Tuesday, April 29, 2003 [the]America[s'] favorite house guest
I was going to post some boring shit about the writing process, but then I was like, "No, actually, time for more star fucking .
An old friend I used to go to summer camp with throws a party every year. It's a week at her families 1930's era summer cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. It's often the highpoint of my year, and I couldn't tell you why, exactly. It's some combination of the pretty woods, the nice people, and the freakazoid. My friend doesn't do this on purpose, but every year, there's someone at the party who is not like the others.
For example, a few years ago, most of us were american college students, except for D., who was in his 40's and had just come back to the states from a monastery in Brazil. D.'s parents were missionaries who had raised D. and his brother A. in Brazil. The sons consider themselves absolutely Brazillian. Once I thought about that for a while, I felt really arrogant that I'd assumed they would consider themselves as being U.S. Americans.
Anyway, D. told us all about his life, at length, and at every oppourtunity. D.'s brother had gone on to become a pop star of some note, who was especially big in the 80's in Brazil. I was not impressed until D. mentioned his brother's cameo in Desperately Seeking Susan. Then I was totally impressed. His brother is the guy Madonna gets the key from in the bus station.
Anyway, D. has doen a little of this and that: settling mines in the Amazon basin (and later, giving preemptive lectures to anyone who doesn't grin happily at the news of this that they are arrogant fools and their country should stay out of the affairs of others.), pretentious art installations, talking. He's a good guy, who walks the fine line between entertaining and insufferable. What makes D. my hero, though, is his unmatched skill as a moocher.
Sometime in the last 20 years (I'm unclear on the exact time frame), D. walked up Caetano Veloso's steps, opened the door, and asked "OK, so which one's my room." This is the equivalent of say, me moving in with Bruce Springsteen (perish the thought. Ugh! Axle grease on everything.)
From what I understand, pop stars in Brazil are a much bigger deal than they are here, in terms of how much attention real people pay to them. They're more like popular poets. Or that's what I heard on NPR one time (Shut up, Miss Wong. You listen, too.)
Anyway, D. parked his butt in Caetano Veloso's house for about 10 years. After that, he was off to the monastery. Last I saw him, he was visiting a certain South African family whose son's not exactly unknown in showbiz himself.
Hats off, D., wherever you are. You are an inspiration to us all.
posted by Frenz | 4/29/2003 02:30:00 PM
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