Francisca Valenzuela

Francisca Valenzuela playing a set at the Centro Cultural Amanda from her disc, Muerdete la Lengua, recorded here in Chile in 2007 (she was born and raised in San Francisco, Cali).  The songs "Dulce" (sweet) and "Peces" (fishes)(written at age 13) from said album, are the most widely recognized with the first achieving the #2 spot on Chilean national radio rankings, and the latter being nominated by Rolling Stone for being one of the best songs of 2006. 

She was mesmerizing live-- her voice sounded exactly as it does on her CD (which, duh, you should check out even if you don't speak Spanish).  And not to mention, she's super nice.  Yeah, LL and I met her.  In times like those, being a DJ has its perks, and now she has my email.  Score.

Disc available here. 

Happy listening!  

50 first days

I have, not recklessly rather strategically, been tossing a lot of "first days" in the bag lately and today was not an exception.  Let's just leave it at I did a lil switcheroo on the job front and am SO STOKED!  Working in what I dig, in an industry that will never cease to pique my interest, score + score!!

Without divulging too many details of my entry into dream-jobdom, I'll just say that this morning I collided face to face with one of my nearly forgotten, yet veritable and debilitating weaknesses:

Grocery-cart selling, $500 peso costing, on-the-go street OJ:

OMG.  Cue canine-eque salivation... You have not begun to live if you haven't gulped a glass of this goodness... Not to mention it was my first purchase here in Chilito-- ever-- on January 12, 2009, and for being a lifelong OJ hater, it's first sips up that straw knocked my prior opinions on their vitamin C negligent arses. 

SO, here's to street vendors, newness, and doin' what makes ya happy--

If I Could Teleport Myself Anywhere.......

It would be to the magical, time-stealing, comfier than heaven on morphine, more reliable than your BFF wrapped in your childhood blankie eating a PB&J, big green 917 couch:

The number of hours spent holed up in that living room cuddled between those cushions are uncountable-- as are the conversations, games of rummikub, laughs, cries, and, inevitably, ANTM mega marathons that lead to hour after hour friendship enlaced bliss.  

It's been a bit over two years since my body has been molded to its fluffy form and it's odd to consider the fact that those were, al fondo, fleeting moments that wont return to be a reality-- not to be grim, just unfortunately realistic.  When the seven of us were living in that house, passing those episodes of hours together, it seemed as if the series would never end; a separation was the part they'd written out of the script, that would never be screened.  Nevertheless, all good things seem to come to a materialized end and when the curtain calls, the roses are thrown and the group disperses.  

It's been recent that all I've wanted is to transport myself to the past and share some hours, a day, with those 7 amigas, and those cushions that always acted like an 8th-- always there like the best of 'em. 

//Your place of teleportation?

I am NOT "preciosa" you gross, trashy piropo-ing POS

This could sound offensive to those of you who have not spent extensive time in a Latin American country, but jesus, mary, and joseph am I sicker than sh¡t of nasty, no-class, "flaite," appalling, stinky, etc men who think it's somehow appropriate to cat-call women to the extent of their heart's desire. 
Get a life.  And some manners. 
Maybe you should read the Spanish version of The Goops.
Christ.

I mean, when it's 829374° below zero at 7:30 in the morning, snot happily streaming down my face, with cheeks rosier than a bb's butt, the last thing I wanna hear "oooooyi precioooooosa." 

And trust me: I am in NO way, by any means, whatSOever flattered by these verbal erections, nor am I somehow implying that I'm, um, hot or something because I'm about 98% positive that the same dirtbags would do the same thing to a female looking like this:

Not kidding.

My most recent recurring response to these disgraces is to say "F¿CK OFF" or "UGH, G(uh)ROSS" because, going out on a limb here, I'm gonna make the conjecture that the only "Englich" these bros know is "yes (jes)" or maybe even "I no speak Englich."  Sorry, sounds harsh but at this point I lack the will to be diplomatic.  I used to just try and ignore it and turn up the volume on my ipodski but, amigos, I'm not longer interested in molding my mannerisms around these humans.  Not worth the effort.  

So today, walking to work in said freezing, unflattering temperatures, I was piropo-ed on various occasions.  The first actually totally freaked me out (for no reason) because I walked by 2 creepers while they were verbally leering me and I said in an annoyed, pissed, and very audible tone: "F¿CK OFF."  And approx 1 second later I suffered a mild heart attack because I thought that one of them had turned around and grabbed my purse when really one of my purses' clasps snagged my jeans......Whoops.  The body flailing/weird Irish jig-spasm that occurred in turn was quite embarrassing.  Tried to play it cool.  Couldn't really recover gracefully so I just stood on the corner like a dummy and stared at the sky, avoiding eye contact with the millions of traffic-going passengers.  Durr.

And let me just take the time to note:  can't you dudes come up with any more creative material??  If you're attempting to lure a lady into your "lios" don't you imagine we might appreciate something more zesty and unique than a breathy "preciosa" and customary whistle?  UGH. Get. A. Life.

The next "piropo" that followed demanded a tad more exuberance on the part of the piropo-er seeing as he used the magic button on the car door (a straight up genius of the 20th century) to roll down the window and YELL "preciosa" to me as I was nonchalantly crosswalking towards the other side.  I furiously flipped him a black-gloved bird and mouthed an (american-ally) obvious "F¿UCK YOU" right in his face as he obliviously swerved the corner. 

Now, my mother would not be the least bit pleased to hear of my anti-attention tactics, and even yours truly am willing to admit that I am somewhat lowing myself to the deep, dark, depths of their "level," but can anyone else come up with a more creative, spur-of the-moment response?? 
//What would YOU do??  HUh, huh???

It's not fair that I'm just trouncing along to a Jay-Z beat, minding my own biznass, and have to deal with these creeps who errantly believe that they can just blurt out whatever nasty noun that occurs to their pea-size noggin'.  Not fair I tell you.  Feelings of complete uncomfort, insecurity (safety, not vanity, wise), and pure disgust are none of which I enjoy experiencing on a daily basis.. let alone at 7:45am. 

So please, get creative, or get a muzzle.
Or get The Goops.
Or a life.
//Four very viable options.

"¡Eres un weón, lavate la boca! Es SUCIA!"

Dreams... Weird Dreams....

Can someone please enlighten me as to what the FRAK this most recent freak-on-a-leash dream of mine means??

So----
I'm back working in the rad FoCo restaurant where I used to be a stellar lil server and I'm in a panic because I can't find my shirt.  I mean, I had a shirt ON but I really just needed my perfectly ironed, starched to oblivion, white-button down (with buttons on the collar and a pocket on the breast per strict protocol) men's shirt.  Run around like a crazy person in search of said itme.  Can't remember if it was actually found... not really important to the story.... BUT the most mental-patient part of the dream was when I found myself peering out of a tiny little Alice "Eat Me" in Wonderland (in clear reference to the size-shrinking cake she consumes, not a porno) window in said restaurant face to face with, again, a miniature version of a deer.  With GIANT red eyes like this:

But the thing was suuuuper tiny, mini pocket-sized and with the fur of a llama-- like this (but cleaner, fluffier, and yellower):

 So it essentially looked like this:

//What does that mean???? 
(And when should I check into the looney bin??)

Chile: 1, US: 0... Thoughts on Healthcare...

Although I tend to prefer my "vida santiagüina" to life in the US (tend, my friends, tennnd), I usually feel that there are many aspects of Chilean life that have kept one foot very strongly planted in the 80s.  Lavender tie-dyed skinny jeans (on men...) and shoulder supported boom boxes aside, there are several quirks of Chilean society that have a complete leg up on our American counterparts who have their foot firmly planted in bureaucracy.  And having read another recent blog post, I thought I'd elaborate on my personal experiences in the field of (drum-roll) Chilean health services. Sounds dry, but read ahead and I guarantee that you gringo readers out there will be stricken with a tad pang of jealousy....

Now, with respect to the US health system, I'm the first to admit that I lack a surprising amount of knowledge-- somewhat shameful seeing as my pops is a doctor with his own practice who's getting absolutely slaughtered by the insurance companies and the government (nice work Barak!), and is having to accept patients who can't pay him due to their inability to afford insurance or their already downtrodden economic state (unemployment, reduced wages, increasing costs... again, thanks O-bomb-a...). 

Leaving the political follies to the political follies, it's obvious that the US healthcare system is not working.  And while it sounds "nice," I'm not sure that universal healthcare is the right answer......

ANYWAY!!  -->

The system that these crazy lil Chileans have concocted actually seems to be working quite well.  Now-- I'm peering at this from the view of an "extranjera," of someone who's pops is a doc, and someone who does not like to pay a lot of money for things (necklaces, electronics, kidney transplants, etc).  And someone who essentially only visits the doctor if I'm feeling an imminent death.  Not for a cough, not for a tummy ache, none of that baby bullshit.  (Kind of a lie because the one time that I went running to a doctor here in Chile has been due to a 4 month long "tummy ache"-- otra cosa).  But I'm a fan of toughing it out.  And tough it out I do...

But on the occasion that my body gets the best of me, my teeth need a shinin', or I need to buy some pillz of a non-baby-making sort, I suck it up and make a trip. 

For example: my mama had been bugging me to go to the dentist (every 6 months... ugh!) so I finally gave in to her fancies and can you imagine my delighted surprise when my bill for: 1 cavity (oops), 1 cleaning, and 6 sealants cost me around $160??  Elated!!  Bring it on cavities cuz in the states its like $200 to fix just one of those bitches!!  Oh- and my complimentary work insurance is covering about $70 of it.  CA- CHING!!!

So- yes- I have one of the highest ranking private insurance plans for which I pay about $80 a month (which doesn't even get taken out of my salary, it is factored in in-place of the state run insurance (think Medicaid) so it's like I'm not even paying for it at all!), PLUS my job provides a complimentary, FREE, insurance that covers the left overs (usually 50%) of what my private insurance does not reimburse.  When I went to the doc for my prolonged and wildly unpleasant "tummy ache" it was FREE!!  Freeeee! 

Not to mention (unabashedly), that my BC pills stateside were costing me a tad more than $50 a month, 50 frakkin bucks-- and that was including a "discount" from my insurance.  But here, they cost me FIVE DOLLARS.  Not kidding.  I've seriously thought of just going to, like, every pharmacy in the Región Metropolitana and purchasing said pills to sell for a profit in the states (unnervingly unethical?? who knows, but a killer business plan, yes).  And did I need a prescription??  No!!  This is somewhat questionable but all I did was bring a box of my US pills to the Chilean pharmacy and say, "I need something that resembles this, porfis."  And they were like, "sí mi niña, en seguida.." and didn't bat an eyelash!!  Over the moon.  

It is exactly for these reasons that many elderly Americans are choosing to retire abroad rather than in the states.  If you have medical problems and require constant medication and treatments, and are drowning in the economic climate in which we find ourselves, it should be of no surprise that grams and gramps are heading south, east, or west to both be able to afford healthcare and maintain a decent quality of life. 

If you don't believe me, read this New York Times article which states: "Offshore medical care is usually significantly less expensive than in the United States, and the wait times are often shorter. A heart operation that might cost $130,000 in this country could cost $18,500 in Singapore or $10,000 in India."

So, amigos, some food for thought for this Wednesday the 14th of July.  Would love to hear your thoughts/personal experiences.....

Share!!  

Dear World...

At some point, I forgot I had a blog.  Oops.  I dismissed writing because I've been too busy relentlessly pestering all people who are in, surround, or even border my social circle with a topic that I have been uberly stressing about.  Yet another big change is in the air amigos... oh, and did I mention that I no longer live in the PPapt?  Yeah, I'm now on to my 5th apartment in a year and a half but that's beside the point and too embarrassing to further elaborate upon. 

In other news:

• My entire family is just arriving back to the "mainland" from Hawaii.  And in case you're geographically challenged, it's winter in the Southern Hemisphere.  And Chile is not Brazil, does not have rainforests, or boreder the Amazon.  It's freezing and makes you look fat and not because of the excess "winter weight" but because of the 13 layers of clothes you have to pile on to maintain even a low level of body heat.
• Spain won the world cup.  I was hoping Holland would pull through for the sheer fact that their fans were the most jovial I witnessed in Germany in 2006.  I you haven't born witness to my nerd-dom please refer to this post regarding said futból tournament.  Will miss Pulpo Paul.  Or Paul the Octopus... not really sure if he's achieved translation for the "I could careless about soccer" US.
• If you didn't hear me screaming it from the tops of my lungs from the tops of this giant building... me 'n LL are GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS!!!!  Yes I have my typical "death row" calendar started, yes I'm already planning the vacation, and yes I like almost shed a tear with excitement every time I think about it.  Stoked to the bones.  
• 4th of July was semi-uneventful.  Obviously this holiday cannot exist without fireworks.  But I did finagle my way into being invited to the (now former) US Ambassador's house/mansion/literally a fortress to rub noses with the Rich & Famou$ $antiaguino$.  I was, by far (and by far I mean, BY FAR) the youngest person there and felt wildly out of place but in the mean time enjoyed chowing on cheddar cheese (a delicacy in these parts) and other weird hors d'oeuvres that accompany such "fancy" events.  Felt proud of my country (rare) and the work they did after the earthquake.  OH- and met the Chilean First Lady, Cecilia Morel.  Freaked out per usual.  Forgive me, but when else am I gonna meet a first lady??  To round the fake holiday out, I was invited to broadcast live from the Embassy for the annual flag raising ceremony.  Easily the most exciting part of this event was eating PAPA JOHNS (who knew they deliver to Chile??? baha).  Mmm the taste of college on my lips.... 

That'll do it for today peeps, interesting material is on the way and to the 3 of you who read this, sorry for bein' a big lazy non-blogging bum.- 

A Year n' a Day

You know that feeling... That one where you go on a first date, you get all clammy and nervous, you don't know what exactly to talk about, the convo doesn't always flow, but at the end you go home a happy little person, hoping for another go.  Then comes the day after the first date.  Will he call?  Should I write a quick, whitty email?  Is the 3 day rule still true?  Is it awkward that I over-the-top made out with him in a booth in a restaurant???  Will he judge me?  All very tummy-knotting.

So today's that day, amigüitos. 

A year 'n a day with Mr. LL, and I couldn't be happier. 

There are so many things that I'd pondering adding to this post, but at the end of the day (the 366th, to be exact), I just for once wanna keep it to myself, cuz, man, that stuff is special. 

365 + 1

An Interesting Chilean Beauty Phenomenon...

Womens' beauty rituals can get pretty freaky wherever you might be on the planet.  From dipping your feet into a tank replete with skin nibbling fish to achieve soft, sexy piggys, to colorful caviar facials, to (odd, and confirmed, weird ritual winner) bull-semen hair conditioner-- there's not many a limit we wont cross to achieve what we (or others) assert to be beautiful.

I can't claim to be fully astute in terms of Chilean beautification tactics, but I will forever remember the first time I observed, with a twisted "wtf are you doing?!" face, a girl casually curling her eyelashes with.... a spoon.  Just like this:

 
And since I actually knew this chica, I know that she could spring for the oh-so-pricey $5 eyelash curler that didn't come from mom's cutlery drawer.  I mean, the whole thing was terrifying.  How could she not be simultaneously ripping out each and every cherished beautiful lash??  Hers are actually quite gorgeous which is the worst part.  It was painful to watch. 

But the thing is, is that that was the first of many spoon lash curling encounters.  I see almost all of my compañeras at work doing it and it seriously still gives me the heeby geebies.  They curl 'em on the bus, on the metro, wherever it might strike their fanning fancy.  Maybe they have it all right though now that I think about it.... seeing as a couple of months ago I was doing the same thing but with a normal-person-eyelash curler, flinched, and pulled out mmmm about 50 lashes.  Not pleasant.  Horrifying, actually.  But not enough to change my gringa beauty habits for those fit for a dinner table.

In fact, in doing the "research" for this post, I was semi-shocked to find an actual market for spoon-lash-crimpers.  Just ingenious.  This is not just any spoon ladies, but a unique, one-of-a-kind, youhavetohaveit youcantlivewithoutit, eyelash spoon curler.  Hilarious. I mean, you would buy a fancified spoon, but not an actual eyelash-curler??  Stumped.  Maybe the Chilean definition of said tool is, in fact, a spoon... There's something semantic to ponder...

//What are your "weird" beauty rituals?
//Does curling your lashes with a spoon freak u out too??
//Have you ever used bullgizz conditioner???

Ode to the World Cup

It was only short four years ago,
I packed up my bags and left for Oslo. 
For the summer with my brother,
I wouldn't wanna travel with any other.

Starting in Norway, onto Denmark,
bumbling around like a Griswold named Clark.
Leaving Copenhagen on a speedy lil train,
we arrived to Berlin with a toast of champagne*.

We hop outta the car in the Hauptbahnhof,
It's brand new glass structure, standing aloft.
Hailing a cab, en route to the hotel,
An interesting phenomenon onto us befell.

All over town there seemed to be a craze,
And it all arose from a simple two-word phrase.
It was the World Cup and we had no prior clue,
Americans don't go loco for soccer, like all others do.

Wherever we went fans flashed their colors brightly,
Showcasing their feverish spirit, downing German beers nightly.
They came from all corners of the globe,
(And always packed a jersey in their wardrobe).

It was a luck most people only dream of,
And, for us, a true charm fallen from above.
Cuz while many paid thousands just to be there,
We merely stumbled upon it (minus the price of the fare).

Amid all the commotion and intense rivalries,
We stood watching the big screen with a pair of kiwis.
Of course we too got swept up in the Mundial fever,
And felt bad for the losers (there were many a griever). 

Its really too bad Americans don't care,
Cuz its not like the Superbowl can even compare.
It's the World Cup and the whole globe is on fire,
Everyone wanting the same thing, the cup to acquire.

So here we go, now in 2010,
Like I said, only four short years it has been.........



*completely false
** levels of boredom have reached new highs
***vamos Chile!!!

In Defense of Indie (films)

I, friends, am an indie advocate in nearly all aspects-- especially music and movies (are there many other indie realms??).  Anywho, the whole "independent" genre is becoming increasingly difficult to truly deem "indie" as the forces of technology, communication, viral-ness, and speed of information surround and many times overtake, and submerge the independence of the artist.  And you never know who is actually backing your favorite "unknown" band or, no sé, production agency because record labels and film company's have become so interconnected and enredado that many receive cash flows from the same sources.  It's called conglomeracy amigos (may be a made up word, but you get the point).  And that's how the world is spinning these days.

But the whole point of this post to to tout the grandeur of the often un-noted, low budgeted, simple yet magically wondrous indie film.  Regressing in time, I think the first "indie" movie that sparked my fuego was Focus Features' Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, written and directed by Michael Gondry and Charlie Kaufman.  It was mesmerizing.  Four years after its release, the post-college doldrums rolled around and I found myself painfully addicted to Netflix and the endless world of films they have stocked in their inventory (they are #1 on my list of things most achingly longed for from the states for a reason, ppl).  I sat around for months pondering (fruitlessly, obviously) what the F to do with myself and, in the mean time, whisking myself away to France, Spain, India, etc via the endless supply of flicks provided by said company.  Bliss.

Since coming to Chile, I haven't been able to keep my indie boat as afloat because of 1) Netflixie doesn't exist, 2) seeing an "indie" flick requires going to the movies and lets all keep my PollyPockets in mind here, 3) buying crappy quality pirated movies on the street isn't my "thing."  BUT- there are a couple of decent Cinearte movie theaters here in Santiago, and a surprising amount of film festivals, usually taking place via the Universities.  If you find your self in a non-blockbusting bind, here are links to the theaters:

El Biografo -- very cool old theater, in a very cool old neighborhood
CineArte Normandie -- very old old theater, in a very old neighborhood
CineArte Alameda -- sometimes turns into a dance club
Cinearte Tobalaba -- never been

This post is going in a random direction...  What I really wanted to plug, al final, is the movie The Italian or Итальянец (cuz the film is, surprise!, in Russian).  The other weekend, LL and I went to see it and I, for one, had absolutely zero expectations.  I errantly assumed it would be some sort of It's a Wonderful Life type of movie, set in the Italian countryside....  Psych!  It is set in a desolate, frozen, harsh Russian village, in a boy's orphanage with a crazy, leopard-bra-wearing owner, and a grumbly semi-kind-souled headmaster.  Basically there is a little boy, Vanya, who is slated to get adopted by an Italian (thus the title) couple who is going to take him away to warmth and comfort and orange-eating-euphoria.  His amigos are über jealous, but poor little Vanya only wants to find his birth-mother after having a drunken encounter with a mom who gave her (already adopted) son up for adoption and returned to the orphanage in hope to repent her mistake.  Too late.  It's sad, yet touching and the thing is, is that you can tell that the budget for the film was probably less than (a high guess) $2 million US dollars.  But it was far better, far more thought-evoking. had more heart than (most) all of the multi-million blockbusters put together.  It was simple.  The filming was simple- there were no special effects, not really any magnificent lighting-- just as it would be as if you were really seeing it (cold, drab, painful Russian landscape) and it was perfect.  I wont ruin the ending, but I will say that it was one of the best that I've seen in quite some time.  Totally recommendable (but in a warmer theater, with a non-tilted screen).

Other favorite gems include: 

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (French)

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not (French)

Amores Perros (Mexican)

Persepolis (French)

The Motorcycle Diaries (Mexican? who cares if it has Gael Garcia Bernal...)

La Vie en Rose (French)

Lars and the Real Girl (USA)

Love Me if You Dare (French)

Y Tú Mama También (Mexican)

L'Auberge Espagnole (French)

Etc, etc, etc, etc,---------

And if you're in the Fort Collins, CO area.... dont miss Lyric Cinema Cafe- it's the best ever ever ever.

"The Barrio"

I've been meaning to write a funny, satirical piece on the ridiculousness of my apartment's current energetic situation, been pondering it for the last week, but, today, life in "the barrio" got a tad more complicated.  Wires run-amok, crumbling walls, and astronomic bills seemed to fade into the limelight when, this morning, I stumbled across some tweets detailing a night in "the barrio" where I live. 

It all started when I sleepily dragged myself out of my building this morning, 8AMish, to saunter to the bus stop across the river.  Nothing interesting (just the normal rush of sprinting Peruvians destined towards their consulate) until I turned the corner and found a couple of reporters, news vans and the like recording a live broadcast.  Hmm, ok??  Something fishy must have gone down.  It's odd because, during the day, my neighborhood is totally cool, calm, and full of business people walking crowded-ly, absentmindedly (the Chilean norm) down the tree- and store-lined street.  Very big-city feel.  Of course you can stumble across your random drunk-on-a-bench or bum sleeping in a corner, nothing too scathing for daytime.  BUT- at night, the whole situation changes because turning said corner there is a street packed only with bars and "clubs,", some of which are operating, some of which are abandoned (due to the generally shady history of "the barrio"), but all of which attract a less-than-cuico crowd, and lots of putas dressed in not much more than lingerie.  I keep my distance from such locales but am all too close every Thursday through Saturday night when the bass of the Reggaeton permeates my pathetically insulated walls, forcing me to don earplugs and nearly suffocate myself with pillow-fashioned sound barriers.  Beside the point.  Lets just make it clear that, at night, it's not safe. 

Which I was aware of.  But, during my 6 months of living in my PollyPocket palace, I hadn't heard of anything atrocious besides the occasional pub-brawl-- until today.  It seemed that the sordid past had, well, passed.

Notsomuch.

Regressing to said tweets- I open my computer and head directly to the 140lettered site to see if anything had popped up.  Nothing, nothing, nothing... Then around 9:30-10ish El Mercurio and Publimetro release the following Tweets (respectively):

Atropello en barrio Suecia dejó un muerto y tres heridos: El vehículo impactó a los jóvenes a gran velocidad y lue... Hit and Run in Barrio Suecia leaves one dead and three wonded: The vehicle hit the young men at at high velocity...

Una persona muerta y tres heridas deja atropello en barrio Suecia... One person dead and three wounded after a hit and run in barrio Suecia...

It turns out that three young guys were crossing the street and another guy driving a car drove at them at a flying speed, purposly hitting them and sending them flying up to 10 meters across the street.  He drove away at the same racing pace and the Police have yet to catch him or release any further information on the case or his identity.  On my corner.  Across the street.  In my "barrio." 

Besides facts and stipulations, there is not much else that can be said.  I could lament, vent about the threat to my personal safety living in this "barrio."  Complain about the lack of humanity that floats in the smoggy Chilean air.  I could go on a tirade and name every little piece of shit that bothers me about my living situation at the moment.  But considering the fact that a family just lost a son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, I'll let it all go.  Again, there is not much else that can be said. 

Today it will be a 3 minute blub on the news. 
And tomorrow?
Just another Saturday in el capital.  

Mondays Are (not) Cool.

Mondays in general are always kind of a slap in the face wherever you live, whatever you do-- it's universal my friends, but Mondays after a three day weekend are much, much less pleasant. And, I mean, it's not like this Monday was particularly horrendous but I would have appreciated if the following things had not occurred:

1.  Light my one nice, white button-down shirt on fire.  At 7:30am.  I know it sounds like a feat of obvious proportions, but sometimes you just forget that you hung your shirt on the light to air-out the nasty smoky-sweaty bar odor.  And sometimes its just too early in the morning and it doesn't exactly occur to you that you turned your lights on and said article of clothing is dangling precariously from said fixture on the wall, and you go take a shower.  And then your shirt is on fire.  No need to worry, all is miraculously well in the PP apt.  Phew.

2.  10:30am.  Bathroom break.  Flush the toilet.  See, in slow motion, cute red earring fall ever so slowly and daintily from right ear, right into the circular flow of the flush.  Wave a sad goodbye as it disappears into water-closet oblivion.  Wish I had twitter mobile so I could have tweeted something silly.  *Sigh*

3.  Have weekly career/identity/life crisis.  What am I doing?  Where am I going?  Am I a tad bit of a waste of a human being?  How am I gonna pay to even have a life with these Polly pockets?? Who AM i (Zoolander style)??  oMG watch that clip, it's hilarious btw.

4.  Change of guards at the gym I go to, but am not actually paying for.  Makes for an uncomfortable interaction.  The thing is, is that the radio I do my show for (sounds quite posh, I know), has a "convenio" with the gym because it's right across the street (and on my block, CA-CHING!!).  Lucky for me, since I wouldn't actually be able to afford gym going, I used to just pass on by sin problema.  But today I make a reappearance after a considerable "sick break" and am met by a blue-contact(you're not fooling anyone honey)-wearing chica.  Attempt to explain this "convenio" which she obviously thinks I'm totally lying.  Awkward.  She gives me the stink eye and lets me pass and tells me that I have to clear it up with "Raul" later... whoever that is.... 

Anyway, that's about it.  Let me make it perfectly clear that I know my life is HELLA easy compared to like pretty much all the world, but it's my blog and I'll vent if I want to...

The Earring Eater.

Run for your life. 

Notes on San Pedro (de Atacama)

This last weekend, LL and I afforded ourselves the lovely pleasure of taking a mini-vacay to the desert oasis, San Pedro de Atacama.  Noted for being one of the most tourist-y places in Chile, it is an outdoorsman's heaven with a variance in landscapes that will literally make you dizzy (at an altitude of 8000ft/2500mt) and is sure to please while quietly emptying your pockets.  Now, I'm no travel writer because I think that in the grand scheme of things, people will want to form their own opinions about a place they visit for the first time.  I prefer that people reading this are left with more of a general impression rather than a detailed log of every sandy step that was taken, every beauty that was seen.  So I will spare you the specific details of our trip (anyway, those are my memories y'all!!) and share some insights for future travelers.

I present, my amigos, Brenz Top 10z-- Versión: San Pedro de Atacama:

1.  Bring every kind of clothing possible.  Pack for all seasons.   We experienced a booger freezing-cold and tank-top warmth in a period of less than 24 hours.  And don't forget your bathing suit just in case you decide to take a dip in the sweet water/salt lagoons or hot-springs (first time I've seen a naked Chinese grandpa, score!!).

2.  Don't go on a self-guided bicycle tour if it's an excessively windy day.  It just might turn out that you get stranded in the desert, in a sand/wind storm for hours upon end with no one to save you (except for a French couple, thank God).

3.  Speaking of being stranded in the desert-- bring a charged cell phone if you go off alone.  If LL hadn't been prepared with his, we probs would have shriveled up and died in the desert, alone and freezing.  Maybe not so extreme, but we most likely would have missed our flight and that would have really killed the good, happy vacay vibes...

4.  Stay in a hostel that isn't in the middle of nowhere, that doesn't have rocks holding the roof onto the walls, and that is known by at least 50% of the people you pass en route to checking-in.  If not, you could end up staying here.  And this website makes it look nice-- this place was a shithole-with-beds to be frank, and clearly situated in the chicken district of town because we were so lovely awakened by cockle-doodle-dooing at 5AM.  Obv we only stayed one night and peaced to this charming little hostal, which is totally recommendable and is owned by a darling little mamá named Iris.  And was the same price as the other.  No brainer.

5.  Hang with Ron, one of the best tour-guides I've ever toured with (he did all three of our excursions), and book your outings with Cactus Tours.  They are legit and Ron is rad. 

6.  Don't fall for crappy souvenirs that you can buy in Santiago/all of Chile whose prices are wildly inflated.  If it looks unique, it probably is and if a cranky store person says you have "mal costumbres" for looking at post cards, don't buy anything from his store (ugh, ass).  

7.  Water.  Tissues.  Chapstick.  Long-johns.  Scarf.  Sunglasses.  Snacks.  Mini-backpack/fanny-pack (don't laugh, that was clutch).

8.  Check out: Casa de Piedra (tasty onion soup, delish veggie empanada, totally nice waitress) or Cafe Adobe and avoid any place that is empty.  Make that rule #1 or else you will end up eating a vomit flavoured pastel de choclo.  Barf. 

9.  Even if it's really cold, really, really really, cold, take a dip in the laguna cejas where you float.  Cuz when else will you get the chance?  Are you going to the dead sea anytime soon?  Didn't think so......

10.  The last and most important--- go with someone who will take care of you if you get sick, take lots of silly pics with you, and let you sleep on their shoulder on the ride back into town from the 4am tour.  

Happy Trails!!! 

♫ There are a Few of my Favorite Things...♫

Renouncing American Citizenship..

Recently, the NYT published an article regarding the notable increase in American (American, as in United States) citizens renouncing their citizenship-- which, while there is surprisingly little paperwork involved (take note Chile), is not something to be taken lightheartedly.  This especially struck a chord with me as yesterday, I was running around the whole stupid city of Santiago working on finalizing my visa that has taken a speedy EIGHT months to be ready.  Having to go to the Extranjería (hell on earth), Policia International-- where I met quite a charming young lady who is planning a party in the hotel-motel-holiday-innnn where I work, and then finally a million and one blocks away to the Registro Civil to get my pic taken for my ID card (don't worry, my eyes kept showing up red so I had to stare directly into a lamp for about 10 minutes straight).  A pain-in-the-ass process where they neglect to inform you that things cost $$$ until you have waited in line for 45 minutes (did I have cash?? no.), and where stinky people breathe all over you, and they have to ink your whole hands to take all your fingerprints.  Dirt-ay.  Nast-ay.  But that is life if you (or urs truly) wants to get yo Chile on and be a real human being.  Which means I'm gonna have to memorize a new RUT.  fml.

Back to the article... The real thing is, is that as much as I seriously think the US is straight up drowning in a pile of its own filthy mire, it would have to take a SERIOUS falling out for me to actually renounce bein' an Amerrricun.  The majority of people who participated in the inquest of the article stated double taxation as their main caveat.  As the piece elaborates: "the United States is the only industrialized country to tax citizens on income earned abroad, even when they are taxed in their country of residence."  So if some day (fingers semi-crossed), I make more than poverty I will have to not only pay American Taxes (me: pay, dad: paperwork, that crap is confusing), but also Chilean//other nation's taxes.  And that can really just go flush itself down the toilet.  And I'm sorry but what the Frak am I even paying taxes for????  I don't drive on pot-hole ridden roads, I (sure as hell) don't have kids in the failing public school system, I don't utilize public works, check out library books, or own property.  I pay taxes to have a Passport that says American Citizen.  I pay taxes to.... Well, I cant even think of anything else so that's really the whole point.  This my friends, is a prime example of TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION.  Can I vote?  Yes.  But will I see any further benefits from electing an official after mailing in the ballot.  No.  Unless I come back.  Which is questionable. 

But taxes are not the only issue at hand.  For expatriates, according to this article, maintaining an American bank account is becoming more and more arduous and complicated in lieu of the Patriot Act which essentially aims to eliminate tax evasion and, especially, money laundering to terrorist groups.  Yeah, I'll be sure to alert my bank that I'm not a secret member of Al_Kakaka.  To hold onto an American bank account, you must prove that you still have a US address.  Ok.  So does the government think that all 'Mericans living abroad are loaded with cash to be able to own properties in two (or more) distinct nations??  Stupid.  Just stupid.  And as far as numbers are concerned: "502 expatriates gave up their U.S. citizenship or permanent residency status in the last quarter of 2009...more than twice the total for all of 2008...there were 235 renunciations in 2008 and 743 last year (2009)."  I mean, in the grand total of the sheer massive quantity of American citizens, the numbers aren't staggering.  Yet, I feel those winds changing...

Honestly, with the horrific passing of Arizona's new immigration bill, I could see more and more Americans becoming so ashamed of their country that they quit all together (or at least move OUT of Arizona).  I cannot fathom that this bill actually passed when there is so much (empty) preaching about tolerance, equality, and "diversity."  This bill is a racial profiling piece of shit.  Usually, I don't even bother to open links to political news and sites because I find American politics exhausting, inflated, and vomitacious, but after such hype, I felt obligated to self-inform.  I was shocked.

I know this is a tangent from the original topic of Renouncing American Citizenship, but this bill would sure as hell bring me closer to throwing in the towel if I were actually on the brink of removing my American status.  If I weren't enamorada with my LL, weren't committed to our relationship, it wouldn't have bothered me so much.  But I can only imagine in the future going to the states and having him and/or our children interrogated like second class human beings.  I would RAGE.  Probs go to stinky old jail for getting so feisty.  And it's not like he looks thaaaaat Latino (see this post), but still- just the idea of of that happening makes me never want to go back.  Those fools who passed that bill can go straight to hell.

Anyway- this post was kind of all over the place, but it definitely made me think under which circumstances I would want to quit being a citizen of the USA.  I'm feeling like a citizen less and less anyway, so we'll see how that goes in the future...

Thoughts??

Just Call Me Martha.

If you know me, you know that I. Do. Not. cook.  I can make a helluva sauce if the situation arises, but on a daily basis the closest I get to making a "meal" is cooking eggs in a microwave or putting something on a piece of bread.  I have no oven.  And I have no patience.  And, as of yesterday, I have no light in my kitchen.  And I have little motivation to fix it.   So add that shit up and your sum is one worthless Bren_in_a_kitchen (batteries not included, ha).

BUT yesterday I kicked my own cooking ASS and made BY FAR the most amazing soup ever.  I mean, not ever as in the history of the world (dumB), but ever as in in my lifetime that has been made ONLY by me, with no help and no packaged ingredients.  And IN THE DARK.  Pat my own back bitches. 

In case you're interested (especially those of us in Chilito going into winter and freezing our little potitos off (yes I kind of hate all you N. Hemi peeps)), here's whatchu do...  And in the style of one of my fave food Blogs, this recipe is truly half assed-- and there is no need to measure, that's too much work and makes too many dishes to wash.... 

1.  Put some water in a pot on the (turned-on) stove.
2.  Add some mini-bowtie pasta  (or whatever)
3:  Peel (?) a potato, cut it up into edible bites.  Put in pot.
4.  Peel (?) 3 middle-finger-sized carrots, cut, again, into edible bites.  Put in pot. 
5.  Toss in 2 cubes of veggie flavoring.
6.  Toss in some rice.
7.  Cut 3 legs of green onion into little pieces and throw that shit in too.
8.  Add merquén (chile only, sorry) and a few pinches of Rosemary (best spice ever).
9.  Keep mixing and keep adding water cuz all the ingredients are very absorbent.  

Cook until you feel like it's ready.  Serve in a bowl, with a spoon, and it'd be delish to add some fancy kind of bread you buy at a fancy kind of shop, like the pan de cerveza that I bought <--- there. 

Enjoy and dont forget to thank me later.  Cuz I guarantee this will be the only post of this nature ever written on these virtual pages.  :)

Attempt at Being a Music Critic: the "Midnight Juggernauts" at the Caupolicán

I love music. I love music so much I once stood outside for 6 hours during a blizzard to get a prime show position.  I love music so much I'm a DJ by night (Tuesdays to be exact) who spinz tunz even during an earthquake when I thought the studio was gonna crumble me into a human pancake.  My ipod is like a baby (a marsupial baby cuz it's always in my pocket-- kangaRoo style bitches) but better cuz it doesn't poop or cry.  Despite this pasión (hmm there we have a contender for yesterday's post) I have never written a music critique-- never on a disc, on a song, on a band, nothing of the sort.  I've written about concert experiences such as BeyoncÉ and Manu Chao, but not in a critical manner.  The idea of writing about music hasn't really crossed my brain's frontier as I usually prefer to just listen n' jam and humbly assume that no one gives a h00t about my opinion.  And to be honest, I reciprocate the feeling towards other music critics.  Too subjective.  But there's a first for everything and, who knows, I may enjoy it...

So I'm gonna take the liberty to "critique" a "band" from the concert I attended last night with LL.  And I'm actually kinda stoked cuz I definitely have an opinion.....

This particular group was somehow chosen to open for two electronic acts, the first called The Twelves, and the second, a quite rad duo called 2manyDJs.  The previously mentioned pairs spun mad beats, peeps.  If the concert hadn't have started an hour late, if I hadn't have been starving with an achy-breaky back/feet, and if it weren't 3:00 in the morning on a work night (pathetic), I would have danced ma lil heart out.  2manyDJs totally rocked that casbah (or Teatro Caupolicán, if you will).  And I'm not embarrassed to say it was essentially my first electronic show-- nevertheless, (and with LL as a BF) it prob wont be the last.  Digression...

The Aussie "band," called the Midnight Juggernauts, who opened for these two groups, had "nada que ver" with electronic music.   Nothing whatsoever.  Maybe a few attempted mixes, attempted slides and laser-y sounds.  They ever-so-eloquently describe their "sound" as: anything from 'prog dance meets cosmic film scores, to slasher-flick disco to deadpan landscape.  I would peg them undoubtedly as "deadpan landscape" with no originality or personality to elevate them from the monotonous and unsexily breathy lead vocals.  Now, it could be attributed to the acoustics of the theater-- doubtful seeing as the following two acts sounded superb.  It was literally one bad one-toned song after another.  OH- and lest I forget their GAPING all-too-obvious David Bowie obsession and :( attempt at re-creation.  Arsher- you would have died.  I was laughing the entire two opening songs just thinking of you and the horror that would undoubtedly flush crimson across your face upon first musical utterance.  The first song was clearly intended to portray some kind of  illusionary musical talent with the Bowie-esque vocals.  But the SECOND song was LITERALLY a cut and unholy copy of "China Girl."  Minus the twangy Asian-inspired 80's grove and the "oh oh oh ohhhoo" it was THE SAME.  I couldn't make out if he was actually saying "oh little China Girl" because of his inability to enunciate and remove himself from the only octave to which his voice pertains, but it was damn close- that's for sure.

As if the uninhibited impersonation of a rock icon weren't enough, they had the audacity to ape the band we all know and love from 7th grade dances: Savage Garden.  If you think I'm joking, think to your self:  how on earth could I make up this comparison?  Who even remembers Savage Garden?¿?  But the rhythm behind the indecipherable vocals was so similar to the "chick-a-cherry cola" song (don't even pretend like you don't remember it) that a natural flood of memories rushed through my conscious and thus landed on this other Aussie duo's track from their self-titled and "unforgettable" debut disc.

Apparently they saved their most "famous" song, "Vital Signs(?)," for last which was obvious because it was the most poppy, or shall I say less "deadpan landscape," than the other songs they put us though.  As if they were hoping to leave a lasting rockable impression on what I'm sure were many impressionable hipster_wannabes.  But, friends, if there is one thing that is semi-universally well known is that the first impression is always the most important (right mom/HR?!).  And you can't just play a shitty set and expect people to coerce to your craptastic crooning by plopping a peppy tune as your exit nears.  It just doesn't work that way.  At least not for me.  Call me judgemental.  But that's what "music critics" are here to do, right?  Just testing the waters......

I'm usually not this negative, really.  And if I had even the slightest background knowledge or were well-versed in comparative abilities among the electronic genre, I would give 2manyDJs a stellar review.  They deserved it.  Their set was artistic and interesting, and mixes entertaining but approachable-- yet not too conventional.  7.8/10. Plus they projected a giant face of Nic Cage for like 5 minutes... and played a rockin Zombie Nation which is a surefire way to win a ZAG-ette's heart.

There you go.
How did I do?

Passions/Dreams

After a few particularly "slow" days in the office, I am coming yet again to the conclusion that I have little patience for sitting around in an office waiting for something inspiring to come my way.  I left work yesterday and walked and walked and walked thinking about what I really love, what would be my ideal, truly ideal job/career.  Happiness (for me) is not being chained to a desk staring at a computer, asking for permission to go outside, feeling guilty if I take a 45 minute lunch, being uninspired thus forcing a dulling of the brain..  Just doesn't do it for me.

My exact problem is, is that I dont know where my passions actually lie.  The only thing I could imagine is when I reminisced back to my High School years where I spent hours upon hours, early morning after late night, in the art studio, in the dark room- creating, blossoming, not noticing that a day had come and gone.  That may have been the only time where I have felt a true passion for what I had been doing.  I wanted to go to art school.  Obviously that didn't happen (where on earth would I be it if had??), but I truly believe that everything happens for a reason, every event and decision leads you to your destiny.  In idea, an interview, etc.....

So where is this Chilean path leading me now?   I've stopped attempting to guess my fortunes and plan my future to the most minute detail, so that's not really the point.  The point is: where do I go from here?  Where will this path take me?  Really, the only place I want to be guided is to something that will ignite my fire like those days in the studio.  Having no direction makes it a tad more complicated, a bit more difficult.  But at this point, I'm totally interested in exploring all of my options.  All of my passions.

And as lame and surface-level it may sounds, I took a lil' test yesterday on some generic job website that actually rang pretty true with my personality and tastes.  The following response was spat out:
  

Life as an INTJ  

(Intravert, Intuitive, Thinker, Judger)

People of this type tend to be autonomous, aloof and intellectual; imaginative, innovative, and unique; critical, analytical and logical; intellectually curious, driven to learn and increase their competence and knowledge; socially cautious and reserved; organized and definitive.

The most important thing to INTJs is their independence and being able to live according to their own standards. 

Great careers for INTJs

Here are just a few popular and often satisfying careers for people whose Personality Type is INTJ:

• Intellectual property attorney
• News analyst
• Design engineer
• Biomedical researcher
• Network integration specialist
• Software developer
• Psychiatrist
• Cardiologist
• Freelance writer
• Media planner
• Chief Financial Officer
• Webmaster
• Architect
• Desktop publishing specialist

 Hmm.  At some point pre-college, I toyed with the idea of being an intellectual property lawyer.  But my intuition tells me that going to law school would more than likely explode in my face (and wallet).  Among the others that I've previously considered are: news analyst (anything analyst, dig it), Freelance writer (mmm ideal, I would love it, but how the grand-old-F would I get started in the field), Media Planner (for sho would like this), and when I was 13-15 I was sure I was going to be an architect-- I cant even tell you the number of badass dream houses I designed on Lou-fam roadtrips... 

So we have some potential.  Grad school is definitely an option.  Have thought about doing a degree in Consumer Psychology but it is quite an elusive program to track down.  I don't know.  I just wish there was someone/thing that would TELL me what it is I would be best at, what it is I would be most content doing... 

Anyone.... Anyone...????

 Or I could just chalk it all up, go to med-school and be a Cardiologist.  Plan B. 

I Murered the Most Resilient Bug Ever.

Though the title is somewhat self explanatory, I feel that my lack of presence in the blog-o-world warrants a vivid, first-hand telling of how I killed this creature that might have been God in disguise.  Because, people. the thing literally would not die.  Having smashed, whacked, poked (forcefully..) and dispensed of "it," those little legs did not cease to wander, its tentacles never terminated until the (??) end.  I am hence
worried about my karmic forthcomings....

So- I wake up in my usual groggy (I sleepy a solid 8 hours almost every night and still am unable to drag my pj'd ass outta bed at 6:52am... pathetic), unamused state and head to the baño to take a shower.  Upon opening the door, I am faced with a ginormous black beetle-y-cricket-sort-of-thing and mutter an annoyed "goddamnittt."  Carouse over to the kitchen and arm myself with my lime-green broom and matching dustpan (whud up now Martha).  Not. In. The. Mood. To be playing early morning ghost busters.  But I assume the appalling challenge and take some pathetic, sleepy swings and smashes at the thing as it conveniently cowers for its life behind the toilet.  Just to the degree to which the broom cannot reach.  Great.  "So, you're a clever SOB, huh?"

I semi-force it out of hiding as it scurries towards the trashcan.  This is not pretty.  And now I'm pissed off.  Okay so my attempted murder gets a tad more vengeful and I finally whack that f-er into what I thought would be its last breath.  Dispose of the remains in the bathroom trashcan, thinking, I'm over this shit, will deal with it when I get home.  Stupid idea.  Shower and forget about homicide exhibit A. 

Come home from work TEN HOURS LATER.  Go about my business and whatnot and it comes to my attention that there is yet another beetle of the same shape and color just chillin' on the wall near the dresser.  Really?  An infestation??  Disgruntled family member seeking revenge?  No and No (t yet).  I glimpse a little butterfly (hair??) clip that I managed to throw into the trash (like I would wear that eew) with said creature in the AM, RIGHT NEXT to the beetle on the wall!!!  That resilient son of a bitch crawled it's self OUT of the trashcan, clear across the room (not really that far, we are still talking in PollyP terms, peeps), and onto the wall WITH A BUTTERFLY CLIP ATTACHED TO ITSELF.  A real feat of nature.  Really.  And can you imagine what that must have looked like??  A mangled beetle sporting a nice lil pre-death accessory.  Morbid, I know.  (Have I mentioned that I'm like really cool, lately???). 

I almost didn't wanna finish it off.  Like, I was so impressed.  Really.  While smashing it into the corner saying, "Sorry but Die you SOB!  Sorry!" I felt soooo good about myself... not.  I really though I'd killed it by then.  It had shriveled up to like 1/8 of it's original monstrous size and I took a breath of relief.  Return cute broom to kitchen only to find the miracle-bug scampering away towards the sofa. ARE YOU SERIOUS!?!  Snatch broom and dustpan, jab at it a few more times and then scoop that sucker into the dust pan and THROW THAT SHIT OUT THE WINDOW.  NO MORE SNEEK ATTACKS YOU BUG OF GOD. 

So now, I'm almost 100% sure that it's gonna come back to get me and when it does, it will not be pretty...

This is my life.  I. Am. So. Cool.

Stupid.

Dearest dudes--

We, ladies, can't help but think you're a tad slighted in the mental department when you respond to us in the following manner:

Brenz: Hey, I'll be right back, I just gotta run to the pharmacy and buy some allergy medicine-- my eyes are driving me crazy and my nose wont stop running.

Dude in my Office: Are you pregnant???

Stupidity at its finest/most ignorant.  Come on guys..... Come. ON.

On another note, I have been an entirely worthless blogger lately because my oh-so-sweetly siphoned internet connection has been sabotaged by a changed password.  Damn.  But I have a hilarious post in mind so bear wif meh.  And keep stup comments to a minimum.  :)

The Case Against 13C

Submerged below healthcare headlines, a tattooed slu who broke Sandy's heart, and stories of priuses run amok, is the quiet, rumbling, and socially awkward debate/"underground movement" having to do with obese peeps.  Not talking Biggest Loser or the lady, who is, in fact the biggest loser of them all, who's trying to acheive great and Guiness-record-breaking fatness (emitome of appalling) -no- we're talking, my friends, about those jet-setting obesies, those flyin' fat peeps who try, to the end of their wit, to squeeeeeeeeze all of their gut n' glory into a 2x2 square of 90-degreed uncomfort.  The debate of "do they have to buy two seats?" 

As of last week, I offcially assume myself to the campaign, and say an emphatic HELL YES.

The thing is, amigos, is that before this last week, I was apathetic towards this issue.  Yeah, I'd been dealt the occasional unfortuante seat lottery, but this last time takes the cake (and devours it as well).  And when flying internationally, and, say, on a 10 hour overnight flight, you cross your little fingers with all your might, praying, hoping you don't get dealt a bad card in the roulette of plane seating.  Feverishly purchasing the ticket a week before the voyage probably didn't improve my odds, but still, I walked down the tarmac optimistic.  Get on the plane, head to row 13.  Damn.  Already hit with poor odds when I see my row is the last in that particular cabin.  Know what happens in that case?  There is an inter-cabin divider.  Which means... no reclining.  SEVERE.  Clearly my hand couldn't get worse.  I fold.  Already bored, I kneel on my 2x2 seat, facing said wall, and make a semi-irritated call to LL.  "Me toco un asiento que no reclina weon!!"  He was not amused. 

We chat for a while, le digo que lo voy a echar de menos (obvio), and I semi-relax.  Until I hang up the phone and see, to my left, a massive blob-of-a-human who'd somehow wiggled his way into the seat beside mine.  Are you kidding me?  I mean, are you KIDDING ME.  Not to be rude, but 13C was prob one of the most giant, obese humans I have ever laid eyes on.  Really. And he was wearing a MUSCLE SHIRT and SHORTS.  And was already sweating.  ARE.  YOU.  KIDDING.  ME.  This is the equivalent of gambling your life savings, losing, your wife divorcing you, getting evicted, and becoming homeless (in the gambling world of plane seating).  My semi-relaxed state exploded into an internal rage that had to be kept 100% discreet because, really, wtf am I gonna do???  "Stewardess, ahem, ahem, stewardess.  Please reseat me as I would like to not be siamesed to this sweaty mass-of-a-man for 10 hours.  THX!"  Notsomuch.  Really, you cant do anything and plus the flight was booked, so just fml big time. 

So I resigned to sulking in my now 1x2 half-sized seat and pouting.  It really, lightbulb!, brought to my attention the acutal need to mediate this sort of "issue."  Yeah it's hella uncomfortable, and people are gonna get uber pissed and offended, but, honestly, in my opinion, it's only fair for them to pay for two seats if they are actually, ahem, taking up two seats.  Which 13C was.  He was now 13CE.  Unfair!!!  This giant, and not giant because he was muscly and naturally big, obese dude was touching the whole left side of my body for 10 hours straight.  NOT SEXY!!  And let me remind you of the MUSCLE SHIRT.  Then a few hours into the flight, he had the lovely idea of further reducing my halved space and lifting up the arm-rest.  Spilling out ON TO me, I had to curl up awkwardly next to guywithheadphones to avoid his full consumption of my being.  Barf.

So whine if you will people, but for the comfort of the whole (what? the US is becoming more and more socialist as we speak) it's only fair that people weighing above a certain number be obligated to buy two seats.  Maybe it will motivate you to get in shape.  Save a few bucks.  Now, I realize that this sounds wildly ass-ish, but maybe you'll share my opinion the next time your roulette deals you the same hand.  And obviously I know there are "special circumstances" blahblahblah, but come on people.  Being healthy is a good thing.  And maybe having to fork up (hehe) mo' cash for mo' space will cause some people to realize their unhealthy habits and make a change for the better.  For the good of the people, people.

COMM 401: Cross Cultural Communication

It really is highly entertaining living in another culture, sharing various idiosyncrasies that you've never stumbled upon, being kept on your toes in attempts to maneuver across, in-between, among the lines of cross-cultural snafus/awkwardness/unexpectedness.  Never ceases to surprise.  This is obvious people, I mean, what are we, in Sophomore year of college in Dr. Caputo's International and Intercultural COMM 401 class??  Come on.  But despite having taken this incredibly worthless and 100% self-teachable class, I still find myself surprised by cultural differences that just really aren't that noticeable but call my attention. 

EXAMPLE (duh)


I'm skipping out on Santiago starting Friday and about 96% of the people I tell respond with the following, shocked, inquiry:

AWW ESTÁS DEJANDO TU POLOLO SOLO?????  VA ESTAR BOTADO SOLITO POBRECITO POR UNA SEMANA????
(Awwww you're leaving your boyfriend alone???? He is gonna be ALL alone for ONE week????  How could you (gasp)?!?! )

The amount of surprise with which is question is appallingly asked is, to be honest, off-putting.  Yes- I loooove my BF, yes- I'll miss him and his adorable little face, yes- I'm coming back... BUT I THINK HE'LL SURVIVE. Really.  I think he'll live to tell the story at the end of the 7 days I so coldly and heartlessly left him alone.  Like really?  Is this level of drama necessary?  Are we the only freaks in this country who have our own lives but are able to share them with one another?  Hmm.  I don't know.  It's weird. 

Just caught my attention.  Definitely not a big deal.  I'm just so bored that mundane things excite me in to blogging.  My apologies.  Gonna go back to perfecting the art of sleeping with my eyes open...........

Life Goal: Take 1

When my rents came and visited moi here in Chilito, I had a long soggy (in the hot tub) convo with my mom about my life and all the things that plague my mind and thus turn me into an unstoppable thinking machine on the fastest path to self-destruction. 

She was sooo chill about it.  Cuz she was in Chile?  I don't know, but I just remember her telling me to "chillax" and to "stop and smell the roses."  Which she so effortlessly reminded my of when she sent me the ever-so-middle-aged-listener Mac Davis CD with, u guessed it, the song "stop and smell the roses."  Ca-ching.

Turns out I've done a crap, craptastic job of taking her advice and have subsequently allowed the bren-brain-destroyer to whack it's way into my most whack area of consciousness.  Not an ideal recipe my friends.  The crazy lady in question finally flew the coop yesterday and allowed impulsiveness to submerge her most rational capacities and POW!  Wont go into detail, but def took a dive off da deep end.  (And yes, speaking in 3rd person makes me feel less accountable...)

The point of the story is that I can no longer allow myself to live in the future, worrying about shit that is so far-fetched and obscure that I think myself crazy and into a day-to-day tailspin in which I lose sight of the awesomeness that is my life, and the lucky chick that I actually am.  It's just silly.  So- NO MÁS!!!! 

If you know me and catch me breaking my new rule- MANDAME A LA CRESTA!!!!

PS- Do you have ANY IDEA how many AWFUL "stop and smell the roses cartoons" there are???  About 130,000 according to Google.  Anyway, the only reason I posted this is because it has a Bee and duh it's kinda key to this blog.

But not that Bee.

Cuz that Bee isn't the new Me.

True Life: I'm a DJ

So, with the free will that this blog permits, I'm gonna oblige myself and do a lil shameless and bragadocious self-promoting.  I'm not usually one to be a spotlight"whore" but tonight I think I'm kind of a badass, to be frank.  The thing is---- is that I'm a radio star.  Maybe you didn't know that about me.  At least I like to think that I am... although really only like 2 people listen, but tonight I am playing frakking awesome music and am stoked to be sharing my love of beatz and tunez with those clicking in to my show.  Famous, my friends, famous.  Haha!  Not at all acutally, but I dream, I dream...

Being completely honest though, doing this show (every Tuesday, 8-10 Chile time.. tune in peeps!!) is always one of my favorite parts of the monotonous week of blahness.  I always leave on such a high, and the two hours FLY.  Never feel like I can fit enough songs in the short span.  Dance.  Grin.  Sing along.  How can that not be awesome??  For yours truly it's quite the release.  Hard to have a bad day on air.

So, taking a gander, I'm assuming that this is the feeling that you're supposed to have when you're "working but not working."  Can't say I get this sensation in the office.  No way Josè.  Yeck.  The only other time I am blessed with this time-flying, no-concept-whatsoever of the hour is when I sit and paint.  Could do it for 9 hours and have no idea that 45 minutes have slipped through my brushes.  Clueless.  Something to aspire towards in a career related perspective for sure.  Can I be a DJ-ing artist?? Not likely, unless I'm in the market of vagabonding.  But-- I'm gonna take a sip from my fleeting half full glass and presume that somehow I'll find the path that leads to this sort of hourless bliss. 

But for now, I'll delight you peeps with the playlist from this evening's show.  I can't help but say it rules.  Enjoy-

Metric - Collect Call
Matt & Kim - Good Ol' Fashion Nightmare
Interpol- All Fired up
Au Revoir Simone - Anywhere You Looked
Lykke Li - Breaking it Up
Of Montreal - Bunny Ain't No Kind of Rider
Matt & Kim - Cutdown
Regina Spektor - Dance Anthem of the 80s
Animal Collective - Derek
Wolf Parade - Disco Sheets
Arctic Monkeys - Do Me a Favor
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Down Boy
The New Pornographers - The Fake Headlines
Matt & Kim - Ginders
Wolf Parade - Grounds for Divorce
Tapes n' Tapes - The Iliad
New Young Pony Club - Jerk Me
The Dodos - Longform
Fleet Foxes - Quiet Houses
Metric - Satellite Mind
The Unicorns - Sea Ghost
Of Montreal - Sink in the Seine
Wolf Parade - Soldier's Grin
TV on the Radio - Stork and Owl
Shocking Pinks - This Aching Deal
Pixies - Vamos
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - y Control

And, as a special request... One eskimO - Kandi

The After Shock- Thoughts and Reflections

I have been meaning to write this blog for about a week or 2 now. Some how it kept slipping away from me. Not because I'm not up to analyzing and facing catastrophic and jarring events; to be frank, it takes time to reflect. And get real folks, it's not like I'm facing a deficit of spare hours these days but you gotta catch my drift when I say that it's been something easy and convenient to put off. Reliving and reminiscing about a tragedy is not ringin´my bell. --- Especially after the three, THREE, aftershocks (7.2, 6.7, 6.0 mf's) that rocked my office, and re-jolted those memories of the night of the 27th right into plain, unobstructed and tear-inducing leg-quivering consciousness. Because, from my frame of reference and life experience with EQ's, every time the earth moves, there's gonna be a 8.8 Richter- sized explosion. Not sure if I can ever "get used" to the temblores. And, people, plz stop cooing "tranquila" to me for Christ's sake.

Essentially, I have run the complete gamut of human emotions in one week-- profound sorrow, a fear for my life, heartache, pride, anger, helplessness, empowerment... No wonder I could barely concentrate enough to put on socks. Never have I felt so zombie-like even after the world's sloppiest night of binge drinking. I simply could not function. Paralyzed with a heart wrenching tembl-over.

Getting to work on Monday the 1st, I was literally SHOCKED at how cavalier everyone was acting. Like, yeah, something kinda strange happened over the weekend but it was like no biggie. So some of the roof fell down. So there are cracks in the walls all over the place. NBD bitches. Well, yours truly on the other hand-- emo wreck. Emo frakking wrek. Could barely speak. As a result, I started to get hella pissed at all my peeps for being so blah-nonchalant about it. COME ON PEOPLE GIVE A SHIT. It was the classic: "oh- yeah that sucks but nothing happened to me, so it doesn't affect my life." Sparked quite the rage in my guata. Here I am the rando gringa-- heartbroken, sob-prone, and devastated for this country and these people, and my coworkers who are, um, actually Chilean are acting SO NORMAL. Cue freak-out. It didn't compute.

But- come Friday, the country was awash in ways to help, cuentas corrientes in which to donate money, groups of students building techos para Chile, the country mobilizing itself to repair all damage in 48 hours. "Chile Ayuda Chile" the campaign was dubbed and, people, Chile really did help Chile. It was amazing how the whole country simultaneously opened their wallets, sacked their pantries and flooded volunteer centers. Together with some amigos, we pooled together a modest fund of $$, bought food and supplies for 10 family boxes, tossed 'em in the camioneta and valiantly drove to the campo-- we were gonna save the day. Riding in on our 4-wheeled white horse, it was almost impossible to pass through the streets because SO many people had congregated to bring supplies, rebuild homes, and fork over their weekend. Bypassing the masses, we drove around looking eagerly to dispense our little boxes made-with-care to families in dire straits. We were totally box-blocked, though, and found that of all the homes we went to, ZERO families took us up on our offer. They denied, with overwhelming kindness and gratitude, our goods, stating that they really weren't in need. Shockingly enough, no one took advantage of us. I couldn't believe it. Despite all the unnecessary looting in Concepción and the cultural undercurrent of stealing and entitlement, we were shied away and told to give to those facing true desperation. Consequently, after a day of literally driving around in circles (how cranky was I to be honest), we packed the truck bed with more than what we'd arrived with, and brought all the goodies to a house in Santiago, to a family taking everything to the Isla Juan Fernández (Robinson Crusoe Island.. read link, amazing story)-- hit horrifically by a raging tsunami. So, after a day of what felt like doing nothing, we finally we able to do something.

Not to mention the fact that, during the last minute Telethon, the goal of raising a quick $15million USD was more than DOUBLED. More than doubled people. Amazing. I was so surprised by these donors because on a day-to-day basis Santiaguinos can be seriously unpleasant. Walking down the street, in supermarkets, etc- if your walking in anonymity, you have the Chilean free reign to be an absolute asshole. Cue the Santiago-stink-eye. I've seen countless old peeps get pushed outta the way on the metro, people cutting you in line left & right, violent fights for absolutely no reason, and let's not forget about the nastygrosssickeningflaite "men" piropo-ing the women like we're carne... Por eso, I was so surprised at the instantaneous solidarity. Which made me think: what if Chileans (slash people in general) were like this all the time?? What if this spirit of service, one-worldedness, selflessness hung around long after the rubble is trucked away and normality restored?? How cool would that be?? Improbable but something to consider.

Anyway, hopefully this will be my last EQ related post. Hopefully things will return to semi-normality (hmm, country wide power outage this evening isn't a good sign) and we can rebuild, repair, restore the South, those who lost everything, those who need new homes. There is so much work to be done, but if the airs of the Teleton blow away the pre-EQ smog, I think we'll be as good as new in no time. Fuerza Chile...