Sunday, July 27, 2008

St. Lose Blues: Wake up and smell the yeast!

Dedicated American beer swillers may have heard about the recent sale of Anheuser-Busch to the international beer giant InBev. In a human interest story (“Anger and Dismay at the Sale of a City Treasure”, New York Times 7/16/2008) that took readers to the heart of the USA (also affectionately referred to as “flyover” country by coastal snore meisters), a reporter spoke with St. Louis blue-collar workers concerned about the future of their jobs. People expressed a sense of betrayal over the St.Louis-based company’s promise not to sell the brewery and reflected upon the imminent demise of days when a laborer could achieve the American Dream with hard work and company loyalty. Now St. Louisans must face the bitter reality that Detroiters faced years ago. Bad beer and gas-guzzlers sometimes lose in the global marketplace.

But hope is not easily quashed in the American heart and with InBev promising not to close any of its US breweries, a Teamster can dream. Better to devise Plan B, says the faux carioca. This is business. Big business.

The New York Times represents InBev as a Belgian company. While its headquarters are in Belgium, the company is truly a round table of international business sharks with Brazil serving as the biggest fish in the sea being the primary producer of Brazil’s (bad) beer. InBev was created through a merger of the Brazilian company AmBev and the Belgian Interbrew in 2004. Moreover, its CEO is the aggressive Brazilian and Stanford MBA, Carlos Brito. When he worked for AmBev, Brito was known for his tough driving market-expansion, moneymaking skills. One way he effectively cut costs was by cutting jobs. Teamster brewers are advised to check the expiration date on their benefits.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Angry Asshole

In the U.S., to talk about a fondness for bidets indicates either a) a pretentious disposition or b) a preference for being sodomized (a clean butthole does not guarantee but may facilitate anal exploration by others). An American's love of the bidet may also suggest that one is both pretentious and likes to be buggered (e.g. bourgeois gay white male). Yet these are not absolutes. Is it not possible for any semi-old American to enjoy the daily pleasures of a cool, soothing anal cleansing? The Protestant disposition that pervades even among non-Protestants in the U.S. denies one the admission of such Dionysian pleasures so let us shift to another approach.

The bidet is so much more hygienic than rough dry toilet paper. So uncouth and oddly primate-like to crouch over a bowl scraping and wiping. After the bidet hose-down one pats dry with a clean, re-usable towel at the ready reducing the use of toilet paper/Sears' catalogs/leaves. Not only is this more civilized than scraping with thin paper squares, but it is also more environmentally friendly since the fluffy towel can be washed and re-used. And did we mention that the bidet is healthy? A lack of chafing reduces the incidence of hemorrhoids.

The asshole grown accustomed to a daily springtime rain freshness afforded by the bidet grows angry and puckers its mouth into an inflamed pout, "How did a country so obsessed with cleanliness come to cultivate such a nasty means for cleaning the seat of its constitution?"

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Map, what map?

The faux carioca has returned to the too-tight embrace of Blow-me-ton where she languishes under the scourge of a nasty Brazilian cold and grows impatient with her wounded ankle. The good news is that an x-ray revealed no bones were broken or cracked during her assault on the other guy’s head. The bad news is that the ankle’s most important ligaments were sprained during the impact and it will be another 2-5 months before a full recovery. Strengthening the muscles in the foot is a good thing until it starts to hurt. When the hurting begins, so too shall the final installments of Waxing Brazilian.

So what does a gal have to do to get around Rio de Janeiro if she wants to add a little toxicity to the environment--and we’re not talking about a post beans and beer stroll by the beach. Well, she might drive a car or take a taxi but there is also the bus, the various illegal vans, or the Metro.

What is interesting about the bus and the vans is the lack of posted schedules or maps. Anywhere. While this makes sense for the contravans, it defies logic for the bus system. Buses are numbered and have destinations posted in the windows, e.g. Praça General Osorio via Barato Ribeiro. If the picky traveler wants to know whether a bus is heading near her destination, she must ask. She asks other riders, the bus driver, the money-taker that sits by the bus’ turnstile, but ask she must. Sometimes she receives correct, incomplete, over-detailed, or just plain wrong information. Yet Brazilian culture is very much shaped by oral tradition and there is a logic in the system of navigating buses by talking to other people. One Brazilian perspective might consider the individual mapping out her travel plans in solitude as lonely and weirdly antisocial. There is no reason to be so self-sufficient when there are other people on the streets who know how to get to point B from point A. The independent American spirit resists this reliance upon others, but is eventually served its humble pie (the only kind in Brazil) when in Rio--dropped incidentally, on the filthy bakery floor.

For a few centavos more, the city trekker can ride the clean and bourgeois Metro. Why bourgeois? Because the Metro includes so many useless ‘perks’. The thrifty carioca will regard the Metro as a needlessly expensive alternative to the vans and buses. Vans and buses range in price from R$2-2.40. The Metro, on the other hand, is R$2.60. For what does one pay up to an extra 60 centavos? Sure, there’s a map of the system in the subway cars (not very useful for someone trying to decide which train to board while wavering on the platform—better to ask someone). What’s more, the Metro plus its connecting buses are all air-conditioned. Air-conditioning, in case the gentle readers did not already know this, is a sign of civility. Over air-conditioning is the height of luxury that no self-respecting Third World elitist would dare complain about. But perhaps the greatest useless perk of using the Metro that serves to remind its riders of their bourgeois status is the music. Each air-conditioned bus and Metro station plays uninterrupted classical and jazz music. The rubes could never appreciate such refinement. Appropriately enough, crime is very low on the Metro. No one jumps the turnstiles or moves between subway cars. There is no one trying to sell socks or candy on the Metro. The homeless and the mentally ill steer clear. Truly the Rio Metro is a bourgeois paradise that is begging to be discovered by a savvy hustler.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Proper Burial Forthcoming




Dear gentle readers,
The faux carioca had such grand plans to be your correspondent from Brazil. Over the next two weeks she was going to report dutifully on food, people, and practices. Alas, the system is down. The computer in her host mother's apartment protested said mother's recent departure for a two month stay in France. Things went awry less than a week into the faux carioca's unlimited access to 21st century technology. The CPU now squeaks mournfully when it is turned on and the screen remains black.

So it goes.

The faux carioca must regretfully put Waxing Brazilian on hiatus. While the she shudders at the thought of maintaining a blog on a regular basis, she is disappointed to end this one so abruptly and unexpectedly. Your trusty correspondent will do her best to file last reports when she has returned to the US. Oh sure, she could write now and again from Rio but the truth is she is tightening her belt to make the budget last and Internet cafes are cheap though not free.

Speaking of returning to the US, does anyone know someone interested in breakfasting or brunching with the faux carioca on Wednesday July 16 in Houston? She will be arriving in Houston at 5:20 a.m. with a connecting flight to Indianapolis scheduled for 4:15 p.m. That's a long ass time to spend reading magazines and drinking cocktails in an over air-conditioned stinkhole. Charming as the Houston airport might be, the faux carioca would love a respite after an overnight flight from Rio. Please advise via e-mail on people to call and places to visit!

Beijos.