Seasoning

TO THE KIKES

Happy celebration of the lasting properties of kosher oil in times of strife (and the one time we managed to fuck over the big dominating empire) by lighting candles on the days we remember and eating 5 or 6 slightly cold glutinous doughnuts at one sitting out of a combination of sugar addiction and a need to express somehow the inexpressible intricacies of a cultural identity divested of any substantial religious belief (or is that just me?), while pretending the festival is a little bit more important than it is just so we don't feel too left out of the Christmas thing. I've always preferred Pesach, much more glamorous, and who can beat a whole platter of symbolic foods and the visitation of a dead prophet midway through dinner?


TO THE CRISPIES

Happy birthday to your saviour. Christmas in Argentina is not quite the hurricane of commercialism that it is in England. I imagine that's because they have much less money to spend on useless crap. It's frankly glorious for me to be able to walk into a shop, café or restaurant and not be subjected to the same 14 Christmas songs as every year that aren't even any good anyway. Out here people have their Xmas dinner on Christmas Eve, often an asado (Gaucho style barbeque) with present opening at midnight. The day itself is usually a chilled affair with immediate family. I told many Argentines that English people tend to go out and get trashed in the pub on the 24th, then get up really early, eat a 6 hour lunch and drink constantly before falling asleep in front of the TV.


TO THE ZOROASTRIANS

I am not sure quite what you do to celebrate the death of Zarathustra on Zarathosht Diso (26 December), but I hope it involves presents and that you get nice ones. I'd also like to register my delight at how many Z's your religion involves. I've always thought a lack of Z's to be a terrible shortcoming in most religions today.


TO OTHER FAITHS AND ATHEISTS

Look, just eat the turkey, okay? Who's going to know? And if there's a shadowy presence lurking by the doughnut bowl, who'll raise the alarm? Not I. I too have seen Darkness's gory visage and know. Plus there's more than enough to go round.


EL AÑO NUEVO

Amazingly, omitting that little wiggly line on the N changes 'new year' to 'new anus'. Having just been informed by my marketing people of the recent success of a face transplant in Paris, I hope that 2006 may finally see a successful anus transplant in Rome. I also hope that none of you be the guinea pig. Though they probably have more advanced ways of doing keyhole surgery these days.

Tengo un cocodrilo en mi bolsillo

It was the same night as the puppet party that my bag was stolen from under my nose by an urchin selling Jesus cards in a restaurant called Hipopótamo next to the infamous Parque Lezama that forms the boundary between culturally happening and slowly gentrifying San Telmo and the rough and ready streets of La Boca. The only night I have seen fog in Buenos Aires, hanging like a dream over the hilly park, griddled with paths and studded with bizarre classical statues. My bag contained all my books and notebooks, numbers and letters and writings worthless to no-one but me and future scholars. I would like to hope that the penniless kid who nicked it was prompted by the contents to commence a life of letters but it is far more likely that the contents ended the night garnishing one of the numerous piles of rubbish propping up lampposts in every corner of the slippery city.

I was very upset, but the puppet party was the perfect antidote. Set in a courtyard deep in Boca territory, the partiers were a brightly coloured selection of street performers, clowns and puppet masters who put on a great show among heckles and crates of Quilmes beer. There was some bad onstage chemistry between compere straight man and clown wearing a toaster in front of his face. A complex war story involving a soldier running slow motion armed with a large elongated chicken was particularly entertaining. When the sun started smacking the city with its cheery hammer I was wandering in a stupor with an American clutching my guitar. On a previous night in the same area I had been accosted by a wiry old man who yabbered at me in dense Porteño slang and showed me his (possibly artificial) gun while asking 'Estoy ladrón? Estoy ladrón? (Am I a thief?)'. I think he was just looking for love, but I had none to give.