin. As I'm trying to talk to her, some daft Scottish guy comes up to say "Hi" to me, and then, spends the remainder of his time trying like hell, to put his hands all over the Nordic gal, who, needless to say, is rather annoyed by this. I'm inclined to tell him to piss off, but he is the guy that Clark, who, now off work, just treated me to a round, brought in with him. And, I remember, he is also the same guy Isabel and I were laughing at, while he was clumsily trying to pick up Rose, the cute little waitress at Clark's pub. Why the hell did Clark bring this loser along? Regardless, I suggest to the Scot, he find some other way to occupy himself, like somewhere else. But, why do I have to apologize to the Norwegian girl for his behavior? Still, I'm not angry.
However, the Scott is quickly replace by two Italian guys, who at first ask me, if I am Italian as well. My response of, "No, Greek," is met with their "Una Faccia Una Razza." {*3} Now, I'll tell you something about Italians and Greeks. In general, they get along fine, but there is a smidgeon of deep-seated animosity between the two nations (nothing like Greek and Turk animosity, but still present). It goes back to the Roman Empire overtaking the crumbling post-Alexandrian empire and then stealing our gods and culture, and the more corrupt of the Roman Emperors having their way sexually with the best-looking and most artistically talented of our boys, to us, despite being faced with superior hardware and numbers, seriously kicking the crap out of them, when they tried to invade us during World War II. {*4} So, as I have learned in Greece, usually, when an Italian starts in on you with that "Una Faccia Una Razza" crap, it means you better keep an eye on your valuables, as you're about to get robbed. Hm? I wonder what these Italians at trying to deprive me of? Should I be angry?
One more thing about native Italians, at risk of sounding a bit biased her. When it comes to "the pursuit of hole," they are among the world's most determined and persistent lot. The Italian women can deal with them, and know how to keep them in their place, just as the Greek women have subdued the Greek men. But, foreign women, particularly, blond ones, are at a loss on how to deal with their advances. I don't know how many times, back in Europe, I have seen Italians chasing women down the streets, grabbing at their arms, despite being met with only "No" and "Go away." This "wear them down until they are just too tired to say no anymore" methodology is beyond my comprehension. And here, squaring off against two Italians for a blond Norwegian girl (who I am just trying to pass time talking while I get drunk anyway), I know I am overmatched. I am in no way, prepared to go the distance against these two guys. But, no. I'm not angry.
Yet, I'm still not drunk when Emporio closes, so I move down to the regular post-Emporio beach-side kiosk. There, I meet Adriana. She is a pale blond blue-eyed lovely with an interesting, if somewhat dorky, retro set of eyeglasses. She is half-American and half-Brazilian, but the reverse of what I would normally assume (her Mom, not Dad, is American). Adriana has a natural beauty to her, like the girl in that movie, "She's All That." I kid her along those lines, telling her "your chances of being elected prom queen aren't too good, because you're beyond hope. After all, you've got a ponytail and glasses." {*5}
We share a table, waiting for the sun to rise, getting to know one another better. She tries to temper, what she may perceive as a foreigner's expectations, telling me she has only been with four guys. I neglect to account for cultural differences initially, thinking that is just too much information, but she explains, "No! What I mean by that is I've only been out with four guys, like even on dates or anything, ever." What did I do to deserve this? I ask her the now dreaded, "so where do you live question," but the first syllable out of her mouth isn't "Ba," as in "Barra," but "La," as in Lagoa. {*6} The sun rises, and she leaves me with her phone number. I'm not angry. Anymore.
Copyright 2002, Alex "the other angry young man" Poulos
*1: Interspersed quotes in italics from the angry young man's "I'm Not Angry," off the debut album, My Aim is True.
*2: The ones with the "penis theory" from "I'm an Upstart (Ch. 5)"
*3: Italian expression that translates to "One Face, One Race." Used to imply that when people of different nations look so similar, they really are of the same blood and roots.
*4: By the way, in those days, there was no such thing as saying "No, really, I'm flattered. I'd love to, but I'm not gay," to the Emperor. He was the Emperor. He did what he wanted.
*5: I think that's from Not Another Teen Movie, which makes fun of, among other things, that aspect of, She's All That
*6: Apparently, Barra, the locale where all my Rio girls from last trip lived, has a reputation. Around town, the rich girls from there, are referred to as "Barra Princesses."
