My first kiss happened in a moon bounce on the roof of a fast food restaurant in Argentina.

She had kept telling me she wanted to kiss me but I was too busy bouncing around like the hyperactive pogo stick I was. I tried to elude her until she finally tackled me, pinning my puny 9-year-old body down until I relented.

After the infantile kiss rape was over, I got back up and kept bouncing around. After all, it was my birthday.

Her name was Lorena and she was my novia in Buenos Aires. We both attended Islas Malvinas, a primary school patriotically named after those barren islands the British stole from us.

It was a beautiful private school where the boys wore suits and tiny clip-on ties, and the girls wore checkered skirts and canary-yellow V-neck sweaters. Where most kids stayed after class to learn about Jesus and I had to go home to my “boring” Jewish customs.

It was where I played “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” with all the girls. Where we pledged our love to the sky-blue-and-white Argentina flag every morning and afternoon. Where I ate lunch my first week alone after I told a girl she was pretty and she told me I was “feo” and to go away.

It was also where I met Lorena. A year younger than me, we were in the same class and bonded over childhood trivialities I wish I could still remember.

She followed me around the playground even though I was smitten with the beautiful young teachers. When I realized Señorita Adriana would never be my girlfriend, I asked Lorena and she said yes.

She liked it when I spoke English to her and I never failed to impress her. Yes, I would tell her, I had lived in the U.S. and it was amazing.

But then I moved back to the states when I was 10, nearly a year after that first — and only — kiss . And I never saw or heard from her again.

Until now.

Nearly 24 years to the day that she nailed me to the floor of that moon bounce and made me a man, Lorena wrote me a simple message by way of (what else?) Facebook.

Como estas? No se bien si sos quien creo que eres. Solias vivir en Buenos Aires e ir a un colegio que se llamaba Islas Malvinas?
Beso,
Lorena”

Yes, Lorena, I was that same boy who went to your school. And though I had written before (HERE and HERE) about the strange power of Facebook, I never knew to what extent until now.

I wrote back. We talked about our lives and who we were, trying to bridge nearly a quarter of a century of our lives through this online medium. She stayed in Buenos Aires and became a jazz and Bossa Nova singer. She now lives near my grandma in the neighborhood of Belgrano.

We recalled moments from our childhood. She remembered things I had long ago forgotten. My freckles. My family. That I moved to Los Angeles.

I told her about our first kiss.

As it turns out, that she can’t remember.

Beso indeed.

I would love to explain how much it meant to me just to see the Argentine national team play. I would love to say it was a thrill to see so many wearing the Albiceleste with pride and honor. I would love to write how seeing both of my countries fight an intense exhibition match to a draw is symbolic of my national identity.

But, really, I’m just pissed.

In a game many predicted to be a blowout (including myself), played on a weekend that saw another heavy favorite lose, Argentina and the U.S. played to a draw in the swamps of New Jersey. The “friendly” match, which drew nearly 80,000 fans of both countries, showcased a lot of talent with no scoring.

Klein, myself, Blue

Under the heavy rain and amid the often unbearable heat, Blue and I watched number-one-ranked Argentina fail to tally even a single goal against the U.S. yet thrilling fans at the Meadowlands with an impressive level of soccer.

Seeing my forlorn face after the game, Blue asked me, “You’re saying that if the U.S. had won [and they could have], there wouldn’t be a small part of you that would have been happy?”

“Not even a little bit,” I replied.

I walked into section 113 of the Meadowlands and was overcome with national pride as I saw waves of blue and white. It was incredible seeing so many Argentine fans. They wore Maradona shirts, home and road jerseys, flags draped like capes. They painted their faces and brought their babies. They scuffled in the stands and ran onto the field at halftime. They cheered, clapped, and proudly sang our national anthem.

The American side was equally impressive as a sea of red unfurled a giant U.S. Soccer flag. U.S. fans were just as vociferous in their support as the Argentine fans and followed the game as closely and wisely as I expected.

The match itself can best be described by others. I am still in too much shock from the outcome to produce a cohesive game summary. I will say that the U.S. side impressed me. Though Argentina outplayed the Americans in the first half and created ample scoring opportunities, their game deteriorated as the U.S. subbed in fresher players in the second half. Goalkeeper Tim Howard played out of his mind, stopping countless Argentine shots on goal. The reffing was atrocious (despite my friend Klein’s assertion in the title of this blog post), Argentina can’t play in the rain, and the U.S. needs to figure out a way to speed up its attack.

I will leave the best analysis I have read about Argentina to “Dan”, whose profound comment on Goal.com was inspiring:

once again this proves argentina is the most over rated team in the world. how is a team who has not one trophy in over 20 YEARS consdiered the best team in the world? Greece has accomplished more then the argintines have. they are south americas england, good line-up but terrible as a team. OVERRATED”

Thanks, Dan, for your incisive wisdom.

More photos:

Two Argentines who were really into the game.

A dad with his two kids. They were so happy walking into the stands I had to capture it.

Maradona shirt signed by Diego himself.

Landon Donovan bitches again about something or other.

I just don’t know what to wear.

I’m packing for my trip to NYC to see Argentina annihilate the U.S. soccer team at the Meadowlands, and I have too many Albiceleste sartorial choices.

Do I go with my “old school” jersey from the 2002 disappointing World Cup showing?

Do I choose the less recognizable, dark blue road jersey?

Do I take the long-sleeve thermal shirt?

Do I try the light-blue t-shirt with the “10″ emblazoned on the chest?

Do I go with the 2006 authentic jersey that shows off the two stars (one for each World Cup championship) above the crest?

Do I take my Argentina flag and drape it across my shoulders as a cape?

I know what to do. Take them all.

Oh, and to Jay, the guy who e-mailed me asking me if I knew what hotel Argentina was staying in and their practice hours: I think you should give Messi back his shirt.

During the 1982 Guerra de las Malvinas between the United Kingdom and Argentina, “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” was played sarcastically by British regimental bands as they deployed to the Falkland Islands.

At least we’ve won a World Cup or two in my lifetime.

Thanks to Bridal Bird, who pretty much accounts for about 17% of all my blogging material.

This guy.

I know, you can’t see my thumbs, but trust me, they’re here.

As an early birthday present, Blue bought us two tickets to watch my home country’s soccer team (currently ranked number one in the world) play my adopted country’s team at the Meadowlands on June 8. It cost nearly $200 for both tickets, thanks to Ticketmaster’s service, handling, transaction, shipping, and ass raping charges.

After buying the tickets, Blue, who has lived in Manhattan for three years, and I talked about the stadium:

Blue: “Where do the Giants play again?”

Arjewtino: “The Meadowlands.”

Blue:“Oh, right.”

Arjewtino:“Way to go, New Yorker.”

Blue:“I don’t even know how to get there. I think you need to take a bus or something.”

Arjewtino:“Yeah, this is going to work out great.”

I have seen the Argentina soccer team play many, many times on TV. I watched them beat England in the 1998 World Cup in the kitchen of Gaucho Grill where I worked as a waiter. I saw them get eliminated from competition in a Buenos Aires bar in 2002, then had to walk past grown men crying in the fetal position. I raced to the Block Island ferry in 2006 on my birthday just so I could catch them beat Mexico in a bar that only cared about the Red Sox.

But I have never seen them play live. Until now.

My dad still tells me the story of watching Argentina win the 1978 World Cup in Buenos Aires as the greatest moment of his life.

The story is always the same. How he threw himself down several rows of seats after the final whistle blew. How the chaos dragged him in his stupor over the heads of thousands of delirious fans. When I ask him why he didn’t take me, he always responds, “You were three.”

So?

The “friendly” on June 8 against the U.S. soccer team may not live up to the moment of watching Argentina win its first of two World Cup championships, but at least I will be there. Section 113, Row 8, on the Argentina side, singing, jumping, yelling, cursing, happy to not be born in Guatemala.

I predict a 4-0 score.

“See, it doesn’t hurt anyone! Fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck.” — Cartman, in South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut

Ever since I was a child and first heard the word mierda and hijo de puta (the mother of all Spanish profanity), I have been fascinated with cussing. Its etymology, its derivatives, its immediate ability to convey exactly what I’m feeling.

Luckily for me, some high school freshman named McKay Hatch has founded a club that might help where dirty looks and scolding reprimands have failed: the No Cussing Club.

McKay, probably in an ill-advised attempt to get back at his parents for saddling him with such a ridiculous first name, also got his hometown of South Pasadena this week to issue a proclamation outlawing foul language. And not a moment too soon.

If it’s not Jane Fonda saying the word “cunt” on morning TV it’s Diane Keaton uttering the word “fuck”. If it’s not a DC mayoral staffer getting fired for saying the perfectly innocuous word “niggardly” it’s parents washing their children’s mouth out with toxic soap on the show “Supernanny”.

Cursing is out of control in this country and the future of our impressionable children is finally in the capable hands of a kid barely into puberty.

Wait. Fuck this. What am I talking about? I love cursing! I don’t need to join any club. Phew!

Cursing is under attack, quickly becoming modern society’s easy scapegoat, the “violent video games” of the 90s. I have lately been reading story after story about how profanity is ruining civilization and corrupting society.

And that’s really too fucking bad. Because profanity might be the greatest method of communication we humans have ever come up with.

Cussing was originally restricted to the use of blasphemy, sacrilege or using the Lord’s name in vain. Luckily for us, it evolved into a multi-use means of expression, communication, and comedy gold. Imagine a world where George Carlin’s seven dirty words didn’t exist. Or where you had nothing to say during sex. Or where Bucky Dent ’s only middle name was “Earl”.

Cursing can be cathartic, colorful, witty, and necessary. It has been around as long as people have stubbed their toes into chairs and will be around as long as George W. Bush has a hot mic nearby.

So I really don’t understand why a kid with two last names felt it necessary to go around telling his hometown what to say. Or not say, really. McKay’s Web site dedicated to converting perfectly normal people into no-cussing androids. McKay features photos of its members and he even sells orange wrist bands like he’s Lance Fucking Armstrong.

The high school freshman explains on his site that he started this movement because his cuss-happy friends swore so much they didn’t even realize they were doing it. Also, colleges eat this shit up.

Through the No Cussing Challenge I realized that I could use POSITIVE PEER PRESSURE on my friends. If my friends could say no to cussing, how much easier will it be for them to say no to drugs, violence, and pornography.”

Studies have shown banning profanity from the workplace lowers morale. That forbidding it makes people say it more. And that, last time I checked, it has yet to bring a civilization to its knees.

Is cursing really such a huge issue that it requires attention from public resources? Couldn’t his high school have benefited more from a Don’t Get Pregnant or You’ll Fuck Up Your Life Club? Shouldn’t the school system make its lack of well-paid, highly qualified teachers a higher priority?

I think this girl named “chrissy” sums it up perfectly on a blog I found.

cussing is bad but you have todo it sometimes. i mean when someboby is annoying you you or you really hate somebody you feel like you have to. but if people think it is so bad like parents then why do they do it. if your older and you cuss it is not bad but if a kid does the room is silent. i feel that it is not bad at all. the president does it i bet.”

* MY blog post title is a paraphrase from a famous Groucho Marx quote that goes, “I don’t care to belong to a club that would accept someone like me as a member.”

“You’re not as much of an asshole as you used to be.”

These were my sister’s words to me this past weekend. My brother and I visited her in Portland, OR, an overdue trip paid for by my benevolent dad.

“Thanks”, I told her, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And I did consider it one. Because her assertion is true. Growing up as the oldest of three, I wasn’t always the nicest brother to my hermanita and hermano.

I once locked my sister, who is one year younger than me, in our large toy trunk and told my parents she ran away. They found her a few minutes later banging on the inside of the door, crying to be let out.

I also used to make my brother, who is 7 years younger than me, cry by telling him he was adopted and that our parents didn’t want him. I thought it was cute when he sobbed hysterically.

I have probably caused some serious emotional damage to my siblings. But the truth is, I love them more than anything, so it was great to spend the weekend in Portland with them, just the three of us, all grown up and matured by time.

I hadn’t been to Portland since I was 4-years-old. It was the first American city my family lived in after emigrating from Argentina. I have no real memories of the city, the only images a few photos of me playing in the playground of our first apartment complex.

My first morning in Portland, we met up with our cousin David, who is related distantly to us through a family tree too complicated to remember. Six years older than me, he told me that when I was a kid, I was a VERY excitable child and liked to run around all the time, constantly asking him for “horsey rides”. He even gave me a horsey ride for old times’ sake.

He remembered one time when my family went out for a fancy dinner. Dressed in some white suit (thanks, Ma) and obviously feeling stifled, I had run out of the house to the muddy playground, where I played in the rain-soaked swings and threw myself into a puddle of mud. Yeah, I was that kind of kid.

The weekend in Portland started with my sister picking up my brother, who lives in LA, and me at the airport. On the way home, we stopped at Carl’s Jr. (not Hardee’s) for a deliciously disgusting Western Bacon Cheeseburger meal.

My sister drove up to the window and paid the cashier, who gave her my soda. She handed it to me, put the car in drive, and hit the gas.

“Hermanita!” I yelled. “You forgot the food!”

She couldn’t back up since the car behind us had already started to move forward. So we made my brother get out and walk to the drive-thru window, where he stood for several minutes waiting for my food while we laughed our asses off inside the car.

“It’s going to be that kind of weekend,” I told my sister.

And it was. Though we see each other two or three times a year, this was the first time the three of us had hung out alone without either of our parents there to make sure we got along. We spent most of the time reminiscing with old stories, laughing at stupid things we said, making fun of each other like we did (and do) when we were children, and enjoying the very first American city we ever lived in.

Sometimes we would regress to childhood and tease each other and fart in each other’s faces. Other times, we demonstrated how mature we now are by discussing Portland’s real estate market.

On Saturday afternoon, we visited an aunt who lives in the rich area of Portland (West Hills, I think). I thought we were visiting a nice, old lady who would feed us snacks. As it turned out, I was half right.

Aunt Marjorie is an awesomely sassy broad who lives in the most beautiful house I have ever seen, overlooking the city, and who has volunteered at Planned Parenthood for decades.

She showed us around her mansion of a house and told us about her experiences touring middle and high schools educating kids about condoms. You haven’t lived until you meet a 70-year-old woman who talks about reservoir tips and dispelling the myth that Mountain Dew works as a form of birth control.

(I haven’t had even a sip of the Dew since I was a teenager, but I’m pretty sure this proved that Oregon kids are much more stupid than those from California.)

In the evening, we met up with Hermanita’s boyfriend Jandy and had an early birthday celebration for my brother at his favorite place: a sushi restaurant. The sushi was served on a revolving conveyor belt (called Kaitenzushi) and we managed to put away 31 plates between the four of us.

The next day, Sunday, we spent in downtown Portland. We started by going to Powell’s Bookstore, which claims to be “the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world”. The store, though not as charming as The Strand, was huge, taking up an entire city block and holding an impressive amount of books. It was overwhelming and I felt unprepared since I hadn’t printed out my “to-read” booklist from GoodReads. Still, I bought about $50 worth of books (low for me) that were on sale.

We then went to Voodoo Doughnuts, which sells unique and irreverently named donuts, like Cock-n-Balls, from what appears to be a former biker bar. They were out of bacon maple bars, so I ordered the Memphis Mafia, a chocolate chip/banana/peanut butter glaze that was the largest donut I had ever seen or eaten.

After dodging a donut-fused heart attack, we ventured to Portland’s Saturday Market. I exhausted my sister with “jokes” reminding her that we were attending something called Saturday Market on a Sunday.

Though I expected the market to be the same sort of fair of trinket and food crap, I was surprised by how unique it was. Especially the people. For example:

A man playing the guitar (well) with only half an arm

Some dude also playing the guitar, but with a cape and both of his arms. Cheater.

A bicyclist performing tricks on the street. I secretly wanted to see him fall on his face.

A Goth girl giving out hugs as part of the now-famous Free Hugs Campaign. The hug she gave me didn’t fill me with light and happiness. It made me feel awkward. If you’re going to give them out for free you better improve your technique, Goth Girl.

Afterwards, we walked to Rogue, a brewery where we sampled several local award-winning beers and I let my brother and sister beat me at Connect Four. Seriously, I fucking suck at this game.

We ate at a Thai place that night that featured sunken tables. Toward the end of the meal, a man’s table fell into the sunken area below him, crushing his legs as he struggled to free himself. The waitress helped him. And by “helped him”, I mean she went over, grabbed the glass of water, and walked into the kitchen.

Overall, I liked Portland much more than I thought I would. I got to spend time in the very first American city my family lived in and with my favorite people in the whole world who are younger than me. I also bought an 80-gig iPod, taking advantage of Oregon’s lack of sales tax and my brother’s vast iTunes library.

It even made up for having to wake up at 4am on Monday.

I never believed in Santa Claus.

This might not come as much of a shock considering I’m Jewish. But even growing up in Catholic-heavy Argentina, I just never considered the possibility that an overweight stranger who employed slave labor and made it a habit to spy on every child in the world would spend his days making toys and delivering them all in one night.

It just wasn’t possible, I thought as a child. The man had to travel to 75 million homes, traversing different time zones and hemispheres, all the while battling the principles of astrophysics, merely on the backs of flying caribou? Yeah, right, Santa Fraud.

I never figured out exactly who was responsible for this underhanded delivery system until I was older. All I knew was that it wasn’t my parents because they swore it wasn’t them and I always believed them. In a way, their ignorance made it scarier since I felt they were being duped as well.

Neither did I ever believe in the Tooth Fairy, though she seemed like a much more plausible idea. Still, the skepticism was too much to ignore: why did this psychotic mythological creature care if I lost a baby tooth? How did she earn enough money to pay all the kids around the world? And why did my friends make either more or less money than me? What kind of crazy chick was she, favoring one child over another for something we couldn’t control? Bitch.

My mom insisted I was wrong and that this magical sprite existed until one night I caught her with her hand under my pillow.

“I saw you,” I told my mom the next morning after I reached for the cash.

“No, that was the tooth fairy,” she told me.

Jesus. My mom thought I was an idiot.

The only idea of magical realism that I did believe in was Día de los Tres Reyes Magos (the day of the Three Royal Magi). This was always celebrated on the twelfth night after Christmas.

It involved us leaving our shoes outside our bedroom doors for los Magos, who left presents inside them before we went to bed on the eve of January 6.

This scared the shit out of me.

So I was supposed to get to sleep knowing that the very same people who followed some star to visit the baby Jesus AND survived 2,000 years later would show up at my house? And my parents allowed them to break and enter into our house while encouraging us to be happy about this?

Every January 6th, I would stay awake far past my bedtime huddled under the sheets devising ways to jump out the window should these regal criminals try to break down my door. This holiday, as I recently learned, is called Epiphany and is very Christian-oriented.

Why would my parents celebrate something so gentile? The answer, it seems, is tradition.

My dad last night sent my sister, brother, and me an e-mail last night in which he explained why my Jewish family celebrated Epiphany:

As you all know, I am not too much into Christmas or Hanukkah. I am more about New Years…and January 6th brings me sweet memories of my childhood. I know you are not children any more, but…Have a Happy One…!”

My dad went on to give each of us our Reyes Magos presents: plane tickets to Portland, Oregon, in two months to visit my sister.

Thanks, Papi. This time, I slept like a baby.

Santa Photo Credit

Tres Magos Photo Credit

Germany spanked my country’s beautiful women 11-0 yesterday in the Women’s World Cup China 2007. In a game as low-scoring as soccer, this would be the equivalent of a baseball team scoring 28 runs or a football team tallying 121 points. In other words, a slaughter.

As I told I-66, who was quick to remind me of this score this morning, this result would be depressing if i cared about Argentina women’s soccer. But the truth is, our women are not known for their soccer skills; they’re known for their beauty. Ask anyone. Everyone knows German women, though, are men.

I-66 agreed:

“I want HGH tests on the Germans. Word is they all follow Der Hügensprechtheaden religion, which is loosely translated to mean “Barry Bonds is God”, and that they got all the Chinese Gideons to add passages from the Book of Roids to their bibles for them to read between shaving their mustaches and going to bed.”

Don’t believe us? Look at this photo from the match:

Credit: FIFA

That is German player Birgit Prinz towering over — and, I’m assuming, later eating — our minas It is NOT an optical illusion and she is not, by from what I have heard, related to mythical figure Paul Bunyan.

Argentina’s loss is sad but not catastrophic. We still get to lose to play England and Japan before our mujeres can go home and continue to avert men’s gazes.

Besides, the Argentine men beat Australia 1-0 yesterday in a “friendly” in which the score didn’t accurately how dominating our side played. In that game, the men didn’t have to play German men women; but the kangaroos didn’t help.

El Guapo retired his blog earlier this month. He hung up his famous Guatemalan mustache and became a civilian. Some of his former blog readers are not taking it well:

UberSchatz said…
Yeah. Why?? Damn it! This always happens to me. I find a good blogger and then they quit after a short time of me having discovered them. Curse you Gods of the Bloggers.

AZ :o( said…
My heart aches, a little more laughter taken from me…

taotechuck said…
I have shaved my vastly inferior mustache in honor of your decision.

Still, EG has come out of retirement to do the one thing he has done best since becoming my virtual hermano — make fun of Argentina. Here is an e-mail he sent me that he graciously allowed me to convert to a guest blog post. At least he didn’t steal my wallet.

“So, I’m in Seattle for a couple of days. I’m walking with a colleague who is new to Seattle and showing him around. I know that he is a fan of steak and happened to be walking by an Argentinean steak house, so I figured, why not?

You know that I try to not do anything that helps the Argentine economy in any way. You know this. The only reason that I ate there was a sign that said they proudly served Nebraska beef. I figured if I stayed away from any Argentine wines, I was actually giving money to the waiter. If the owners were even from your little country, they may send some back home, but I figured that if I paid by credit card, they would at least be taxed. So, as you can see, my thought process was very much against helping your country.

Ok, I’ll get out of the way that the steak I ordered was good. I knew it would be. It is Nebraska beef, but I did enjoy the presentation. It came out on a grill thing [ed. This is called a parillada] and I ate off of wooden dishes. Very good. En serio, very good.

The reason for this e-mail was the dessert. I ordered flan. It was the worst flan I’ve ever had in my entire life. I don’t even think that it was flan. Argentina should have its flan card pulled because of this damn restaurant. It had the consistency of papaya that was left out in the sun and drenched in urine.

Credit.

Don’t get me wrong, I ate the entire thing, but only so that I could write to you prior to my food poisoning.

Tell your people to stay away from flan.”

This e-mail, naturally, spurred a few replies.

Arjewtino: “On behalf of mi gente, I apologize for this restaurant’s flan. It’s only fair as long as you apologize for the guy who stole my wallet while I was coming back from Pane to Antigua.”

El Guapo: “Look, I can say, with 100 percent certainty that I was in an Argentine restaurant, and, can therefore place the blame on your people. You, on the other hand, assume because you were in Guatemala that a Guatemalan stole your wallet. It could have just as easily been a Honduran or even an Argie… My people don’t do that… Not always.
Not usually. Not really. Actually, were you wearing your Argentina shirt?”

Arjewtino: “I was wearing my dark blue, tougher-to-recognize Argentina “road” jersey. Your specious reasoning isn’t convincing.”

El Guapo: “I found it as convincing as it gets. specious… showoff.”