Chris Walker Vs. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

“Chris, I now understand what you were saying earlier,” said My Mexican Acquaintance in his choppy English from across the table. I was with a large group of Mexicans, sitting on the patio of a “hooker bar” in Panama, sucking down Panama beer, which is quite possibly the weakest beer ever. It makes Bud Light taste strong. “Hooker bars” are like strip clubs only no one gets naked and no one is dancing. Girls, heavily glittered and over-perfumed, loiter around the bar, vying for your attention. If you’re foolish enough to give it to them they’ll sit with you, order drinks on your tab, and negotiate services. Taking them back to your hotel room will cost you roughly $100 US. While I love chlamydia just as much as the next guy, I wasn’t interested.

Pulling myself out my favorite “How cool would it be if the Cloverfield monster came over the top of that building and just started kicking everything’s ass” fantasy, I looked over at My Mexican Acquaintance, giving him my undivided attention. I was curious what kind of epiphany he’d had while sitting in this armpit of a country, where the food is disgusting and the Crown Royal is watered down. He continued, “When you said, ‘It’s good for now, but not for forever,’ I thought you were talking about the clothes but now I realize you were talking about the girl.” His facial expression was a mixture of disgust and contempt. “I can’t believe you would say that right in front of her.”

Here’s what happened. Somewhere between the flight from Mexico City to Panama, the airline managed to lose my luggage, along with My Mexican Acquaintance’s luggage. The next day I went shopping while My Mexican Acquaintance went to a training seminar. When he returned, he called me and asked if I’d show him where to buy clothes. I obliged.

“Do you want cheap or expensive?” I asked when we met in the hotel lobby.
“Cheap.”
I took My Mexican Acquaintance to Panama’s answer to TJ Maxx, where he bought a funky yellow button down and basic denim jeans. Even though he was just an acquaintance, I could tell the clothes were not his typical “style”. So, while a young, female sales associate rang up his purchase, I approached the counter and said, “Ah, you know, it’s good for now, but not for forever. It’ll get you through the night.”

I made the comment about the clothes, not the girl. Yet, there My Mexican Acquaintance was, sitting across from me in a Panamanian “hooker bar”, abhorrence in his eyes, accused me being a chauvinistic douchebag, uncouth and classless.

At the time, I didn’t correct him. I didn’t really care, I was just like, “Ah, yeah, whatever,” and went back dreaming of being elsewhere. After the fact, it bothered me. I remember the look in his eyes, that look of disbelief, like he had just solved some great conundrum, and at the end of it was me — this fucking asshole — whom he was now ashamed to be associated with. It only dawned on me during the plane ride back to the US that he hadn’t spoken to me after that night. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps it wasn’t.

Granted, I’m not always polite and chivalric to women. I have little regard for sloppy, entitled dorm rats trying to use the men’s bathroom when I have to use it, and I’ll make ridiculously bold assertions about collective female behavior, but to crassly evaluate a random woman’s worth right in front of her while she’s just ringing up merchandise? I have a soul. I’m not completely tactless, which was exactly what My Mexican Acquaintance was implying. He was completely wrong.

Part of me wants to run up to My Mexican Acquaintance the next time I see him and say, “Listen, know-it-all; remember that time when you accused me of making rude comments about a girl in a department store? Well, I wasn’t. You just have shitty English skills and misconstrue things. I was talking about your ugly clothes so fuck you!” But I won’t see him for another year and by then it will be too late. Lesson learned. Take a Mexican in need of clothes shopping and you become a womanizing dick. No good deed goes unpunished. Especially in Panama.

Chris Walker Vs. Bitches Who Refuse To Eat Ham

Last Saturday, Anthony Bourdain and Mario Batali were at the Paramount in Seattle answering questions, sharing wisdom, and throwing good-spirited jabs at one another. Or, in this case, knock out punches. Bourdain said to Batali of his PBS show, “Spain… On The Road Again”, in which Batali and (presumably insufferable) actress Gwyneth Paltrow indulge in Spain’s bountiful, culinary offerings, “Why would you go to Spain with the one bitch who refuses to eat ham?”

Spain is well known for its pig products. Evidently, Paltrow, ever pretentious and (again) insufferable, follows a strict macrobiotic diet and did not eat meat during the series. I wouldn’t know because I didn’t watch the show. Sounds terribly boring, though.

Later in the evening Bourdain quipped, “The people who watch the Food Network are the ones with a gallon of soda and a bag of Cheetos going, ‘Oh, I could make that.’”

And the world seems right again.

LINK:

Saturday: Anthony Bourdain & Mario Batali @ The Paramount, via Seattle Weekly.

By the way, I never really cared for Black Lips until I read this. Now I love them. While I’m at it, this is brilliant. Today is full of wonderful gems.