Rob-Rivera.com

Men in Panama

My mom always told me I shouldn’t ask for any favors until it was absolutely necessary; I think this has helped me become the hardass, egocentric, driven and devilishly charming fellow that I am (y’heard about that “egocentrical” part, right?). As such, I like to be around people that are in that same wavelength, but this is a problem in Panama because here we have, and I’m sorry to say this, an almost-ridiculous macho-centric culture. It shouldn’t be a surprise to me since I do live here and I have to deal with that and much more things on a daily basis but last night was just bizarre… I felt like I was dumped into a Kids in the Hall sketch or a Farrelly Brothers movie of some sort. I don’t even know where to begin: do you know when you’re in, say, a bar or whatever and you’ve got a few lovely ladies as company socializing, shooting the shit and what not when suddenly that guy one of your friends called so that he come over finally does and you try to be civil or whatever but he comes off with a vibe that tells you right then and then he considers you the enemy in his quest for the crown of Alpha Male? God, no wonder women think we’re so stupid. It happened to me last night as I passed by this bar to meet up with said lovely ladies and their male companion of the evening. I was with Magnus, and everyone knew each other except for the guy; neither Magnus nor I had seen him in our lives. Whatever. The dude seemed alright at first but I had the grand opportunity to sit next to him after bargaining for beer with the bartender, something that in retrospect I will jot down in my “bad idea” file, and by soaking up his demeanor and whatever I started noticing the pitfalls of the Panamanian male, my view not much different than the way I see monkeys in their cages while I’m at the zoo. Suddenly, I’m watching “National Geographic Presents: The Panamanian Tundra.” The much-talked-about Marc Anthony concert was last night (I hope the lucky winners of the tickets at the BirriaFest had a wonderful time) and these people had just come out of there… supposedly the guy’s friends where at the vicinity so they could pick them up and drop everyone home. Simple enough, right? Wrong.

WRONG.

They ended up walking a mile down the Causeway strip, one of the girls in heels, trying to hail cabs and wait for the guy’s “friends” to show up. Of course, he wouldn’t let the girls in on the conversations he’d have over the phone with them and that is, to me, typical of a Panamanian not only with foreign girls but with girls in general… I know I do that sometimes, but my purpose is clear-cut: I don’t want you to know what I’m talking about. These guys though, they dismiss inquiries and in doing so add to the confusion of situations like those when the dude promises something he obviously can’t deliver but doesn’t want to look bad in front of the girls so he drags them deeper into his cesspool of bullshit. And that’s where I wanted to go with this, people: Panamanian men don’t like looking bad in front of girls. Hell, I don’t like looking bad in front of anyone either, but I don’t go to the extreme of making things worse for myself and everyone around me. This guy was going to make the girls walk the full 2 miles the strip goes all the way to the end where his “friends” were. When Magnus and I got there the girls had put their foot down and decided to stay at the bar they were at and maybe call a cab. When we sat down they had managed to do so… the dude was acting as a caretaker, provider and all of those lovely things housewives-to-be love in their men. Little did he know he wasn’t dealing with the girls he’s used to. He was dealing with Canadians.

Watching him pay the bill was what sparked my attention… before that he was just some dude they went to the concert with and therefore was alright. When he fucked up, though, was when he called the bartender over after a cute raccoon intermission (I don’t know if they really are raccoons anymore. They’re like… I dunno, cholo raccoons. Amalgams. What the hell are raccoons doing in a causeway, anyway?) to pay the bill. As my lovely Canadians would always do, they pulled out their purses and wallets in order to pay their share of the bill and to this scene the Panamanian lifted the palms of his hands and stopped them from taking out any bills.

Re-enactment (translated from Spanish):

PTY: No, no, no, no… you’re not paying.

Canadians: why not?

PTY: Because, no.

Canadians: let us pay for our beer, it’s fair.

PTY: No. That’s not how we do things here.

Canadians (WTF): ?

PTY: Here, men pay for whatever the women want. I’m not letting you pay anything… I’m not a “vividor…” I’m not a “chulo.” I think people who ask for girls to pay for their stuff are “chulos.”

Agh… intermission here, guys. A “vividor” or “chulo” is the equivalent of “pimp.” At this point, my eyes almost popped out of their sockets… I seriously did not know whether to barf, laugh or slap him. I didn’t know if that was a joke or what because I’d look at his face trying to find the punchline but it never came. I couldn’t believe this guy was serious and that’s when I had a quick flashback of my last “girlfriend,” which killed who I was then and birthed who I am now around 3 years ago. One of the many highlights of my relationship with this woman was the dynamic between her parents and I. Her little brother, to this day, is a squirt short of wanting to be me. He adores me, and his (as well as my now-ex’s) father hated my guts. My dad used to call him “The Rifleman” because he once told me that he wanted to get a rifle and kill me… I told my parents this and, just like any other normal parents would, they teased me with it until we broke up. “Watch out Rob… *picture a large, bald man in a wife-beater, shorts and black socks jumping in the air to squat and aim at me with an imaginary rifle* the Rifleman’s gonna get you!!!” Anyway, one of his arguments for not liking me was that I always bought for my stuff and she bought her things… split bills, always. It’s what my parents taught me… I think this is better than the established system because now when I buy something for someone or treat them to dinner or whatever it feels more like a gesture I honestly want to do for that person and not protocol, which is something I strive for in everything I do. Anyway, her dad used to handle that term for me a lot… a “chulo.” I didn’t have a car at the time (in fact, if she hadn’t broken up with me the first time she did I would’ve never gotten my driver’s license so I could get her back) so we’d drive in hers whenever possible if we didn’t hitch rides with my friends or whatever. I had established a democratic, capitalist system to the relationship and in those terms, she had more assets and resources than I did so we’d use them… never felt it was a problem since she would offer and not say “no” which is a big mistake with me; I’ll go and won’t stop until someone does it for me. So, this guy didn’t like that I was hanging out at the house with my long hair and bohemian demeanor, as well as my defiance to his authority so he pinned that on me. Of course, there were many other things that smashed the living hell out of that relationship but the “chulo” thing always stayed with me and at that very moment I understood why that whole “pimp” association came to be. Because I let the women I was with be their own people. Fucking bizarre… I understood a little better why these girls think I’m Canadian, too. No wonder, since every Panamanian guy wants to buy and pamper the living daylights out of them and they’re not used to that! They’re used to being independent women, and I love independent women. That’s why my relationship with this ex of mine didn’t work! Realization after realization came whooshing down by me in those few seconds that passed after the Panamanian uttered the c-word that for the love of Marley I think I had a moment of clarity. Like the beaches I love so much, it was all crystal clear.

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be rude but then I noticed how the girls would speak English in front of him and he was happy in his ignorant bliss so I started making inquiries as to where they dug up this jackass while he rambled on about the bill:

PTY: Don’t worry, I work. This is on me. Feast, ladies. FEAST!

Canadians: We’re not hungry; we’re tired…

PTY (breaking a patacón in two): FEAST!

Canadians: shit, O.K…

I have this thing about fingernails. Don’t ask me how or why but I have this thing where people who have small, eaten-up fingernails turn me off. I can’t go out with girls with short fingernails… just can’t. It’s one of the first things I notice. And in guys, I notice that the one who have their fingernails ridiculously bitten are people I can’t trust. Hell, I could be wrong; you could be having a fingernail sandwich and be my best friend for all I care, but it’s to my experience that, save for very few exceptions, guys with short fingernails are grotesque and ridiculously macho. This dude last night only cemented that assumption; he had unkept hands and little gremlin teeth. Before that moment his labeling of “jackass” had been written with a pencil but I was starting to draw out my permanent markers.

Canadians: That Marc Anthony looks a lot better in person than he does in pictures, eh? Too bad J-Lo never came out to sing any songs. He’s got chicken legs, though…
PTY: That doesn’t matter when you’ve got the most desired woman on the planet by your side. He can have chicken legs and all you want, but he’s rich and has the most sought-after woman in the world. *shrugs shoulders*

At this point every little thing he said deemed him punch-worthy. I know that personal tastes are exactly that (personal) but I think that proclaiming Jennifer Lopez the most sought-after woman in the world is somewhat of a bold statement, don’t you think? I apologize, but kind of patronizing behavior makes me want to punch babies. It’s this sort of hip hop respectability that people who think will never amount to an inch of what their idols have accomplished that pisses me off like you have no idea. I mean… alright, look: I love the work Alan Moore does. He’s one of my favorite, if not the author I most aspire to meet and emulate (nice going so far, Robert! Yes, yes… Jesus) but that doesn’t mean I’m going to name-drop him every time somebody talks about his chicken legs. Does this type of fan adulation fall under the category of “fan wank?” I think it does. Panamanian guy is sucking Marc Anthony’s chicken cock before my very eyes because someone said he had chicken legs and he wants to prove the point that Marc Anthony, whose cock is inside the Panamanian’s mouth deep throating it, is more powerful and influential than any of us sitting on the table. At this point I consider moving out of the way, because I can see a gag reflex coming any minute now.

The cab eventually arrives and one of the Canadians is silly enough to hop in it with the guy. She was the one with the high heels though so I can’t blame her for wanting to go home as soon as possible; we had half a pitcher of beer to down before we could leave. The dude hopped in the cab too since he was meeting his “friends” at the end of the strip. As the car drove off I felt like when you’re holding your breath inside an elevator because the dirty guy with the sketchy look smells like donkey piss and weed and he steps off, which is when you can finally breathe again. I didn’t say a word because I know how I operate, and I would’ve said something that made him feel like an idiot. Seriously, people… Jennifer Lopez, the most desired woman in the world? Please. I can tell you 5 women right now that are 2849165484619451945109837610461095685 times hotter than that Pocahontas. Take notes:

1. Luba Shumeyko
2. Monica Bellucci
3. Jessica Alba/Biel (I’ve decided to mention them both when I’m referring to one or the other. They carry the same level of hotness, and my penis thanks me on a daily basis for this.)
4. Kelly Brook
5. Just for the hell of it, Tera Patrick

There you go. Happy spanking; in the meantime I just want to conclude by saying that not all of us Panamanian men are like this, but a big chunk of the male population is. Some women like to be tended to and some women don’t… to each their own. I just wanted to give you some insight on how the Latino man operates… this will not be the last time the topic is addressed, though. I’ll be back!!!

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