Pablocast 2.0: Los Abuelos De La Nada

Here it goes. The second installment on my series about Argentine rock in the 80s. This time, it's the antics of Miguel Abuelo and
Los Abuelos De La Nada. This takes me back to the beach, crepes filled with dulce de leche, and warm chocolate milk. Please take a listen at:
www.ourmedia.org/media/podcast-2-los-abuelos-de-la-nada-august-2009

Pablocast 1.0: Seru Giran

I've decided to do a series of podcasts about the Argentine pop/rock bands I grew up with. You may find the first installment at: http://www.ourmedia.org/ia/details/Pablocast1_Ser__Gir__n
I hope you enjoy it. Your feedback is most welcome.

Why Don't S&%t Work Right?

Ever have one of those streaks where nothing works right or people just refuse to do their job, but they want to charge you full price anyway? Well, I just got through one such streak (I can only hope I already did).

Twenty-three years ago I fled the home of my ancestors (I was only second-generation, but you get the point) partly because that was the permanent state of affairs. Things just never seemed to work right and you never got what you paid for. And you were supposed to like it. It took 15 years just to get a telephone line. (Don’t believe me? See The Money Kept Rolling in (and Out) by Paul Blustein, at 24). And if you ever wanted to raise a stink, well they had a stock comeback for you: “Go sing to Gardel.” (Gardel was the greatest tango singer that ever lived. He died in a fiery crash in 1935.)

In 1985, my family and I arrived landed in Los Angeles (I don’t want to hear it; you don’t see me questioning your “Ellis Island”). In any event, we arrived on a Thursday morning. We had a telephone line by that afternoon. We had all utilities up and running in no time. And we could pay for them (are you sitting down?) by mail!!! No more waiting in line at the bank to pay the bank a commission to pay the gas company. If we had a question, we called the company. For free. And a human being picked up the phone. And they answered our question. And they (tear drop dewing my eye now) solved our problem. That was the case for virtually everyone with whom we spent our hard-earned expatriated funds.

Fast forward to today (or don’t; the 80s were pretty groovy and I wouldn’t mind staying there myself a while). I gotta tell you, for the past few years I’ve been getting that feeling you get when you see that rash that you thought you were done with years ago (you know what I mean, don’t you?) Anyway, it looks like really sloppy products and service are creeping back into my life. But this time, not even Gardel can help me. Yeah, folks, looks like we’re in for a world of mediocrity for a long time to come. Some tell me it’s worse in other places (e.g., the U.K.) but that doesn’t help. Our entire way of life is premised on our ability to get our money’s worth. You want cheap, you get cheap. You want expensive, you can get that too. But when you mess with our ability to get bang for the buck, well Mister, you’re tinkering with the military-industrial complex and the consumer spending that helps make it a reality day-in and day-out.

The true and trusted store and the Jedi mind trick.

Many years ago we bought a treadmill from a well-known commercial establishment. I won’t say their name, but let’s just say that they sell a lot of tools. The treadmill came with 2 years of “free service” which we scheduled dutifully. They guy would come, he would clean, he would grease, and he would leave. After the first two years, we left well enough alone. But lately, old faithful looks like she needs another coat of grease. So I called them and asked how much it would cost to do “the same service” they did before, and was told it would be only $99. I agreed to that price and set an appointment. I’ll spare you the drama over “he’ll be there between 9am and 5pm,” which I will save for another day. When the service man finally arrived, he inspected the machine for maybe 39 seconds, and told me I needed over $400 in repairs. I declined politely and asked him to do “the basic service.” He said he would do it for $140. I told him that I was quoted $99, and if he wouldn’t do it for that price, he was welcome to leave. He then waved his hand in front of me, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “that is not what you were quoted; you were told that it would be a minimum of $99 just to come out and inspect your machine; ergo, you owe me $99 even if I don’t lift a finger to help you.” Unfortunately for him, ashkenazi jews are impervious to Jedi mind tricks (a byproduct of years of training with our Jewish mothers – only guilt will get through). I explained to him that it would take more than his Jedi’s training to tell me what I had been told, and that perhaps it would best if he left. He then unsheathed his lightsaber (pink, of course) and threatened I would be turned over to “collections” (or did he say I would be turned to the dark side?). I felt just like Mr. Tuttle in the movie Brazil. It was as if I had just pissed off the Ministry of Information Retrieval. Don’t you just love it when you act in reliance of a company’s assurances, only to be told afterward that you should just suck it up and pay them because it is company policy? Where is the Maytag repair man when you need him? Probably playing cards.

The behemoth Internet auction site and the 3-card monti

So, I had been lusting over the Behringer BT108 Bass Guitar Pack for quite some time. It includes everything for the beginning (and I’m being charitable here) bass player needs (gueetar, picks, chord, gig bag, and of course the amp without which you might as well hit a slab of meat with a wooden stick in front of an audience). I had been stalking it everywhere, retail, online auctions, online classifieds. Could not get it to go below $179.99. The first breakthrough came when I saw it for $130 at the site of a famous discount retailer. I tried calling several branches to see if they had it in stock. Yeah, great idea. I had a better shot at calling the Playboy Mansion and asking to put Hef on the line. A couple of days later, I tried a juggernaut auction site. And whaddya know, I find a BT108 Bass Pack for only $98. I check out the listing, which sings the praises of the wonderful 15-watt amp, and I even see a beautiful photograph of the bass and the amp together like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. So I lower the boom and I wait. A few days later I am rewarded with a shiny new box with all the goodies except for, you guessed it, the all-important amp. That’s it folks, no clever punch line here. If you can’t rely on what the seller tells you and shows you, we might as well all pack and go home. Or at least go back to a barter-based brick-and-mortar economy.

Worrying about those who tell you not to worry.

Because of the precarious state of our economy, our government has seen fit to reduce interest rates to the lowest levels in 50 years. So you can now get a loan so cheap, the mortgage company actually sends you a check at the end of each month. And so it was with great glee that we approached our usual broker to take advantage. He took our entire application over the phone and mailed us the typed up version for our review just a few days later. Well, one of us must have been under the influence when we spoke because that application bore no resemblance to reality. Mind you, this is a form that is plastered with warnings about going to jail if a comma is out of place when you sign it. (My nomination to the Supreme Court flashed before my eyes. Shut up. Stranger things have happened). And you’d think that on the heels of the greatest lending collapse in 80 years they would be a bit more careful. When we brought this to our broker’s attention he asked us to mark up the corrections and send the forms back to him. He swore that all would be rectified in time for the closing. But it wasn’t. When we showed up at the attorney’s office we experienced a massive case of déjà vu. The attorney said not to worry about it and sign it. We called our old friend the broker immediately and he said not to worry about it and sign it. But as Wilford Brimley said on “The Firm,” “I get paid to worry about it and others say not to worry about it.” We pushed back and the broker promised it would be fixed the next day. Twice the next day he assured me it was coming and it didn’t. After two days of not delivering on his promises he simply explained that they are really busy because of, you know, all the deals they are closing. In other words, they are so busy closing other people’s deals that they don’t have time to do mine correctly. Oh, and he assured me that his company treats customers 50% better than the rest of the industry. I wonder what J.D. Powers would say about that.

Payback for every time I told a date that I would call her.

My tires have plenty of groove on them. But last year those in the know warned that we must replace any tires that are over 6 years old lest we go the way of James Dean or Sam Kinison. Not being one to take unnecessary chances I called the old dealership and spoke to my assigned “service adviser.” You know, those people who are the go between you and the car mechanic without themselves knowing the first thing about cars? So I asked him to call me back with a quote for 4 tires “out-the-door” (they use this expression as if you would be interested in paying for tires that you cannot take out of the shop; they store them for you and you visit them on holidays and rainy days.) I waited several days and got no response. So I left a couple of reminders on his voicemail. Nothing. Eventually I called the manager directly. I explained how my service adviser is a nice guy and all (hey I may still need him in the future) but that returning calls is just not his strong suit. The manager acknowledged that “yeah, he’s not really good at calling back.” Can you imagine if someone called your boss to say that you don’t do one of the most important parts of your job? Would they shrug it off and say something like “yeah, but he’s so much fun to have around, and he brings us fresh baked cookies sometimes!”

This has never happened before. No, really.

For years I have been told that the chances of a hard drive or a monitor breaking (let alone not working out of the box) are astronomical. Well, then I must be an astronomer (or just darn right lucky). I’ve had three different hard drives crash on me in a 2-year period. Last week, the tech guy comes over to replace my perfectly nice (and working) monitor with a shiny new one that I’d be proud to own as my main television at home. He plugs it in and ... nada. He acts perplexed and says, “I don’t understand, I’ve been installing these for two months without a problem. This is the first time it’s happened.” Why can’t this happen to me when I play the lottery or go to Vegas?

I guess the most unsettling thought is that I could never get away with such incompetence, flimsiness, and excuses. You probably couldn’t either. So why do we let everyone else off the hook?

Metro Schmetro

My first real taste of freedom came when I was 10 years old. I had just transferred to a new school and my parents made the gut-wrenching decision to allow me to take the 95 bus all by myself. From that point on, the world became my oyster (and by "the world" I mean the mean streets of Buenos Aires). Back in the 1980s, a kid like me could get around day and night easily by bus, subway, and even the occasional indulgence of a taxi on the wee hours of a weekend late night. You hear similar stories from New Yorkers who love to brag about never having owned a car or even had a driver’s license.

Growing up surrounded by ample public transportation left me utterly unprepared for the "Mad Max" environment that awaited me in the City of Angels in 1985. And yet, like others before me, I fell madly in love with the automobile. I cherished that Tony Montana feeling I felt cruising down Ventura Boulevard in my 1984 Chevrolet Citation. Sure, I was costing my folks a gazillion dollars in insurance, but hey, you're only young once. The Citation turned into a Sentra (I'll spare you the story of the BMW I totaled in only four days), which later turned into a 300ZX (with T tops). I was driving every day to college (I stayed home with my parents and went to a commuter school). The furthest thing from my mind was taking the bus.

Because five years of college didn't feel like enough schooling, I decided to take my undergrad winnings into law school. I span the wheel and ended up in Washington DC, back on the Atlantic side of life. Having seen The Paper Chase and read One-L I figured I’d better stay fairly close to campus. Besides, most first-year students don't work, so there would be no money for car, insurance, etc. You get the point.

Lucky for me, compared to Los Angeles, Washington DC was a public transportation mecca. Sure, you couldn't compare the DC system with that of Buenos Aires (where the buses are more frequent than a roller coaster car and the subway takes you to practically every corner in the city). But it had been several years since I had seen the inside of any vehicle I didn't have to drive myself. I would happily highlight every sentence on my Property casebook while somebody else did the driving. Besides, taking public transportation on a daily basis brought back that comfortable feeling I enjoyed growing up; I could spend my time and energy focusing on my daily anxieties – or on nothing at all – instead of obsessing over somebody else's boneheaded driving. So I rented a large studio just a block from the DuPont Circle Metro. It cost me $550 a month for three years – and they never raised my rent once. I must have dreamt the whole experience. Here are my pent up observations based on now many years of a (so far) advantageous relationship:

People looking for a Metro station remind me of prairie dogs looking to burrow to avoid wild coyotes. Lucky for us, the city has seen fit to erect monoliths straight out of "2001 A Space Oddisey" to help us find the hole (more on monoliths later). Some of these sit atop the convergence of several Metro lines and sport so many color bands that they resemble futuristic totem poles. As you approach the station you must make your first critical choice: elevator or escalator?

Tourists stare in disbelief at the elevator entrances that seem to jut straight out of the ground, as if providing a one-way ride to hell (some days at rush hour that is quite a prophetic impression). When the elevator arrives, people from all walks of life follow ancient rituals of ingress priority that would make the airlines green with jealousy. Once 37 people manage to squeeze into the 4 x 4 space, it is the duty of that who is closest to the panel to push a button that has been touched by 1,158 fellow human beings in the past 30 minutes (sorry – germophobe here). And woe unto the poor designated soul who takes more than the legally-mandated five seconds to get pushing. A milisecond more and they are bound to get a lecture in elevator operation by 36 engineers. Not that it would make a difference. You can push that sucker all day long. The thing won't move until it's good and ready. Some poor soul 100 feet away asks you to please hold the door. You frantically pretend to push the "open door" button while making an “I’m so sorry I am technically inept” face, when in reality you're just giving your index a concussion by slamming it against the hard metal plate. It won't matter. They will slowly saunter in and add insult to injury by thanking you for holding the door. (Of course, there is a notable exception: When you are the one dashing to make it, the door will slam shut 2 microns from your face.) But eventually the doors do close, and there you are. Standing like a pirouline in a French canister and trying not to breath too deep. After all, though you are pristine, everyone else carries all manner of wildlife. After what seems like a 15-minute journey to the center of the earth, the doors open. At that point, it's everyone for themselves.

Metro had the brilliant idea of building its escalators with moving parts and electrical wires so that they would be exposed to the elements (au naturel, I believe they called it). When the machines began talking to each other (see, The Matrix) they decided to plot against their masters. They began by orchestrating massive breakdowns throughout the system. So powerful they became, that the Metro Board was forced to the negotiating table on a very cold and rainy February morning. On one side, the Chairman of WMATA; on the other the escalator from the Wheaton station (chosen for being the longest in the Western Hemisphere). The machines made a single non-negotiable demand: Every one of them was to get a taxpayer-funded canopy shaped like the head of the Mother Alien from the Sigourney Weaver movies. This would serve the dual purpose of protecting them from the elements and helping the prairie dogs find the hole. WMATA caved immediately. Get it? Caved?

So you’re in a big hurry. You figure you can outrun the elevator crowd so you dash for the human conveyor belt. “I’m in pretty good shape” you say to yourself. My knees haven’t hurt for at least 3 hours. So you start working up a rhythm on the way down. One-two, one-two, one-two. So far you’ve only bumped about eight people (not too bad). Worse case scenario, one of them bounces down to his/her death. But you’re doing great. Only about 472 steps to go. And then ...total gridlock. You’re stuck behind the nicest lady visiting from Racine, Wisconsin. As it turns out, she flunked Metro Etiquette 101, and has no clue about standing to the right. You stand exactly one step behind her, and put your nose about half an inch from her perfectly coiffed hair. You hope that this brazen invasion of her personal space will make her so uncomfortable that she will notice you and move. But she doesn’t. The view is just too good. She doesn’t even know you exist. So you start to sigh heavily. Once. Twice. Three times a lady. Nada. After about five seconds you muster the courage to utter “excuse me” in the kindest tone that us city folk reserve for our treasured guests. She finally notices something is amiss. But alas, she twirls and turns in every direction until her friend takes pity on her and practically rips her arm off to pull her toward the right. Excellent. The coast is now completely clear. You resume your rhythm. One-two, one-two, one-two. You push pedal to the metal, and you even leap down to the mezzanine about ten steps early (you will feel this later). Then, you make the final mad dash down to the platform, where you arrive just in time to have the car’s doors slam right on your nose. Dejected, you wait 12 minutes for the next train. Halfway into the next station, the train comes to a complete stop. The conductor informs you over the PA system that there is a sick passenger at the next station. You will be holding there for a while...

The “Mezzanine.” Such a romantic and Italian-sounding name for a subway station. It’s a little bit like Space Mountain in Disneyland (sorry, never been to Orlando). Except this one is brown and gray. Lots of brown. And even more gray. With a dash of orange. And lots of ads for military equipment that can do a lot of damage, or even attain “littoral dominance.” At the center: mission control. An impenetrable booth of glass and steel. You’d think they got these from an estate sale at correctional facilities. Occasionally, the station manager will venture out of the booth to talk to the tourists. But they don’t linger much. They go back in quickly as if running out of oxygen. Sometimes they get bored, or want to work on their showbiz skills, so they step up to the mike to make important announcements. Usually they feel compelled to tell you about every broken elevator in the Metro system, just as your phone rings with an urgent call from the office. Good luck understanding a word from either the announcement or your boss.

I have traveled a great deal throughout the world, and never missed an opportunity to travel by subway if at all possible. Please take my word when I tell you that of all the fare purchasing systems I have seen, ours is the most unnecessarily complex. We are the only system that does not offer the option of a window with a live person to sell you fare. I heard they are filming Mission Impossible 4 in the DC Metro. In the opening scene, the Tom Cruise character attempts to buy a farecard while his sidekick Ving Rhames guides him remotely with the help of a supercomputer and a walkie-talkie. These machines are as easy to operate as a Russian MIG. A different fare amount for each destination? Depending on what time of day? And the passenger has to figure all that out to tell the supercomputer what fare to issue? I had an easier time checking the amortization tables in finance school.

Most of us habitual users go super high-tech – we buy a SmartCard. What a wonderful magic wand! Just wave and go. Unless, of course, the person in front of you has a problem and you slam right onto them. What a nice way to get to know your fellow commuters. Or what about when you wave your card but it doesn’t register? You continue through only to be crushed by the orange gates of death. And what’s up with the $300 balances on some of these cards? (I admit to occasionally sneaking a peak at the person ahead of me). Is Metro paying interest in some form of SmartCard savings account? Does Warren Buffet know about this?

There’s no way around it. If you want to catch your train you must advance one more level on this game of dungeons and dragons. You’re going to have to descend to yet another circle of hell. This ride is usually much shorter. But remember those tourists I mentioned a while ago? They are going to make things even more difficult. You see, before they were a bit clueless. Now they are paranoid that they will end up on the wrong side of the station and take the wrong train. So not only are they blocking the left side of the escalator (again), but when they get to the bottom they are utterly paralyzed with fear. So they just stop. Right there at the bottom of the stairs. So the locals begin to pile up behind them and gently nudge them forward. But they’re movement is short-lived. Just a couple of steps ahead there lies another monolith; this one containing a list of every station on that side of the line. So they stop again to stare, and stare, and stare ...

Of course, we locals guide ourselves but much more sophisticated instruments. We faithfully follow the announcements of the state-of-the-art electronic panels that adorn every platform in the system. Seriously, they look like they would have been out of date when Metro opened in the 70s. Eighty percent of the time they inform us about broken elevators on the other side of the city. The rest of the time they sort of tell us when our train is coming. Did I mention that in the era of flat-screen high-definition they only work in three colors? Pretty ironic in a five-line color-coded system.

You stare at the sign. It is T minus 3-2-1 minutes, and your train is approaching. Suddenly, a bevy of lights strung along the edge of the platform begins to flicker. You are standing alongside the cast of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Everyone fall under the spell of the flickering lights awaiting the landing of the alien mother ship. If only I carried an electronic keyboard and a tuba with me it would be perfect.

Now, mind you, if you’ve ever taken a subway abroad you know that in most cases the platform will indicate to you in some way where the car doors will open when the train comes to a complete stop. This is so that you can anticipate where to stand for that Oklahoma-style mad dash for precious seats. Our trains, however, stop in a totally and utterly random pattern. You see, this is a socialist form of platform roulette so that the strongest and most capable riders don’t always end up with those hard-to-get spots. I consider it a form of anti-Darwinian seat-wealth-redistribution. It’s downright communist if you ask me. But many times these efforts backfire as the savviest riders (who also love their NBA action) set up the most brutal picks by timing the car’s stop and planting themselves right at the edge of a door. Pity the fool who chases the door without paying attention.

Sometimes, something bad happens along this single-track engineering wonder of ours (like somebody sneezing, for example) and the entire system comes to a grinding halt. So you rush down to make a meeting and up from the mezzanine (I love that word) you are faced with a scene right out of a David Lean movie. You know, that epic train station scene with thousands of town folk trying to evacuate because some advancing army is on its way but there are just too many folk and not enough trains. Well, in spite of such odds, some people feel that they really are more important than everyone else (can you imaging in Washington DC?) so they will cram into that car and make sure that their backpack lodges right between your liver and spleen. And then they take out their copy of War and Peace (hardback, of course) to catch up with the Russian army over their three-stop ride. Don’t worry about their prolific runny nose and sneezing. I’m sure it’s just really bad allergies. I really don’t know why people try to get into a train that has no room whatsoever – especially when the conductor announces that there is an empty train right behind that one. He wouldn’t lie about such things, right?

But during rush hour most trains are just crowded. Which makes entering and exiting them analogous to the final seconds of a tied hockey game. Let’s just say there is a whole lot of cross-checking going on. For starters, those entering the train (and trying to land a coveted seat) will allow people to exit, but only for a limited time. In fact, those exiting will do best if they stick together and depart as a unit (not unlike a football offensive line). Woe unto the poor souls who sit by a window away from the doors and decide to wait until the train comes to a complete stop to begin heading out. They rarely stand a chance against the attacking Mongol hoards. Some are never heard from again. But even when everyone has cleared the door and is finally time to go, there is never a shortage of those who confuse train doors for elevator doors. They make a run for it well after the chimes have sung their swan song, get whacked by the closing doors (which break instantly) and make everyone who tried so hard to squeeze into the train late for work anyway.

The root of most of these issues is people’s unwillingness to move to the center of the car. I always head straight for that area that is furthest away from any doors. It seems reminiscent of the eye of a hurricane where it is calm and sunny, and yet surrounded by mayhem in every direction. It is ironic how claustrophobia gets the better of most folks who would rather be packed like sardines just to stay near a door. It doesn’t help matters when some literary types plant themselves against the panels right by the doors, reducing the entry/exit space by two thirds. When the train arrives at a station they seem to try to push themselves against the panel adding a whole two inches to that space. Obviously, these folks suffer from separation anxiety or they would step off the train to let others get in. Other interesting characters must have trained at gentlemen clubs because they are quite adept around the metal poles. In fact, some of them lean against them in the middle of rush hour preventing anyone else from hanging on to them. Or how about those who refuse to set down their large bags or backpacks as if they were surgically attached to their bodies? They just keep hacking away at those around them.

Although morning rush hour trains are crowded, the traveling crew tends to like it on the quiet side. Many of them have not had their morning coffee, or are worried about what awaits them at work, or just want to have a quiet few minutes to read the paper, or gather their thoughts before they get to where they are going. The same tends to hold true for the evening rush hour, but perhaps a bit less so. Unfortunately, a few social misfits can ruin the ambiance for everyone else. Some set the volumes on their iPods so loud that others can’t hear themselves think. I’m not big on the Dave Matthews Band, but hearing it at 7:30am makes me want to ban all music anywhere – it’s just brutal. Then there are the out-of-towners who ride the trains with the kind of glee one usually reserves for Space Mountain in Disneyland (remember, I spent many years in L.A.). Every thing they see inspires a loud cry of “Hey! Check that out! It’s a train! With people in it!” Considering the current state of public transportation in our cities one should almost cut them some slack. Almost. But then there are the out-of-town government contractors who treat the Metro like their personal office and treat the trains like their conference room. I have encountered way too many good-old-boys from Texas on the way to Pentagon station. Believe me, these folks do not know the meaning of subtle. They scream at each other not realizing everyone else is quieter than a car dealership on January 2, and is staring right at them as if they had just ran over the collective cat.

So you get to your station, and even manage to exit the train without fighting a crowd in the opposite direction (think salmon swimming upstream). Now it’s time to begin your escape from the coal mine. It’s time to head for the escalator and decide whether you’re feeling athletic or just too tired to climb the steps. You had better choose quickly or you may be caught on the wrong stream (yet another littoral reference) and just have to live with your choice, or else get run over by the mob.

Once you reach the mezzanine (can’t get enough of that) you must pick your exit turnstile carefully, like a mouse on a lab experiment. Make the wrong choice, and you’ll be stuck behind a tourist who does not know how to use their farecard to exit the system (think Neo from The Matrix unable to find a telephone to escape the grid). You may also be wedged behind a local who has a SmartCard but refuses to take it out of a plastic pocket conveniently dangling from their neck. They keep swiping that thing like a DJ on “battle of the turntables” night, but to no avail. In the meantime, the passengers behind you (who carry their own momentum and are staring deeply into their BlackBerry) continue their forward progress as in some form of a human conveyor belt. The pressure from behind becomes unbearable and you begin to resent the guy behind you for getting so close without buying you dinner first. Eventually, the person in front of you will get sufficiently frustrated to seek help from the station manager. But this requires pushing back the three other people who have already wedged the passenger snuggly between them and the turnstile doors.

Eventually, you emerge relatively unharmed from these gates of victory for a final escalator ride onto the street. Think Roy Scheider escalating toward Jessica Lange as the angel of death in All That Jazz.