I'd smoke it anyway. For spite, for sass.

La hija del Tigre, la gordita fantastica, la primera Presidente perra, the Glorious Michele Bachelet (Bachelette, not Bachelay) doesn't want you to smoke. Neither does the city of Santiago.

Gone are the times of smoking in the change room while trying on under-priced Dior suits (they brought me a silver ashtray.) Gone are the times of the acrid miasma, flavourfully saturating pastries in cafes. Gone are the infant lungs filling with second-hand diet-juice.

I suppose it's for the best. However, it feels like this country just got a little less exotic, and a little more Yoga-latte North-Americanized. At least they have clever anti-smoking campaigns. Walking down the busy streets of neighbourhoods such as Providencia, Las Condes, Ñuñoa, even La Reina, you find fake cigarettes lying on the pavement. Pick it up, and you're confronted with this passive-agressive, surprisingly effective guilt-trip thrown in your face, which would make even the WASPiest of Chianti-soaked mothers proud.



It reads: Urban action in direct marketing, without databases. Pick up the smoke off the ground, you little street-rat, unroll it, and it says "It seems you not only need a cigarette, but also help." Burn.

Hot, Hot, Hot Heat.

The puppy is finally a woman. Not to get too graphic, but about a week ago I woke up in my white sheets, horrified, searching for a wound on me somewhere. I choose not to illustrate the experience further.

Anyway, Daza has become a little coquettish señora in heat. Unfortunately, living in front of a plaza filled with 15 strays (this is a low estimate,) she's been drawing a lot of attention lately. Not to mention the fact that she's skinny, blonde, and has 6 nipples (I've counted.) Her usual 2 boyfriends has multiplied to about 9. I'm mildly jealous. They fight, and I mean fight tooth-and-claw, over her attention and steaming loins.

The usual suspects:


1. Cholo, the black labrador with the skin problem. Given some leeway due to Canadian origins.

2. Chorizo Agresivo, the aniñado weiner dog with the Napoleon complex. Scrappy.

3. Señor Butters, the naive underdog who always gets overpowered by everyone.

4. Hilarious Socks, truly a gentleman and really only licks her bottom.

5. Cockeye, the foul-mannered dirty poodle (have you ever seen a dirty poodle? It's like a has-been B actress) who's tasted my boot a few times.

6. The Blonde Matriarch, who I thought was a woman until recently. A part of the 3 wyrd sisters/matron clique that patrol the plaza.

7. Horatio, a recently shaved puffy thing that has gained too much confidence. Has an owner who does nothing but laugh and smoke.

8. Floppy Paw, a rather timid taxi-casualty with a tragically deformed front paw. More of a caballero with her.

9. Arnold, the Bichon-Frise that never seems to mount the right end. Perhaps it's forepawplay to get her warmed up.


Anyway, her scent has saturated my clothing (or as Niko likes to say, her "mist") and as a result, I have a secret army of the night following me everywhere I go. Today, even into the grocery store, much to the dismay of the 11 security guards. I can't help but feel repulsed, proud, mildly celoso, and slightly turned on by recent events. Less so that last thing, just wanted to keep your attention.

Rest in peace, the former, innocent puppy that I found in a video store. I'm beginning to know why primitive cultures had separate huts for females during their "time."



Daza.

Crypt-Creeping, Sausage Parties.

So I've finally recovered from my last trip to Argentina. Spent a day lost in El Cemeterio de la Recoleta, crept into crypts, got lost in the antique markets in San Telmo, haggled with Willendorf-Señoras, spent most of my time with my friend Santiago, member of the Argentine branch of Il Divo. (Il Divo is mom-porn.)

Last night I drank about 2 litres of pisco sour. Pisco sour, for those who don't know, is made with a small Peruvian lime called a pica, some ludicrously potent south american spirit, and egg whites. It wasn't until halfway through the second litre that I realized I was full of raw eggs. I had evoked a Susan Powter moment, and had even considered making myself sick. She would have approved of both.

Anyway, the occasion was the 18 de Septiembre, allegedly Chile's independence day. I've been told this actually occurs in February, but September had been lacking in a long weekend, and perhaps they wanted to distract everyone from the anniversary of the military junta in '73. Nonetheless, we celebrated in true sass-bag style at Niko's place in La Reina (with La Reina de La Reina) in a big, gay fonda. A fonda is yet another Chilean word for party, usually characterized by the presence of Huasos (enponchoed Juan-Valdezesque Chilean cowboys), albeit falsos, and Choripan, stubby little red hotdogs drowning in pebre. It was a true sausage party in every sense of the word.

Next year I want to throw a Jane fonda, complete with headbands and unitards.

Noreteamaricon.

Mis amigos flaytes no creen que puedo hablar Castellano de Tarzan. Miren, weoncitos, el Español. Me faltan algunas preposiciones, gramática apropiada, y chistes, pero suficiente para comunicar mis ideas. Todavia no puedo hablar con sutilesa, ni connotacion tampoco, y a veces me siento como Tibor en una fiesta, que dice cosas como "hacemos el carrete!"

Un caso de la caridad grammatico.

Pero, voy a tratar a escribir completamente en Español. Fuerte. En la forma de listas.

1) Acabo de comprar crema de caracol, hecho con 80% baba de caracol. Me encanta el sentido de tener caracoles cubierta mi cara. Mi caracola.
2) Un tipo viejo me dijo Brad Pitt en la plaza hoy dia. Mi cabeza se hace mas grande cada minuto aca.
3) Sueno borracho cuando hablo en Castellano.
4) El Español es una mescla borracha de Ingles y Frances.
5) Sudaca es una palabra mala. Lo siento mis Sudacas.
6) Cuando fumo pitos, entiendo 40% mas.
7) Mi cachorro es tan predesible. Fome.
8) Voy a matar a mi perro, lentamente.
9) Me encantan las estafas de gringos en todos lados. Fantastico.
10) Embrazame y abrazame no son lo mismo.

Gracias mis chulos ricos y mis amigas callejeras.