Orange buns, chocolate nibs, and problems with birthday deflation



My birthday celebrations dragged out for a good five days has deflated to a sorry end by the threat of jury duty and return to work. I spent many days before thinking of all the wonderful things I could do, all the fat breakfasts I was going to have.



The last highlight is a chocolate factory, the Scharffenberger tour- a great place to bring your hot looking date. Nothing as funny as seeing the object of your affection in a mandatory hair net. If you know anybody who can look dignified/hot/good with a hairnet, e-mail me a photo proof.



The first highlight begins at the La Pena cultural center for a night of Afro Peruvian song and dance. I asked C if we could count it as a date, he grudgingly said yes. That space has all the feel of a Catholic church coffee and donuts hall except for the coffee, donuts and strobe light. But the old Catholic ladies farting, it's all authentic. Rompe y Raja sang beautifully. We were so pleasantly surprised when one of the side dancing ladies with the eighties soccer star short-long belted a song out while the main diva was resting; let it be known henceforth that a mullet is no barrier to good singing.



But it was the Marinera, "an intricate and elegant dance of courtship accompanied by guitar, cajon, accordion and handclapping by onlookers" which provided the unexpected entertainment. It was more than just a male dancer dressed in orange knickerbockers and vest chasing a girl in a pure white dress. Well- C said it best. "My god- those buns can hold up a coke can." Every time orange buns would appear on the scene, I would crack up so bad I had to hide my nose in C's shoulder.



At the beginning of the show, the performers came out in formation singing and dancing- I noticed a tooth fell out of the quijada(donkey's jaw used as a rattle). So all night my eye got sucked into the gap in the jaw wondering if someone was going to trip on it.

Early vacation blues.



Tonight is the first night of my official birthday holiday. How sweet the taste of vacation feeling when I dashed out of work at 6:30 today. Despite the sweet singing of the crickets, I cannot close my eyes.

Working on one's prose



I've been marching up and down the well worn path of the dreaded writer's block. It's a crowded street, writers bumming cigarettes off each other, general loitering on every corner- a few bad cases pitifully slumped over the sidewalks. Like Balzac's big robe, I've tried every single bath robe in the house to no avail. All point to desperate measures. So I hired a professional troupe of crickets to sing away my problems- for not just writer's block, but for troubles falling asleep and troubles waking up. For room and board plus meals, my cricket chorus chirp their hearts out.



The first day, only a timid soloist chirped tentatively. I had to coax them with papaya then pears. A few tiny slivers.



Yesterday the fattest one attempted to go elsewhere in breach of contract. I have them for life you see so I put him back in the jar. Why get gobbled by a predatory chicken and prematurely end your career when you can sing to an appreciative audience like me.