In my Patagonian notebook/journal or whatever you want to call it - that place where I write the names of all the boys I've kissed - I made an entry dated January 3rd, 2009 or to be exact there is a little 3:1:09 written in my hand at the bottom left of the page. I will write here for you EXACTLY what I wrote this day: 'damn - I'm becoming like a younger & much prettier Andy Rooney'. Then today, which is 21:1:09 I picked up SLUG to read Mike Brown's article which I try to do as often as possible since he started writing it in the late '90s after he had a zine where he dedicated an entire issue to me (only because the ass hole forgot to mention a thanks to me in his previous zine regardless of the fact that we were hanging out almost daily). Here I will quote for you EXACTLY what a portion of his article says: 'I know all of this hate filled rambling might lead some to believe that I am merely a young Andy Rooney of Salt Lake.' What a mind reading dick wad. HEAR THAT MIKE? Okay, you know I love you. But still... please get out of my head. I am a writer also and need my own material.
But recently I heard on Keith and the Girl (not all THAT recently) a whole comedy segment he did where he goes on a 30 minute diatribe about the futility of electric can openers. Seriously.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
School Spirit. Go Us.
Here is my High School song (Realms of Inquiry):
We go to Realms (clap clap clap clap)
Our color is puce (clap clap clap clap)
Our mascot is the lemming (clap clap clap clap)
They run off cliffs and nobody knows why (clap clap clap clap)
- By Brooke Zitting
This may explain a lot about me. I was on the committee to choose the school color and mascot too. Good times. I still can't believe they let us have this kind of creative control.
We go to Realms (clap clap clap clap)
Our color is puce (clap clap clap clap)
Our mascot is the lemming (clap clap clap clap)
They run off cliffs and nobody knows why (clap clap clap clap)
- By Brooke Zitting
This may explain a lot about me. I was on the committee to choose the school color and mascot too. Good times. I still can't believe they let us have this kind of creative control.
Him, the end...
There was a girl once. She was young - a freshman at a small Catholic school in a city with very few Catholics. She had one particular class, which class it was doesn't really matter. She didn't remember anymore anyhow. It was in a small room in the basement just outside the cafeteria. The floors were dusty and everyone was dressed in the same blue and pink oxfords. He was there too, in that same room, with the same dusty floor. She must have been 14, half the age she is now.
She had some outburst one day in class. Typical. Something about the Coke Co funding cock fighting in developing countries. She has less of these outbursts now - or at least has learned how to keep them to herself. Still sometimes they burst out in the same hot-tempered, speak before you think fashion. The only difference was that now she had a better idea of how little people care.
She still remembers him there in that room; where he sat in relation to her. He was quiet. There gaze met sometimes with the affirmation that each knew the other was there, that the other just was. I doubt that at the time either one of them would have guessed how intertwined their lives were, and how now 14 years later the kite strings would still be knotted - even when the kites had sometimes flown very far apart.
He told her once that he remembered her for her feisty political outbursts. He loved her for her fire and fight that has always set her apart, made her strange. She loved him for the way he wandered, the way he let her have space to be BIG.
At school they didn't have any friends in common. They were both odd, kept to themselves. He more then she. She has always admired the way he creates space when he needs it... leaving people standing there mid-sentence. She screamed on the inside for that space and yet still stood there smiling. Her exasperation was expressed in her temper.
Unbeknown to both of them, outside of school their lives were linked. At school where they went every day and sat in their small stuffy room they probably would have never pushed passed their awkwardness to speak. They would have probably never talked and would have gone on forever noticing each other everyday.
She fell in love with him and he with her. It was pure and innocent and tender and perfect in the way that first love is. It was before their hearts had been broken, before they became adults and life became so complicated. It would always be him she would compare everyone else to and compared to him everyone else would fall short.
They parted ways and yet they didn't.
She loved his mom. Compared to the insanity and instability she was used to, compared to all the forces at work in her life, his mom was a rock in a stormy sea. For two years she and his mom wrote letters as she skipped about the country. His mom was sick. She told his mom of all of her adventures and his mom reminded her of the desert, of home. And they wrote and wrote. Sometimes once a week they wrote each living a little through each other.
'I have been feeling pretty good lately' his mom would say, 'good enough to go on some of my favorite hikes with him, if I can get him to slow down'. 'Ferns grow everywhere here and I have been adopted by a wild kitten who has moved in my tent with me. I miss the sunsets', she wrote back. His mom told her how he was doing from time to time. She wondered if the reverse were true.
As she traveled his mom wrote her more letters then everyone else she knew put together.
Then his mom died. The letters stopped. She couldn't be there for him. She couldn't be there. His mom had been the only strong, sane woman in her life. For a long time it was hard for her to see him. Not just because of his mom - even before then.
Every time he held her, even if for a moment, she felt she couldn't hide her heartache. She had seen things, been places that no one should have to see or go. Around everyone else she had walls, thick walls. Even and especially from herself. She didn't want to see that this pain was there under the surface. She didn't want to remember where she had been, how dirty and unsanitary her life had been. She didn't discuss it. Not with anyone. She still didn't.
She felt, for some reason, like he could always see right through her. She didn't like it. It was as though he was the only person who couldn't see her, but took the time to FEEL her instead.
He always understood and liked her fight, her fire. She always like his passion and envied the size of his heart. She even liked his disappearing act.
Since the beginning ended they have rarely lived in the same place at the same time. Or he has been seeing beautiful women with skin darkened by the desert that you see reflected in his face. Or she has been surrounded by needy or abusive men and was locked away in a little drawer.
She got married once. The night before her wedding she told their friend she wanted to jump in her car and go to him.... that they could run away together, leave it all behind.
Most of the friends they had between them have been lost but they still run into each other. As though fate refuses to let them fall completely apart. She doesn't believe in fate but she believes that things come to you - or keep coming to you - for a reason.
Sometimes they talk. Time is ever in its death march forward.
Their ending remains unwritten.
She had some outburst one day in class. Typical. Something about the Coke Co funding cock fighting in developing countries. She has less of these outbursts now - or at least has learned how to keep them to herself. Still sometimes they burst out in the same hot-tempered, speak before you think fashion. The only difference was that now she had a better idea of how little people care.
She still remembers him there in that room; where he sat in relation to her. He was quiet. There gaze met sometimes with the affirmation that each knew the other was there, that the other just was. I doubt that at the time either one of them would have guessed how intertwined their lives were, and how now 14 years later the kite strings would still be knotted - even when the kites had sometimes flown very far apart.
He told her once that he remembered her for her feisty political outbursts. He loved her for her fire and fight that has always set her apart, made her strange. She loved him for the way he wandered, the way he let her have space to be BIG.
At school they didn't have any friends in common. They were both odd, kept to themselves. He more then she. She has always admired the way he creates space when he needs it... leaving people standing there mid-sentence. She screamed on the inside for that space and yet still stood there smiling. Her exasperation was expressed in her temper.
Unbeknown to both of them, outside of school their lives were linked. At school where they went every day and sat in their small stuffy room they probably would have never pushed passed their awkwardness to speak. They would have probably never talked and would have gone on forever noticing each other everyday.
She fell in love with him and he with her. It was pure and innocent and tender and perfect in the way that first love is. It was before their hearts had been broken, before they became adults and life became so complicated. It would always be him she would compare everyone else to and compared to him everyone else would fall short.
They parted ways and yet they didn't.
She loved his mom. Compared to the insanity and instability she was used to, compared to all the forces at work in her life, his mom was a rock in a stormy sea. For two years she and his mom wrote letters as she skipped about the country. His mom was sick. She told his mom of all of her adventures and his mom reminded her of the desert, of home. And they wrote and wrote. Sometimes once a week they wrote each living a little through each other.
'I have been feeling pretty good lately' his mom would say, 'good enough to go on some of my favorite hikes with him, if I can get him to slow down'. 'Ferns grow everywhere here and I have been adopted by a wild kitten who has moved in my tent with me. I miss the sunsets', she wrote back. His mom told her how he was doing from time to time. She wondered if the reverse were true.
As she traveled his mom wrote her more letters then everyone else she knew put together.
Then his mom died. The letters stopped. She couldn't be there for him. She couldn't be there. His mom had been the only strong, sane woman in her life. For a long time it was hard for her to see him. Not just because of his mom - even before then.
Every time he held her, even if for a moment, she felt she couldn't hide her heartache. She had seen things, been places that no one should have to see or go. Around everyone else she had walls, thick walls. Even and especially from herself. She didn't want to see that this pain was there under the surface. She didn't want to remember where she had been, how dirty and unsanitary her life had been. She didn't discuss it. Not with anyone. She still didn't.
She felt, for some reason, like he could always see right through her. She didn't like it. It was as though he was the only person who couldn't see her, but took the time to FEEL her instead.
He always understood and liked her fight, her fire. She always like his passion and envied the size of his heart. She even liked his disappearing act.
Since the beginning ended they have rarely lived in the same place at the same time. Or he has been seeing beautiful women with skin darkened by the desert that you see reflected in his face. Or she has been surrounded by needy or abusive men and was locked away in a little drawer.
She got married once. The night before her wedding she told their friend she wanted to jump in her car and go to him.... that they could run away together, leave it all behind.
Most of the friends they had between them have been lost but they still run into each other. As though fate refuses to let them fall completely apart. She doesn't believe in fate but she believes that things come to you - or keep coming to you - for a reason.
Sometimes they talk. Time is ever in its death march forward.
Their ending remains unwritten.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Air Travel is lame.
On the last night we were in Argentina we camped out near this town that is seriously a Swiss village. Well, its kind of the Chilean answer to the Swiss village.. much like Veil is to the US. But there is an incredible national park there which I think in the end was one of my favorites. We stopped for mom to pee by the side of the road and all of a sudden an Argentinian police car with its lights flashing pulled up. I instantly started laughing seeing as how I had my pants on. It was one of the damn funniest things I have ever seen in my life. I think mom will remember it fondly. We played the stupid tourist we don't speak a lick of Spanish thing. It worked well. They essentially just asked us if everything was okay and then drove away also laughing pretty fucking damn hard. It was great.
All in all, I approve. I am less entranced with the culture then the wilderness here. Like Costa Rica except with a vast and amazing wilderness and a metric shit ton of sheep. Argentina and Chile are the most advanced countries I have ever traveled to. You can eat the fruits and veggies for God's sake. Even well washed lettuce is fine. In fact I ate whatever with no discretion and the only day my stomach even turned was the day I ate a ton of ice-cream. Damn milk products will get you every time - unless you eat a lot of them on a regular basis, which I don't. Stupid ice-cream. It always seems like such a good idea.
I have a friend from Argentina and I sent her an email while I was gone asking her why on earth I had not been told of the wild ostriches? She said she was surprised I hadn't heard the story of her pet ostrich named 'Pepito'. I am so jealous. We may have deer (which are nearly vacant from the Patagonian wilderness now) but what is cooler then 150 lb flightless birds with lizard feet?
And even though I didn't make it home for a day after I had planned, I am here now. Back at my desk. All is back to the way it was.
I have a friend from Argentina and I sent her an email while I was gone asking her why on earth I had not been told of the wild ostriches? She said she was surprised I hadn't heard the story of her pet ostrich named 'Pepito'. I am so jealous. We may have deer (which are nearly vacant from the Patagonian wilderness now) but what is cooler then 150 lb flightless birds with lizard feet?
And even though I didn't make it home for a day after I had planned, I am here now. Back at my desk. All is back to the way it was.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Padròn
Learn to hate this word and the little orange card that is associated with it. Don't ask questions, just blindly hate.
Haven't charged the IPOD in a few days and am suprized by the number of really, really, really annoying songs that pop into my head. Starting singing that one damn song from Annie today. I havent heard that song since I was five and I still know all the words. Little povery stricken red heads with ringlets will get you every time. Luckily the irritating childhood songs have not yet gotten too repetative and so I am still finding it quite humorous when I notice I am singing them. I usually notice I am singing them when I notice mom is laughing at me.
Dont worry, IPOD is charging right now.
Ever notice the insane and endless supply of 80s music that abounds in every single country in the world. I swear no matter where you travel to, 20 percent of the radio stations you find will be playing 80s pop hits. I am not sure how many more rounds of Toto´s 'Africa' I can take in my life before my head actually implodes. Some songs will just never die.
Patagonia is great. Of all the places I have been this is the first place I have not only felt willing to return but I actually look forward to it. On this trip I have merely begun to see the surface but in as much know exactly where I want to start looking deeper.
Incidentally Chico ran for what was I swear about 1,000 km yesterday before running out of gas. The gas light came on about 125 km outside the nearest town. Then at about 20 km it actually started blinking. I was askin mom how long she though it would take me to push chico 20 km and we agreed it would be a really long time. Then we were into town at least another 10km before chico started to sputter and we very literally coasted into the first gas station we found. It was damn cool. While I hate the car in ways that the emotion hate can not be expressed I am also finding I love it with about the same intensity. I thought about offering to buy it (especially considering it will be worthless by the time we get back to Santiago) and I had a little daydream the other day about bringing him home to retire in AZ with my brother in a respectable place for the elderly like Tempe. Perhaps he can even take some continuing education classes in his twighlight years. My dream was shattered when I realized that there was no way in hell that he would last as far as that. I would be stranded forever carying around an urn of his ashes by Peru or Paraguay at the latest.
I guess like all fleeting South American affairs this one is only meant to be remembered fondly in my retirement years when I, myself, am doomed to an overheated AZ condo.
Post Script: When mom drinks, she skips. Down very public and very populated streets. I like this quality in her.
Haven't charged the IPOD in a few days and am suprized by the number of really, really, really annoying songs that pop into my head. Starting singing that one damn song from Annie today. I havent heard that song since I was five and I still know all the words. Little povery stricken red heads with ringlets will get you every time. Luckily the irritating childhood songs have not yet gotten too repetative and so I am still finding it quite humorous when I notice I am singing them. I usually notice I am singing them when I notice mom is laughing at me.
Dont worry, IPOD is charging right now.
Ever notice the insane and endless supply of 80s music that abounds in every single country in the world. I swear no matter where you travel to, 20 percent of the radio stations you find will be playing 80s pop hits. I am not sure how many more rounds of Toto´s 'Africa' I can take in my life before my head actually implodes. Some songs will just never die.
Patagonia is great. Of all the places I have been this is the first place I have not only felt willing to return but I actually look forward to it. On this trip I have merely begun to see the surface but in as much know exactly where I want to start looking deeper.
Incidentally Chico ran for what was I swear about 1,000 km yesterday before running out of gas. The gas light came on about 125 km outside the nearest town. Then at about 20 km it actually started blinking. I was askin mom how long she though it would take me to push chico 20 km and we agreed it would be a really long time. Then we were into town at least another 10km before chico started to sputter and we very literally coasted into the first gas station we found. It was damn cool. While I hate the car in ways that the emotion hate can not be expressed I am also finding I love it with about the same intensity. I thought about offering to buy it (especially considering it will be worthless by the time we get back to Santiago) and I had a little daydream the other day about bringing him home to retire in AZ with my brother in a respectable place for the elderly like Tempe. Perhaps he can even take some continuing education classes in his twighlight years. My dream was shattered when I realized that there was no way in hell that he would last as far as that. I would be stranded forever carying around an urn of his ashes by Peru or Paraguay at the latest.
I guess like all fleeting South American affairs this one is only meant to be remembered fondly in my retirement years when I, myself, am doomed to an overheated AZ condo.
Post Script: When mom drinks, she skips. Down very public and very populated streets. I like this quality in her.
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