Inner-thigh Pain and Religious Rabbits

It is probably in all our interests if I offer a quick background to the following events: I've recently set sail from Necochea (south of Buenos Aires - on the coast) and have arrived in Bariloche (inland - essentially halfway down Argentina, where people go to ski in the winter. It was summer when I arrived so people just thrash about in the lakes). More or less, Bariloche marks the the first port of call wherein I am travelling alone, thus hostel life is as fresh as a mountain stream – a simile I would have done best to avoid using in hostels. So:

Detox is being embraced, the whores and transvestites shall take a back seat – the aphoristic one – and I am to become at one with nature. Natural beauty is my oxygen and I breathe it in deeply at every and any self-created moment, acutely aware that the fragility of these moments will soon be apparent and the novelty will wear off. An extract from previous travels in China support this omen: “Oh dear God, delicately placed before our eyes we have yet another piece of natural fucking beauty. There appears to be the exact same hill as gazed upon yesterday unfolding before us, with what is almost definitely another generic, tackily decorated temple.” ('The Beginner's Guide to Natural Fucking Beauty: China, just yellow and red?', 2008)

My reading for the moment is “The Anatomist”. The protagonist has recently discovered the clitoris (cue round of applause) on a dying woman in the 16th century (suppress or soften still running applause) – as far as dying wishes go, this lady's were surpassed...“before I go, leaving you all in a poverty filled abyss, I shall be requesting just one thing...a glass of Tropicana, with pulp...what?...I'm sorry doctor, what was that? You said you've found the whaaaaaaaaatttoohhhsweetgod!” She never ticked all the boxes on her bucket list.

Hostel life is adaptable, I hope:

‘Twas the middle of the night when I heard it: the shrill, hysterical screaming that selfishly awoke me. The screams were akin to those of a child watching a rabbit being burnt at the stake for heretical crimes. Naturally I remained all tucked up: no bunny watching child would force me into unforeseen night-time movement (it’s not right to have the words “child” and “night-time movement” in the same sentence, but alas, this is where they shall lie.) Eventually the mother settled the child and thus my dreams. I still await the apology from the aforementioned child.

Returned to hostel later the next day. Legs ached. Why? Cycling. Days are now spent flying along roads and pathways singing 'Do Re Mi' – it was a throw up between that and a little bouncy number from 'My Fair Lady'. Anyway, I strolled through the hostel door, my gait as if I had just strolled out of Shawshank. A lot of people stood in the room before me, the classic and yet sickening buzz of an overenthusiastic hostel – a climate that I would soon have to get used to – filled the room.

“Just pass through them, up the stairs and hit the showers (cue flashback to face of 'maternal' prep school matron).” I muttered – already I was muttering. I should point out that muttering, to yourself, whilst hovering over the precipice of a large group of strangers, is not a recommended course of action. You tend to give off a less than stable vibe. No one is likely to casually stroll over and remark: “Hey there, I saw you with your chin pressed to your chest and your eyes unnervingly looking ahead, while you muttered busily, and I thought to myself: 'hey he seems like a bloody riot to chat to, and not at all mentally fragile.'”

Despite my internal affairs grinding away, I strolled through the crowd. 'Hey look at me now dad, I'm strolling, through a crowd, of humans..sorry, people, I always call them that, really.' Maybe the intimate little monologue I was constructing should take the blame for this, but no sooner had I finished this victory sentence, then I tripped – probably over some shitty, communal mood-lifting hostel cat.

You have two options to take when confronted with such a shade of public humiliation:

1. You regard yourself in an ever so serious light and fly into deep and quizzical expressions of thought and wonder how on earth this débâcle occurred - it was not your fault. You are YOU.
2. Smile, maybe even let loose a jovial giggle, not too girlish but not too territorial, get up and continue on your way. Maybe engage in light conversation, following eye-contact, with someone close by who could and can not deny standing witness to this. You shall both laugh and everyone will think none the less of you.

In the moment, I saw it fit to combine both these options – 'the moment' takes a lot of blame during the course of one's life... “So what if she had a penis, I was in 'the moment'”.

So, with complete disregard to my prettily laid out options, I let out a girlish giggle whilst simultaneously looking at the soles of my shoes as if the Holy Grail and answer to all public trippings could and WOULD be found there - they aren't. I then arose and walked towards the stairs, turned to a girl 'close by', giggled again (why!?) and said: “Owww, guilty candidate for a broken nail...right there.” She then took me firmly by the hand and we spent the following 4 and a half minutes imitating non-heretical rabbits. Only kidding, she looked at me in complete distaste and wandered off into a sea of hemp and dread-locks... .

Moral of the story: don't make sounds like Maria.

"I am a passenger," says Iggy Pop...but he had heroine to help with the journey. I don't.

I am lacking in time, my anecdotes are scribbled on the pages of my “Hello Kitty” diary (yes, it’s pink, and yes, it has a heart lock, a tangible one at least). I have become a traveller, nay; a “back packer” (…is the fact that I’ve already over used the quotation mark sufficient evidence of aforementioned diary?). Anyway, it appears that I’m only just coming to terms with this realisation…

I was strolling along the streets of Comodoro Rivadavia (from now on please assume that all names of towns or cities are said in an annoying faux-Spanish accent that says: “Yar, like I don’t even think about it anymore, ever since conversing, from an STA travel distance, with villagers when I was building mud huts in Bolivia and thus simultaneously placing local workers out of a job…lovely race, a tad small though”) …sweating like any normal person with a b*** p*** on who doesn’t wish to use the words “black man”, “pedophile” or “vicar” in his simile, when I suddenly saw my reflection in the shop window. I stopped, obviously.

“Oh dear god Frederick, you have what appears to be a b*** p*** on you. Further more, you have a hand woven bracelet on your wrist and long flowing locks…I am akin to a Von Trapp child, Justin, of course.” My mind piped up.

I can whole heartedly say that people who wear a bracelet, hand woven by some small Peruvian child, makes me sick, buy it from a supermarket and support a corporation. However, mine is different. ‘Twas made by a crazy Frenchman, Alan, who always wore a hat, a hat that always sported a feather, a feather that probably sported diseases. I didn’t touch him, or his hat. Anyway, the bracelet is a mixture of ivy green, daffodil yellow and love, lots of it. I like it, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside...and what!?

Recently, I have been given a lot of unnecessary chagrin from dogs. The first incident goes as follows:

The resident dog in the hostel I was residing in, in Ushuaia (southern most city in the world, why did I go there? To say I’d been there. It wasn't for the penguins. Fuck the penguins, or don’t, save that for a nighttime stroll to a zoo, which has penguins, or you’ll be settling for a marsupial and they’ll probably see you cuming…being animals off the night ‘n’ all), named “Gordita”, which does translate as: “little fat female being”. Anyway, I believe this animal to be having a thyroid issue (all diagnoses are sponsored by New Labour), but unfortunately this disability/disease hasn’t saved it from owner induced aggravation.

So, I was minding my own business, preaching the good word (democracy and Libyian food) when I passed said dog…

“Oh, hello Gordita…how are you today, little doggy woggy. Would you care to smell my foot, you seem awfully interested: a fetish no doubt.” I offer, in a generously patronizing tone, as all children and animals ought to be addressed in.

(I proceed to move my shoed, right foot towards its bed: testing the water as you will.
The dog woggy then launches, as best it can, at me like a beige balloon with buttons of death stuck on it as eyes. Jaws, lock around my foot. I let out an oestrogen filled, girly scream, followed by a guttural, manly laughter…sprinkled delicately with a garnish of fear, courtesy of Nigella. Silly doggy.)

“Damn you cushion doggy, with unfortunate thyroid problem.” I say, coolly, whilst I swing my right foot around, now adorned with an Argentine mongrel (‘twasn’t even pure bred: scum).

Those around me are either laughing or trying to help.

“Remain calm Pablobians, all is well and rosy here. I saw some action like this in India…eventually the boy relaxed his jaw.” I broadcasted to the room.

I was right, the doggy did let go, and then receive a sharp kick in its face...that was a joke, I don’t hurt animals with four legs. If a suspiciously large or any amount of Green and Black’s finds itself in its food bowl, I know no evil, merely speak a little.

Second dog incident shall be relayed a little quicker to you, as I seem to have rambled.

Well, when crossing into Chile, believe it or not, one is required to cross a border. This border has rules. Two of the main rules are: “NO FRUIT OR SMALL CHILDREN”. I carry a lot of one of those commodities, not the children, although the Peruvian border awaits me with baited breath.

(The following is said around a camp fire as flutes rasp out the “Titanic” soundtrack.)

“Rules are vague, I’m a passenger and now a b*** p*****, therefore materialistic trappings of a society corrupted by vanity and self preservation mean nothing to me, neither do intangible boundaries, dragging one down like governmental gravity. This Granny Smith is coming with me.”

So, you are required, having shown some official your darkest hour, the passport photo, to stand in a line. I thought that that was it, we was all to be shot because of some childish border banter…couldn’t I at least have a shower like Scorcese says. “What?”...nothing.
A dog came out, on a lead. Everyone sighs and there is a group “awhhhh” sound.
“Oh you foolish Pabloblians. Not cute little doggy…devil doggy that’s going to send anyone with a banana or rock of crack up their arse straight to a Chilean cell to be sandwiched between a 6ft 5” misunderstood black man and a skinny, victim of society with father issues (previous stereotypes are based solely on fact and films). The dog starts to sniff peoples’ bags. It stops at mine, places it left paw on my bag and gazes up at its owner. Everyone giggles and another collective “awwwhhh” sound is heard. Who is responsible for the "awwwhh" spark? Pablo?

Thus, thanks to a small golden retriever with a nose for fruit and crack (another chap had a casual prostrate exam; forever a changed man), I was forced to spill the contents of my b*** p*** on the floor. “No, I have no idea how that laced silk dressing gown that hugs one’s thighs like a warm summer wind got in my bag, and no, I can not explain those stains…oh, all right, I can.”

I never had to pay a fine, financial that is…I was however forced to watch their rendition of “Cats”, twice.

Moral of this story…wedge higher if you want to fend off Lloyd Weber.

(May I apologise for lack of appropriate punctuation…the keyboard has decided to mix up the necessary buttons. “Made in Chile.” This won’t happen again.)

The next post is due to address the difficulties of sharing a room with seven other living human beings...go on, use your imagination.

"The Stamp of the Feline Pheromone: the pre-ovariless days"

I am acutely aware that I write a lot about myself; I enjoy it, ‘tis a subject of great interest for me. But recently I’ve been deep in the careful observation of a cat. The cat entertains and baffles; its out of the ordinary lifestyle is, quite frankly, bizarre.

The cat’s days are passed under no great pressures, splitting the hours between cleansing itself, playing with itself (not in the sexual manner), eating and shitting in a box, then hiding its faeces under a bed of litter: chocolate Easter eggs of the domesticated feline world.

However, what interests me the most are not the points aforementioned, rather the phenomenon that takes place once the mysterious blanket of change is thrown over its being (and tucked in at the ends). The cat emerges, not as a cat but as a sex crazed nymphomaniac concerned with one thing and one thing only: the quest for satisfaction.

Tables, stairs, beds, bags, shoes, feet (it loves feet…for the obvious potential a toe possesses)…the list has no limits (limitless). It is as if Robert Pattinson was sent blindfolded, most probably naked as well (the two, more often than not, ride hand in hand) into a Sunday evening Mass at an all girls' Catholic boarding school:; an uncut, black and white tribute to pheromones and the suggestive, beautifully sown lexicon of Stephenie Meyer.

Postman Pat’s cat, it appears, did not struggle with the coming of womanhood (maybe because it was a man cat, or conveniently asexual) but instead floated along in a sexless wilderness, suspended above menopause and yet pinned before puberty: its sexual identity stripped crudely from it by the monotonous rhythm of mail delivery; a slave to the royal insignia.

Two very different cats, leading two very different lives, preoccupied by two very different things; neither conscious of the directions they head in.

Moral of the story: “You can’t always get what you want….but you can try sometimes.”

(Next to follow will be the dramatisation of the day I lost both my jobs...and other poor stories)

"Chapters, Chaps and Chappetes: the final curtain call"

I had never been kicked out of a home before (save the elderly one..."Sure I'm your grandson..."), that is untill today. Fate has struck yet another cruel blow to my cushioned life, sending goose feathers a flyin’. We was a poison to the house, a menace to the micro-society....a bloody nuisance. Thus, my mentally fragile landlord, emotionally eroded by the constant reminder that he just does not fit, announced:

“I need use your rooms (my compatriot's and mine) for make office and sleep room,” he muttered pathetically to us the other night.

(This space I’ve created here______is reserved for the silence that inevitably followed. Silence is important)

“Ummm, what was that Pablo? You want to use the bathroom? Yes, I presume there is an abundance of loo role; help yourself,” I retorted jovially.

(This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the imaginary image of my condescending smile, which I tied on the end of my sentence, like a frilly, patronising ribbon)

“No, I mean say you need leave house soon.”

“Well, well, well Pablo. Firstly, what you have squeaked since sticking your ratty little head around the door has made absolutely no sense....at all. But, because I’m intuitive, I’ve come to realise that when you say you want Lebensraum, you really you just want our raums...and ultimately, our constant absence.”

(This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the brooding, man-power look I shot at him. This space what I´ve created here_____is reserved for the Orlando Bloom gaze that actually took place)

“Uhhhh, no no no...I sorry (he wasn’t) but need use rooms for work (he didn’t).”

“Please leave this raum now Pablo. That is all." I shot back at him, eyes on fire, skin ice (ice baby) cold and hair tousled conservatively (political peluquería joke, do I dare?) to the left side ( yes, I do).

So, it has come to pass that after the changing of two glorious seasons and one not so toasty one, I must step down from my throne of Constituciónal power, set aside my sceptre, sheath my sword (weyy, lad on tour) and mount my steed (yes, still on tour). I head to greener pastures and yet I feel an aching remorse in leaving behind those I've come to treasure: my Peruvian castle of fruit and veg, my expeditionary force of recyclers that dwell on the corner, loyal servants to cardboard and aluminium....and last but certainly not least, my high-heeled “nights” of confusion that lift my spirits and feed my ego with their faithful cat-calling. A few shall be bitterly missed, all remembered.

So my moral of an episodic chapter will finish by quoting a dear corner-dwelling friend who, whilst softly smiling, whispered: “Freddie, dip a toe in your neighbour’s bath, the water might well be different...but the feeling’s the same.” Time to pull the plug.

“I have something to tell you that will blow your mind... ."

"Ok, I lied. I´m 45, balding and have single-handedly collected the entire series of Star Trek on VHS. I tend to spend my Saturday nights at my taxidermy club; I’ve almost finished glazing the eyes of my last dog, Captain Spok, which died aged 4 (I couldn´t wait another 10 years).

Anyway, you look much prettier in real life than in your photos....call me or send me an email at stuffingsquirrelssince7@hotmail.com. (or I can pop round your house sometime...maybe when you´ve finished refurbishing; I personally preferred the paisley patterned curtains).

Lots of love...for ever,

James (but Captain Spock calls me J-Dog...which I think is ironic).”

This is the kind of message that would ensure an early end to my new career in the world of online dating. Yes, I have a new job. Yes, it’s helping Americans find the recognised counter-part of their soul in another human being....or just to prematurely ejaculate in a motel south of Inbredville, New Milton Keynes. Either way, It’s incredibly rewarding.

“But Freddie, surely this goes against all your values regarding reproduction and the North American population?”

“Interesting repost. Rest assured, oh Satan´s champion of me mind, that my priorities still follow the same beaten track. I’m merely employing a touch of damage control: minimising the percentage of children who´s father is also their first cousin once removed.”

“Oh, ok, fantastic news. Well done.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

You may or may not be interested to hear that my bedside reading has been dominated not by the breathtaking prose of D.H. Lawrence but the exciting proposals and inevitably empty promises of such authors as David DeAngilo and Grant Adams, most famous for his work “Net2Bed”. I’ve also done a little research in this area. I am hoping to release my product, titled “BackstreetPharmacy2BedOrBush”, in the not too distant future. Each to their own eh.

So, laissez faire attitudes to unconsented sex aside, I’m busy helping those that find it difficult to find a balance in their lives. “Being a CEO of two companies, that I started, all before the age of 35, means I often find it hard to mix work and play.” Poor chaps. I believe it’s about helping those in this world that ask for it, not those that most need it, or get someone else to ask for them.....thank you very much Red Cross for tarnishing the precious two minutes I have between episodes of Frasier to be brainwashed by the frilly materialistic trappings of my beautiful Western world.

“Moral of our Monday Morning Story”: Charity starts in The States....but tends to finish in one. Write that down...or click ‘save’ somewhere on your screen (Yes, I’m aware it’s been quite the sibilance session today....and what? I like alliteration, who doesn’t).

The Austrian attitude to wine: "full-bodied and 14yrs old...it'll keep"

Sitting in the sun, drinking coffee, watching little Cafayateans squirrel around us, we planned our next steps. ‘Twas time to visit a vineyard or two and lay pillage to their “tasting” cellars. I asked some hippy artist, deep in his painting, whether there was a closing time. He informed me nothing closed untill around ten at night. I was later to find out that, on top of being shit at art, he was also lying. Only two remained open to some good quaffing:

“Good evening sirs,” a cork sized woman with fairly dark skin and brilliantly white teeth greeted us. (For your future reference: maybe it is best that you assume all people greeted or engaged in spoken words, from this point on, are of the aforementioned description).

“Yes...it.....is.....and, may I say, good evening to you to, suspiciously small wine harvesting woman. I will be frank with you Pablita, I haven’t done this before (or can’t remember.lad), could you possibly talk me through it please?” I asked her...a request that rang bells of other first times...but, alas, without recording equipment.

Off we trotted on a little tour of their museum. The museum functioned, in our eyes, as a polite pausing stop before we laid pillage to their tasting wines....to show, as you will, that we possibly gave a shit about a bunch of copper barrels and some dusty corkscrews. I even asked Pablita what significance a bottle, on display, from 1960 had. She told me “none” and that the winery wasn’t even in action then. "Why did you even place it there then Pablita? To make us aware that wine was in existance at that time?" A truly vintage shite museum in conclusion. We were not there to act as culture vultures though; sponges we would be. (I will add that nothing of great interest followed: we tasted a little, drunk a lot and bought a little-due to post drink guilt and small, shiny-teethed cork women mesmerization. Oh, and we were stalked by a league of very French French girls. "Have you heard of effervescence? No? ...Malbec or Cabernet Sauvignon?").

Although this bears little importance to our trip, I have to add that whilst writing this I spent the afternoon passing so much wind that someone was forced to spray the whole office with its finest loo freshener. The Pablobian work force assumed it was the trainees, who had been thick in a day of training (as trainees do), but ney ‘twasn’t, ‘twas I. Fools.
I joined in on the complaining....
“Bloody nuisance they are Pablo...faffing around our office, filling it with there unemployed odour.” I remarked contemptuously.
It is the small victories in life that will accumulate, the larger ones only compete.

Overall morals of these particular stories: vineyard museums and Saltean vagrant artists.No. Phantom office-based flatulence.Yes.

"The Game": a beginners guide to picking up hitchhikers

Try as I might to scrape my mind of any residual memories from the crusade, which have recently been evading my pen, I am still missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. These pieces are undoubtedly fragile; you try desperately to file them away safely from any proceeding chemical that might try and wipe the slate clean. Incidentally, it this latter aspect that has engraved itself rather clearly in my conscience/fading conscience:

We had driven from Cachi (small village at the foot of large mountains and edge of large desert) to Cafayate (village in centre of valley filled with wine/the means to make it) for what seemed like six hours (because it had been) on what cannot be described as roads or even tracks for that matter. Yet, the Don ate them up and we flew past the chameleon views and diligently working saltanas who would rest down their sticks, had they been hitting a goat or cow, their hoes, had they been doing what ever it is you’d want to do with a hoe (the tool...garden tool that is), and wave at us. Naturally, we would wave back in a regal fashion ‘n’ all: one doesn’t bend the wrist but merely rotate the whole hand.

I have just become aware that my intentions were set on describing the “latter aspect”, but something has cropped up quite unexpectedly and so I think I’ll put ink to this memory instead:

We were not all that far from Cafayate, cruising along, leaving a wake of dust and, consequently, very dusty locals, when, low and behold, we approached some more hitchhikers (they tended to be people from the middle of nowhere looking to get somewhere). We had past a few already and had decided that were we to reach some more, we ought to give them a lift....only to make ourselves feel good, that’s what charity is all about (based on this, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what “charity starting at home” is all about then). Therefore, I pulled the Don to a stop and wound up my window so that they could hear but not touch me.

“Bonjour my little family of coco-pops, what be your destination? I am assuming you are looking for a lift?” I chirped brightly.
(Might I add at this point that my face was glowing with good-will and I wore a smile that said “hey little boys, don’t be a afraid, you can get in my car and we’ll go to never(have.I.)everland” but my mind and my compatriate’s both said, “Oh fuck, we’ve stopped the Don next to a mother and her three young children. One is a baby, the other two appear to be no more than five but, being in the country and a tad malnutritioned, are probably closer to twenty-four years old (mystery solved). Furthermore, they all seem to have avoided a shower/river for the past week and one of the kids has a nose that is functioning as a tap.”)
The family said nothing following my line of questions.

“Ummmm, ok. In which case, I will have a Quarter Pounder with fries and my co-pilot will have a Big Mac. Any drinks? Yes, thank you for asking, we’ll have two Coke’s please. Large.” I said to them. I was fairly pleased with myself. Too right, it was an amusing line, utterly lost, unfortunately, on are friends....the South American version of ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’.
“We go to San Carlos please sir,” she eventually asked of us. She may not have added the “sir” but the narcissistic part of my mind (most of it, the section not focused on looking for a reflective surface) tends to translate and filter what comes in and out.
“Well, of course, by all means, hop aboard. To San Carlos then....I assume that’s on the way to Cafayate? If not, you WILL all have to evacuate the car and resume your places under that tree to our right.”I replied.
She then told me that it was.

I proceeded to try and make some conversation but we were white, wearing red and blue bandanas....it was all too much for them right now; the following ten minutes were spent in relative silence while the children stared at us in disbelief....we must have seemed like gods to them. I was absolutely fine with that. So, when they finally left, after filling the Don with the smell of poverty, I told them:

“Go forth in peace my little brown brothers and may the sun shine down on you whilst you labour diligently in a field.”
It wasn’t meant to be inspiring....we didn’t want them to get ideas about education, god forbid.

The next 10km were driven with halo’s of smugness...and windows of wide-openness.

Moral of the story: “charity pays...off”.