Oh, Canada

I find that I am a very unconvincing liar when I am hungover. I usually look depressed and more often than not smell vaguely homeless, which was certainly the case two days ago when Canadian border officials interrogated me at length just outside of Blaine, Washington.
The official in question was an imposing middle aged woman with a curt manner of speaking and a gaze like an executioner. Over the course of the next 30 minutes she would make me go from feeling completely innocent to feeling like I had somehow been a key player in Hitler's Nazi Germany.
"So, how long will you be staying in Canada?"
"Uh...19 days," I responded.
"And how are you getting back?"
"Uh...I don't know....quick shuttle?"
"Do you have a return ticket?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, uh, I guess I just don't plan that far ahead."
Swing and a miss. "Strike one!" called the umpire as the woman shot me a gaze like I had just tried to feel up her 16 year-old daughter. She retreated to her desk, told me to sit down, and after about 15 minutes (at this point everyone in the bus was waiting for me) came back.
"Ok, Mr. Wetzler, tell me what it is you do back home in Washington."
"Uh...I'm unemployed."
"And where do you live?"
"With my parents."
Low, breaking-ball inside. "Strike two!" This woman was absolutely owning me. Every question she asked had my eyes searching nervously for answers and looking extremely suspicious despite the fact that I basically had nothing to hide. I was innocent. Not guilty! But she had me feeling quite the contrary.
"Ok, Mr. Wetzler," she began again, "here's what we're going to do. I'm going to let you into Canada, but only on the condition that you do not work, do not go to school, and that you get the fuck out of here by February 20th."
She actually said "get the fuck out"*.
Then she pulled out a piece of paper that had the same things written on it: "Cannot work, cannot study, must leave by February 20th," folded it up, and stapled it inside my passport along with a vibrant blue stamp that said, "This Guy is an Asshole. Canada Rules."
"What an absolute sweetheart," I thought to myself. Christ, I might've even asked out the young damsel had the scenario been slightly different, say, one in which she wasn't verbally hack-sawing my legs off at the knees.
Which prompts me to ask you this, Canada: "Where is the GD love?" We're neighbors. We're supposed to be homies. We exist so that you guys can say, "Hey, at least I'm not American," and you guys exist so that we can say, "Canadians are dirty heathens." I mean, give me a break. I'm not a bad guy, and I'm not even that big of a liar. I'm not doing any of the things the woman told me not to do; I didn't put up ads this morning on Craigslist: Victoria, looking for work, and I'm not typing this blog from a cozy, well-lit cubby at the University of Victoria.
And I'm definitely not staying till February 20th. I'm staying till June.

- Boosh Clown

*She actually did not.

Ushuaia

I would like to formally apologize for the recent lull in blog activity. But I do have an excuse: I am Hella South. I am in Ushuaia, one of the most southerly towns in South America. It is approximately as far south of the equator as Anchorage, Alaska, is north. It is a mythical land of polar bears and blue-headed boobies, a land of seal-blubber parkas and whale-bone canoes.
The good thing about being so far south (see: Souf) is this: unless I am to dip my supple hindquarters into the fridgid waters of the Atlantic and attempt to swim to Antarctica, I can't go much further. Which means I have to go north. Which means I have to go to Buenos Aires. Which means I have to go home.
Plus, I saw a penguin yesterday.
Most of you are probably wondering how my mental health is holding up. I have been on the road for quite some time, and lately have been traveling on my own. It is, judging by my last blog entry, a fair question. I cannot at this point give you a full psychological report, but I can say this: the hippie count is somewhere between "Low" and "Nonexistent." Which is thrilling. Yes, friends, it would appear that hippies do not particularly care for cold weather, an agreeable phenomenon for whose explanation I have a variety of hypotheses:
1) In a tropical climate, warm air and languid breezes offer plenty of opportunity for armpit sniffing, an activity hippies are known to enjoy with particular zeal. Vice versa, cold climates offer very little opportunity for armit sniffing, as one must cover himself in a parka or some other kind of heat-conserving garment.
2) "Reggae Riddims" are popular on the beach. They are not popular, however, when the beach is 14 degrees and dotted with ice floes.
3) There is very little marijuana this far south. Indeed, it would probably be easier to find and smoke some kind of hallucinagenic lychen than it would be to find pot.
4) The only drum circles here are done by the natives right before they go out to sea to ritualistically hunt and kill gray whales. Anyone wearing tie-dye is harpooned.
As you can see, this is not an environment particularly suited to "free spirits." In fact, it is an environment not really suited to anything but grizzly bears and people that are "fucking gnarly." Hippies are not gnarly. They are docile. The ideal environment for a hippie is 72 degrees F, beach hammock, Peter Tosh CD, and ganja. If the ganja is plentiful and there is no deodorant for a 1-2 mile radius, all the better. Hippies do not like adverse conditions. They like to "take it easy," "go with the flow," and they especially like to "chill." Why is it then, I ask, that hippies are associated with "overcoming adversity," especially through activities like non-violence? Why would they be associated with anything requiring mental competence or physical strain when their keenest abilities seem to lie in fashioning bongs out of apples and weaving hemp necklaces? It is downright puzzling, and I will not attempt to provide a concrete answer just in this post. I will, however, say this: the song "Legalize It" by Peter Tosh is not about marijuana. It is about laziness. It is about sloth. It is about the soul's right to retreat from society and live in a world dominated by tofu and Manu Chao CD's. A world dominated by "peace" and "love."
But in Ushuaia, there is no time for peace and love. Indeed, there doesn't need to be. There are no drugs, no crime. The people are of an amiable and hard-working type that endures the harsh climate with a smile its face.
Hopefully it will continue like this for centuries to come, for I fear the day when a confused-looking tourist wanders out of the bus station, struggling to pile his dreadlocks under his oversized knit hat that vaguely displays the colors of the Jamaican flag. That day, if it comes, will be a sad day. It will be a day in which we will have to kiss the time-honored whale hunts goodbye, making way instead for some kind of giant tofu replica with flippers made of vegan seaweed. Traditional song and dance as we know it we will be thrown to the wayside to make room for such groups as "The Toots and the Maytails," and a breed of dancing that resembles mating orangutans in slow-motion. But worst of all, my friends, there will be no more smiling faces, for the hippies take it all. The happiness, the freedom, the ambition. Every last goddamn drop. And they replace it with "love." Peace, and love.

-Boosh Clown

Species Profile Part 2

Cutilius 'n Cuddilius
Common Name: Bunktown
Description: Approximately 180cm in length, 170-190 pounds. Extremely hairy abdominal region, strong thighs; physique oftened compared to that of Ursa Cuddilius, commonly known as "Teddy Bear."
Range: University District, Sporting events, "Soufend."
Diet: The dietary habits of the Cutilius 'n Cuddilius (often shortened to "Cute 'n Cuddly), varies greatly depending on the animals mood and available food source. Has been known to subsist for large periods of time on cheese quesadillas and Carlo Rossi Cheblis, but it is also not uncommon for it to partake in such exotic delicacies as gyros and "Jimmy John's." One dedicated researcher noticed that for a brief period of time during the animal's adolescence it could often be found in the dining area of the University of Washington HUB, furtively stealing copious amounts of Dr. Pepper.
Mating Habits: A subject once shrouded in mystery, recent research indicates that the Cutilius might exhibit a proclivity towards choosing life-long mates, often favoring females from his preferred southern territory. This, of course, abolishes the long-conceived notion that the Cutilius did not like females at all, but rather preferred older, hairy males from the Bainbridge Island region.
Remarks/Observations: Like the Seviglius, the Bunktown is usually quite tame, normally only exhibiting aggression when sporting teams from its preferred region do not perform to its high standard of excellence.

File Photos:

In this photo the Bunktown exhibits a facial expression that most would interpret as "unbridled anger" or disgust. However, it is actually one of extreme jubilation possibly bordering on "sillyness," a reaction most likely spurred by a tasteless comment from one of its companions or a favorable turn of events in a recent sporting activity.

Here we see the Bunktown in a very relaxed and docile state. Note the addition of the woolen hat usually more characteristic of its female companions, and also the soothing fuscia color of the blanket the Bunktown has casually draped around its neck.

Species Profile

Seviglius Skinnilius
Common Name: Big Bird
Description: Up to 2m in length, 130-140 pounds. Baby-like skin and inability to grow facial hair possibly stem from past lineage with Native American Indian. Fingers often stained orange from Cheeto abuse. Cell phone with hand firmly pressed to ear forms awkward, arm-like communication appendage.
Range: Snow-covered mountains of the Pacific Northwest and Western Canada, Tacoma.
Diet: Skittles, Coca-Cola
Mating Habits: While sporadic and prone to Inebriated Levitation Syndrome (ILS), also known as "Whiskey Dick," the Seviglius is actually quite potent and has been known to mate up to 6 times in one nocturnal period. (Researcher's note: Some studies have also shown that it is not uncommon for the Seviglius to become gender-confused, sometimes asking males of similar species if they want to have "sleep-overs" and/or "kiss."
Remarks/Observations: The Seviglius is most commonly known for its lanky build and sporadic, fro-like hair. While normally very docile, it can become quite aggresive during feeding periods if it feels its food source has been infringed upon. The Seviglius' incredible ability to subsist on a diet comprised almost entirely of glucose owes itself to a metabolism that one researcher likened to "that of a hummingbird."

File Photos:


Speciman (background) pictured with a seemingly hungover version of the Lesser-Spotted Zygar (foreground)


In this photo it is quite easy to see the Seviglius' disctinctive hair pattern. Also note the communication appendage instinctively reaching for left ear, although this is certainly one of the few photos that features the Seviglius displaying said appendage without the aid of customary cell phone.

Be Cool

I found myself ranting a few days ago here in a bar in Ecuador. I was accompanied by two Scots, and we were drinking 22 oz. bottles of Pilsener while the bar played “Don’t Cry” by Guns ‘n Roses. The basic gist of the rant was this: I fear I am beginning to hate travel, due to the fact that discussing travel has become akin to discussing Politics and Religion.
Politics and Religion are something I have never wanted to talk about in my life, as I think they are both patently ridiculous. It seems, superficially, an open and shut case: Everyone loves God (or at least some form of Him), and everyone hates George W. Bush. But this is where I get angry and flare my nostrils and feel the urge to punch the 20 year-old Business major that is scoffing at George Bush’s apparent mismanagement of some or another policy, more often than not involving the words “Kyoto Protocol.” I don’t want to discuss it with this asshole, because I doubt his sincerity. More than likely he recently read a newspaper article on said subject, and now feels he is an authority. But if I ask him to stop, and I ask him the simple question “Why do you dislike George Bush?” his answer will almost invariably be this: “Because he’s an idiot.” Everyone seems to agree with this fact, but for awhile now I have been quite afraid that most people don’t really know why. Sure, to be fair, there are plenty people who are well informed about George Bush’s policies and the world of politics in general and thus are completely justified in their opinions, but I also suspect that a very large portion of people hate George Bush just to be cool.
In this day in age, it’s certainly cool to hate a lot of things, not at all limited to George Bush. It’s cool to hate Starbucks. It’s cool to hate McDonalds; it’s basically cool to hate all corporations. But it’s also cool to love certain things: Fair trade coffee, the Boston Red Sox, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. But this is where you need to be suspicious. Just because it’s “cool” to love these things doesn’t imply they possess intrinsic “coolness,” and this is why: The people that think the aformentioned things are “cool” are a very specific breed. They are the kind of people that claim to love every kind of music “except country.” They are the kind of people that think John Mayer is decent, and the kind of people that think U2 “rock.” They are also the kind of people that have sold their souls to Satan.
With this in mind, it’s still ok to like certain things that basically everyone thinks are “cool,” for example: Led Zeppelin, medium-rare steaks, Michael Jordan, Jessica Biel’s chest. These are things that have leapt from the gambit of just “perceived as cool,” to the higher strata of “actually cool” (and in the case of Jessica Biel’s chest, “actually fucking amazing”). So I guess the lesson is this: like things, and even love things because they are “cool.” Embrace them openly, and throw yourself into the deep blue sea of admiration, but always remember why you are doing it. Ask yourself, “Why is this cool?” Because if you don’t, you might just find yourself alone in your room, casually drinking Budweiser Select and listening to Limp Bizkits “Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water.” And that’s not cool.

Hell Week

Hell Week. Or as Neil calls it, “Hella Weak.” This is what I have dubbed the following week of my travels, which will probably start sometime Saturday night when I board a bus for the 12 hour journey to Cuenca, a city in the south of Ecuador. The goal of Hell Week is simple: To get as far as I possibly can, spending as little money as I can, in one week. If you're currently in Peru you might see in a few days a little kid on the streets, covered in grime and holding out his hand for a piece of bread. Look closer, however, and you’ll see that it’s not a street urchin but actually a 24 year-old gringo, and the “grime” is merely a case of unfortunate facial hair. You should give it some bread though. It's hungry.
So as you can see, I will be effectively “skipping” a large portion of land aka Ecuador and Peru, which might prompt some of you to ask yourselves, or assuming you are insane, have a conversation with yourself that sounds something like this: “What an idiot. Why is he doing that? That sounds awful. Doesn’t he want to enjoy his travels? There are so many beautiful things to do in Peru and Ecuador, he’s really going to regret having missed out on them. If you want my opinion, he’s a damn fool.” Whoa...let's back up a second. Damn fool? Isn't that a bit harsh? You are pretty opinionated for someone that is currently sitting at a computer, reading a "Blog." Assholes.
Anyway, I maybe be a fool, but I am a fool that wants to get a fucking move-on, so that come New Years that fool is in Bolivia or Northern Chile, instead of Cusco, Peru with 700 other Americans, passed out in the bathroom because his violent diarrea is coupled with a wicked case of altitude sickness. So anyway, that’s Hell Week, after which I will be doing “Yes Week,” in which I will attempt to say “yes” to everything for a week, much like what Danny Wallace did for a year in his book, “Yes Man.” The only restraints on my “Yessing,” or “Sí-ing” I suppose, will be that I will not allow myself to backtrack, and I will not allow myself to say “Yes” to something that will force me into a situation in which I spend more than a certain fixed monetary amount (probably like $20; I’m hella poor). Even so, I'd say there's a decent chance I could find myeslf in some kind of unusual situation, maybe naked from the waist down riding a llama through the Andes or something similar. You get the idea.
One unfortunate thing about "Hell Week" is that internet will not be in the budget! I am quite serious about this "spending as little as possible" stuff. Anyway, wish me luck and talk to you in a week!
- Boosh Clown

Song of the Day: Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lennox

Internet Café Woes

This is the first installent of a blitzkrieg series that will be titled "Internet Café Woes". I'm writing this series because in the past it has been extremely difficult to write about anything with a shred of consistency, and since I A) go to internet cafés a lot, and B) Never do anything worthwhile while I'm there, it seemed like a good idea.

That said, I am currently at an internet café in Popayán, Colombia. Popayán is about 7 hours from the Ecuadorian border, which is where I am heading tomorrow. With any luck I will be in the southern hemisphere sometime tomorrow evening, a place I have never been. The thing I am most excited to do once in the southern hemisphere is flush the toilet, since apparently the water will spin in the opposite direction as it does here in the North. Apparently there is some kind of Simpsons episode about this in which Bart prank calls a kid from Australia and then gets arrested by the police. I often question my maturity level.

But here actually IN the internet café there is a slough of activity. The guy to my right is resting his chin in his left hand and looks bored enough to die. The owner of the café is excitedly typing away while simultaneously DJ'ing the reggaeton tunes that are being broadcast throughout the cafe. So, I guess maybe a "slough" of activity was an overstatement. In retrospect, this place is about as lively as a funeral home.

However, I like to think I am currently adding a dash of my own gringo flair to the establishment, even though, other than the fact that I am the only one here that speaks fluent English, my gringo flair is waning. The highlight of my attire is a fake Nike sweatshirt that I recently bought in Bogotá, which certainly does not speak traditional gringo decadence. In other news, I am clean shaven, something that hasn't happened since the spring of 1985. I realize that some of you might find this disturbing, which is why I will be doctoring all photos of myself on Photoshop with a fake beard before they go on Facebook.

Now the internet cafe seems to be coming out of it's shell. The gel headed DJ has put on a non-reggaeton song by Bob Sinclair, and I have a new neighbor directly to my right. She looks to be about 14 and from a quick glance I see that she has approxiamately 400 more MSN Messenger friends than me. This fact seems to be stressing her out, due to the fact that her chicken peck style typing skills do not allow her to adaquetly keep in touch with all of them. I, on the other hand, can type quite rapidly with my refined "home row" technique, and currently have 2 buddies online. What's up now, mo'fucka?

I was hoping that after this internet cafe experience I would be hungry, but it's not proving to be the case. Yesterday, Neil and I shared a pizza that was roughly the size of a ferris wheel, and every since haven't felt more than a dull aching in our stomachs. Neil is back in our hostel, where he is accompanied by the usual mix of travelers. One of them is the guy in charge, Colin, and one of them is a guy from The Netherlands who has the sense of humor of a tire iron. I don't know what it is, but all Dutch people seem to have a terrible sense of humor. They do not grasp sarcasm. It took Pascal, a guy on our boat from Panama to Colombia, a week of me saying "It's really starting to let up" during torrential downpours before he realized I was being facetious. Of course, as soon as he caught on, he began to try to fashion jokes of his own, which always foundered horribly. It would be semi-overcast and he would say something like, "It's really starting to get cloudy," which would prompt all of us to look at him like he had just tongue kissed his grandmother. I actually saw one of the girls in our group strike her head against the boat's railing after one joke attempt.

Well, I have just surpassed the hour mark on this computer, which means it's time for me to leave and "seize the night." I hope all of you are having a wonderful evening, far far away from over-zealous 14 year-old online chatters and Dutch comedians. If we could all only be so lucky.

-Boosh Clown

p.s. seriously no pun intended in the whole "lively as a funeral home" remark, although I am quite pleased how that turned out.

Song of the Day: Mr. Grieves by The Pixies