Monday of Time Wasted

Each day I make a pledge to start afresh, wipe the slate clean, tomorrow is a new day and I'll be a new man. This mantra of mine was probably overheard and subconsciously stolen from some motivatonal speaker informercial, and I'm not even sure if its good advice, do we really think the solution to our problems could possibly lie in a 300 pg hardcover featuring a cover with a middle age man with an Armani suit, hired that morning and to be return by no later than 5pm, an addiction to teeth whitening, a minimalists dream with all-white backgrounds and giant-fonted last names only? Everyday I seem to fuck it up, probably because I don't put time limits on tasks, and end up doubling down on my later day work ethic, which sounds like an analogy to the US economy, my subconscious suggesting that I have been working sufficiently on my stock markets, futures, 'n' those things that I do. I'm always dissatisfied with my productivity though, which is a strange feeling because it seems to be suspiciously absent when I needed it most and a true nagger when I really couldn't give two shits. Either way, going to bars and clubs is hampering my progress, but particularly in my espanol, which is the mockery of my house, flashing me back to that Christmas reunion I attended when I was 12. I had a below-par Grade 6, no awards, no special grades, and one time I lost my U/14s semi final on a missed 3 pointer buzzer attempt. I'm made to look like a fool so all the other cousins can feel better about how they're not 'Colin', which once again is an analogy for the US economy, class warfare and all that, so I'll just zip my lips and get on with it.

Sunday is usually my day of godly rest, 6 days on 1 off, I hear a surgeon follows a similar procedure, and they're upstanding citizens when not overdosing girls half their age. Except my off-day means off-alcohol which may mean on-marijuana... I need a ruling on that, is getting toked in front of UFC and hilarious Mexican sitcoms classed as a night off? Ruling is in, *opens card slowly*, *clears throat*, still a day off. Until I break that highly respected rule with a trip to Molaka's, a cool live music bar, authentic atmosphere and fun party place. Perhaps a little on the chill side, if I had to complain, which I won't, because there's a mass shortage of these venues worldwide and I'd hate to give the wrong impression to potential entrepreneurs. Meeting a friend Jake, who doesn't understand he has no need to tell people he's from Florida, had the fortunate event of a few trout jumping into his fishing boat, in the form of his sister suggesting he needs to take her friends 'and show them around', temporarily in BA and temporarily insane for a week, allowing a temporary opportunity to whack the flipping sea swimmers with his oar and cook the prize. Looking closest to a drug dealer in the group leads me to be the 'how can you help us out?' guy, which is cute the first time and annoying the next 10. After a series of weird conversations, I left early, and they marched on to a random Brazilian club, I heard later to be ruined by the infamous 'flock leader want to go home' party killer. Early, as in, 4 am, which I assure to all you not living is here is the standard in a 9 year old's Argentine's bedtime. Still, it hangoverings me enough to stop my planned post office move, rumoured to take up to 4 hours involving 3 different lines. Fuck. I still have to do that. And once again, the doubling down continues. One week in my life, I'll crush it, run errands like Jesus, smite my enemies like God, and have something great for Friday night show-and-tell, a.k.a 'the go-to conversation for women you meet at bars'.

Running Down Ghost Town

Never have the streets been so quiet on a Friday afternoon. Buses are sparse, cars trickle through instead of congest, and foot traffic now resembles a distant and locally inhabited seaside village. Most stores are closed, and those still operating are staffed by clock watchers, eager to put an end to the farce and slam down the generic roller doors, tinted by light graffiti and spattered rust. Nothing says 'we are closed and not interested in your money' like an industrial grade Argentine roller door. A common complaint of cities is 'too many people live here', which other than being a great violation in tautology is also hilarious when cities do empty out for a holiday weekend. Those same people lose any interest in setting a foot outside into their presumed utopian, always an irony lost on themselves, much like people who always whineabout bad weather but enjoy the radiant glow of their television even as the smooth rays of sunlight claws its way through the imperfectly sealed window blinds, beckoning them to come out and enjoy. No such hypcrisies exists with me. I enjoy my cities with life and a seam-bursting intensity. This position is related to why I enjoy city running so much. Any excuse to get out of the house, people watch, explore, and critique girl's power walking styles (the secret is in the hip wag, take note ladies). Its a meditation of sorts, instead of talking and responding, you just listen, feel, and remove the weight of your life's pressures, trading it for a cloak of anonymity and making distant observations.

My route often carves its way down Libertador, a large, wide, 10 lane street separating well off Recoleta from "Argentina's 99.9th Percentile" Recoleta. This choice is made on pragmatic grounds; broken tiles and half-assed construction zones litter most other streets, but its not the easily sighted damage that I mind, its the hidden 'trapdoor' tiles that shift a few inches like a sandstone brick from Indiana Jones, but instead of an elaborate trap resulting in a spray of arrows, a little gnome sneaks up behind me and ankle caps me. I'm yet to catch the sadistic gnome in the act. I must commend his tactics, it forces me to take diligence and avoid his carefully laid ankle traps. Not that I wouldn't take this route for other reasons. Libertador is the most European area in a city that has a creepy sense of pride in being a 2nd rate knock-off. Rich industrialist families drift along the wide, well kept sidewalks, safe under the watchful eyes of an army of doormen, security guards, and security guard-esque policeman, who don't seem to do much at all except add to their monthly phone and ciggerate expenditures. 16 year old daughters who are well-dressed, beautiful, rich, and know all these things are seen flicking their long hair from side to side, with their eyes straight forward, engaging in some form of reverse psychology with the world, pretending they couldn't care less about who's noticing. As I run past this self-acclaimed picturesque crowd, taking special care around the sprawling outdoor cafe seating, which I suspect was planned by an anarchist looking to play havoc with vulnerable coffee-carrying waiters, I gaze at the extravagent 18th Century architecture, a throwback to the days when buildings were constructed with purpose and attention to detail. Like your grandmother in search of a big hug, the entrances to these magnificant structures seem be wide opened arms of cobble, metal and sandstone, drawing you into their warmth and quaint solace. How remarkable that someone could construct a pathway emulating a grand journey of exploration. I mull over a change in careers. "Only 5 years of school... Come on, it'd be so cool!". These are the things you think about when you run.

Likewise, the parklands are enchanting journeys, never a hint of being too enclosing or too open, enough leaf-spacing to provide beautiful rays of sun but enough trees to give ample shade whenever its needed. If there is one hidden upside to a city with no beach, its how people appreciate parks. Couples relaxing under a tree, kids playing ball games, old people slowly shuffling in search of a bench, parks become the default choice in lazy recreation. Girl even sunbath in either bikinis or underwear. In BsAs, a city of girls who all seem part of an organised vendetta to bring back Victorian Era fashion style skin disclosure, a chance to see the complete womanly figure should be a natural male priority. Well timed 'rest' are essential for this. Sunglasses help too. Today, however, the park is lifeless. The sky is overcast, the usually popular chill out benches are deserted. The lack of tactical 'resting' makes me more fatigued than usual. Was that a tumble weed I just saw? Holidays suck in this city. Give me a capacity crowd any day.