Let's do Naked Lunch

Although this a travel blag, I'm not just traveling. When I'm not taking advantage of the Patagonian landscape, I'm selfishly indulging my insatiable thirst for cinema. For the last couple of days, it's been extremely windy and overcast. Conditions unideal for marine mammal viewing. I'll take any excuse to watch a movie. Dinner and a movie: chinese take out and all three Indiana Jones movies. Not feeling well: Progresso and David Cronenberg (not the smartest combination). Can't find my shoes: stay inside all day and watch movies until my eyes hurt, my legs fall asleep and when I stand up too quickly I go temporarily blind with lightheadedness right before my ankles buckle and I drop like a rock. Then, with no feeling in my legs and no peripheral vision, I'd be daft not to continue watching movies...right? Anyhow, I'd like to introduce y'all to some of my favorite films from some of my favorite directors.
      My first love: Spielberg. Now just because he's an extremely successful and mainstream director doesn't mean he's not a fantastic film maker. Spielberg defined what it meant to make a hollywood, blockbuster movie. Jaws, E.T., and Jurassic Park, to name a few. Visually spectacular, feel-good movies that deliver with the perfect amount of profligacy. I love the pace and momentum of his movies - his grasp of the hero's journey, if you will. His scores are also second to none, and with John Williams at the composing helm, how can you lose? [This is directed to all those nay-sayer, flute playing, band-geeks who think all of Williams' scores sound the same and that Danny Elfman is better: come off it. Tim Burton's not that cool. You're just an emo loser with a Jack Skellington hoodie and a faltering grip on reality. Sorry, I've been holding that in for a while] Spielberg also tends to use very little dialogue in his movies. Instead he uses pictures to tell his stories. A great example of this is Spielberg's first commercial film, a made for TV movie called Duel. Made in 1971, the film stars Dennis Weaver and one extremely unique car chase. Aside from the movies already mentioned, some personal favorites include Hook, Saving Private Ryan and Catch Me if You Can.
      John Carpenter is a film-maker by every definition of the compound word. He directs, writes, produces, and even composes almost all of his films. Carpenter essentially began his career, and the slasher film genre with Halloween in 1978. Atypical from his other films, Halloween is an exploitative, crass, gory horror flick. The majority of his other works fall into the scifi genre and aren't dumb. My hands-down favorite is The Thing (1982), starring Carpenter's man-crush, Kurt Russel. It's gross, in terms of gore, budget, makeup, and overall epicness. Carpenter had a short yet sweet 10-year film-making run that churned out gems such as: Escape from New York, Christine, Starman, Big Trouble in Little China and They Live. After that, old-Johnny started getting rusty and the magic started to dwindle. But the handful of awesome films that he has made are simply delicious in their tongue-in-cheek ridiculousness and simultaneous embracement of the scifi/horror genre. You could say he makes B+ movies.
      Slightly more esoteric now...wait, did I say slightly? I meant to say David Cronenberg. Probably my favorite director these days. Cronenberg cooks a strange dish: always stylish, creative, inventive and usually exploring a strong motif. His films also often exude violence and sexuality in untraditional ways. More exciting and endearing is his affinity for campy, semi-realistic stop-motion animation and use of horror make-up that looks as though it came from the late 70's. He used it then and he uses it now. I think he just hates CGI and likes the look of it. If you watch his films in chronological order, it's fun to experience the distinct phases he's gone through. Although I should introduce you to his films with the notorious Video Drome (1983), I prefer the more focused and toned-down eXistenZ (1999). Both strongly motifed films. Other orthodox atrocities include: Shivers, Scanners, The Fly and Crash (the one about having a sexual fetish with car crashes, not the 'everyone is connected' one).
      Lastly, we have Darren Aronofsky, whose movies I don't even really like. He's newish and his films are extremely hard to watch, mostly beyond the point of being enjoyable. However, this crazy bastard gave us Requiem For a Dream (2000), which is incredibly hypnotizing. With every film Aronofsky puts under his belt, his grasp of cinematic pathos tightens, and oh does it tighten. Watch out everyone, this one has promise. With that said, I can't wait to see his next film, Black Swan, which looks as though it might be freaking awesome.
      Alright, that's enough haranguing for one post. While I enjoy a good, respectable film, I also enjoy vampire and zombie movies. So, if you excuse me, I have a date with Wesley Snipes.
    

A leather jacket to krill for

After having spent a full month in a foreign country you'd think that I'd have fully assimilated to the local culture. When I first arrived in Buenos Aires I knew that I was going to make it a goal of mine to try and fit in as much as possible. Physical appearance from bottom to top: thank god converse is an international shoe. I love these flat-soled, faded-red icons, even if they are starting to split at the seams already. Levi jeans. Mr. Strauss, I have to hand it to you. After a hundred years, your pants are still stylish, comfortable and functional. I've also seen a fair deal of Levi stores here, so you know I'm two for two. Lastly, the abdomen. Here I've chosen to layer: [standard issue, grey, 3-button Swedish long sleeve shirt bought from the army-surplus store] over [blue, synthetic long sleeve bought from some camping/mountaineering store in Buenos Aires] over [the deliciously comfortable, white, stretch, crew neck, banana republic t-shirt stolen from my father's t-shirt drawer because frankly he's got too many to keep track of and I love the things]. This combo works wonders. By obscuring the synthetic layer, I manage to distance my appearance from the droves of tourists who all dress in similar albeit extremely functional clothing. North Face, Arc'teryx, Patagonia, Mountain Hardwear, Marmot and Columbia Sportwear to name a few. Hell, it's like I'm back at Middlebury. I like to throw a little character into my wardrobe. An article absconded from the depths of my father's closet. Then maybe something stained and outdated from a second-hand store. I'm funky. I like a little dirt in my sandwich. I also don't want to be treated, approached or mugged as a tourist. No, I don't think I'm going to get mugged, but if some tourist gets mugged it's going to be that guy over there with the little screw logo on his chest. I love you Dan, and don't you dare stop wearing that long sleeve. Ok, most exciting news: I didn't bring a jacket to Argentina even though it just stopped snowing down in Ushuaia, so when I was perusing the local flea market in Bolsón and saw the leather jacket of my dreams I immediately bought it and then almost fainted when I found out it also fit me. It's perfect. One of the pockets is missing. The cuffs have been extended by three inches with what can only be upholstery leather. Most importantly, it's got the perfect amount of badassness.
      In other news, I'm totally in Puerto Madryn. This small sea-port town is built around the seasonal tourism that smothers nearby Península Valdés, a haven for marine mammals. This place is porn for marine biologists, and home-video fodder for tourists. Pods of southern right whales visible from the shore, penguins so crowded and loud it's not even cute, southern elephant seals, Killer whales, Southern Sea Lions and Commerson's Dolphins. The plan is to dole out a nice wad of Argentine plata (slang for money) and simply let some excursion company cart me around for a couple days. With that said, they're getting the cart ready, so I should be off. Pictures sure to follow - [excited face emoticon].

...Leo-nard Bern-stein!!!

Day 29 (Thu, Oct 14)
Right now, I´m in an internet cafe in cozy Esquel. I bought a bus ticket leaving tonight for Puerto Madryn, which is supposed to be lovely. It´s known for it´s abundant coastal sea life: whales, penguins and I suppose more tourists. Since it´s been a while since my last post, Avast! A recap of all that´s happened since in chronological order, and as an homage to ¨It´s the End of the World as We Know It¨ and ¨Subterranean Homesick Blues¨, written as a stream of consciousness.
      Electic fence, heart beat, teddy bear, cheese house, little jar, big church, bus late, xanax, chill out, bus ride, day goes by, Add It Up, meet some brits, eat some grits, Bariloche, lakeside town, overpriced, but pretty nice, met some dogs, St. Bernard, Scotland Yard, to the beach, rocky there, rather brisk, was the air, took more pics, hostel cheap, had a steak, left overs for next three days, met Israelis, something something, bike ride, Choripan!, mi favorito, travel buddy, got a ride, Bolson is fine, no more rhymes, hostel, not the movie, leather jacket, I´m alright, gopher dance, Cholila, Sundance, bad directions, 15 mile hike, with 60lb pack, fuckkkkkkkkkk, pardon french, whatever, almost done, now I´m here.
      I sort of want to explain it all, but I think it´s pretty straight forward. Also, I´m trying to live in the present more. Sooooo...I´m gonna go do that. Until my next writing-mood, cheers.

Showertime

Day 14 (Wed, Sept 29)

If farmstead communal shower doesn’t evoke strong negative emotions, maybe this following, in-depth description will.

            I locate a towel and shuffle into the bathroom. It’s not terrible, but the grime and pools of stagnant, mossy water encourage me to walk on the balls of my feet. I turn on the hot water, and wait to let the shower heat up a bit. In seconds, the bathroom is filled with the hottest, finest steam I’ve ever experienced. I open the small crooked window to my left but the mist persists. Avoiding the blistering hot water, I manage to turn the cold water knob all the way to the left. I incorrectly assume that the water is now below boiling and almost step completely into it. Expletive! It’s still scorching. I turn the hot water knob a smidge to the left and all of a sudden I’m transported to Patagonia. I eventually dial the overly sensitive hot water knob to a position that’s agreeable to non-extremophile organisms and step in. Ahhh. Not bad. I almost don’t mind the mysterious items floating around my feet.  Just as I’m starting to feel comfortable, an inexplicable 2-second burst of hot water inhabits and quarters my showerwater. I check to feel if the skin on my back has sloughed off. I reconsider how badly I want to be clean. I decide the ritual is a necessary evil and step back into the 5^th circle of hell. I am greeted by yet another burst, only this time it’s cold water. I involuntarily gasp and accept that this shower simply hates people.

Despite having set the shower to an acceptable earthly temperature almost 5 minutes ago, the bathroom is still filled with Jurassic Park fog and I can barely see the floor, which, with a credit to the steam, isn’t all bad. Still, I want to find the fingernail brush to clean, what is invariably shit, from my beneath my nails. No hyperbole here friends, when something gets dirty on a farm, 5 times out of 10 its some type of shit. 4 times out of 5 it’s cow shit…and that’s a good thing. The other shit smells like shit. The goats and sheep manage to crank it up a notch and produce a slightly more vile strain of fecal matter. I can’t find the fingernail brush amidst the mist and end up using what I can only guess is the foot brush. It’s bigger and oh, is it dirtier. I pick off what I think is plant material, god I hope it came from a plant, and start scrubbing my fingers. Although many would be in disagreement, I don’t believe I’ve fully explained the quality of how hot the hot water is. You wouldn’t blanch vegetables with this water, unless you enjoy the overcooked carrots at souplantation.

Finishing quickly, I move on to the shower gel. No, it’s not necessary, and I’ve never been much for shower gel cause I always thought it was frivolous, but then again I didn’t come home from work at 6 covered in actual shit back in L.A. Because there’s no showerhead, the stream is akin to the waterfalls of Iguaçu. As such, I have to turn my back to the fire-hose scene in Rambo and apply gel on my leeward side. To my horror, there, in the ceiling corner, is Charlotte’s husband: Mr. Spider, competing for the blue ribbon in the local county fair. Arachnophobia would be an understatement, especially considering the conditions. I have this Hitchcock-borne fear of being stabbed or even startled in the shower. While this sucker couldn’t have been bigger than a quarter (maybe even a Susan B. Anthony), I’m still obligated to check the corner every 5 seconds or so, just to make sure he’s still there. Because everyone knows: the only thing worse than a huge spider on the wall, is that same spider that’s no longer on the wall. Is it gone? Or is it hiding? Maybe it’s behind you. No? Oh, it’s probably crawling up your leg or on your head.

At this point, I’m just trying to juggle/endure my laundry list of shower maladies until the gel suds dissipate. Spider, hot water burst, spider, cold water burst, is that a clump of hair? Wait, where’s the spider? No one deserves this kind of punishment. I step out of the shower, grab my towel and gtfo (for my older readers: google something you don’t understand. Best advice I ever got). I’ve decided I’m going to hoof it these last three or four days on the farm until I get to a hostel, and just try not to get dirty. It’s just easier this way.