Greetings from the land where they say "shit," "fuck," "cock," and "pussy" on basic cable with reckless abandon, but they bleep random words in heated Spanish conversations as if I know what's going on.

On a similar note, did you know you can buy a pirated DVD copy of Episodio III here for less than a dollar, and it's not half-bad if you don't mind not-seeing Ewan MacGregor's head in every other shot, like it was cleanly lopped off by a light saber?

Meanwhile, USC continues to march its evil Troy empire across the College Football landscape. Failed, I have. Into exile I must go. That football team was our last hope. No, there is another...


Last night went well - we definitely connected. She's a reporter for Efe, mulling over possibilities in other South American countries, as I weigh my own ideas about sticking around this place. She offered, "The worst thing you can do is lie to yourself." Marge, you're as pretty as Princess Leah and as smart as Yoda.

(Perhaps buy a non-Star Wars pirated DVD I should...)

My two blog readers know me to be aloof and generally clueless. Well, when you're a stranger in a strange land, 'turns out you can ride those qualities for all they're worth. Especially, hypothetically speaking, if you're attempting to "dance" salsa-merengue in front of a large crowd, among pairs who've been dancing this crap since they could walk. Suddenly, one woman's trash is another woman's treasure... (OK, OK - perhaps "treasure" is taking it a bit too far.) Back home, you're special and unique just like everybody else.

My companion was really nice - as we walked to the dance floor I swore that I had no idea how to dance salsa - and I sure as fuck didn't - but during she just smiled encouragingly and said, "me enganaste - si puedes!"

I think that's what I fear most about returning to the states. You get used to being an extranjero. People give you a free pass to make an ass of yourself to a certain extent, and lord knows I'm good at that. You gradually start to lose your verguenza - you throw yourself out there, not worrying or caring if the natives are gonna think you were born yesterday. It's an interesting, mixed-bag luxury not afforded back home, where you don't have an excuse.

I mean, I live in a place where two seconds ago the leftist socialist president gave a shoutout to Fidel on live TV, and nobody bats an eye. Do I really even need to pretend like I know what I'm doing?


And furthermore, it's 5pm on a Sunday: Is that too early to enjoy a good Jack on the rocks?

(Too late.)