Friday, July 29, 2005

Dutch C***-Block

The little bro and I made a trip to Pablo Neruda's house, La Chascona, during his visit a week ago. It was on that day that I would be on the receiving end of an unexpected and incredibly powerful Dutch cock-block. From earlier experiences I should've known that strange things go down at La Chascona. This time I was praying my English-speaking guide would be moderate, if not uber-guidy. Fernando was all these things and more. I've been in Stgo going on 7 months now and must say that Fernando is the most attractive dude I've seen yet. An attendant led us down some steps, opened a door, and from the mystical portal of the "Guide´s Lounge" Fernando emerged, resplendant yet understated in the museum fleece and Manu Chao-esque scarf. I took it all in quite straight-faced as if I saw this type of male beauty all of the time. The two Dutch chicks that rounded out the tour group turned all types of burgundy and mauve.

What followed were 45 minutes of gushing, drooling, and bouncing. Fernando would start pointing out furniture and the Dutch chicks would giggle uncontrollably while asking personal questions. One highlight was the response a panther painting produced. "What's so funny" Fernando asked. "Oh, he looks like he's smiling! With his lips, so very happy!" Dutchies responded. Maybe they were high, maybe it's just their European-ness, or maybe the space wasn't big enough for their sloppy game to be thrown around. By the time the tour was over Eric and I took a courtesy picture with some outdoor rocks and bolted for the door. Fernando squirmed away from the Dutch chicks to show us the exit. But with my brother towering over me like a chaperone and the Dutchies quick on Fernando's heels, all I could do was say thanks, leave, and marvel at the potency of the Dutch cock-block I had just been served.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Guess I wasn't just shouting at the rain

Four years spent "majoring" in Spanish have left a definite salt in my mouth for the written Spanish word. This coming from the same person whose skin crawls when people admit they find reading boring. For those that know me recognize that I'd rather debate my side to death rather than admit defeat. In this case I say it's one thing to dislike reading in your native, which-language-do-you-prefer-Homer-Simpson-to-speak-in versus reading in a "studied" language with all that sangria it took to finish "El poema del Mio Cid." Anyways, my point is that I rarely read anything in Spanish these days. Gossip, soccer results, an occasional horoscope.

I read Chile's "Paula" with the same pseudo-feminist-Cosmo-bashin' fervor I read EEUU's "Jane". I received my latest copy of "Paula" on Sunday and was delighted by their reprinting of Grande Reportagem's flag ad campaign. As a side, EEUU and Colombia are also quite clever. When I submitted my MA thesis this past August (11 months ago, whatever), I walked away feeling that maybe the world wasn't ready for my style of social commentary via national flags. True, my delivery was abstract at best and I was reaching here and there for something resembling a point. But the Portuguese, god love 'em, they got me all along.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

The Cult of My Narcolepsy

Best place to catch a nap: Reading room, Reynold's Club, University of Chicago. Couch by the fireplace, stretched out, shoes off, my toes in between the cushions, and my face buried in The Onion.

Best prohibited sleep: Mid-afternoon nod-off in "Theories of Media", stadium-seating, dimmed lights, talking about the philosophy of Keanu Reeves in "The Matrix."

Longest recorded sleep: 1986, five years-old. Fall asleep Friday night and wake up Sunday afternoon in the backseat of the wagon, on the way to dinner.

Best music to drift away to: Last two tracks on Coldplay's "A Rush of Blood to the Head."

Warm milk substitute: Cold beer.

Tom Cruise movies I never made it through: "Magnolia" and "Eyes Wide Shut."

Worst type of cruelty: Getting on the wrong plane, flying to Newark, and having to stay awake all night.

Proof it's in the genes: My mom's probably sleeping right now.

Monday, July 04, 2005

MTV plays music!!!

I've just emerged from the world-youth-rock-media-cable frenzy of Live 8. I enjoyed it for the most part, but there were some cringe-inducing moments I'd like to share. Anybody that was around me during the past election knows my mind when it comes to meddling celebrities. Celebrities at this convention, on the arm of this candidate, telling me to do this, blah blah blah. My intial argument for loathing them was the fact that they´re celebrities, not political analysts, so let's keep the two camps divided, k? But they're Americans, they pay taxes, they claim they vote, so they should be allowed to use their voice.

So here I was this past weekend watching celebs, mostly musicians I respect, eloquently discussing the issues at hand. Chris Martin, in particular, is a hero. Then I saw the "finger snap" campaign. I've been spared the "finger snap" commercials while I've been in Chile so this is all pretty new to me. Susan Sarandon --not surprised. Tom Hanks --um, sure, whatever. Justin Timberlake--wha!? The same guy who pays about $200 for a trucker hat is now snapping for poverty. However, what sent me into a rage was Madonna. Snapping and preaching with huge diamond earrings and highlights (and some lowlights).

Now, I think the spirit and mission of Live 8 is great. Bobby Geldolf is using his celebrity to promote awareness. But there's still a blinding element of condescension in this whole scheme. Of the nine concert sites, only one was actually in Africa. Nevermind that Latin America was completely shut out. It seems as though the third world can't help itself or each other. That the concerts were almost exclusively in the province of the first world, the West, what have you, reflects how these issues are still kept at arms length. "Over there" they have problems...True, but what about the first world? What about our own destructive addiction to consumerism? Where are the concerts outlining what's wrong with us? I don't want to take anything away from the gravity of Africa's problems. But I think that recognizing our own faults would make giving and having others receive charity easier.

I agree that third world poverty is severe, but maybe it only appears as such because our wealth is so great. Which is why when I see Madonna snapping at me I wonder how such hypocrisy seems invisible to so many. In what universe can I take her attempts at charity seriously? She lectures me about children dying of hunger every three seconds yet can supply her own child with a credit card with a $10,000 spending limit in the same week. Many would say she's earned her money, she could spend it how she wishes. My dad would say that if people didn't buy a fifth yellow Porsche then all the people who work to build them would eventually lose their jobs. I get it, I'm not calling for anarchy. I just feel that if we showed "the unfortunate others" celeb-activists claim to help any tv footage from E! illustrating their ridiculously extravagant lifestlyes, they might not accept their charity.

This is the type of hypocrisy that loses elections. Celeb-activists, limousine liberals, what have you, should never forget that though people may be poor, uneducated, and/or uninformed they have integrity. In times of corruption and hypocrisy all we have left is our integrity. And if that is disrespected in any way, then you've screwed us all.

On a lighter note, Live 8 Canada heralded the glorious return of Bryan Adams. All of my repressed pre-teen emotions came out in a riot of giggles once he started an acoustic (and solo) version of "All for Love." All in all when the music speaks for itself, it's all good.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Gringo Men

I have a private class with the most adorable children in the hemisphere who crack me up on a weekly basis. This past week V. mentioned her encounters with gringo men on her school trip, while C. impressed me with his knowledge of WWII. When he dropped the "Battle of Midway" in conversation I was stunned and immediately transported back to 9th grade Honors World History with Mrs. Dietrich. In retrospect, Mrs. Dietrich was something of an aging-Warhol-muse-hipster who tried to expand our minds with weirdo films. "Battle of Midway" was obviously part of the curriculum sent down from the School Board of Broward County to make students grateful for technicolor. However "Rapaccini's Daughter" and an ironic animated film about cathedral-making were obviously a ploy to shock our conservative suburban high school selves. Though most of my smaller-minded classmates wrote Mrs. Dietrich off for being a Nazi (okay, so showing pics of her sons in lederhosen raised one of my eyebrows), I dug her. I walked away from that class with this caveat: "Not all Germans were Nazis and not all Nazis were German."

After WWII, Chile and others in the Southern Cone-ish area seized an opportunity to populate the desolate south with Germans (and some Nazis). One in particular, Paul Schafer, set up a little commune called "Colonia Dignidad." Fast forward about 50 years and Paulie is in deep --pedophilia, cars at the bottom of rivers, underground tunnel systems. And, to add to the collection of conspiracy theories, a bag of bullets tagged "JFK." Now if I were Paulie I wouldn`t have made such an obvious tag. Something in the neighborhood of "Norma J's Revenge Pellets" or "Killer Back Relief Pills." But then again there's a reason they lost the war.

However, channeling Mrs. Dietrich, not all Germans were Nazis. At the end of the 19th century, the Chilean government gave land grants to many lovely Germans in the south of Chile. They came, made babies, and built quaint cottages. Of course in that era the south of Chile was booming. I caught "Subterra" the other day, a great film about a late-19th century coal mine in southern Chile. Misfits, anarchists, bougie girls with skipping rope, and dead canaries. The development of Chile since Independence in 1810 is linked with the development of mining throughout the country. Back in the day nitrate made northern Chile prosperous. Once a synthetic fertilizer was developed, the mines were closed and the north was re-embraced by the desert. Many of the small towns devastated by the recent earthquake represented most of the leftovers. My private student V. was touring these deserts, ghost towns, and random 5-star resorts when she happened upon some lovely gringo men.

...so in response to my fans, I have emerged from my silence to blog about Germans, the counter-culture, and Chile; and of course as Mrs. D loved to do, come full circle.