A "sex worker", who happens to have no rights, human or otherwise, and who also constitutes my chattel property - being a slave as she is, and consequently having absolutely nothing to protect her in any way or to any degree from any sort of use or abuse other than the dictates of my own, sovereign, patriarchal free will - found a thing. This thing :
So we giggled and we went - but first she paraded around nude for a while, getting ready. She did her make-up (maybe not quite to the streetwalker level but strongly in any case), she put on stockings (the sort with a line in the back), she climbed atop high heels (and packed walking shoes, "in case you want to go for a walk"). Truth be told she's always dressed for work, even if I never actually sent her out to work - because she's a woman, and this is what it means.i
She was, by a very fat margin, the hottest slut there. This synthetic blade cut a very deep skin into the nature of things as they are, and we shall draw the benefits of its passing. Yes, my kittenii could blow the entire community of Argentinian "sex workers" out of the water, quite exactly in the way a set of agricultural machinery can put whole villages' worth of ploughmen out of work. There's no doubt in my mind that given a hundred pesos to spend in their pocket and sexual desire pushing them, a collection of Argentine men would prefer hanging about in a large group around her over "sexually trabahing" them, the others, las otras. The extras. But this purely economic, capitalist, mathematically-representable, scientifically-optimizable, meaningful, protestant, what have you construct has absolutely no bearing. Yes, I get it, you see "trabajadores", look up the dictionary definition, form the mistaken opinion the Spanish "trabajadores" has anything whatsoever to do with English "workers"iii, then go on to think "work" and look at you, half way to Physics-based notions of energy per unit time and whatnot. Lol.
After spinning around the block once, an ugly, fat... woman, let's say, with a glass eye, approached us to inquire as to who we are and what are we doing. Because she's seen us taking photos. I explained to her we're tourists, and she was completely satisfied. Somehow, whatever enemy she fearediv wouldn't in her estimation have the intellectual wherewithal to say the same thing. Understand me well : no disrespect whatsoever is intended, or included here. There's no doubt in my mind that the woman looked as she did not from a good life ; that her eye was lost in the exact reimplementation of a catfight for humans - turns out that "kitten" doesn't nearly sound quite so elegantly, civilisedly pleasant when the literal beastiality of the animal is contemplated ; that the scars on her face weren't the result of a bored, overfed emo girl's immortal soul feeling poetic and misunderstood that day ; in general that she was a trabajadora sexual, which very pointedly doesn't translate as sex worker.
So what does it translate as, then ? Well... You gotta beat on someone, right ? That.
I know it's incomprehensible, that's what cultural difference is all about, this "incomprehensible". What do you do if you need to pee ? You hold it, right ? And if you still need to pee after you hold it ? No, you can't go to a restaurant, or a bar, or anything - they all have things on the door pointing out to you that solo para clientes and you're not going to throw about the little money you got on their idle pretense.v So what do you do ? Eventually you'll have to pee on something. What do you pee on ? Yeah, that's right, the garbage boxes. Because it's already garbage. Sucks for the garbage workers, of course, but, again... what shall you do ? Not like this "cosmopolitan" town with a "night life" has reached 1800 Paris / 1950 Timisoara level of development so there's a place to piss.
That's what a "trabajadora sexual" is here : the Schelling point of societal violence. She's not a woman you go fuck for the pleasure of fucking a pro ; she's not sought after for the quality of her secondary sexual characteristics, for any sort of aesthetic reason. No, none of that - she's the pisspost. She's the punching bag. Have you had a bad day today ? Go beat up a whore. Which is why the veterans look like they went through a meat grinder, with permanent scars, missing eyes and what have you. This is why the only thing they found it worthwhile to spend the paint to communicate was a lot of stuff about support against police violence. It fucking sucks to be them.
A very easy take on Ammar, the people who organised all of this, is to say that hey, they're a bunch of politically correct twits trying to take the fun out of fucking whores. God knows there's plenty of that nigger ditz bullshit going around. Easy counts for nothing on Trilema, however. The correct take is to say that they're some people trying to make the best of a very miserable situation in a very third worldly shithole. Sure, they misuse some words. That's because they're stuck using the words you care about - not like you'd ever give a shit about some poor old nobodies in the street of nowhere for themselves.
And now, pictures!
View from San Juan. The street was closed to traffic, much to the driver's despair. But we proceeded on foot,
A coupla blocks down. The party is starting to become visible in the distance.
Some sort of altercation. Very piddly.
The "Peronist Giggolos" or somesuch. Not intended as a slight to peronism, but as a local transplantation of that time when Phillip Seymour Hoffman told the faggots-in-suits (in Flawless) that as long as they get down on their knees to suck the cock, they're all his sisters. You know ?
On the left, atop the imported flag, the [Ogilvy&Mather] powered Ammar links up with the #NiUnaMenos officialismo. Apparently stereotypes kill, didn'tcha know, as exemplified by the fate of one Sandra Cabrera.vi
Apparently this is a zone you "are afraid to traverse at night". Weird, but what do I know.
Yet children are universally and perennially the same thing : children.
We stopped for drinks at a bar run by some Dominican fellows. Actually, come to think about it, most of the working girls aren't Argentinas, but immigrants. Which is deeply unfortunate, I know of no better cure for the gargauni of the local population than a year or two of forced street prostitution. If I were running the country I'd absolutely introduce a draft, right after highschool, each cunt takes her year out for her country.
Is he famous or isn't he ?
Wilson Hotel. You know ?
The way I read this "Dale Globo!" is that a bum living under a bridge, between vapors and stupours had a moment of clarity, and in that moment he used whatever valuable instrument he had to write "Go, Globe!" on his yard of wall. In other words, that this world, for all its warts, for all his foibles, still elicits moreover a broad benevolence from his heart. Go, he says, you're doing pretty good things. Good luck and good for you!
There's worse readings.
Is that blood period or virginity ? And which is better ?
There comes a time in every pigeon's life when all the good that's ever going to be already has. When that time comes, it will find a place to hide. There could be worse things, but it does miss the sky...———
- Obviously, the Argentinian hoodie-wearing faux females don't know this, in the sense that of course they know but they pretend not to. Which pretense doesn't work, of course. [↩]
- Pisi, in Romanian in original. [↩]
- It absolutely does not. The only viable translation to English of the Spanish concept is "Social Security Claimants" and naught more. They may be willing to jump through some bureaucratic loops - but it is upon you to ensure their continued existence. Ballas has the details. [↩]
- Either some local middle class opposition and their putative Pinkertons or else perhaps some governmental goons, I'd guess. [↩]
- It is, rank, unmitigated, idle pretense. To explain it plainly : we felt like eating after this exercise, so we went to what pompously declares itself as one of the five historical bars of the city. They were named so by law, their fucking congress passed a law for this purpose. Look :
I ordered steak ; the girl ordered "German sausage". I was delivered an ancient shoesole ; she was delivered a couple supermarket dogs, three dollars a pound, that they had boiled for her. We walked. I can afford to walk, here as everywhere, because the thirty, fifty, whatever the experience costs sets me back much less than the wasted time sets me back. I couldn't care less. The local however, entirely - you comprehend this, entirely - bereft of any sources of actual currency whatsoever can not afford to throw away a dollar on the pretense of sitting down in a pretend-bar.
People here don't open a shop, a restaurant, a government, like people. They open a carny booth. If you wish to participate, you will pay to support their pretense that their carny act is the real deal. If you don't wish to support such pretense - you'll have not to participate. At all. In anything. Which is the problem of the waitress stuck at said shithole (Bar del Cao) : she has to work. She can't be MP, to do whatever she pleases. She has to work, and she works. Well : when she accidentally dropped a fork "nobody saw", she stuck it in the dirty pile and got another one ; when her biggest looking customers asked for the bill and stood up five minutes after the food came in she tried to see what the problem is and if it can be fixed (unlike most any other Argentine waitress, who generally would view herself as a sort of government clerk distributing governmental largesse, not as a sort of lowest rung peon, too low to even count as a slave). She's stuck, along with a few other competent people, in the miasma of the average Argentine, abominable, miserable, outright patibulaire (in the Romanian view of that term). [↩]
- Apparently there's also a lengthy documentary nobody saw, "Sexo, dignidad y muerte". In any case, the woman used to run an Ammar branch in Rosario before she was killed a decade ago. [↩]