There was the LA scene, perfected: dark blue jeans that fit tight to
the crotch, a white dress shirt, sneakers of the latest style,
sunglasses of just the right form factor, iterated upon until a
solution is arrived at with precise confirmation from the crowd of
disko hopping beat freaks, hair moussed back in an aggressive cute,
too smooth to pass for a job, wrinkle free dyed locks, until all the
crowd looked on, beholden, having spent for the looks but a fraction
of anyone who cared about it.  Then fly to Brazil while the look still
baked and get admired from the crowds fresh fan boys with a card to
take along with you.

The lack of Portugeuse isn't hard: just point and sign and toss out
brand names and don't
apologize for esoterica and sew the seeds for emulation; a
(post)modern finishing school.

The only hard part: not to take yourself seriously; not to believe the
lies cultivated to be perpetually reflected back at you; to have
nothing attached to this bullshit.  The addiction: nothing is nothing,
disclaimers on double negatives waylaid.  Screw/fuck family, hip,
indivudality; they're all shit.  If I could only believe my own lies
anymore.  Everywhere: there is too domestic, too foreign, too
culturally incompatible with what one seeks.

The ensemble costing pennies compared to what the true seekers would
spend yet still caustically expensive: the little things made the
difference.  The brand of the jeans, the precise color, the subtlties
with the dye pattern, the cut of the collar, the buttons, the hinge of
the glasses -- these would cost big money.  Agency of expressionism
reduced to these.