The Tories

“Hey Idril! Let’s be the Tories!”, my friend Luchessi shouted from across the classroom. I don’t even remember his first name, in the eighth grade we just called each other by our last name.

“Sure”, I responded, always up for a good losing political battle, which would follow me most of my life as I strove for change in a world filled with no desire to do anything that involved more work than picking up the TV remote.

Our eighth grade history teacher, Mr. Lorraine, was one of those teachers you remember and appreciate your whole life, he could bring the entire class to life. At one point we conducted our own government with House, Senate, and President, and everybody was involved and had a role. If memory serves Silva was the President and I was the Vice-President, I don’t even remember the laws we passed, I think it had to do with how to arrange the schoolroom, but his vetoes got everybody pissed off at him and they attempted to impeach him. The impeachment failed to get 2/3rds majority, and just like Al Gore, I didn’t get to be President.

This was earlier, near the beginning of the year, when you always studied The American Revolution. We moved a lot so I got to go to seven different schools in four different States in those first eight years, and wouldn’t even get to finish Mr. Lorraine’s class before we moved again. No, I didn’t get thrown out of schools, there was never time, my dad simply changed jobs and we changed States at the drop of a hat.

Every school I went to never even got to the Civil War when they studied history. We would usually dwell for half a year on the Revolution, I suspect looking back, because the teachers didn’t know much else and it was easy. I distinctly remember one teacher remarking that men had one less rib than women because God took Adam’s rib out to make Eve. I kid you not.

Mr. Lorraine decided to split up the class into three equal groups, Patriots, Tories, and Mugwumps, or fence sitters who couldn’t decide. Which is really what America was in 1776, oh, and I guess nothing’s changed in 237 years, the useless, spineless, undecided, Mugwumps, still get to determine the future of America.

Mr. Lorraine asked for volunteers to lead the Patriots and Tories; everybody wanted to be the Patriots so Luchessi and I filled in the vacuum on the Tory side. He gave us talking points for both the Patriots and the Tories. After seven years of American Patriotic indoctrination, nobody had ever told me there was another side to the story, Britain’s side. There in front of me in black and white was the proof that the Patriots could never win. Britain had just defeated the great nations of France and Austria, we controlled the seas, we could control any city we wanted, we offered protection from foreign powers, we offered protected trade and prosperity, the list seemed endless. The Patriots were just a bunch of crybabies about some necessary taxes to keep the French out of North America.

I walked up to Mr. Lorraine and only in half-jest asked, “How did we win?”

He just smiled. He wanted me to figure it out, what a great teacher.

So Luchessi and I prepared ourselves and we had two separate class debates, with students allowed to ask questions, to determine a winner. At the end Luchessi and I convinced over half the American citizens in the class that their best bet was staying with England and to vote for us. We were pretty chuffed at our victory, it really wasn’t that hard, we had the facts on our side, all our Patriot opponents had were slogans and cheering. Our class was pretty smart, I determined. Plus the girls liked Luchessi.

Much to my pleasure the Patriot and Tory leaders were then sent on a field trip to a second grade class at a nearby elementary school. Who doesn’t like field trips? All of the second graders were sitting in a big room watching a movie about the American Revolution and how brave and wonderful the Patriots were.

After the film we got to present our case to all of the second graders. The way this worked is we would make our pitch, take a vote, then come back in a week and present our cases again and take a final vote.

We got our butts whooped. If I remember, out of about one hundred kids, we got eleven votes. I was actually surprised and pleased we got that many, the odds were greatly against us in that virulently Patriotic environment. But there were eleven plucky second graders who refused to go along with the masses.

Then Mr. Lorraine did something that stunned me and I remember to this day; he crooked his finger at each of the kids who voted Tory and invited them into a side room with us. There he pulled out an entire bag of candy, presented it to them, and said, “I am a representative of the King, and King George rewards his loyal subjects”.

Outright bribery, what brilliance.

At the time I was not thrilled with this, we should earn a victory fairly I said. The Patriot leaders were just open mouthed and making futile objections, Mr. Lorraine was not to be moved. The kids went nuts and split up all the candy and wouldn’t you know it, went out and TOLD EVERYBODY what a vote for the Tories meant.

The next week we came back and gave a shortened version of our presentation. This time we won fairly easily, about sixty votes. The second grade teachers were much amused at the little traitors in their midst.

I learned a lesson in the art of politics, bribery works.

And the second graders learned a lesson too, there was no more candy forthcoming. Once a politician has your vote, you’re fucked.

The Mission District

“I grew up in the Mission District!”

My mother would brag about this every now and then, both seeking street cred and scolding our spoiled ways.  It was true too, she was the only child of a single mother, and in those days there was no welfare, not that my grandmother would have ever accepted it; they lived on what her mother brought home, long before the days when women could get a decent job.  It wasn’t a fun neighborhood even then, it was a place you only lived if you were poor, and they were quite poor.  Of course when she would complain about where she grew up, my dad, who was born in the Bronx and grew up in New York City, would tell her, “I wish I grew up in as good a neighborhood as you!”

Back then The Mission District was white poor.  Then it became black poor.  Then it became Hispanic poor.  The people changed, not the neighborhood.  But with this current influx of techies the poor are being driven out and the neighborhood is rapidly transforming.

I visited a friend of mine in the Mission District the other day.  No, she’s not one of the new techies who have decided it is a cool edgy neighborhood to live in, she’s lived there for years in a private/public housing project where the city helped her buy her condo.  The irony is that these techies are driving up the prices in the neighborhood and her condo now puts her in the top 20% richest people in the world even though she has very little income. 

My friend’s daughter went to study down in The Mission what she called ‘Integrated Studies’ about what makes a community.  She bemoaned how the neighborhood is losing its Hispanic character.  Is a neighborhood entitled to maintain a certain ethnic character?  Didn’t Jimmy Carter get in trouble for suggesting that?  Is one character better than another?  One wouldn’t claim that a white neighborhood should maintain its white character, but it’s perfectly acceptable to claim that a Hispanic neighborhood should be able to maintain its Hispanic character.  And it’s not like there’s a shortage of Hispanic neighborhoods in California, the state is not only not majority white, it’s not even plurality white, it is plurality Hispanic.  How odd for the dominant ethnic group to claim it has some sort of right to a neighborhood.  How un-American actually.

I remember the 60’s and 70’s when the media complained that the (white) middle class was leaving the cities.  Now the middle class is returning and the media is complaining again.

Where will the poor go?

Gasp!  The green and leafy suburbs?  Oh no!  A fate worse than death!

Protestors picket and sometimes attack the busses sent up to San Francisco to pick up the techie employees.  This takes thousands of cars off the road every day, easing the commute and congestion for everyone else.  It is paid for by the companies themselves, not even by tax dollars.  The busses are a symbol of change the community organizers don’t like.  Hmm, liberals who don’t want change, doesn’t that make them conservatives?  So hard to tell the difference these days.

But it’s not just a techie white influx, it’s Chinese and Indian as well.  I am particularly tickled when I see lily white, supposedly liberal, labor leaders protesting the busses carrying all of those Asian techies.  Dudes, you look kind of racist.

Most of these Asian kids spent their lives studying their asses off under the harsh tutelage of their parents in countries where you are up against a billion people scrambling to survive, so you had better get a fucking skill or you will spend the rest of your life stitching clothes together for fat Americans to wear while they try and work off the kilos at the gym from those supersized American meals they eat in front of their supersized flat screen TVs.  The hard work finally pays off and they get a job in a country that is so rich that the native born kids actually get degrees for studying how poor people live.  Imagine their surprise when they learn this, they spent all their lives studying how not to be a poor person.  Then to top it off, along come these entrenched labor and neighborhood leaders protesting their ‘wealth’ and how they’re changing the city.

It reminds me of the old videos of Dan White, the conservative former policeman and city Supervisor who assassinated Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk, talking to the press and complaining of ‘outsiders changing the city’.  I’ve literally heard and seen those exact words numerous times from outraged San Francisco liberals.  Back then it meant gays and minorities, today it means, well, Techie gays and minorities.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

After the visit with my friend I walked back to BART and I could tell that The Mission has changed in just the last couple of years.  More trendy taquerias rather than run down authentic taquerias.  More trendy noodle bars rather than authentic ramshackle noodle bars.  And really, to be truthful, much more clean, well-lighted, and safe looking as well.

However as I passed a massage parlor I got a true shock.  Yes, yes, I know, there’s lots of massage parlors down there.  They get closed down and open with new management a few weeks later.  But this was not one of these, it was a LEGITIMATE massage parlor.  The front door is left open and you can see inside and observe the tables with an emphasis on foot massages.  Chinese men in black pajamas, not Asian sex slaves in lingerie, vigorously buffed the clientele. 

What is becoming of The Mission District?

Oh, mom, you’d hardly recognize the place.

What Happens in Brazil Stays in Brazil

The days and nights all seem to run together now, but I must put down on paper, or electronic media, what my fuzzy brain can remember for posterity.  The world would never believe what we saw and did.

I can’t even remember where we went for dinner.  Was it the pizza place down the street?  Did we have dinner?  I just remember ending up in a dive called Ó do Borogodó.  Fernando told us it was the best Samba in town, I’m sure he was right.

Places like this don’t exist in America anymore.  They’ve all been put out of business in the name of ‘safety’ or ‘improper licensing’ or taxes just a bit too high for this low end crowd.  Everything has to be ‘nice’ in America, perfectly clean, perfectly ordered, perfectly tailored to fit the perfectly ‘in’ crowd.  Sometimes places like this get started, but soon the government steps in, discovering unsafe conditions, like tables with sharp edges, or mold on a window sill.  Now all you can do in America is go to an overpriced, glitzy, bar, playing overly loud horrible house music to disguise its lack of heart.  People snap tons of photos and post them on Facebook pretending something interesting is happening when actually it’s so deadly boring that you just want to smack your face on the floor to remind yourself you’re still alive. 

We get there just before the music starts, luckily reserving a table in the back.  There is life in this place.  People are coming out at 10 P.M. on a Monday night to dance, sing, and enjoy life, instead of falling into bed and answering the last e-mails of the day on their cell phone before rolling over and passing out with exhaustion so they can give their all for their employer the next day.  No, people here know that life is short, you’d better ride this train as far and as fast as you can or you’re going to wake up one morning dead with a tombstone that reads, ‘Always kept his e-mail inbox clean and tidy’.

It was quite small for such a famous haunt.  You could cross the room in 5 seconds when it was empty, or 5 minutes when it was full.  A small bar was off to the left of where we sat.  Michael and Fernando would head over there every few minutes to bring back yet another pitcher of beer.  The entrance and restrooms were off to the right, and the band sat up against the wall directly opposite us.  The furnishings were strictly utilitarian.  They looked like they’d been salvaged from people’s homes over the years as they had upgraded their stuff and no longer wanted it.  But Ó do Borogodó would put it to good use.

The entire interior was brickwork that looked like it had been laid by a blind man.  No, that’s not true, a blind man would be able to feel the bricks and know they were sticking out all over the place and corrected it.  Perhaps it had been renovated a number of times and this was the result.  A tall roof provided the perfect acoustics for a band.

A half a dozen bandmates began playing some rhythms foreign to American ears but hearty to the human soul.  After a few numbers a lady got up to sing and she sang for the rest of the evening.  A man went up to a woman at a nearby table and asked her to dance.  For some reason in the puritanical U.S. we are no longer allowed to dance cheek to cheek with strangers, but these two swept up the dance floor.  The man’s moves were good, but the woman’s were better.  She strutted and curtsied and kicked her legs high.  They were both skilled, not from lessons at a strip mall, but from many years of genuine experience.

More and more people began to dance.  We hugged the wall just watching the action.

Then out of the corner came a man no one could ignore.  He was big, black, bald, and fit, with a smile as big as a house.  He hit the dance floor and swept women off their feet with the grace of Fred Astaire and the power of M.C. Hammer.  He knew exactly what moves to make and when.  Spinning women around, stopping, dipping; most of them didn’t know what was happening, but they all enjoyed it.

After a dance he glanced our way and spotted dois novas senhoras new to his abode.  He strode forward and thrust out his hand to Dory.  Dory was caught totally unawares and screamed and pulled back, after all, American’s don’t dance.  And the last thing they want to have happen is somebody to display how uncoordinated they are on the dance floor.  But everyone pushed her forward, knowing this would be good fun.

As promised the man twirled her about like a rag doll.  Pulling back, spinning, and moving her across the dance floor with the ease of a matador.  We all cheered as we watched.

Dory came back to the group flushed but giggling happily.

We went back to drinking and people watching for a while when the man walked up again and asked Janet to dance.

Unlike Dory, Janet accepted full throttle.  She practically leapt across the table to get a chance to dance with the maestro.  The man whipped her about with a flourish, most of the other dancers leaving them room to samba about the floor.

The man moved on, dancing with many other ladies, but never taking his eye off of Janet.

A group of women moved in next to us, the mother asked me to dance and I figured I’d might as well give it a try.  The last time I had dancing lessons I was nine years old.  I don’t know how to Samba, but I can do a pretty mean tap.  Even though it looked like I was leading, the woman moved me through the paces.  How can four steps be so difficult?

The woman moved in close.

“You and your friends must flee this place”, she whispered.

I looked at her quizzically.

“You are in much danger”.

“Why?  Is this place going to be robbed?”  We’d heard about the crime in Sao Paulo, but this place seemed supremely safe.

“No, worse.  You have entered the den of He Who Must Not Be Named!”

“You’re joking”, I responded.  But the number ended and we went back to our tables.

We all danced the night away getting up and cavorting in a circle as a group.  Every now and then the woman would look at me and motion us to leave.  But why leave when you’re having so much fun?

Dory and Janet took a break and went to the restroom, it turned out they didn’t know their own strength and pushed down the door.  At the sound of the falling door the man’s head snapped up in alarm.  Dory and Janet came back laughing at their proclivity for destruction. 

Finally around 2 A.M. the songstress announced the last number of the evening.  Everybody grabbed a partner and hit the floor.  The man grabbed Janet and finished the evening with a flourish of twirling, swinging, and prancing.

We all piled out into the street, our hearts full of glee, trying to decide our next move.  How dare they close down so early, things were just getting fun!

We talked to the women and the mother looked left and right and whispered to me, “You must destroy the silvered orbs!”

What the heck was she talking about?  We all realized we were hungry from dancing up a storm like that and excused ourselves.  We hopped into Fernando’s car and began driving away.

Out of the blue Janet announced, “I was mouth raped”.

“Whaaaaat?!” We all wondered.  All of us being in a state of tired, drunken, loopiness, we didn’t know what to make of her ramblings.

“On the last dance he shoved his tongue into my mouth.  All of it.  There was no tongue left in his mouth, it was all in mine.”

We were all in disbelief.

“I was violated out there on the dance floor and you did nothing!  Where were my friends?  Where were my protectors?”

Out tumbled out a series of questions and denials from all of us.  We were busy.  Sorry we didn’t notice.  We were dancing.  How big was his tongue?

“How big was his tongue?  You people are no help at all!  Each one of my teeth was personally probed and examined by his tongue.  He knows all my cavities.  My epiglottis lost its virginity and is clinging to the top of my throat weeping!”

Fernando stopped at the light.  None of us knew what to say, she was right, we had let her down. 

“Fine, nobody believes me” Janet mumbled, “I’m hungry, he reached down into my stomach with that giant tongue and cleaned it all out”.

She paused.

“And none of you noticed!  I looked like something from Alien with that tongue thrashing about my stomach!”

“And…”, she continued, “He gave me his card.”

“Whaaaat?!” We all wondered aloud again.  This just got better and better.

“Look at this!  It’s a trifold card with all his information”.

We were amazed.  Nobody’d ever seen a pickup artist like this before with his own card.

Janet held the card up to the light and read aloud, “Carlos Ultra”.

CRASH! 

Behind us down the street there was a huge explosion.  We all looked back to see a giant tongue come slithering out of the Ó do Borogodó.  It was so large it broke open the front wall of the place, leaving bricks tumbling in it’s wake.

“Go!”, Michael yelled to Fernando, “Let’s get out of here!”

We sped down the street in a panic.  All of us looking behind us at the giant tongue chasing us through the abandoned streets of Sao Paulo.  It was flopping about, sometimes tasting a car or two on the side of the road, then spitting it out, but always pursuing us.

“Step on it!  Get us back to our hotel!” Michael instructed.  Fernando hit the gas and we took off.  We went right through red lights, careening around corners.

“The woman told me!  He Who Must Not Be Named!  You named him!  Get rid of the card!” I yelled.

Janet opened the window and threw out the card.  Before she could roll the window back up again the card flew in and smacked Dory in the jaw before dropping back into Janet’s hand.

*Pling*

“Ow!” Dory cried, “My tooth got knocked out!  Help me find it.”

We all began searching the back of the dark car.

“Here it is.” I said, holding up a tooth.

“That’s not mine.” Dory said, still scrambling about on the floor with her hand.

“It’s not?  Who’s is it?”

“What happens in Brazil stays in Brazil”, Fernando answered from the front.

“I found it”, Janet held up a large fang.

“That looks like a caiman’s tooth”, Michael said, turning around to help.

“What’s a caiman’s tooth doing back here?  Look there’s more of them, both human and caiman.” Janet announced.

“What happens in Brazil stays in Brazil”, Fernando answered again matter-of-factly.

“I found it!” Dory said, trying to shove her tooth back in.

The tongue continued after us.

“He’s after Janet!” Dory shouted, “Oh, look at that hat in the window.  I’ve always wanted a hat like that.  White, with purple flowers…”

“Dory!  Keep your mind on the situation!” Janet ordered.  Dory is super smart, but keeping her focused on the topic at hand can be a challenge sometimes. 

Janet looked at me, “What else did the woman say?”

I sheepish responded, “Um, she told me we were in danger from He Who Must Not Be Named.  She said we must destroy the silvered orbs.”

“What does that mean?” Fernando said, still driving madly.

“How the heck should I know?” I replied.

We got to the hotel and burst out of the car, racing to our rooms.  But it was no use, the tongue could not be stopped.  It easily broke down the front door and headed up the stairs.  We ran down another set of stairs and back to the car, the tongue in hot pursuit.  We took off as fast as we could.

“Now what?” Fernando asked.

“The GRU2 datacenter” Michael responded.

“What?”

“GRU2.  It’s secure.  There’s a cage.  We can lock ourselves in.”

“Good idea!” Fernando said and raced off into the night, taking the bumpiest urban road in the world.

We got to GRU2 and got through security.  We heard the tongue crashing through the bullet proof glass barriers behind us.  We slammed the door to the cage behind us in a nick of time.  The giant tongue hit it and bounced off.  We sighed in relief.

But it knew it had us trapped now.  We had no other plan.  It began wrapping itself around the cage like a giant thick red anaconda, its saliva dripping in through the holes.

“What pretty blue lights”, Dory said, looking at the servers blinking.

“Yuck!  Look at all that saliva, didn’t I tell you?” Janet said, “It was in my mouth!”.

 “Yes, but now what?” said Michael.

“The power cables!” Fernando said, “Hit it with the power cables.”

He and Michael quickly opened the floor, finding the largest power cables to the servers.  They each grabbed one and stood on either side of the cage, the raw electricity spitting from the ends.

“Now!” Michael yelled.  They both threw the cables at opposite sides of the cage at the same time.  There was a huge roar as the electricity shocked and sizzled the giant tongue.  Crackling and smoke came from all around us, hissing and lightning and explosions filled the room as the tongue thrashed about.  It finally collapsed on the floor in a gooey mess.

Everyone broke into cheers.  We’d won!

 “I’m still hungry”, Janet said.

“Let’s go to New Dog”, Fernando said, “Time to celebrate”.

When we got there the first thing we noticed was five disco balls hanging over the entrance.

“Hey Janet”, Michael joked, “This could be his house. I’m sure he’s got a disco ball over his bed.”

“Why is the card still in your hand?” I asked Janet.

She looked down, the card was still there.  She brought it up to look at it.

“I don’t know”, she shook her hand to get rid of it, no dice.  “Oh goodness, will I ever be rid of Carlos Ultra?”

CRASH!

Off in the distance we heard another roar and knew what had happened at Ó do Borogodó.  We watched in apprehension and sure enough a few minutes later the giant tongue came down the street.  It seemed to get cautious as it approached however.

“You know”, I said, “Maybe he only wants Janet”.

“Idril!” Dory yelled at me.

“What?  You know, Spock in The Wrath of Khan, 'The needs of the many outweighs the needs of the one'.”

“Keep it up Idril”.

“All I’m saying is we never got his side of the story”.

Smack!  Dory slapped me.

“Cut it out!  Don’t even say such things!”

I held my jaw.

Then she soothed, “Oh, did I hurt you?”

“Yes”, I responded.

Smack! 

“Good!”

“Guys!  Guys!  We need to find a way out of this.” Michael interrupted.

Dory looked up at the disco balls, “The silvered orbs!  They’re Horcruxes!  That’s why just electrocuting the tongue didn’t work.  He Who Must Not Be Named has Horcruxes!  Destroy the silvered orbs!  Michael, get that broom!”

Michael grabbed a broom and brought it up over his head to smash one of the disco balls.

SLAM!

Nothing happened.

Again and again he struck each of the disco balls, but they were indestructible.

“We need something stronger!” Fernando yelled desperately eyeing the tongue across the street.

“What’s the strongest thing in Brazil?” I asked.

Dory’s eyes lit up.  She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper.

“A Nota Fiscal!” she cried.

She handed the Nota Fiscal to Janet and instructed her, “Put it in your other hand, the one without the card.  Guys!  Lift her up!”

The tongue knew it was in trouble, it pulled back and shot forward, galloping across the street toward us.  We lifted Janet high over our heads.

“Now Janet!  Smash the silvered orbs!” Dory hollered.

Janet was held high by the three of us.  She reached out and clapped the first of Carlos Ultra’s balls in her hands, the Nota Fiscal in one hand, his card in the other.

SMASH!

It blew apart at her touch.

The tongue stopped in the street and let out a roar.

“The next one!  The next one!” Dory yelled.

We took Janet down the line, destroying each of the Horcruxes in turn.  With each destroyed disco ball the tongue got smaller and writhed in more pain.

SMASH!

SMASH!

SMASH!

Each one produced a shower of glass and smoke.  The last one exploded with a force that knocked us all unconscious except for Dory who was standing farther away.  We fell to the ground.  There was still one Horcrux left.

“Wake up!” Dory yelled, looking over at the giant tongue.  It was recovering from the shock.  She grabbed the Nota Fiscal and the card from Janet’s hands and jumped, trying to get to the last disco ball, but it was too high.

The tongue knew its only chance was to get to Dory before she got to that ball.  It began moving forward, slowly picking up speed.

Dory pulled our limp forms into a pile.  I began to awaken.  I could barely lift my head.

“Dory?  What are you doing?”

“Trying to save us!” She shouted.  She then moved toward the tongue.

“Dory, keep away!”

Dory got about twenty feet away and turned back toward us, “Shut up and keep your head down!”

Then she got a running start, the giant tongue hot on her heels.  Like a basketball player doing a slam dunk she leaped on the pile of us, springing up in the air. She reached for the last disco ball.  The tongue just touching her leg.

“Take that Motherfucker!” Dory shrieked and clasped the last of Carlos Ultra’s balls in her hands.

A huge explosion rocked the air, glass shattered, the tongue’s roar rent the air and it disintegrated like powder into nothingness.

The police closed their inquiry quickly, asking a suspiciously few questions before letting us finally get a burger.  They didn’t believe us, but they didn’t not believe us either.  They had seen much in the streets of Sao Paulo.

That’s how I remember it my friends.  And if you’re ever in Sao Paulo and looking to have a great night on the town, I’d highly recommend Ó do Borogodó.  But you do so at your own risk. 

Beware!  You have been warned! 

For Ó do Borogodó is also the lair of Carlos Dias, world renowned Ultramarathoner.

http://www.carlosdiasultra.com.br/ 

https://www.facebook.com/Carlos-Dias-Ultra-231673027006203/