On the metro in the morning, when not trying to give me handjobs, the Chilean businessmen look like a Spanish Armada, their shirtsails billowing in the canned wind of the underground.
I ate a sandwich today with beef that had that pidgeon-neck iridescence, and I´m nervous. Anticipating a rumble in the bronx.
The Lucybell concert was amazing. Saiko blew me away. With each successive song, she removed another layer. Everything is sexier in South America.
The police officer frisking everyone at the entrance got overly frisky with me, told me to take off my hat, then take off my head, and took my lighter. There was this ominous prison bus/tank in the parking lot foreshadowing any bad behavior.
Looking out my window into the plaza this morning, I saw the most elegantly dressed mime, a mounted police officer challenging a stray dog, and an old couple getting caught in the crossfire of some sudden sprinklers.
The guy who owns the empanada place in my building calls me Casper now.
I seem unable to write anything with any substance on this blog.
25.3.06
23.3.06
Chilean Music.
Immediately, download some Lucybell. Imagine Radiohead, Pink Floyd, a dash of RHCP and some smooth, caramel, George Fucking Clinton, combined. I´m seeing them on Friday in the same stadium where Pinochet killed a bunch of political adversaries. Hopefully they´ve mopped up a little.
Secondly, the electrolytes in Santiago put Toronto hipsters to shame. Inflate the sunglasses by about %80, cut the hair twice as asymetrically, and saturate yourself with so much A-ha, you can´t take it on me anymore. Consider Quierostar.
Sex.
Frecuentado.
On Wednesday night I phoned Alvaro. Somos vecinos y el es un medico. That night he was working in the emergency room. We chatted, he said he was busy, but I persisted, wanting to know some trivial things like how he was and what time he´d be finished work. He finally gets rid of me, reminding me he was in the emergency room.
Aaaaaand somebody died because of my phonecall.
Great.
When haunted by a ghost, according to most Hollywood movies, you´re supposed to find out what they want, or what they haven´t accomplished in life, and finish the task for them. Right? Yeah. I don´t understand Spanish.
Great.
Aaaaaand somebody died because of my phonecall.
Great.
When haunted by a ghost, according to most Hollywood movies, you´re supposed to find out what they want, or what they haven´t accomplished in life, and finish the task for them. Right? Yeah. I don´t understand Spanish.
Great.
21.3.06
Happy fucking birthday, Sally.
From me and the whole fucking gang.
You, your tiny companion, and your gentle giganto are missed terribly.
Think of me, and tonight...
...dream of unicorns.
20.3.06
Bellas Vistas.
More photos, you vultures.
The rusty gates of somewhere.
Plaza des Armas.
Evil Jungle Prince.
This little light of mine...
Quis custodiet custodiens?
Look out! Radioactive men!
Shaggamuffin.
Scrape.
Check out these maracas.
Sick & Naive.
Taza de leche.
Photoshop lucidae.
...My new home.
The rusty gates of somewhere.
Plaza des Armas.
Evil Jungle Prince.
This little light of mine...
Quis custodiet custodiens?
Look out! Radioactive men!
Shaggamuffin.
Scrape.
Check out these maracas.
Sick & Naive.
Taza de leche.
Photoshop lucidae.
...My new home.
17.3.06
Hopefully it wasn´t a porno...
Last night, there was a beautiful, beautiful sunset over the mountains. I decided to take beautiful, beautiful pictures of the beautiful sunset, the kind of beautiful pictures that bore the hell out of others but make you feel like some Adamsey photographic genius. I love how people take responsibility for the sunset, as though they had something to do with it. Granted, the amount of cigarros I smoke here may have contributed to the technicolour puke of wonder in the sky over Santiago last night.
Anyhow.
My neighbour, the filmmaker, Manuel, shared a similar sentiment, in video. We chatted. I found myself in his studio, and then, again, in his movie.
I was the token gringo friend at an art-fag party. Talk about fucking method acting. They dressed me in a ludicrous orange sombrero and a black-and-white polka dot scarf, and I had to yell at a painter who´s work disappointed me. Again, very out of my element. (Lies.)
My lines:
¨¿What the fuck is this? ¿I flew all the way for THIS? Tabernac! Est TERRIBLE! ¿¡¿¡QUE PASSA BRASSI?!?!¨
Integrating ¨tabernac?¨ My idea. Oh yes.
So it begins.
Anyhow.
My neighbour, the filmmaker, Manuel, shared a similar sentiment, in video. We chatted. I found myself in his studio, and then, again, in his movie.
I was the token gringo friend at an art-fag party. Talk about fucking method acting. They dressed me in a ludicrous orange sombrero and a black-and-white polka dot scarf, and I had to yell at a painter who´s work disappointed me. Again, very out of my element. (Lies.)
My lines:
¨¿What the fuck is this? ¿I flew all the way for THIS? Tabernac! Est TERRIBLE! ¿¡¿¡QUE PASSA BRASSI?!?!¨
Integrating ¨tabernac?¨ My idea. Oh yes.
So it begins.
14.3.06
¿Do you like my pelt?
Somebody tried to give me a handjob on the metro this morning... at 8am. It was so crowded, I had no idea who was doing it, nor could I lower my arms to stop it.
I have three suspects. Suspect the first: man in linen business suit. Reeked of Polo Sport. Distinct possibilty. Suspect the second: little old lady. Disqualified due to Our Lady of Guadalupe necklace. Unless it was a Madonna/Whore thing. Suspect the third: mamacita in schoolgirl uniform. Please god don´t be her. Case open until forensic evidence has been analyzed. My enormous beauteous pad also has a lab in it, next to the second solarium and the stockroom. As a side not, I´m pretty sure my boner poked the little old lady.
Speaking of which, I, in my imperialist extravagance, hired a maid. Carmen. She´s incredible. Limpia toda is all I can tell her to do and she vacuums inside my shoes. It´s not a wounded frog, as English would lead you to believe. She brings her 3 kids with her who are hilarious. I buy them toys. I was hoping to hold out for a Lupe, but Carmen has authenticity too (in Stefan´s words.) If I find a Lupe, Carmen´s toast. Speaking of toast, Carmen cooks. Little Lord Fauntleroy, a sus ordenes.
Also, I´m flying to Buenos Aires on Friday to buy a beaver-pelt blanket.
I have three suspects. Suspect the first: man in linen business suit. Reeked of Polo Sport. Distinct possibilty. Suspect the second: little old lady. Disqualified due to Our Lady of Guadalupe necklace. Unless it was a Madonna/Whore thing. Suspect the third: mamacita in schoolgirl uniform. Please god don´t be her. Case open until forensic evidence has been analyzed. My enormous beauteous pad also has a lab in it, next to the second solarium and the stockroom. As a side not, I´m pretty sure my boner poked the little old lady.
Speaking of which, I, in my imperialist extravagance, hired a maid. Carmen. She´s incredible. Limpia toda is all I can tell her to do and she vacuums inside my shoes. It´s not a wounded frog, as English would lead you to believe. She brings her 3 kids with her who are hilarious. I buy them toys. I was hoping to hold out for a Lupe, but Carmen has authenticity too (in Stefan´s words.) If I find a Lupe, Carmen´s toast. Speaking of toast, Carmen cooks. Little Lord Fauntleroy, a sus ordenes.
Also, I´m flying to Buenos Aires on Friday to buy a beaver-pelt blanket.
12.3.06
Close, casting and cat calls.
Billy, Leanne and I made our film debut in Santiago yesterday. Sitting at Litros, making a menagerie of grotesqueries out of olives and toothpicks, we were background extras in a short about date rape. The actress looked barefoot and pregnant (how I like my women.)
Leanne and I went to buy booze, met some random musicians in the plaza, danced a little to some Jethro Tull-inspired tunes (think pan-pipes in earnest) and got hassled by the cops (who are terrifying) for drinking rum and coke outside. We managed to escape, somehow (thinking it was Leanne´s boobs,) and had a carrete at my loft.
Went out to Bunker later that night. The club has a turnstyle. Had some intense harassment from Peruvians, met a Brazillian drag queen dressed like a scorpion, met some CANADIANS, and drank enough pisco to knock out Roseanne Barr.
Come! to! Chile!
Leanne and I went to buy booze, met some random musicians in the plaza, danced a little to some Jethro Tull-inspired tunes (think pan-pipes in earnest) and got hassled by the cops (who are terrifying) for drinking rum and coke outside. We managed to escape, somehow (thinking it was Leanne´s boobs,) and had a carrete at my loft.
Went out to Bunker later that night. The club has a turnstyle. Had some intense harassment from Peruvians, met a Brazillian drag queen dressed like a scorpion, met some CANADIANS, and drank enough pisco to knock out Roseanne Barr.
Come! to! Chile!
10.3.06
Mis vecinos.
I live in the hottest building in Santiago. Pilar and Lorena live in 809, and they´re these dyker biker babes with long black hair, eyes that just stare, and the sexiest accents in the southern hemisphere. Alvaro and Bentura live across the hall, I´m going to teach them English, they´re going to teach me Spanish, and it´s going to take every ounce of restraint not to silence our lessons with make-outs.
Today I found the supermarket. People still look at me like I´m some sort of mystical white pony in their midst, like a unicorn with a swastika tattoo, or something. It´s very weird to feel exotic and Canadian at the same time.
I bought two fruits that look like something out of Star Trek. Some kind of palm-tree melon (I think!) and another purple thing... gah... I can´t describe it. I was so tempted to buy condor eggs for an omlette but decided to hold off until I can accompany it with tiger paws, some gorilla chest, and a couple of mashed, orphaned baby seals.
Delicious.
Today I found the supermarket. People still look at me like I´m some sort of mystical white pony in their midst, like a unicorn with a swastika tattoo, or something. It´s very weird to feel exotic and Canadian at the same time.
I bought two fruits that look like something out of Star Trek. Some kind of palm-tree melon (I think!) and another purple thing... gah... I can´t describe it. I was so tempted to buy condor eggs for an omlette but decided to hold off until I can accompany it with tiger paws, some gorilla chest, and a couple of mashed, orphaned baby seals.
Delicious.
8.3.06
The Vagina Travelogues, Around the World in 80 Gays.
I won´t let Bil and Leanne leave. So, instead, I forced them to take fashion photos of me in my glory, in my glorious new place.
The sex panthers.
Bumb.
7.3.06
This little loft of mine...
I have an apartment in Barrio Brasil.
(Tengo un departamento en Barrio Brasil.)
On the corner of Friend of Jesus Avenue and Old Lady Street.
(A la cruce de Avenida Compañiera de Jesus y Calle Maturana.)
Mamacita, I´m happy.
(Tengo un departamento en Barrio Brasil.)
On the corner of Friend of Jesus Avenue and Old Lady Street.
(A la cruce de Avenida Compañiera de Jesus y Calle Maturana.)
Mamacita, I´m happy.
6.3.06
Entiendo nada.
I stick out like a yeti.
It seems that everybody loves the white guy in Santiago. I can't stop making friends. Todas Chilenos son simpaticos.
1. There are dirty poodles everywhere.
2. Chileans drink wine mixed with coke (es muy dulce.)
3. There's a guy juggling on a unicycle in the middle of an intersection in front of me.
4. Some guy asked me to arm wrestle him out of nowhere in the Plaza des Armas (he won.)
5. I bonded with some musicians who don't speak English over Stevie Wonder (music is a world within itself in a language we all understand.)
6. I learned a Chilean drinking game. DE LA MICRO!
7. The produce here makes Canadian fruit taste like play-dough.
8. I saw a girl wearing a "RAN DMC" t-shirt, which I doubt is a commentary on the state of hip-hop today.
9. Another guy had a hat that said "Dick in your Eye."
10. Everyone tries to sell me pot in Bellas Artes.
11. There are no minorities here.
12. People party until 6am, or later.
13. Borracho = drunk.
14. I've been borracho por cinco dias.
15. I've discovered a love of drinking. Especially pisco. Think yummy rum.
16. I don't miss home at all, only mi amigos.
It seems that everybody loves the white guy in Santiago. I can't stop making friends. Todas Chilenos son simpaticos.
1. There are dirty poodles everywhere.
2. Chileans drink wine mixed with coke (es muy dulce.)
3. There's a guy juggling on a unicycle in the middle of an intersection in front of me.
4. Some guy asked me to arm wrestle him out of nowhere in the Plaza des Armas (he won.)
5. I bonded with some musicians who don't speak English over Stevie Wonder (music is a world within itself in a language we all understand.)
6. I learned a Chilean drinking game. DE LA MICRO!
7. The produce here makes Canadian fruit taste like play-dough.
8. I saw a girl wearing a "RAN DMC" t-shirt, which I doubt is a commentary on the state of hip-hop today.
9. Another guy had a hat that said "Dick in your Eye."
10. Everyone tries to sell me pot in Bellas Artes.
11. There are no minorities here.
12. People party until 6am, or later.
13. Borracho = drunk.
14. I've been borracho por cinco dias.
15. I've discovered a love of drinking. Especially pisco. Think yummy rum.
16. I don't miss home at all, only mi amigos.
4.3.06
That delicious little upside down question mark.
¿
How cute is that.
So much to say, paying for internet by the minute. I kissed a boy named Peter Pineapple last night. I´m not kidding.
How cute is that.
So much to say, paying for internet by the minute. I kissed a boy named Peter Pineapple last night. I´m not kidding.
2.3.06
Ratta-tatt, Rattail Attack!
Ok, so I've officially lived in Santiago for an afternoon, and already I've noticed a distressing trend. Fortunately, searching "rat tails" and "chile" yielded a much more eloquent and visual disdainful lament than anything I could ever muster. Consider this:
Don't be a victim.
Don't be a victim.
Hot blooded! Hot blooded!
Ooooook, Chile, back off a little.
Stop being so beautiful, first of all. Everybody hates the prettiest girl at the party, and your cans are like, as firm and rotund as the heads of newborn babes, with that supple sweet spot of areola.
Second of all, where do you get off being so unseasonably deliciously warm? I've now sweat through 3 (not kidding) shirts, and don't know how to say DRY CLEAN ONLY in Spanish (thanks Widgets.)
Thirdly, as if I was just petting actual wild horses on a mountainside. I was reading Isabel Allende under some unpronouncable tree and 4 horses and a colt come bucking down the fucking mountain. Colt = baby horse. For real. Francisco came over with some lettuce and I fed them. And pet them. And realized all's right with the world.
Chile, you little tease, I love you so much already, I'm plotting a crime of passion.
Stop being so beautiful, first of all. Everybody hates the prettiest girl at the party, and your cans are like, as firm and rotund as the heads of newborn babes, with that supple sweet spot of areola.
Second of all, where do you get off being so unseasonably deliciously warm? I've now sweat through 3 (not kidding) shirts, and don't know how to say DRY CLEAN ONLY in Spanish (thanks Widgets.)
Thirdly, as if I was just petting actual wild horses on a mountainside. I was reading Isabel Allende under some unpronouncable tree and 4 horses and a colt come bucking down the fucking mountain. Colt = baby horse. For real. Francisco came over with some lettuce and I fed them. And pet them. And realized all's right with the world.
Chile, you little tease, I love you so much already, I'm plotting a crime of passion.
1.3.06
To clarify: the NBF.
The dreaded New Best Friend. Do you ever encounter these chihuahuas? I love making friends but I have my limits. Forced intimacy is the most uncomfortable dildo to swallow.
It's like friend rape.
Contraband.
Fab took a cute photo of me with Daniella, an NBF. I'm bringing back the headband, with a vengeance.
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