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.

A bomb goes off in my roommates mouth

July 30, 2011: The last few days I have been wandering around Buenos Aires, stopping in and visiting old mansions, cathedrals and buildings mirroring those in France while lounging around plazas absorbing the way of life in this gargantuan city. This is clearly a nice tourist orientated city with beautiful people and things to see. It even has a great McDonalds with an excellent view from the full glass wall on the second floor overlooking the Plaza de la Republica making it a great spot for studying Spanish and people watching. With all this to write about in more detail, I have come to notice that most of the material I am writing about lately in my journals are directly related to what happens at the hostel.

American del Sur in Buenos Aires has been one of my favorite hostels in South America. It is not just the facilities but the amazing staff that works here. Though for some reason, this place seems to attract international entertainment on a daily basis whether you want it or not…and it is all included in the price of renting a bed.

Switching rooms yesterday, I no longer wake up to stars. Instead l woke up this morning hearing some splashing on the ground near my bed. I later noticed this clear thick liquid was on a direct path to my backpack, but fell short when a bomb when off in my roommates mouth. It would have struck my backpack if she would have had a better arc, but fortunately, the girl who was fully dressed in her prostitute-like stockings, missed.

For the next hour, I had the luxury of hearing wet belches. I worried that if I fell back asleep, I might have a dead roommate from choking in her bed that was cleverly transformed into a water bed – actually it was more like a…vomit bed.

I guess…I guess I was not that worried about her since I ended up falling back to sleep during my voluntary shift as I had my bed sheet covering my face to withstand the smell. She woke me up around 830am when she stumbled into the restroom, miraculously dodging the blast zone to release the 10 or so gallons that she somehow fit in her small frame. I felt that even though I did a bad job taking care of a person I never meet, my shift was over…so I headed out of the room that smelt like the stench of a filthy sobriety tank to enjoy some breakfast.

I was happy that I was able to eat this morning and even happier that my roommate was not on the top bunk above me. As for her…it is going to be a long day…a bomb did go off in her mouth and she lives to tell about it – no thanks to me.

Girl pulls up her shirt in bed to show me her two stars

July 28, 2011: I wasn’t going to post anything about the girl the other morning that showed me her 2 stars after lifting up her shirt – but, I just decide to modify my journal entry a bit and post it.

At 8am I shut off my alarm and headed to breakfast – after 30 minutes of pushing snooze. When I returned I noticed one of my 3 other roommates who got in quite late was awake. Sitting up to talk to me, she seemed to have been still impaired from a late night of celebrating her birthday that understandably morphed into an early morning.

She told me that she was worried about me since she saw that my bed was made, thinking that I never made it back from the Brazilian embassy yesterday. After about 40 seconds of conversation, she got all excited and wanted to show me “them” – I will take full blame…I asked if I could see them. Then there she went reaching for the bottom of her shirt and pulling it up and over “them”…her tattoos. She didn’t just have one star…she had two of them.

What is it about girls these getting stars? When I was younger I saw constellations of stars all the time while looking through the magazines my friend’s parents hid throughout the house – though they were so inappropriately photo shopped, covering the main thing a boy wants to see – needing to leave everything up to my imagination.

Now it seems to me that the star tattoo is becoming quite a popular tattoo, taking over the infamous red rose, tribal tattoo, barbed wire and even the Chinese signs. The advantage to the star though is that it has no boundaries. They find their way on chests, necks, backs, backsides, wrists and even the face such as the Belgian 18 year old decided to do one thoughtless night. She was a quitter thought…she stopped at a mere 56 stars.

Yes, I saw stars today, but today, I just saw two. I don’t think I will never understand tattoos…but who knows what tomorrow will bring.

(star photo pulled from http://weeklyworldnews.com/headlines/9062/girl-has-56-stars-tattooed-on-face/)

Attacked by magical street people wanting my backpack

July 23, 2011: I heard over the years about this magical “disappearing backpack trick” being performed by street people, but never seen it in action. Though today, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to see this risky feat starring…me. I was even selected out of the crowd of others outside the main bus terminal in Buenos Aires, Argentina. In a way…I felt…special.

After a 4 hour bus ride from Rosario on chairs as large as my grandparents Lazy Boy’s, Cecile and I stepped off the yellow brick road as we walked from the main bus terminal to the subway. Three weeks ago we were informed that these 2 blocks were dangerous…and I thought…what can possibly happen in 2 blocks? I happened to discover…a lot.

It was 3pm and the daylight was working in our favor. The walkway littered with multitudes of street people selling anything and buying everything ranging from clothing, TV antennas, watches and anything you thought you would never need.

ACT 1: The sidewalk began to narrow, funneling us like cattle. I noticed that I somehow obtained a grayish thick substance on my hand. At first, I thought it was the excrement from an extremely large bird or flying hippopotamus. I then noticed the back of my pants and backpack were also hit quite badly, quickly thinking and quickly eliminating the thought that I sat in something. It all clicked…we were being attacked by the magical street people.

Highly alert, things became as clear as a professional fighter in the ring. My backpack morphed into a turtle shell attaching strongly to my body, making it difficult for anyone to remove it, while giving my rolling backpack a rock climbers grip.

In order for this magical trick to properly work, you need to stop and let a selected street person that is placed there to help you clean up the mess. This is when the involuntary transfer of your belongings takes place. It all happened just like clockwork. It was a classical textbook theft that was taking place and ACT 2 started right on Que.

ACT 2: A women motioned that I had stuff all over me. I thanked her as I continued to walk in the funnel knowing others were close by…waiting…waiting for me to make a mistake so that they can make a dash into the crowded masses and side streets with my most important material weight.

Making contact with Cecile, I informed her that we were being attacked. She has also heard about this trick since her friend was hit in Buenos Aires, unfortunately losing that battle.

There were so many people around us it was becoming difficult to digest what was going on. Cecile and I stuck together, not stopping. Arriving at the entrance of the subway station we took the battle underground. We made it to an open area where some small designated shops and restaurants were. Putting ourselves at a vantage point, we now had an unobstructed view, being able to see if the street people were going to come down after us…and this they did.

ACT 3: While Cecile opened my rolling backpack for some baby butt wipes, I scanned the area, watching her back as we communicated about what was taking place. Then there it was…a man comes up to me and asked if I wanted a tissue as he pulls a tissue out of his pocket, dangling it. At first, I said “no thank you” in Spanish as he continued to hold the tissue out, acting as if he was trying to help. This is where I was supposed to take off my turtle shell and begin the cleanup process – completing the magical trick of the disappearing backpack.

I didn’t move from against the wall, grabbed it and thanked him…wiping my already clean hands. This is when I think he knew, that he was compromised. Stepping back, the man stood there looking at me. There was no reason for him to have come from down the stairs. Placing a quick call, he walked back up the subways stairs he just came down…leaving another suspicious man leaning against a pole, pretending that he didn’t know the guy.
ACT 4: The street people seemed to be working in a 3 person team. Next up was with the women who originally informed me above the ground about the mess on my backpack. Her credit card would not work to get her into the area where the ATMs were – hinting if I would help swipe her in with my card. This is an act that I was not familiar with. I didn’t help her, but it did hurt my feelings that they insulted my intelligence.

Noticing a police officer who was not that far away, Cecile and I moved closer to him so that it would give us a better spot to evaluate how this situation was evolving.

Once making it on the subway, I could do nothing but laugh and feel as if I was just earned a bonus backpack - it should have been stolen. But, not this time…not this time. There will be a time that someone will get my turtle shell and take home the prize…I am sure of it. But to get it from me…they have to have a bigger head or simply be brutally forward.

Howler monkeys drops stink bombs and golden showers from above

July 20, 2011: While visiting Colonia Pellegrini the past 5 days, we located a family of howler monkeys that had this habit of going out of their way so they can publicly go #1 and #2 in front of us voyeurs. There is nothing like taking photos of a monkeys sphincter as is opens and pushing out some hot steamy stink bombs while giving us golden showers.

Colonia Pellegrini has a whopping population of 1,000 people. I could not imagine living in a town that is this small in addition to being as flat as Iowa and marshy as Louisiana. To get here was not as easy as jumping on one bus. It was more like jumping on 5 buses including a nice nap at a bus station. From the bus over here we even caught a glimpse of vultures that enjoyed putting on a free aerial show resembling a slow moving tornado they floated above the trees in the distance.

Hiking, driving and boating around this place that contains all of this amazing wildlife, like the world’s largest rodent, caiman, spotted cats, otters, owls, armadillos, animals I dont know the name for, boring deer, piranha road kill and eagles without hair loss…made it worth our bus sores. Seeing certain animals in the wildlife that are not common for me in North America except for at the zoo…makes experiencing regions such as this, that more rewarding.

“The Man” verses 5 Hippies and 1 Frenchie

July 11th, 2011: “The Man” behind the immigration desk in Paraguay with the legal magical stamp for your passport didn’t want to let Cecile or 5 other hippies into his country after I was easily granted access from this Paraguayan troll. The only two differences between Cecile, the others and myself was that my mother vaginally released me in a different Geographic location and that I didn’t go to Brazil the other day to see Iquazu from “that” angle. Sadly...as the picture Cecile took from the Brazilian side shows (above)...that angle seemed to be a very very very nice angle.

My decision to not go and see the Brazilian side of Iquazu Falls wasn’t that I am against the Brazilian bikini wax. It was legally based because I needed a Visa and Cecile didnt.

After baby talking back and forth over the counter with the Paraguayan troll on Cecile’s behalf…it seemed that he was playing a game of “Simon Says.” Everyone but myself needed to cross the bridge and get a Brazilian entry stamp and exit stamp. The other Immigration officer sitting next to him was looking down shaking his head as he knew the others were being forced into playing a game nobody wanted to play…saying that he couldn’t do anything because “The Man” was his boss.

Due to the bus needing to continue its journey, I pulled our backpacks from underneath the bus at the border crossing. While standing with our packs we were informed that 3 of the 5 hippies received the magic stamp. Rushing back to immigration as the bus was pulling away…the soon to be fired Immigration officer applied the magic stamp after a little more begging and pleading.

Busting out the door as if we just robbed the place we stopped the bus as we tossed our bags back into the stomach of the iron beast and continued our trip into Paraguay.

A trend is beginning to appear…schedule more time when crossing the border in Paraguay, just in case you are potentially selected to play a forced game of “Simon Says.”

The “Million Man March” at Iquazu Falls?

July 10, 2011: Traveling to the northeastern region of Argentina to take in the views of the infamous - almost king of waterfalls, Iguazu Falls, I obviously had high expectations. I did not just expect to see an uncountable number of gallons shooting off great heights but I also had a vision of the “Million Man March” along the trails leading to the falls.

The millions of individuals that I envisioned making it to the falls the days I was there, never transpired – ironically, just like the Million Man March.

Exploring the waterfalls on the designated trails and seeing some of the surrounding area has unfortunately curdled my brain. It will from now on be hard to appreciate another waterfall again – unless someone is jumping off it. Seeing Iguazu will definitely trim my “Waterfall Expense Fund” since when there is some sort of tour to see a dinky pencil like waterfall…I will be more apt to forego it.

At the base of the Iguazu, there was a trip in which you could take a boat to bring you extremely close to the suicidal gallons of water dropping from above. For the select few who beat the odds, they received more than the 12 minute tour, such as those Americans who died in March. Supposedly the skipper of the boat had a heart attack and hit a rock capsizing the US Minnow. It sadly killed those who did not make it to an exposed rock in time.

“Did I take boat ride?” you ask. Please…don’t asking silly questions. The only injury I sustained was that my mouth tore at the seams with the smile it produce.

There seemed to be an unruly gang of Coatis running this region - a striped tailed mammal that is visually and behaviorally related to the thieving, raccoon. They effectively terrorize the park visitors, quietly waiting for the exact moment when someone was not paying attention, so that they can steal your $5,023 USD overpriced park sandwich or other edible human treats – kids are included when I say, “edible human treats”.

The infestation of these animals are so bad, that an employee had to be hired with the mental and physical strength to put fear into these rouge beasts, chasing them around with a wooden stick all day while he oversaw the cleanliness of the messy travelers.

I think it would have been more effective if he could have given the Coatis an eye washing with some mace or even set them up with some electrified food…but, what do I know…I have a degree in business and I am not anywhere near the level of the Coati Whisper.

Besides the Coatis, I was fortunate enough to see some monkeys, overgrown cat sized tailless rats and a Toucan flying in the extreme eye squinting distance.

Round and Round the bus goes…

July 7th, 2011: Round and round the bus goes, when we will stop and become legal nobody knows! A simple one hour bus ride to cross the border back into Argentina became a five hour bus ride. Asking 2 times did not put a spark in our brain-dead drivers mind as we went flying by immigration out of Paraguay and into Brazil. After all of the confusion settled, we were too far into Brazil to just get off the bus and jump on another one.

Reaching the Argentina border, we were then placed onto a bus going back to Paraguay. Finally arriving back in Paraguay, we had our passports quickly stamped and jumped on a different bus…again, heading for our original destination, Puerto Iguazu – home of Iguazu Falls.

From now on, I will have to sit closer to the driver so I can conveniently remind him every 5 minutes, until he cannot wait to kick me off the bus.

Jumped out of a moving bus with Nitros

July 16, 2011: After seeing the 2nd largest dam in the world outside Ciudad del Este, I was on the hunt for the 2nd largest dam chicken in the city, Ciudad del Esta. Since Paraguay is the second most poorest country in South America, it seems that economically challenged countries naturally contain plenty of economical roadside rotisserie chicken restaurants. They sort of complement each other. I will turn Colonel Sanders and his mutated beasts at Kentucky Fried Chicken down any day for some local home grown chicken – without the hormones.

For some odd reason, when you desire something…it is plentiful. But, when it is time to act on your desires…you can’t find it. Walking everywhere in this town, I found nothing but a place with something that resembled a dried shriveled granny chicken.

Pretty much giving up, on the bus back to my hotel, I noticed a few rows of chickens speared horizontally. Quickly telling Cecile, we somewhat quickly decided to exit the moving bus…but I did so without telling the driver. Dropping someone off moments prior…I didn’t want to bother the driver to have him stop again, so I happened to make it out the door in stunt man fashion. It seemed as if the driver just pushed the Nitrous Oxide button under his dash prior to me taking my last step off bus. I somehow landed in a forced run, inches from some raised cement pylons - potentially painful raised cement pylons. Cecile was smart enough to wait for our driver to stop.

Mental Note: Don’t jump out of a moving bus…that has Nitrous Oxide.

Can a terd freeze in your intestines…

July 5, 2011: Can a terd freeze in your intestines while still alive? This is the thought that came across my mind as I sat in the coldest room to date on my South American adventures. When you can blow smoke in your very own room without having to light anything legal or illegal, you can safely say that it is…cold. You would expect this in Antarctica, but not in Paraguay.

I ask the man at the reception desk for a heater - a word that I even looked up to make sure I didn’t mess my request up. He responded, shaking his head up and down, saying something I did not quite understand…but, the up and down motion he made was the international sign for, “yes”. Looking up the word “blanket” just to make sure he didn’t say, “blanket,” it assured me that the word I didn’t understand was definitely not, “blanket”. When he came and knocked at my door about 20 minutes later, I held in a massive hit of cold air…opening the door…standing there, he was holding a big stack of…”more blankets.”

The local coffee shop ended being my emergency shelter during my visit to Encarnacion. I officially thank them that I will not yet be an amputee prematurely due to frostbite.

A few months ago I hiked with Jesus…today I saw Jesus

July 5, 2011: About 6 months ago in the Lakes district of Chile I met a man that looked like Jesus and hiked with him (BLOG POST: Hiking with Jesus). The past 2 days, I have been exploring the ruins of the Jesuit missions in Argentina and Paraguay and the last place I went to see, happened to be, Jesus. As with most ruins…I am glad that I saw them, but I don’t get too excited over small amounts of rubble that you have to put heavy amounts upon your imagination.

Meeting a young woman who didn’t have enough of the local currency to see Jesus after visiting the ruins in Trinidad…I exchanged some money for her so that we could all see Jesus together. Estimating her age and by what gravity has not yet done to her, I would say that she was about 20 years old. This person should be a role model for other young women that you can travel alone. But if you do decide to travel alone…you can follow her footsteps but don’t follow her actions. Such as…carrying around your laptop under your arm while exploring in a protective sleeve, or say…leave it on some stairs while you look around the ruins expecting that nobody will happily borrow it.

I am unable to give her the gift of common sense, but I did ask her if she owned a backpack for her computer hoping that it would, compute.

Would you like some Cockroach’s with your coffee?

July 2, 2011: Eating a late lunch after a 12 hour night bus to Posadas, a border town next to Paraguay, I decided to skip a solid dinner and enjoy a liquid dinner. My dinner consisted of cup of coffee, while Cecile ate an excitingly healthy salad containing loads of nasty tomatoes and green stuff at this Italian restaurant.

During Cecile’s meal, she looked up at me a bit terrified, telling me that there was something big on my arm. Looking over, it happened to be a nice sized cockroach enjoying an elevated view of the dinner table as I drank my coffee. Brushing it off onto the floor, she scurried under one of the tables. At first, I thought that the cockroach might have fell on me while this homeless man handing out cards for money. I then noticed that the cockroach’s child was looking at me, at about eye level on the wall, waving its antennas as it tried to communicate with me…perhaps upset that I interrupted its class on the art of begging from foreigners.

The rest of the evening, I happened to feel like an imaginary jungle gym for the cockroach community as my mind would falsely sense them crawling up under my pants on the back of my legs.

My two high pitched squealing backpacking lesbian roommates…

July 2, 2011: I have a feeling that I might have been traveling for so long I am having a hard time distinguishing the difference between traveling and living. One week has passed and not much feels mentally different from here (Argentina) or there (United States) – besides the native language being Spanish and that I had two high pitched squealing backpacking lesbian roommates, I so happened to walk in on the other day while they were performing a metallic bond under the pile of blankets in my dorm room.

Traveling with a lot more clothes now than before my break, I find that I am wearing the same stuff even more now than before. It has been over one week and I am still wearing the same pair of pants and socks (miraculously passing the smell test) and just changed into my second t-shirt two days ago (which unfortunately for others, didn’t pass the smell test – even after day one). Being the excellent problem solver that I am, I changed deodorant and the problem was fixed – maybe – just maybe, I should use this example to show my problem solving abilities during an interview when I decide to get back to the workforce.

From now on, I should be getting at least 5 days wear out of each shirt – reducing labor and reducing the harmful chemicals that are emitted into the environment every time an item is washed, thus reducing my carbon print –blah – blah – blah. For everyone who knows me…yes, I am lying…it is more about the cost of someone washing my clothes.

“You are a strong leader,” she whispers in my ear.

June 29, 2011: “You are a strong leader” she whispers in my ear. Truth or Lie? I am not sure, but it made me feel good as I would step on my partner’s feet with my wide mammoth shoes as I attempted to perfect my infantile tango skills after finally making out of the Atlanta airport. Now back in Buenos Aires, I am ready to get readjusted to tramping around South America.

The others 35 individuals, who were not taking Tango classes and actually performing the vertical Tango, seemed to be a…unique crowd. I am not going to mention the anorexic looking prostitute with a leather mini skirt, but I will be happy to mention the Asian woman who might have been a retired bar-girl from South East Asia who is now working her trade, picking up older men while supporting a one piece red short puffy miniskirt with a hoodie. When she would raise her arms the air she would give all of us a free peep show, seeing her complete black non-granny panties. Okay…a slight exaggeration…92% of her black non-granny panties. Thank goodness she shaved!

Air travel + Volcanic ash = Free night stay on Airport floor

June 28th, 2010: The 3 hours that I needed to burn before my flight was to depart Atlanta to go to Buenos Aires, turned into an all nighter at the airport. You can’t beat that…a free night at the airport. It seems that the ashes from a volcano that erupted in Chile over 2 weeks ago is still causing some disruptions.

Standing in a line resembling in length of those during the Energy Crises or the Great Depression, we were issued a food voucher (2 for me…my smile earned me an extra one) and some free hygiene products in travel sizes that are portioned for the needs for someone who is the unfortunate size of an unborn fetus. It is good that they give us all deodorant to prevent the plane from smelling like a cattle truck, but I didn't have much need for the folding purple brush or XL t-shirt that could be used as a grown mans nightgown.

While in line, I met a woman from Argentina that has made this layover even better than it already was. If all goes well I will be in flying out at 7am. With a little rub of my rabbit’s foot…all should go well.

On the road again…almost.

June 27, 2011: On the road again…almost. I left Detroit, but I am not quite yet in Buenos Aires. Sitting at the airport in Atlanta, Georgia, I have 3 hours of my life to burn until I am officially back to being the butcher as I continue to hack up the Spanish language throughout my travels.

Sadly, one of my goals during my break was to study Spanish a few hours a day, but it ended up being at best, a few minutes a day - or till my legs became numb as I would multitask resting on the modified seat, in the restroom.

Today I left my childhood home in typical fashion…awake almost all night and not ready until 11 minutes after my intended departure. I thought that since I been home for a few months, I would have been ready days in advance, eating Bon Bons in 60’s-like fashion while I soak in a bath of dirty bubbles . It was a nice...thought.

Meeting up with my friend Cecile for a few weeks in Buenos Aires, I need to be extra aware of my surroundings and thievery since she has obviously been given a curse somewhere while living her life. Every vacation, there seems to be something that happens – in story-like fashion. It ranges from getting her backpack stolen twice at restaurants (a few days ago in Buenos Aires and her first time in Peru) to flying on a mechanically questionable plane that results in unexpected mid route hotel stay.

If we were traveling in the jungles of South America’s interior, I would recommend a visit to the village Shaman…but since we are not, I can only recommend the power of an unlucky one-legged rabbits foot or the possibility of subcontracting the use of someone else’s guardian angel.

Surgeon releases me from my medical chains…w/o probation

June 21, 2011: My Surgeon did not have the power to miraculously heal me by a wave of his hands over my wounds as Jesus was seen doing when he was tramping around the world…nor did he have the power of a Shaman in the jungles of South America to heal me with his powers during a drug induced hallucination. But, my surgeon had the ability to heal me with the assistance of modern technology, an assortment of stainless steel surgically tools and the legal rights to cut someone with a knife and not go to jail for doing it.

Today, I was given the green light by my surgeon to go back to South America, releasing me from my medical chains w/o probation…for the second time. Yes…the second time. My doctor informed me last week after a thorough inspection with an extremely attractive intern looking over his shoulder as my “lower” cheeks were embarrassingly pulled apart, that I will be able to fly out on the 27th…assuring me that the residuals I was experiencing was normal and would go away in time.

Going by the absurd 1-10 pain measurement system and on how I was continuing to…leak…I didn’t believe him and I didn’t believe that a miracle was about to take place. I felt that there was no way I would be able to confidently break away from my medical chains. Though today, one week later…I can confidently say that I am physically ready, as I am almost 90% healed with the other 10% hoping to take place within the next week and at the latest, as sit on a plane flying back to Buenas Aires, Argentina.

T - Minus 6 days and counting…

Exploring NYC with my "1st day in a prison" after shower limp

June 16, 2011: New York City is a metropolis that looks more like a modified cement rat maze than a concrete jungle, locking in an estimated 8,175,333 homo sapiens who scurry around here on a daily basis. Thankfully the people who live here participating in the so called “Rat Race” don’t at all resemble this furry large rodent, because if they did…I might have to start an organization to legalize bestiality.

How can a city like New York City magnetize so many attractive women is something I don’t think I will ever understand – and I once foolishly thought Medellin in Colombia had the largest consolidation of the most attractive women in the world.

Staying with my friends in Brooklyn and Spanish Harlem I ended up being extremely busy as they would either fake illnesses or legitimately request time off of work to show me around. From my visits to museums, fataurants (aka restaurants), an animal prison and general urban exploration, I found myself moving a bit slow as I continue recover from my surgery and the residuals that go with it – though happy that I will not always support these extra large leg hair pulling vaginal Band-Aids that women so unfortunately have to wear throughout their younger “leaking” years.

By the end of the day (10 of the 12 days) I was typically exhausted, supporting a limp that would strongly resemble a man after his 1st day in a prison shower.

On the weekends I would hang out at my friend’s house on the Jersey Shore, failing to see anybody who looked like Snooki from the questionable famous reality show, “The Jersey Shore.” One night, we were going to attempt to make contact with women such as these at a bar called DJ’s. But, after a hard day of Jamin’ at the farmers market, our 1.25 hour power nap turned into a 12 hour power sleep. I was unfortunately unable to maximize my purchase of dark tinted aviator sunglasses and a tight white tank top to expose my huge two-toned biceps to blend in to ward off any potential low IQ Jersey boys from ruining my scientific study of these Jersey girls - who live in the state that is considered to be the “Armpit of America.”

My visit was great and I need to thank Priceline.com and my friends for literally getting me out of my IKEA hospital bed. I will definitely miss them and the one and only NYC rooftop barbeque. Someday I look forward to ”when I get back,” in the United States for good so that I might be able to reminisce with people that I have known more than 2.5 days. Until then, I will not be experiencing this till I am fully netted by a fish in the sea.

Priceline.com are LIARS!

June 30th, 2011: At 1:21am while laying in comforts of my bed on a nice dose of Vicodin - happily supporting the pharmaceutical industry, I did some research to see the going rate of airfare to visit some friends in the US prior to going back to South America. Still not feeling well from my surgery, I was teetering on the imaginary fence on whether I should or shouldn’t go to concrete urban jungle of New York City, deciding to leave it up to Priceline.com to make the decision for me.

Seeing that Priceline.com was advertising that you can get up to 50% off airfare…I thought that I would place a bid for more than 50% off thinking that no airline would accept it, giving me the satisfaction of trying - sort of trying is more like it. Typing in a price that I was willing to pay, I clicked on the icon to place this ridiculous bid. The computer started to churn, making me think that I was definitely going to get rejected…confirming that I should be staying home to continue building my internal army of white soldiers to fight off infections and my internal non-unionized construction company to patch up my wounds.

The results were in…my bid was – accepted!? “What?!” I thought. Priceline lied to me…they led me to believe that they offer rates that are up to 50% off…not over 50% off. Giving them my credit card information prior to my bid, I was unable to retract it and get my money back. Happily but hesitantly, Priceline.com made my decision for me…I will be leaving in 3 days for a 12 day trip to New York City!

Top 2 most visited blog posts revealed – you sickos!

May 22, 2011: So how do I know that most people who read my blog do not have the slightest interest in anything about my off beat travel stories or photos? It is because I have the ability with Google to find out what internet searches are done to find my blog and what blog posts are being viewed.

Some interesting searches from my fellow readers are: dunkey intercourse, donkey intercourse, intercourse between man and donky video, woman and donkey intercource, man intercourse donkey, women intercourse with donkey, intercourse of donkey with women, colombia donkey virginity, intercourse with donkey, donkey sexual intercourse, donky with woman sexual intercourse, man sex female donkey, women in sexual intercourse with donkey, intercourse of donkey with donkey, donkeys north coast of Colombia, photo of donkey intercourse, venezuela donkey intercourse, good girls hostel, who sleeps bottomless with someone, what do girls sleep in, bottomless travel girl hostel, is it ok to sleep bottomless, girls who sleep bottomless, hostel girls sleeping photo, meryl streep bridges over madison + boob and hikingwithjesus.com.

I think most of the people who clicked on my site have been somewhat disappointed – that is including the person who wanted to hike with Jesus. My site has no photos of a man mounting a donkey with nice curves or of a woman who enjoys a 3 foot long donkey penis from time to time. I don’t even have one single disturbing photo of a girl who is sleeping in a hostel - wow, what people at home crave while their loved ones are not paying attention amazing me.

For over two years of blogging some of my travel stories as I tramp around South America…I must sadly say that the most visited posts are…(drum roll)…

#1: Do good girls sleep bottomless…in a hostel
#2: Sexual intercourse with a donkey

How many people does it take to go up a grown man’s anus?

May 20, 2011: Owning a set of rubber wheels and an abundance of frequent flyer miles that can magically whisk me away to friends’ houses, tents and hideouts throughout the continental 48 states and Canada without the need for red sequin shoes, Toto or an F5 Tornado to pull me from a city that at times feels worse than Kansas…and I am still unable to visit any of them.

An item that has needed some attention for an extended period of time has seemed to put me into a human body shop with similar qualities of an automotive body shop, taking much longer than anticipated for repair. I now seem to be anchored by a medical chain in Detroit…that is painfully connected to my anus.

After seeing 1 receptionist and 1 doctor in Colombia about 15 months ago, I could have taken care of my medical issues at a cost of an estimated $40 USD with same day service. Taking 12.045638 seconds of thinking, I decided against a suggested procedure by Dr. Big Belly as my mind recalled my prior visits with the Colombian torture specialist, Dr. Feel Good, who worked out of the same office. She was the doctor who previously attempted to fix a problem that I wrote about in my previous blog posts, Time to visit Dr. Feel Good to take care of “it” and the post Round 2 with Dr. Feel Good.

Back in the US and 72 days after my initial visit to the hospital, I am now on the road to recovery. I managed to log 4 visits and had direct contact with 7 receptionists, 10 nurses, 3 interns, 3 doctors, 1 anesthesiologist and 1 x-ray tech…resulting in being issued a human work order which included a skin graft, some external repair and some internal repair on some plumbing. Let me remind you…in Colombia, I could have had this fixed the same day after seeing 1 receptionist and 1 doctor. Which method of repair would have been better? I am not a member on a medical board nor do I have any medical qualifications, but I would have to go with the method which included the skills of an anesthesiologist offering a ticket to La La Land.

It is looking good that I will be back on the trail June 28th, at 87.00345% strength as I will continue to tramp around South America and wherever else this adventure happens to take me. So…how many people does it take to go up a grown man’s anus? 25 people...not including those who showed up while I was in La La Land.

Detroit…home of Dora the Destroyer and the Model T

May 14, 2011: I am still in Allen Park spending time with family while touring around visiting friends trying to discover new places and activities in the process. From seeing city streets with crucified baby dolls to accidently stumbling on the Detroit Hoedown where the people watching extravaganza drew a large amount Eminem-like gangsta cowboy wannabes and prostitute-like high boot wearing hoes to one convenient location.

Detroit and its surrounding area continues to keep me somewhat busy, learning that some of the best activities are those that are those that take a little research. There is nothing better than watching ink stained women on skates at a roller derby supporting names such as Honey Suckit, Dora the Destroyer and Elle McFearsome. There position requirements range from issuing solid bruise producing, breast popping, skate lifting blocks with other individuals whose objective is to avoid these women as they attempt to slink though the odd mix of Amazonian-like women and Prom queens on a circular cement flat track to accumulate points in a smack down fashion.

Other worthwhile use of my irreplaceable breaths the past few weeks was visiting Greenfield Village which is an enormous outdoor museum that helps me appreciate innovation while driving around in a 1914 Ford Model T. Some of the machinery I saw that was supposed to represent the old days, though sadly looked more like the modern days in countries throughout Asia and South America.

With 1.5 months left in the US before returning to South America, I realize that my vision of what was going to take place here was more of a dream than reality, with nobody to blame but myself. People are complicated and that certainly includes…me.

Today I drove a golf ball into my wiener

May 6, 2011: To lower my chances of embarrassment on an upcoming trip to a golf course, my father and I headed to a driving range to hit a bucket of balls. That trip ended up being a great reminder that golfing is a dangerous sport.

My first few practice swings seemed to be quite horrific as the golf ball would come back at me in slow motion after I would somehow hit the golf ball into the divider (that is there to protect others) instead of far out onto the course - causing me to take evasive action ducking and weaving to avoid injury. Other individuals quickly learned to stay away as my golf balls would magically appear in back of me, coming close to them as they took a break on the benches off to the side of the tees.

I was about 99% successful dodging the 1.620 ounce (45.93 gram) golf balls I hit at myself. There was only one ball that I successfully failed to dodge and that one resulted in a solid blow to my wiener as it hit the wall and came right back at me. My dad was standing there watching this happen in real time trying to figure out what I am doing wrong. For me, this shot was in slow motion – unfortunately…not slow enough.

Today, I drove a golf ball into my wiener and I am somehow still alive to tell you about it. Perhaps I am here for a reason…perhaps it is to educate golfers about the hazards of golfing. Next time I make it out to the practice facilities, I might have to consider being the only one out there wearing a helmet, a mouth piece and of course, a safety cup…to protect my wiener.

Note: Photo pulled from golfswinggurureview.com

A visit to a local penitentiary for Senior Citizens

April 22, 2011: I paid a visit to a past neighbor of mine who was convicted of being "old" and is now residing at a senior penitentiary serving life without payroll. It cannot be appealed…guilty she is. When you are immobile and in the 80’s, you can’t claim innocence and this she doesn’t do, accepting full responsibly for her minds lack of control over her the movements of her body that has unjustly gone on strike.

When entering the facility, I passed a multitude of breathing corpses…some more coherent than others. I can still hear the phlegm filled coughs and curdling heart beating screams. A large amount of the prisoners seemed to have a lack of neck muscles, preventing them to look at nothing more than their Velcro shoes and enlarged muffin tops as their heads hang down from their neck.

For some, they dream of a visit from loved ones. For others…it is a visit from Death in which they patiently wait. Sadly, they seem to be forgotten about by both. When a lot of us spend our whole lives running from Death and even those who love us, at this age a visit from either one would seem to be a blessing.

I don’t want to get old and I know that there is no way to avoid it. But, when I do get to a nice ripe ole age…I hope my memory mirrors a goldfish as I swim around from one end of my cell-like room to other end forgetting what I see every lap.

Please note: Photo of the old crusty woman was pulled from redreporter.com

Detroit: 124 international tourists a year…

April 17th, 2011: Detroit city happens to get about 124 international tourists a year. Last week, 3 of those 124 international tourists were friends of mine that stayed with me as I attempted to provide them with a snapshot of Detroit and the surrounding area. Being treated amazing well during my travels in South America by the locals and my friends, it was now my turn to happily host a group.

Detroit is hyped as being one of the most dangerous places in the US. Detroit even made Forbes #1 most miserable city in the US a few years back due to having the highest rate of violent crime and the 2nd highest unemployment rate. This is okay if you are a law enforcement officer such as Robocop or a rapper like Eminem. But, for the average obese Detroit grown native, it is not good if you are too scared to leave the confinement of your very own home, forcing you to watch reality shows while you eat Bon Bons all day as you go about disturbing your twins or girls out of boredom.

During my friends visit, I gave them a whirlwind tour to try to give them a snapshot of Detroit. From shooting handguns (a Colt 45 and a Beretta), visiting a working Ford Motor Company factory to watch the F150 pickup trucks grow up on the assembly line, strolling through some museums and seeing one of the most fascinating parts of Detroit…the modern day roman-like decay.

It was brought to my attention that there was a once fancy theater during the late 1920’s in downtown Detroit, which was barbarically converted into a parking garage. Wanting to gain access, we planned to just walk in but the chain linked gates were locked preventing us from an easy entry.

Heading to the security desk inside the adjoining building, there was a uniformed male security guard sitting at a control desk that was watching over the buildings decaying state. The “female card” was played, having my French friend Cecile ask him about us going in to take some photos, laying on the heavy French accent. The man proved that he was not the stereotypical overly testosterone filled male clouding his intelligence, not falling for our strategy.

The security guard even called us on or weak tactics, noting how we had the girl ask him when there were 3 others…all guys. We were busted, though it did give us a ticket to the 6th floor to see the property manager, Betty (name changed to protect her identity). Even though the “female card” was compromised, we were confident that the “male card” would work to grant us a lawful entry and…it did.

Looking at something like this parking garage was surreal. It is amazing to think that Detroit was once a beautiful thriving city. Throughout most of Detroit you can still see the ruins confirming its current struggles and pasts glory. From the streets that remind you of a modern day ghost town to the industrial areas that look as if it was on the outskirts of an atomic blast, the conclusion can easily be made…Detroit is a...historic dump.

*Please note: Photo of theater (before/after) courtesy of Wikipedia and the Detroit/shooting photos are courtesy of Cecile