Also, goats.

Also, there were a lot of goats.

Comfy like a cesspool.

Mmmmm yes.

I just spent the day soaking, pruning, preening in a volcanic hot spring. I was simmering in a cauldron of boiled, ancient creatures, and some sediment, covered in mud, dangerously close to blackface, in los andes with my dad and Pancho's family.

I've never felt more like a happy-stewed-dumpling. Watch out for floaty bits of weird algae and ass burns. Caliente!

Tienes cactus?

We might have a couple in the back.

Asher Maan.

On this, the anniversary of your placental bursting 20-something years ago, I send out rainbows of love and acceptance, and some spite, across the equator.

Party like a sorority girl getting back at daddy.

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.

The air was good.

We packed an extra lunch for the flight over the Andes... just in case. Buenos Aires:

Sarah spelled with an H.

I thought I'd like to reflect on some indside jokes, of no interest to anyone other than my sister and I. In list form.

a) 4 star hotels and their diluted detergents.
b) The oblivious rock-throwing threat on Diego's car.
c) 45 minute tooth brushing.
d) Que rico. Swept away by the riconess of it all.
e) Esparagus-effect empanadas.
f) Pil-Pil.
g) Used hospitality drinks.
h) Chocolate dinks.
i) Okaaay. Okaaay. Ok? Okaaay.
j) Boom-pole wasp intervention.
k) LAN Chile's inconsistency with elastic sunglasses holders.
l) Twigs. Aaaand we're filling.
m) The same goddamn mall 3 times.
n) Tarjeta retenido. Fuck you, Argentina.
o) Where the hell are we?
p) Absent hairdressers.
q) I'm your private drivah! Drivah for money!
r) There's a birthday every 10 goddamn minutes at The Fat Cows.
s) Daza's gandy legs. Frog sitting. Couch destroying. Her sudden and mysterious death.
t) Connie Tracheotomy at the French Place.
u) Sleeping 2 hours before flying to Buenos Aires as a medal-winning idea.
v) Blondie's saturated meat-smoking sauna feel.
w) Two dogs fucking in the restaurant and people argue over what to do about it. They're left alone. Chile.
x) Devo without a shred of irony.
y) How many fucking dogs do we have now?
z) Avoiding Lynda-Hamilton-meets-Señora-Carmen.

I love you Sare.

Sitting here itchy.

Sitting here, itchy, trying to figure out what bit me, I'm looking disdainfully at my cutey street rat of a puppy, wondering.

Gabriel thinks it was a Zancudo... Zancudo... Zancudo. I can't stop saying this word. It looks like a bright green mosquito. Here is a picture of a Zancudo... Zancudo... on an eyeball:



All I know is that I had a little hot flash, I looked at my arm to see a hot, puffy mosquite bite, with a smear of reddy welts coming out of it. As of right now, the bumps have traversed the nipple zone, through the armpit forest, and are slowly pulsing onto my other arm. I -think- it's following a vein.

Chile really hasn't felt exotic until right now.

What's going up?

Hello Jordan:

Why are yu lost in Los Andes ??
Good joking for chilean humour sense ...
I notice you like ironic jokings ??
Is it true ?
I am Daniel, a chilean guy who enjoy the life to melt this saturday night ??
and you , what ' sgoing up?
I hope hear soon from you ..

Daniel
Santiago- Chile

Viking, GO!

Yes! Yes!


Yes!



Yes!

I -finally- found the most viking restaurant in Latin America. Intense mead, steaming cauldrons of meaty meat, meat, and cow-leg ashtrays. There's something so Cruello DeMills about ashing inside of something that once kicked something else. Ridiculous hoofery.

Sarah and I were the only actual viking descendents in the place, and they gave us honour with ceremonial hats.

Argh!

Cotton-Candy for Brains.

The itinerary for learning a new language resembles something out of a Psychology 100 textbook. Like the boring heirarchy of Maslowe's, you begin by addressing the necessities: ordering in restuarants (food,) ordering in bars (fluids,) haggling with landlords and hostel-owners (shelter,) and pick-up lines (love.) Over time, these concepts web fractally, the triangles obtusify, dissolve, fibbionacially fornicate. Slowly but steadily these world-wide-word-webs weave, with subordinate threads, chimeric networks, quipus of knotted semiotics and snafus, when you finally start to form sentences and simple thoughts. Our Psych 100 textbooks tell us that neuropathways extend in this same way when you learn your first language in soft-serve, infant, cotton-candy brains. You go through a kindergarten of flashcard flashbulbs, simple nouns, barnyard noises, shapes and colours, sprials and lines. The progress could probably be graphed into the golden section.

With relief, I've finally reached the stage of conditionals, of maybes, of evasive conversation. Excuses, at last. I've finally learned the word for supposedly, supuestamente, which allows me a lot more breathing room with anecdotes and second-hand facts. Allegedly is next, with other sarcastic doubts.

Ambiguity, a wonderful wool pullover, will hopefully be followed by subtlety and some pretty, fanciful embroidery.

Jordan who does little.

...is getting and Armadillo.

Alive, from a petstore, for 50 lukas.

Chile.

Delicious food?

Your mouth, watering, courtesy of the lovely Nicolas Cárcamo S.









Or, perhaps, him.

Chilenismos, Chickenismos.

Over the past few months of living in this long, skinny nation of classist latinos and humiliated llamas, I´ve grown quite fond of their funny little Spanish dialect. I honestly think there are generally fewer synonyms in Castellano than in English. This isn´t intended as a valuative judgement, but my teeny dictionary has led me to believe this is true. Anyways, as a result, there is a collection of bizarre sayings and modismos (Spanish slang) indigenous only to Chile, providing subtlety where simple adjectives won´t suffice. Many of which involve chicken.

Yes, chicken.

Let´s consider this national obsession with pollo. In list form.

1. Hueon.
Translation: Asshole, buddy, friend, dickhead, compadre.
Etymology: Huevo, or egg. Potentially the most important word in Chileno.

2. Pololo. (Polola.)
Translation: Boyfriend, (girlfriend.)
Etymology: Play on pollo, or chicken.

3. Pico.
Translation: Crude way of saying wang.
Etymology: From the Spanish word for beak.

4. Pollo sobre la velador.
Translation: Having an affair.
Etymology: Motels spring up in Santiago like mushrooms. They are designed for
infidelity, and even have privacy-curtain car air-locks in their parking garages to preserve modesty. Most popular times to rent a room are during lunch hour on weekdays, where they serve you a quick bite with your quick bite. Means chicken on the nightstand.

5. Huevas.
Translation: Balls.
Etymology: Eggs. Feminine eggs. Can´t explain this.

There are more. Many more. I bring this up with Chileans and they have no idea what I´m talking about, it´s so ingrained, so absorbed in the fabric, this culture of chicken, that they don´t see it everywhere. Only with foreigners can I discuss this phenomenon. It´s not like there are a lot of chickens here, or anything... at least not more than anywhere else. Although, for real, sometimes Chilean chicken eggs are blue. Honest. Spade a spade.

I suppose English has a little bit of this, but definitely not as much as the Chilenos. What´s a Saturday night, afterall, without some cock and chicks?

People don´t rue enough things these days.

It´s a great verb.

Let´s take blogger, for example, who´s code is so messed I can´t provide proper epithets for my photos.

However, can you really rue anything other than "the day"?

Allow me to provide captions.

1. Protecting the precious, precious grass from invading urbanism. Due to earthquakes, much of Santiago lies on shakey ground, and you see a lot of matchstick support pillars buttressing walls and buildings. Vacant lots are everywhere in my neighbourhood and look like these little urban-renewal sanctuaries, when in fact it´s a product of economic collapse. Cute.
2. The white elephant of the singing forest. Construction projects that lose funding become a nightmare for municipal beauracracy here, and often are left as half-resurrected lazarus pits, called white elephants in Chileno. When the wind is right this place whistles, hopefully.
3. Speed lines.
4. The leperous cathedral.
5. Noli me tangere.
6. In vino ventas.
7. And now for the swimsuit competition.
8. Mediocre landscape.
9. Peeling bubblegum baroque.
10. Geeze, Guevara (Dam, 2006)
11. Rue.

Greetings from sunny Barrio Brasil.

Make a joyful noise unto the soundboard.

My life in Chile, summed up.