Communal Entertainment

I like to think about what people did in the past few centuries to entertain themselves while gathered in groups.  Sliding stones around a backgammon board as far back as 3000 BC.  Bundling up on a cold winter night to stand outside together and stargaze, possibly even discussing how small we all are in the grand scheme.  Gathering around a grand piano while one person pounds on it and everyone sips whiskey, links arms, and sings.  Huddling close to the phonograph listening to "Au Clair de la Lune" on record and marvelling at the invention of music coming from a spinning plastic disc.  Sprawling on the carpet next to the big wooden box radio listening to spoken dramas and comedies until it was time for bed.  Tuning into the Ed Sullivan Show, watching in wonder as John, Paul, George, and Ringo began their journey through stardom.  

Staying with friends in Madison, Wisconsin for the past few days sparked this idea.  I realized what groups of people do now, and while its no backgammon or Sullivan, it is pretty entertaining.  Now, we see groups of people - families, friends, neighbors - gathered around a laptop, bent over, listening to and watching captively, our generation's form of communal entertainment: YouTube.  "Have you seen this one?"  "George Washington?"  "Supermodel?" "Grape Stomp?"  (Careful on that last one, I actually laughed my way into herniatic surgery as a result of it... no joke).  And we huddle around until our necks can crane no further and our stomachs cannot bear the pain, and we all sigh, wipe away the laughing tears, walking away feeling elated with thoughts of all of the unfortunate souls we just filled an hour laughing at.  The question is, what's next?

P.S. A not so much comical as inspiring YouTube video to lighten spirits:  "Where the Hell is Matt?"

'dem ol rigs

As I am buckling my seatbelt and turning off and stowing my electronic devices and keeping my tray table in its upright position, I'm listening to Joe Mississippi behind me.  He shouts across the aisle with Sally Immigrant for the first two hours of our flight from Sao Paulo to Houston.  He's been working on an American oil rig off the shores of Rio, she's been visiting her relatives with her 8 year old (obnoxiously talkative) son.  He says "oil" like this: "ol." She says her heart is in the United States.  He says "yeah, I miss Wal-Mart."  He's good at sleeping on planes and tells her she can smack him if he "starts in on the snorin'".  She says she thinks airplanes should fly faster and she wants to watch the Olympics on the screen in the seat in front of her.  "Do you think they get those up here?"  He's worked everywhere - 14 years of "noble" work in the Gulf of Mexico, Nova Scotia, Alaska.  She brings up Hurricane Katrina, asks if his family was affected.  She says how sad it is what happened.  He says he thinks the people there should learn to help themselves and stop asking for "handouts."  He calls them (the survivors of Katrina, this is,) greedy.  

It was a good thing the two of them stopped talking when they did, because I came very close to turning around and ripping this man's oily fingernails out one by one.  After a few moments of peace, the woman's son began narrating the entire flight.  "We're leaving!"  "Oh, the drinks are coming."  "I like Pepsi, not Coke."  "My feet are cold."  "Oh, the moon!"  "Oh, a window!"  "Oh!  We are going fast now."  "Oh!  That was bumpy."  "Don't fall asleep mom!"  "Oh, there are video games on this thing!"  ...  Once he found the video games, the ride was silent.  For as much as I dislike the mind-numbing contraptions, I thanked Buddha for inventing them on that flight.

Quenched

My thirst is quenched for the time being. I've swallowed 3.5 months of England, with sips of western Europe along the way. I've guzzled 11 months of Thailand and taste-tested a few of the glamourously impoverished countries in Southeast Asia. And now, after finishing off a glassfull of 3.5 months in Brazil, with a few shots of southern South America, I'm full. And I have to go to the ladies.

(no title)

[inspired by "Upwards over the Mountain," Iron & Wine.]

Remember when I´d sprawl out on the grass next to you while you planted our garden in the corner of the yard?

Remember filling the bird feeders and hanging the laundry on ropes between the three oak trees?

Remember when you found Marshmallow, saved him, and brought him home to us?

Remember when you´d steal potato chips off my plate at dinner?

Remember reading the Bernstein Bears to us as we drifted off to sleep?

Remember the candy dinners you made, inviting all the neighbors and nearby cousins on the last day of school?

Remember when we´d take baths together and you told me I´d get those one day too?

Remember laughing together in the back seat on roadtrips across the country?

Remember how good you were at watermelon seed spitting contests?

Remember when we saw puddles and splashed through them, when we turned on sprinklers and danced in them, raked leaf piles and jumped into them, built snowforts and huddled in them?

Remember when you let me lick the brownie bowl?

Remember when you taught me how to knit, how to ski, how to make baby footprints with my hand on the steamy car windows?

Remember how you cried when I told you I knew about Santa?

Remember our walks around the block at night, when you´d listen, or I´d listen, or we´d just hold hands, quiet?

Remember how safe you made me feel? How loved I knew I was? How little I knew I´d miss you?

America

I’ve recently become fully aware that the grass is always greener on the other side of the Equator, the Prime Meridian, the International Dateline, and that no matter where I am, this will be so. But only as I was running this afternoon, and stepped through the third pile of dog feces this week, I understood why. It’s America I crave. It’s the metaphorical crisp, straight lines that I dream about. Yesterday I completed my last day of work here in Brazil. My last day with people who take extra long lunch breaks, who stare at the wall pretending to do something, who take advantage of the hard-working foreigners who have decided to grace them with their presence. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. America is on the brain.

In fact, America has been on the brain from the start of this three-month adventure. I realized about half-way through that no matter what I do during the day, no matter what I am focusing my attention on, (washing lettuce, chopping carrots, mopping floors), everything that is American fills my thoughts.

Every 15 days, a new Newsweek comes to the magazine stand near our apartment. It’s the only non-Portuguese magazine sold. I pay 11 Real – more than 3 times the amount it costs at home, just to fill an afternoon with what is happening there. Peter is constantly checking the internet for the Brewer’s scores, for sports blog updates, for what Favre plans on doing this week. He walked 15 blocks to the nearest T.G.I. Friday´s at 11:00pm just to watch one of the NBA Final Four games. We read “Into the Wild,” “Armies of the Night,” and “Dharma Bums” just to hear American voices and imagine American landscapes. In June, we listened to Barack Obama’s “Dreams from My Father” on an iTunes audiobook. We hung on his every word. Some nights, after work, we rent American films and television series’. Hearing Sawyer’s southern drawl on Lost even makes me nostalgic. We get excited about Subway. We get excited about mail. I thrive on correspondence. On talking to my dad on Skype. On g-chatting with people in Madison. On English.

It may have taken 15 months of living far, far away, and one too many inconsiderate stray dogs, but I know now. It´s time to say “sawat dee ka” and “tchau” to the world. It’s time to come home.