Currently obsessed with Veronica Mars, which is devilishly difficult to pirate off the Interwebs. May have to resort to the $5 AR per DVD to-your-door movie service.

Juan and I made our way to some pirate-themed tourist bar where we drank frosty Brahmas and watched the game pretty much by ourselves. The Argentinians weren’t interested. I guess because the players weren’t rolling around on the field pretending that their shins were broken.

I decided before I got there that I would root for the Colts, if only because Indianapolis is my hometown, more or less. “Home” being a euphemism for “boring hellhole.”

Still, I didn’t mind that the Saints won. Reggie Bush is frakin’ hot and Scott Fujita is a Pinko Communist Fag from Berkeley.

Drunk already, we headed off to an empty Red Door for pool, boy-and-girl watching and even more beer.

Then Juan and I are going to CasaBar to watch the superbowl.

1. Stop smoking at home.

Check.

Once I start a pack of cigs, I don’t stop until I’ve killed it, which didn’t really take that long. More than a pack per day. It was making me feel awful and not great for the MacBook, either.

Now I only smoke when I go out. Like a chimney, but that’s usually only once a week. I didn’t want to give up smoking entirely; I love smoking, and beer and cigs go together.

2. Stop drinking every day.

Check.

I’m orally fixated, it’s true. But now I’ve drinking Diet Coke instead of beer. Also, a little bit cheaper.

3. Write every day.

Check. Sort of.
I’m not writing anything interesting, other than notes for posts that never get finished, but at least my words aren’t just bouncing around in my head, keeping me up all night.

3. Get more exercise.

Nope. Still a potato.

4. Get laid.

Nope.

Still frustrated but not doing anything about it, either. Making out with random bi-curious boys at Red Door doesn’t count and makes it worse.

Why didn’t I approach that obviously-looking-for-it boy in San Telmo two weeks ago? I know: Fear. Fear of what, for frak’s sake.

I knew something was up, weeks ago: Because he came to remember what cigarettes I bought; because his hand trembled when he’d give me my change; because he would ask Juan about me;because the other night he rubbed the top of my hand and asked,

“Nos vemos?”

“Si!” I answered at the time, although I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him that night, or morning. He works the night shift and gets off at 7.

Sometimes I’m up at 7 but if I am, I’m beat or too drunk to fuck.

We’ll have to figure something out, won’t we?

Juan’s either lying (I happen to know that the going rate for foreigner johns to be 100 pesos, ahem, and although I love him, Juan ain’t that cute. Plus since when could a taxi driver afford 300 pesos?!) or it’s wishful thinking.

Imagine. Spicy food, properly cooked rice. In Buenos Aires.

What I can’t imagine is any porteño being able to handle the heat of the curry. Nope, when they say British, they mean it.

No British beers, though, which was too bad.

It’s a bit pricier than your low-rent parrilla, but I was sated after the meal, considering the price included, um, several, uh, tortillas, I guess… with 3 tasty chutneys and a mint and yogurt sauce for dipping and scraping.

Unexpected, satisfying and worth it, although it was strange to see a tikka masala on the same menu as a Thai green curry, which wasn’t really green.

Mash is located at Mexico 524 in San Telmo. It’s good. Try it once.

Yawn.

Also, there’s a gay character, a fact that was introduced unobtrusively, and he’s hot, tattooed and a gangster. That’s a twist.

Anyway, I have this huge crush on a barback at Red Door: A young, skinny, somewhat trashy, brown-skinned boy who makes me gawp and always wears a cap. His facial scruff drove me crazy last night. In a good way.

Somehow Juan and I had been talking about the shaving of pubic hair. I told him that it disgusted me and that it was a dealbreaker for me. He said his last girlfriend made him shave.

I said, See, this is why I’m gay, so I don’t have to put up with that shit.

Juan said, “Come on! If The Boxer [Juan's nickname for the barback and now mine] told you he would suck your dick if you would just shave, you wouldn’t do it?”

Never mind we hadn’t been talking about MY pubic hair but rather that of potential sex partners.

Still, I said, No!

Juan didn’t believe me.

I’m not sure I do either.