I might like you more if you were dead

(photo pulled from www.somormujo.net)

August 23, 2011: Why is it when someone is dead…you like them more? In the past two weeks I have listened to Amy Winehouse more now than the past few years. It seems to be playing everywhere in South America...from my room in my hostel to the cafes, taxis and restaurants that are not tourist based establishments.

I would expect this type of music coming from the Planet Hollywoods, Hard Rock Cafes and at good ole Ronald McDonalds, but from a man who doesn't speak a taste of English making food in the street in his steel capsule? There seems to be a pattern...somewhat the same pattern when I was in Colombia in 2009 when Michael Jackson died.

Well, as of August 20th, 2011…I came to discover that I now like Amy Winehouse. I guess I am a little late even though I had her music stored deep in the depths of my iPod since according to iTunes, December 19th, 2009. In this time frame, her voice visited me only once through my cheap black Sony ear buds - and that was just 1 of the 11 songs on her Back to Black album.

(Photo pulled from www.cerealbits.com)

People liking individuals more when they are dead does not just apply to musicians. This it goes for: artists, ex-girlfriends, actors, saints, suicide bombers, loved ones, pets and Jesus. Items such as cars, jobs, apartments, cities and cereals such as Mr. T cereal can also be safely added to this list…they also seem to be missed more deeply when they are no longer in your life or available.

So, I might like you now and others may not…but who knows, perhaps if you were dead, we would all like you just a little bit more.

I can now see why a dog and single people complement each other

August 22, 2011: Arriving in Punta del Este, an international beach resort in Uruguay’s winter, I checked into my cold moist, mold coated 6 bed dorm. While I was in the lobby, I sadly ran into one of the most unhappy looking antisocial groups of Brazilians, for the second time. I don’t quite know if they ever smiled in their entire lives by seeing how highly underdeveloped their facial muscles were…not the slightest twitch when I said hello - a grunt would have been satisfactory. At least a grunt would have explained they might have come from somewhere in the depth of the Amazon.

Even Toilet Paper Girl surprisingly sat expressionless, saying nothing. You would think that she would have felt obligated to at least respond to my hello after saving her a pile of embarrassment in the hostel in Montevideo as she was walking out of the restroom…trailing a long piece of toilet paper – just catching her as she was about to walk out the door as I ran down the hall. If she wasn’t a beautiful face painted clown I would say that she was just shy or a tongue amputee…but sadly, I think she had a healthy tongue and was leaning toward the other end of the personality spectrum.

Doing some self photos of myself in front a buried giant on the beach…I had a bit too much time on my hands and began to think a tad too much about, “Stuff”. Not even 5 or so seconds after, a golden dog on crack came springing up to me with his tall going back and forth as fast as a windshield wiper stuck on high. He became my yapping happy friend for the day as I walked along the pleasant developed beaches. This dog’s tail nor did he himself show the slightest sign of exhaustion as he fetched a large pinecone without hesitation, not knowing the feeling of boredom.

Throughout my walk, I can see how some professional baseball players only throw for a few innings. Wanting to stop…the smile on the dogs face forced me into other innings. I was contemplating about throwing with my opposite arm to pull off an impressive girly throw but decided against it - just in case someone was watching from inside one of the deserted summer homes or condos lining the beach.

When it was time to leave the trailless sand shoreline and to enter the concrete maze of guidance…I tried to ignore the dog so that he would return back to somewhere. But…he didn’t, making me nervous as the cars horns would belch when would imitate a chicken dodging traffic, to those close encounters with mean dogs and those others that just wanted to take a deep breath of his butt. Whenever I thought I lost him, I would see him running along the side of me to mark some shrubbery or post with his bottomless bladder.

I can at times enjoy the company of other people’s dogs…but, I never really wanted one for my own to follow and pick up their steaming dog piles with a plastic bag – except for in the winter, where it becomes a small temporary hand warmer. But, today I could how a steamy pile on the sidewalk or the beach might be worth it…even in the summer.

10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting

August 18, 2011: The past 10 days, 11 hours, 24 minutes and counting I have been in the capital of Uruguay desperately trying to figure out where to explore between the small outbursts of the sun while my friend Anita is at work. As the grey days build into towers, my skin is somehow getting whiter…even without the application of the special Michael Jackson Cream.

My Casio Solar watch is just as it says, “Solar”. In consumer lingo: it only works if there is sun every few days. Normally a watch weighing down my underpowered left wrist is not necessary, but today was the rare occasion that I needed to know the time. Sitting next to a window while fueling up on some empty calories, I had to switch my watch to my other wrist directing it towards the very few rebellious rays that made it through the sad clouds between its tears. After an 85 minutes of this (just a guess…remember, it didn’t work), I resuscitated it, bringing it back from the dead…coughing up some useful numbers.

I am getting the feeling that Uruguay is a place that seems to be a summer Mecca for tourism with all of its beaches. When it is not summer, things might be cheaper but might not be worth the cheapness. If taking cheap legal peripheral busting peeks at women’s flesh in bikinis was my sole reasoning to come to Uruguay, I would say that this trip it is a failure because the only flesh on the beach that I so unfortunately saw was the drunken homeless man’s crusty wiener as he was urinating in the sand.

Once again, I am found myself somewhere that would not be much of an interest for me if it were not for its residents - in this case; the thermos carrying, cup touting, silver pimped straw in their Yerba mate, drinking addicts by the millions. Meeting my friend Anita last year in Argentina, I visited her here in Uruguay and this phenomenal social reaction has happened. Her friendship grew into other friendships and then more friendships, eventually becoming no longer reliant on the original roots. So…my original plans to be in Montevideo for a few days happily blossomed to 10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting.

The Chinese Zodiac labels me as a rat…I agree

August 11, 2011: Yes…this post is cryptic or you might even say...poetic. I am Sorry for my friends who English is their second, third or fourth language. For those few individuals that English is their fifth language…too bad - laughing.

Throughout my rat life I have managed to be a somewhat effective scavenger, collecting and hiding shinny things in this rat race. In the process, I also gathered bits and pieces to help me figure out how to escape this giant rat maze.

Successfully I managed to climb out of a rat maze and balanced on the top edge for quite some time, but I somehow have fallen and I have not yet realized how far or deep I fell.

Lately, I seem to have been scurrying from one place to another...setting up my temporary nomadic home for a few days or weeks here or there…going and stopping whenever it feels right - even though the “rightness” can at times crumble.

Knowing how it is to be outside this maze and not having to play if I don’t want to, is a wonderful feeling. But, oddly at times being inside the maze it is exactly what I miss...the safety of being able to lean on or against the walls or the comforts of knowing what the next familiar turn will bring.

What is even at the end of these human rat mazes anyhow? Cheese? If so, I would like to just buy a loaf…please? - smile.

22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034 sperm…more or less

August 7, 2011: Leaving Buenos Aires to go to Colonia was difficult but needed. I was on the verge of staying, to wait out the winter there and head north, south, east or west once those warmer sauna-like countries decided to share some degrees. I could see my shoe strings coming to life as they began to lace me into the city - not that it would be a bad thing…it is just that my Gilligan’s Island-like “3 hour tour” has somehow turned into a 2+ year tour with perhaps many more seasons to come.

Colonia in Uruguay is a great little place with a verbally interesting history, in combination of a visually appealing ex-colonial city luring bodies from all over the world to see this UNESCO site. My friend Monica from Spain and myself being from the United States are living proof that when you put some letters in front of some sight like UNESCO (even though we don't have a clue what it stands for)...people will come.

Once inside the old section of Colonia, the town ambushes you with restaurants, desperate money sucking museums and enough souvenirs’ that if a Chinese soldier was to replace each item “Made in China” they might have a force large enough to take over the entire continent.

The walking tour that I went on was interesting. Our guide seemed to be running a little bit late for the tour. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was on a powerful narcotic or if it was she finished enjoying a nice morning with a bus load of elderly German tourists who she picked up at the Karaoke bar from the night before. Her hair seemed to have a huge gigantic wad of some thick blob that looked like a sperm count of an estimated 22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034. It made the scene with Cameron Diaz in the move “Something about Mary” look like a dry run.

My next career move…a professional Hustler

August 6, 2011: The word “Hustler” is a noun. Encarta Dictionary’s definition is as follows. Hustler: a prostitute, especially a streetwalker or one who solicits in bars. It also states: a small-time operator who engages in illegal activities such as petty theft or illegal gambling. I am thinking more of the second part of the definition…the illegal gambling part to be more precise.
I have known for a while that I am gifted at the game, Yahtzee. What is Yahtzee? Yahtzeeonline.org said that “it was invented in 1954 by a Canadian couple who often played it with friends on their yacht.” The website also said, “the roots of the game go way back in game history. It is said to have been derived from a number of traditional dice games such as Puerto Rican game Genarala, and English games Cheerio and Poker Dice.” I will not quote the part that says…”it’s a simple game that is largely dependent on the players' luck.” This is not true…it isn’t…it just isn’t. Get a 3 year old throwing dice and they wouldn’t have a clue on what to do except for throw the dice against a wall or choke on them – good if you are losing…I suppose.

Yes, I might have lost a few games in my life in Yahtzee and I might not be champion of the world…but, with the skillz (yep, that is not a typo) that I do have, I could perhaps make a living off of it from fellow backpackers and friends that I meet in my travels.

I don’t say this without the numbers to back it up. Just within the past week I was able to continue to hold my championship title for Australia and I just added a new country to the list…Spain. I am not saying that they were easy to beat since they did challenge me…some. I am just saying that I am that good.

Now, I just need to start putting something tangible down so that when I win, there is something for me to gain. Perhaps I can first start off gambling for small items like coffee, tea, fake sugar tablets. But over time, work my way up to malaria pills or even McDonald vouchers. My goal would be to one day be playing on ESPN’s Yahtzee championship in Las Vegas so that I can be the one of the elite Yahtzee players sitting around a table supporting some strongly tinted aviators playing for millions.

Yahtzeeonline.org states that, “Currently at least 50 million games are sold each year.” With this many games in circulation, how could there not be a Yahtzee championship? Where is Don King when you need him? Yes, the average age of this hypothetical championship might be 12 years old, but really…it wouldn’t be taking candy from a baby…it would be more like taking money from a baby.

Until this happens, I will continue to practice whipping my friends. When they are tired of losing, I will just have to play it online. The best part of playing it online is that it will let me work on speeding up my decision making process if it one day becomes a timed event such as in the silly game, Chess.

If all fails with becoming the definition of Hustler that I am striving for…I guess I could resort to prostitution. Since I don’t care too much for bars, I could fill in the niche and be the small-time operator that solicits in coffee shops.

The Turdler Strikes!

August 1, 2011: 2 out of the 3 public toilets at my hostel were marked by the Turdler. I don’t know if the person does it to make a statement or some mental condition. He/she or shehe/heshe must have been doing toe touches while defecating to get it that high up on the once shinny white porcelain like that. This might be a good day for the maid to call in sick or come to work drunk.

The travelers here are quite talented and impressive…really impressive.

The sad thing is that I was thinking about going upstairs to get my camera so I could take a photo to show you…but thankfully for you and the mental trauma you might have sustained, I didn’t want to wake up my 3 roommates that have a sleeping schedule like 6 year olds.