MPDG Postmortem

I came across this excellent article by chance the other day. I have never heard of the author before, but I understand from friends' comments that she is fairly prominent; in any case, the article does a very good job of elaborating on a matter which, to me, is intuitively incontrovertible, but has been difficult to enunciate:

Men grow up expecting to be the hero of their own story. Women grow up expecting to be the supporting actress in somebody else's. 

In reading this response, you may at times feel the desire to suggest that I check my privilege or call the waaaambulance, and remind me that women have it a lot worse than men. I am not going to argue with you about that, primarily because you are correct. This is in no way intended to be a rebuttal of Laurie Penny's analysis. Being in possession of a penis, my ability to expound on matters of feminism is in any case very limited. However, what I can do is relate a tangential matter which I do feel I have the moral right to declare, as it is based on my personal history, both extended and recent. I would beg your patience in the realization that the perspective I am describing is a thing that exists (and is not limited to me alone). Indulge me in the acknowledgment of its validity.

Besides; this is my personal blog. This is where the waaambulance dumps is psychohazardous biowaste.

Fast Forward: Buenos Aires, Day Two

Spent the morning at Recoleta cemetery - a long walk after getting spooked by BA's byzanthine bus system. Found Evita's tomb easily thanks to a cheat in my guidebook. The place is certainly impressive, but it reinforced my preference of cremation: I don't understand the self-obsession that leads people to construct such elaborate postmortem edifices. In BA's main church, there is a tomb of the nation's greatest general, draped in a flag and guarded by two live soldiers in full regalia. This I can admire: a living memory for one's achievements, on behalf of those for whom they were achieved. Not a tomb celebrating someone who merely existed and was rich.

The plan was to go to the Eco Reserve and rent a bike, maybe find a capybara to hug. After a long walk through the renovated dockside (reminiscent of Bratislava's Euroembankment), I found there was no bike rental on Fridays; a minor disappointment. Decided on the restaurant of the local Catalan cultural center for lunch, hoping for an outstanding seafood risotto; not a regional specialty, but geographically appropriate and I had a great steak yesterday. That place was on vacation, so I fell back onto a dingy but cheerful Patagonian place serving unexpectedly good waffles with melted roquefort. Back to the apartment to catch up on work in the company of chocolate milk. It's unsurprising given the role of beef in Argentina's economy, but really, I can forgive many things to a nation with outstanding dairy. Got a ticket to a tango theater show for the evening, and since I didn't pay for the inevitably mediocre dinner, I don't need to get there before 10pm; so I am writing this on my phone in a local pub playing an inoffensive rock'n'roll mixtape and serving microbrews, one of which was recommended by a Brazilian friend. The Antares scotch lager was not bad, but my sixty pesos bought me a happy hour special, so my second choice was a Gambrinus Stout - unabashedly chosen for the name, identical to my hometown's artisanal beer shop. The stout is a revelation, smooth and very smoky, like something Manfred Macx would have someone buy for him. Then again, it's almost a quarter past eight and I really should down my pint and get going.