Muppetational!

There are far too many things to do and wonders to see in New York, more than is possible to consume in any length of time. Thus, I have resigned myself to the foregoing of much memory treasure, but I was not going to let slip the Jim Henson exhibition currently on display at the Museum of Moving Image.

It was brilliant. Amazing. And, in keeping with the strong and irreverent spirit of all Jim Henson's creations, it was hilarious. There was a delightful sense of play in all the ventures that Henson pursued, whether or not they ever saw the light of day.

I could not help comparing it to the Tim Burton exhibition, which I saw while it was showing at ACMI. While Burton did branch out into various media, I walked away with the impression that his aesthetic had gone through very little metamorphosis in his many years of work. It is an aesthetic that has become an incredibly strong brand , however without development it does not seem as though the artist has challenged himself.

Henson had also maintained a strong identity through his aesthetic, but this was coupled with a drive to innovate, and as such his work throughout his life has about it a consistent freshness that I did not see in Burton's collection.

Did you know that earlier incarnation of the Cookie Monster was “IBM Monster"?

No photography was allowed in the exhibition, and there were 3 portly security guards patrolling to make sure that all enforced. However, because I am a ninja I did manage to sneak some photos on my phone, and these I share with you.

The below is part of a concept that did not go ahead. When I read it I was aghast. Irreverent and playful his works may be, some of them are down right horrific.

Dr. Bredlow Freedly is the Muppet scientist who invented MEL (short for Malfuntioning Electronic Logician). Freedly attempts to demonstrate the newest use for this mechanical marvel -- first, the machine will inhale our polluted air. It will then condense the smog, fumes and filth into handy little cubes for shipment to the less industrialised countries of the world. (Zounds! We'll make a fortune!)

Behold! The Mahna Mahna!


In the light of recent events I found this quote to be topical, to say the least.

For reasons... Wait, no. I think I just figured it out. Bert always put me in mind of a banana and I think that is because he is wearing stripes, and is yellow, with a pointy head, just like a Banana in Pyjamas.

He always reminded me of cricket too. Because of the sweater.

Mum used to call me Oscar the Grouch. No idea why.

ROWLF. (That blue elephant thing that appeared in the rerelease in Jabba's palace ain't got nuffin on Rowlf.)

The frog himself; Kermit.

(This was the hardest photograph to get, unsurprisingly.)

On the same floor was a display of the history and evolution of the television. Some of them looked like works of fiction, as opposed to works from the past.

And then, tucked up very back in the corner, were a few little special effects props from various notable films.

And I flipped THE FUCK out when I realised I was standing in front of the Tyrell Corporation ziggurat. “My mother? Let me tell you about my mother-"

If ever there is an open house tour of the ziggurat, behind-the-scenes may possibly and unexpectedly look a little like this:

In another corner it was a setup which allowed you to create your own stop work animations. Unsurprisingly I made many. I think we spent about half an hour faffing around with these.









The Museum of the Moving Image is not large but holy schmoly well worth the time travel.

Later, I was taken on a passing whim into the FAO Schwarz shop, which is a massive and magnificent toy store. Very, very dangerous. You have been warned. Especially given what is located in the back of the sweets section.

The Muppets Whatnot Workshop?

Oh hell yes I did.

Did an awful lot of trying out eyes and hair, but eventually a decision was made and I signed for my very own muppet with a fluffy fancy pen.

Jaimesis sent me Disco Shark! (And other awesomeness, but this comic needed to exist.)

COOKIE. CUTTER. SHARK.

Fly, you fools!

Roight. Bags are packed, tracksuit pants are on, me and Shark Puppet my BFF are off to China. I'm running on about two hours sleep at this point, so I'm anticipating being entirely oblivious to the 7 hours it takes to get to Singapore. The lovely KJ Bishop informs me there is a Butterfly Enclosure at Changi Airport to entertain me while I await my next flight. Sorted.

While I am away, I encourage you to indulge in mischief and mayhem. The involvement of elephants and/or strawberry mousse will not be frowned upon.

See you at the cliff of autumn.

<3

T-Shirt of Oarsum Timing!

SharkPuppet: Evening.
SirTessa: HIIIIIII!
SharkPuppet: You're..."perky"...tonight.
SirTessa: Yes! I am!
SharkPuppet: Come on. Just say it. I'm not going to ask, so just say it.
SirTessa: ...

ONE. DUCKING. HUNDRED. DUCKING. THOUSAND. WORDS.

BOOYAH MUTHADUCKA.

SharkPuppet: Nice screencap.
SirTessa: Innit just? A golden moment, pure fried gold with chips.
SharkPuppet: I hear you overshot by 23 words and had to do a quick count, ctrl-x and ctrl-z to get that screencap.
SirTessa: ...shuttup, SharkPuppet.
SharkPuppet: You can't even pretend to be affronted. Get your glee out of your system and stop fidgeting already. Dance, you stupid monkey.
SirTessa: :D



Section 1(a): Withheld from public consumption due to being complete and utter shit from a bull.

I never claimed any of those one hundred thousand words were any good.

What Happened Next: I did not climb a volcano.

After a couple of days being messed about by Aerolineas Argentinas, not sleeping and wearing the one set of clothes, I arrived in Santiago, Chile, exactly where I was supposed to be and although I'd missed the whole meet 'n greet trip meeting, I wasn't going to be left behind.

Being in the right country and city can be an immense relief. As a result, I felt I could stop rushrushrushing as I had been, and after fumbling my way through customs and immigration (the officer processing me refused to believe I could not speak Spanish; I disproved him with my utter bewilderment), I made my way to the shuttle bus operators. There were two options offered me, 1) collectivo, being a shuttle bus that dropped everyone off at their hotels and could conceivably take an hour to get me to mine, or 2) private, which was essentially a taxi, but cheaper. What's the rush? I chose the collectivo, and piled into a van with some Americans, Germans, and locals.

By then the sun had set, and the trip was scheduled to leave at six the following morning. I saw nothing of Santiago.

By chance I was the second person dropped off. The lovely driver pointed me towards the hotel, as by this time I was so exhausted I literally could not see the enormous lit up sign, and waved me on my way. I shambled into the lobby in my two day old funk, thinking it was actually a very nice lobby and my funk was not at all appropriate, and attempted to check in.

You see the key word there: attempted.

Reception could find no reservation for me. At all. Ever. By this point I was so immune to massive setbacks that this minor hiccough didn't phase me other than delaying me from being able to really well and truly stop. I asked if there was any room available, and whatever it was, I'd take it, by Zeus's Mighty Nose Hairs, I'd take it.

While he was organising this, I discovered the notice board, where the various tour groups departing from this hotel left their Need To Knows, and found one for my trip, with my name on it no less that said, that said, it said-

It said there'd been a change of plans and the trip was departing not tomorrow morning, but tonight at 10 o'clock, to make a 10 hour drive through the night straight down to Pucón.

What's the time? I asked faintly.

5 to 10, replied a woman loitering in the lobby. Are you with us?

At this point, I just started laughing.

And thus began my tour.

The truck managed, miraculously, to be louder than a plane, and considerably less comfortable, and by now I was so wired and my body clock so completely flummoxed as to what time it was that I still didn't sleep. I spent those 10 hours looking out the window at the Milky Way and wishing I'd had a chance to get any other clothing out of my rucksack before it was thrown in the back, because even in summer Chile is fucking freezing at night, and I was barefoot with only thin trackies, a hoodie and t-shirt on, and quietly dying of frostbite. Got very cozy with a mad irishman who smelt of spilt beer and a lack of shower because it was that or die. (I may be exaggerating there.)

Some of the shapes passing in the night nudged my addled mind, and at one of the service stations we stopped at I asked if I was hallucinating, or if there were in fact eucalyptus trees everywhere.

They're a bit of a pest, I was told. You go gum trees! We passed through bushland, a proper thick gum tree forest just on sunrise, and I could smell them.

When we finally pulled into the camp at Pucón, we bogged the truck. Instantly.



And it was raining. And I was barefoot. And cold. And very, very, very tired. And we set up our tents, in the rain. And then the boss lady said we were all going into town to organise a climb of the volcano Villarrica for tomorrow, and I had to say stop, please, can you just let me put some actual clothes on I'm kinda dying here.

Sitting in the company office and having the volcano climb explained - get up at dawn, climb this bit up to the snowline, put on crampons, climb snow all the way to the peak some 1,400 feet or metres, I really don't remember - the fact that I had not slept in three days punched me in the face, and I sat outside and tried not to vomit.

I really wanted to climb the volcano. I mean, fuck! It's a volcano! But the nausea and dizziness and weakness were signs I knew too well from nightshift. I was just too tired, to the point where I couldn't justify climbing a volcano as crazy, it would only be stupid and dangerous.

So I did not climb the volcano.

Sigh.

Instead, the following day I and a handful of the older people on the truck went to Huerquehue NP. Try saying that three times fast. In fact, try saying it at all.

Here, we were told, was a lovely level hike that was easy and looped through several lakes.

This was of course completely and utterly and totally and so very not true.

It began with a path through the woods by the lake. I cannot tell you which lake in all honesty, there are that many of the things around. Funnily enough, the area is called the Lakes District. It was lovely and dim in the trees.



This path washed us up on the road. Which was a lovely road, and it was a gorgeous day, and there were lovely odd little plants around, and the mountains being all moody and towering above us, and the group came to understand what I meant when I told them not to wait for me as I'd be snap happy.

In particular, I fell in love with these guys.



Are they not just gorgeous? They're everywhere, all over Patagonia on both sides of the Andes. Clingy and furious little buggers. I adore them. I have so many photos of them it's sad. They are Acaena Magallanes, bringing back punk, flora style.







The sun was out, the sky a brilliant blue, but goblins live in the mountains. You can tell, because despite a summer day, the mountains were busy being broody and moody and gloomy and other words with 'oo'.



The road eventually ended and we were back on a path wending its way though sun-speared forest, the sort of thing that when I encounter in a work of fiction I don't really believe in, 'cause such idyllic scenery just doesn't happen.

Here's photographic evidence of my wrongness.

There were even motes caught in the breeze passing through the sunlight, in order to dazzle just so. Fucking ridiculous.



And then, THEN, we came to the trail head.
Erm.



The yellow hike is the one we were doing. We'd done the walk up from the park gate, and there was still some ways to go before even beginning the loop. And it was going uphill. We'd already ascended more than we'd expected. I just feel a need to point this out, as when I looked at the map I didn't think the ascent was all that much. UH HUH.

Shortly after, we came to the first mirador (view point) of Villarrica.



She something, isn't she? Our comrades were on that snow, somewhere.

From there on the path zigzagged up, and up, and up. There were a great many curious little undergrowth lives for me to point my camera at.









I stopped at the second mirador for lunch. Only, this was my second day out on the ground, and I had no idea what a mirador actually was, and thought the signs indicated the distance to the next mirador, whatever a mirador was. So the below photo is incorrect, I'm at the second mirador at an altitude of over a kilometre.



Shark Puppet neglected to point this out.

It had taken the better part of the day to get that far, and we still hadn't reached the loop. Unfortunately we were on a schedule, due to meet our transport back at the gate to take us back to town, so couldn't take our time, plus one of our number was struggling considerably with the climb.

The whole time I'd been playing leap frog with a Chilean family; husband and wife, son, grandmother and grandfather. The son disappeared quite early, which was alarming. Even more alarming was the grandmother, who was getting along with a tripod walking stick. This was not an easy hike. It was steep, muddy, slippery, uneven, and there were logs and rocks all over the path. She made excellent time though, overtaking me whenever I got caught up in taking photos, but still.

This was not the walk they or we had been offered.

Still, I pushed on up to the third mirador, and the first high altitude lake, Lagos Chico.

Which was also idyllic and lovely and serene. Total shit from a horse, all this tranquility.



It was even lined with water plants. So, you know, if you happened to tumble in you wouldn't crack your head open. Because the world is nice like that. (Which won't stop you from being swept over the edge of the mountain by the massive waterfall plunging onto rocks and more rocks and yet more rocks for at least a kilometre into the lake below, but you can't have everything.)



And then hightailed it back down the mountain to meet our pick up.

BUT FIRST THERE WAS A TARANTULA.



AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

At the time, I was with an English couple, and clearly there is no such thing as an angry spider in England because this guy, this English gentleman, proceeded to get a stick and POKE THE TARANTULA. AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! TO GET IT OFF THE PATH. AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! And I actually shouted at him not to do that, but no, it wasn't until the TARANTULA. AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! reared up its legs and had a go at him that he understood YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THE TARANTULA. AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

We let the tarantula have the path. And ran away.

Later, when we were back at camp with a cup of tea, we worked out we'd made the same ascent we would have made had we climbed the volcano. This discovery pissed me off to no end, because I'd made my choice assuming I would not be physically capable of conquering mountains when bloody exhausted, but clearly I was wrong.

That was Christmas Day. When everyone returned, we ate a lot, and drank a lot, my exhaustion did kick in with a total failure to cope with lots of strangers and loud noise, so I drank some more and fixed that, punch is deadly stuff kids, sang Champagne Supernova, kept the whole damn campsite awake, and eventually staggered off to bed where I froze in my sleeping bag because my tent mate found somewhere else to sleep thus failed to contribute body heat to the tent.

The End.

Aerolineas Argentinas is the Suck, Spit and Swallow

Tuesday, 22nd December, 2009

Qantas flight to Sydney departs and arrives on schedule.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet proceed to the Aerolineas counter in order to pick up their boarding pass for the Sydney-Buenos Aires leg of the journey. While waiting to be noticed, they in turn notice a sign stating that the flight in question has been delayed by approximately two and a half hours.

They were prepared for the two and a half hour wait scheduled in their itinerary. They had changed all their cash for US$ and ARG peso and left just enough coinage for a cup of tea, having hit up the bakery very early in the morning for cheap nommy snacks to sustain them while they inhabited the gate lounge. They are not prepared for a five hour wait.

The Aerolineas staff give them a $15 food voucher. This does not go very far.

Sydney Airport is newly renovated and modern, which you can read to mean it contains all the mind-numbing qualities of both an airport terminal and a shopping mall, and combines them into a sublime ecstasy of hope-felling purgatory. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet walk around, and around, and around, and inspect every single gate lounge (more than sixty), and inspect them again, and again, and stop at every single free internet kiosk to shoot off bland emails to unwilling victims on order to alleviate the boredom, the emails them selves being entirely contentless as they are that bored there is nothing to write about.



There is the concern that with the flight so delayed, they may miss their connecting flight in Buenos Aires to Santiago in Chile, where they are to join the tour. If the delay is only as long as proposed, they will probably still make it.

The delay is longer. Of course.

The plane, a 737, is a (and we use the technical term here) "piece of shit". The tray tables are broken. The arm rests are broken. The chairs cannot actually be put in the upright position for take off and landing. Staff are indifferent. Food is quite ordinary, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not fussy eaters. Coming in to Auckland, the plane makes a hideous sound which unnerves everyone, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not nervous flyers either.

It is just after nine at night. While waiting for the doors to open to begin the get-off-the-plane-get-on-the-plane-again-cha-cha-cha dance, an announcement was broadcast as paraphrased below:

"This flight has been canceled. After you have cleared Customs and Immigration please proceed to Check In Counter 38, where accommodation has been arranged for you. Repeat, this flight has been canceled. You will need to collect your luggage from the baggage hall."

Sans explanation. Sans apology. Sans any information regarding exactly how we were going to get to Buenos Aires.

Exhale. Our travelers indulge in a fair amount of pissiness, but refrain from actual stress. The flight to Santiago has been missed. They suspect that tomorrow's flights to Buenos Aires will be departing at approximately the same time, so while they have lost their opportunity to explore Santiago, they still stand a good chance of making the information meeting/trip welcome.

The majority of other people on the flight are not travelers, however. They're going to visit family for Christmas. South America does not do the big schbang on Christmas Day, but on Christmas Eve. Note the date. They were making the ground staff cry.

At Immigration Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are given a suspicious look and questioned regarding their planned stay of a single night. "Drug mule," the officer is thinking. "Did you not just process all the other disgruntled passengers also staying one night because of the canceled flight?" Sir Tessa is thinking. "I'll slit your nostrils," Shark Puppet is thinking.

At which point, the Quarantine sniffer dog jumps all over them, being as they are carrying bakery rolls covered in pineapple and ham.

They are provided overnight accommodation at the Holiday Inn near the airport, dinner and breakfast included, with a courtesy bus to transport them their. They are told the bus is yellow. They are not able to get any sort of word on whether or not there is a flight tomorrow, at what time, or if they will be able to get on it. They are simply told, "You will be told."

There are no yellow buses. That is because the buses are navy blue.

When asked at what time they were alerted to come pick us up, the bus driver states that they were called at six o'clock. Interesting.

They reach the hotel around ten-thirty, and are pleasantly surprised to be given a private room. It's a good hotel, but not used often given the dust everywhere. The pillows are labeled "soft" and "firm". Dinner is sitting in the bain-maries, and has probably been doing so for the last five hours. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet, having collected a handful of fellow solo travelers, risk adding food poisoning to their woes, and over this daring-do bond and swap tales because there's sweet fuck all else to do and their body clocks are screwed.

Twenty minutes of complimentary internet is provided. This is of marginally more use than the ten minutes of complimentary phone calls, at $4.50 a minute to contact Chile. The internet time is used to hunt out an email address for the joining hotel, and let them know of her delay so they may pass the information along to the tour leader. They hope.

Eventually, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet retire to their quarters, where they write the first entry of the South America trip journal.



It does occur to them, over and over, that while they will probably get to Buenos Aires tomorrow, being right on Christmas they may not be able to get a connecting flight to Santiago. If that's the case, they'll miss the tour departure, and if that's the case, they'll have to find some other mode of transport to catch up with them down the road, and if that's the case, then they're going to be fumbling around behind an enormous language barrier.

Which, surprising, doesn't stress them, but they're not exactly looking forward to it.

They watch some documentary on psychics helping police with investigative work, and don't watch Halloween, and eventually leave it on BBC World News with the volume turned down, and completely fail to sleep anyway.

Wednesday, 23rd December 2009

There is a notice board in the dining area saying that there is a flight - huzzah! - and that is all. Rumours abound. One of the collect posse states they need to be out of the hotel by one, although that is probably more to do with hotel staff wanting to clean the rooms than anything else.

They sit and eat breakfast over a long period. Then they sit and drink tea over a long period. Then, purely because they're sick of the hotel, they grab their bags, check out, and wait for the shuttle bus. They were told the shuttle bus was free. They go to board it, and are asked for a ticket. They dash back into reception, are given a ticket - no charge - dash out and give the ticket to the driver. This is getting to be a pattern.

At Auckland Airport they are somewhat confused. There is no Aerolineas counter. Recalling that it was Air New Zealand staff that handled them the night previous, they corner some staff not looking busy enough and dump a general "WHAT IS GOING ON?" upon them. The Air New Zealand staff confirm that there is a flight. Yay! But they cannot check to see if our travelers will get a seat on it, as the Aerolineas system does not open until one thirty, so they will have to wait an hour and a half.

This whole ordeal has consisted of HURRY UP AND WAIT.

Apparently proper transport was organised, as when they return to the counter later they discover the whole flight has appeared. Hotel staff could have told them this, but didn't. They get in line, and wait.

When the counter opens, and the queue starts moving, there is a lack of screaming and crying. This is a good sign.

When Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet's turn comes, they're given a seat on the next flight to Buenos Aires. They're not sure when this flight leaves, or from what gate, but it will be soon. What about the connecting flight to Santiago? The staff won't have a bar of that, and tell them they'll have to sort that out in Buenos Aires. Most helpful.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet would be more likely to accept that were it not for the fact that boarding passes were issued for other passengers with connecting flights. Seemingly at random.



Passengers have been talking to each other. Reasons for the cancellation are as follows:

1. There was a mechanical problem. (Fine if that developed in flight.)
2. The mechanical problem was known in Sydney (!!!) and they didn't think the plane would last the flight to Buenos Aires. (EXCUSE ME WTF WHY FLY IT FROM SYDNEY TO AUCKLAND THEN?!?!)
3. They needed to wait for a part to be flown in from Buenos Aires.
   
4. They needed to use our plane to take people who had been stranded in Auckland the night before we arrived onward to Sydney. (Get your own damn plane!)

The majority were of the opinion that the flight was canceled purely because it was only one-third full.

Those with connecting flights to Santiago watched the departure board, in particular a LAN Chile flight direct to Santiago, and wept a little. The board was also watched to see if our flight would be given a gate at any point in time (it wasn't), and exactly when boarding would commence. The board displayed a helpful countdown on every flight listed for departure - boarding in 45 minutes, 40 minutes, 35 minutes - and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet watched it make it all the way down to 5 minutes, where it remained unchanging for approximately half an hour before jumping back up to 50 minutes. It did this approximately three times.

At some point in the long dark tea time of the soul, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet noticed an Aerolineas plane sitting out on the tarmac, with maintenance popping in and out of it.



"That's our plane," spoketh Sir Tessa, and Sir Tessa spoketh true.

At last a gate was given, and when the announcement came over the PA there was cheering. Cheering! The posse head to the gate lounge, where they waited a further hour, ANOTHER DAMN HOUR, before boarding. Where they sat on the runway for another twenty minutes or so. And when they roared up the runway and finally left the ground, there was a hell of a lot more cheering, in a sort of "we're in the air you're stuck with us now!" way.

Staff, just as indifferent, and nigh prickly. Food, just as ordinary. Sleeping pills, well, they can only do so much on a plane. Which turns out to be not much at all.

Buenos Aires, ACHIEVED. That is exactly what it felt like, a grand achievement touching down on, at the very least, the correct continent. The longest leg was done, not long to go now.

Commence mad rush on the transfer counter!

Where it was made very clear that they needed to get to Santiago today. The Aerolineas staff plopped them on the next flight without even raising an eyebrow, and told them to check in their bags at-

But we don't have our bags, we're not entering Argentina, so...

Arcane symbols jotted on a list and a paper and pencil luggage receipt is handed over. Paper and pencil. This does not bode well, and gives rise to images of getting to the right city only to be without rucksack. Not a good state to be in, given the tour is due to depart Santiago at six in the morning tomorrow.

But, nevermind! They have a boarding pass! They are so close to their objective! They race to the gate, and hurry up and wait.



Such a lovely sight (and further proof that even at their home base, Aerolineas can't get their act together).



They boarded - ON TIME. The plane was in much better condition than the one flying the Sydney route. Interesting. They took off - ON TIME. Ham and cheese sandwich and further indifference. They arrived in Santiago - ON TIME. Their luggage arrived - ON TIME.

And so, more after more than twenty-four hours delay, most of which was spent completely in the dark having been given no information on the situation or what steps were being taken to see them reach their destinations, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet arrived in Santiago.

They had missed the introductory meeting, but were in the right city, and would depart with the tour on the morrow.

That is, if the tour were following the planned itinerary. Which it wasn't. But that particular tale is for another time.

Wednesday, 6th January 2010

The final deviation from the tour's itinerary came from below, not above. It was noted that Metallica were playing at Estadio River Plate in Buenos Aires the night before the truck was due to arrive in the city.

Hell yes?

HELL YES.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet plant themselves in an internet cafe in Ushuaia. After much wrangling with the Spanish dictionary, tickets to the concert are bought. This is followed by plane tickets to fly from Trelew to Buenos Aires the day of the concert.

The Aerolineas site (which shall not be linked to here) is old fashioned, to put it kindly. Booking the ticket online is straight forward, surprisingly. And lacking any point at which to enter credit card details, surprisingly.

A read through of the confirmation email confirms that Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet have indeed booked a seat upon that flight, and it is reserved just for them, but they will have to pay for it within twenty-four hours or it will expire.

Oh. Well. Okay.

Fortunately there is an Aerolineas Argentinas office in Ushuaia, and it is still open. They roll in, take a number, mutely hand over their reservation details along with a wad of cash, and their seats are paid for and confirmed.

Some of their fellow Metallica-goers are told that twenty-four hours prior to the flight they will need to reconfirm their tickets AGAIN. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not told this.

Yet others who booked the flight do not notice the caveat about payment. When all have regrouped back at the hostel and they are informed of this, there is some concern. This is followed by confusion about the Aerolineas opening hours, which leads to them not going to the office until it is well and truly closed.

This leads to further concern, as on the morrow the tour is leaving lovely Ushuaia and its Aerolineas offices and heading out on long remote highways to camp on the side of the road.

One Metallica-goer calls the Aerolineas customer service line with the intent of paying by credit card over the phone. Their call is picked up and put on hold. When they come off hold, the operator tells them that the office closes at ten o'clock. It is three past ten. Five minutes were spent on hold. The operator answered purely to state that they would not be offering any assistance good bye.

Style.

Phone calls ares made the following morning, in the last big town the truck passes through, and the various orphan tickets are paid for.

Friday, 22nd January 2010

At Trelew Airport, one Metallica-goer has trouble checking in, as apparently his ticket has not been paid for. This is despite him paying at the same time, on the same call as everyone else. It takes much to-ing and fro-ing before he is allowed to pay cash.

The flight is half empty. It isn't as though there aren't enough spare seats.

Another Metallica-goer misplaces her wallet at the check in counter. It is later discovered handed in, sans cash.

Ham and cheese sandwich. The stewards do not wish to work any longer than they must, nor do they want work hanging over their heads, so as soon as they are done handing out the meals, they come around to pick up the trays, taking most meals before they are finished, whether the person wants to give up the meal or not. This is followed by a bit over an hour of flight time.

Tuesday, 26th January 2010

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet bid adieu to their new friends and the city of Buenos Aires, and head off to the Buenos Aires Airport. Again. They arrive at ten-thirty at night, just over three hours of check in time, which is suitable for an international flight.

They check the departure board to see what check in counter they need to head to, and discover that their two am flight has been delayed till quarter past four in the morning...

Rinse.

Repeat.

Buenos Aires airport is considerably less interesting that Sydney, and considerably less clean, and has even less going for it in the small hours of the morning. Sir Tessa attempts to contain her mildly unhinged giggling. Shark Puppet curses all the friends they just left in Buenos Aires, knowing they are at a live drumming show and heading onto a bar afterward.

Only a few of the chairs lack arms, and so sleeping space is at a premium. Weeks of camping comes in handy and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet make do on the concrete floor, where they completely fail to sleep.

The Aerolineas staff appear and form a processing line, where they call up row numbers, check passports and proceed to check everyone's hand luggage. Again. As if that hadn't already been done. This takes a very long time, and it is closer to six than four by the time the plane leaves the ground.

The staff and food are as expected. They are, thankfully, not held hostage in Auckland a second time, but apparently others were, as there is once again great cheering when the plane departs Auckland for Sydney (after yet further delays).

Because their travel-fu is so corrupted by Aerolineas's interference, even the Qantas flight home to Melbourne is delayed.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not impressed.

It isn't as though Aerolineas is hiding what they are. Their emblem is the condor. What's a condor? A giant smelly scavenger. A carrion eater. Yep. In the official inflight magazine, there was a letter from the CEO of Aerolineas Argentinas, where he proudly states that in the last year they renewed their aviation safety clearance. That was all the airline achieved, and this letter toted that as if it were something to be proud of, a massive accomplishment. DUDE. YOU NEED THAT TO OPERATE AN AIRLINE. ANY AIRLINE.

This airline was chosen because it was the cheapest. Flying to South America is usually reasonable, but at the peak time, which combines Christmas and the summer holidays, prices rocket up to well above $4,600. The Aerolineas flight was around $3,400, which is still a lot of money but fit in my budget. Just.

If you, like me, must fly Aerolineas because that is all you can afford, then take an extra day or two to get to your destination. I believe you have a 50% chance of being stuck in Auckland, as while there is only one flight number, there are two planes, one running between Sydney and Auckland, and the other running Auckland to Buenos Aires, and they don't always meet up in the middle.

If you expect any degree of customer service, drop those expectations. Aerolineas isn't there to help you out, even when they mess you're in is their cause. They. Don't. Care.

If you are buying internal flights for Argentina, don't book online. Just go into an office, they're quite common.

If you can't eat a ham and cheese sandwich, bring your own food.

Hell, if you want to eat anything bring your own food, or they'll steal it back.

In fact, just don't fly Aerolineas Argentinas.

Rain - Conrad Williams

GIANT FLYING SHARK!
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Moar? Yes! Moar! I have to slow down with the Williams eating, as there's only a couple more books of his I know of. Found this one at Borderlands in SF. Delight! Joy!

I probably should restrict myself to one a year, actually. This is only a slim little novella, but still left me glad as all fuck the sun was out and I had absolutely nothing in common with the events, location, characters or environment in the story.

To rip off the blurb (it isn't a long blurb);

Ben and his family move to France.
There is an accident.
There is death.
There is rain.
Much rain.

I had a moment of "...again?" upon discovering this story was similar in vein to 'The Scalding Rooms' and 'One' in that the emphasis lay on the father-son relationship, and the shattering affect becoming a parent has, and how devastating the love for your child is, equal parts a strength and weakness. The wives/mothers/girlfriends are mostly distant, verging on the point of being the antagonists, either in the threat they pose to the father/son bond or in plainer and more overt terms. Should Williams ever write a story in which there is a healthy happy couple not on the verge of going each other with blunt objects...well, actually, I'd be pretty suspicious and assume I'd accidentally picked up some other Conrad Williams who did not write deliciously fucked up shit.

Particularly enjoyed the environment in this. The rain, the untamed garden and sullen estate they find themselves in, all these aspects speak with precision. Very little happens which doesn't hide the fact that an awful lot happens in a very short time.

Verdict: It's Conrad Williams, it's awesomely brutal.

2666 - Roberto Bolaño

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

This book needs so much more than 10 minutes.

I couldn't write, I had nothing to do and a head to fill and I spent all my free time sitting here, at my desk, reading. I picked this up purely because now was a prime opportunity to read huge books without having to carry them around. Seriously, if I'd tried to read this holding it on a train, my hands would have been in even worse condition. It lay here on the desk, flat, and I turned the pages.

It's a leviathan. It needs so much more than 10 minutes. It deserves so much more. It's a book I want to dive deep into, rummage around in the guts and pull out all the invisible things that made themselves felt. It's an incredible book, a book that spans much more than the numbered pages it sits on. It sits deep in Europe, and deep in Mexico. It sits deep in academic aristocracy and deep in the poor of Santa Teresa. It's a love story, an angry story, a story of family, a story of monsters. A fairytale in the original sense of the word, a terrifying tale. It's a mosaic novel in which the pieces of the mosaic are so large they consume each other. It's five different stories. It's one story. It's about writers and books, critics and ideals, murders and lovers, lost and found, escapes and advances and what is not acknowledged and what is ignored. It's books in a book about the effect of books. It isn't.

I just don't know what to say because I can't say enough.

...had already begun a voyage, a voyage that would end not at the grave of a brave man but in a kind of resignation, what might be called a new experience, since this wasn't resignation in any ordinary sense of the word, or even patience or conformity, but rather a state of meekness, a refined and incomprehensible humility that made him cry for no reason and in which his own image, what Morini saw as Morini, gradually and helplessly dissolved, like a river that stops being a river or a tree that burns on the horizon, not knowing that it's burning.

I read this when I couldn't write.

And maybe I'll never be able to articulate what that means.

Verdict: Magnificent.

Breath - Tim Winton

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

Sharks. Bane of all surfers. Hehheheheh.

Every time Tim Winton wins another major Australian literary award, I frown a little bit. He's beginning to feel like the easy way out for judges to take, he's Australia's King of Capital L Literature, so whatever he writes must be worthy of award, even if there are scads of books out there which are better.

Which is an unfair reaction for me to have, given I have not read much Winton, nor have I gone on much of a crusade to discover and read any other contenders.

But seriously, he is not Australia's only writer, and this book is not all that.

It is coming of age story told as reminiscence by the man who has already come of age and is past mid-life. As such, all that occurs in his reminiscing is tinged with nostalgia that tempered with cliche, self-flagellation and no small amount of of blame - these people played this role in his formative years, therefore how he turned out as an adult is their fault. I kept waiting for the reminiscing to stop, to have some pay off with the grown adult that the book kicks off with. It didn't.

There are interesting themes that thread through the narrative. That of breathing, obviously, and how that links to death, and thus life, to be alive. That of fear, how it holds us back but not without reason. That of beauty, of doing something that has no practical or pragmatic purpose other than because it is beautiful.

But these themes aren't balanced. They're picked up and put down with no sense of rhythm, and bounce off each other in discord. The note the book ends on ties back to something that did not overshadow the bulk of the narrative, and felt out of place.

It was given to me. The price tag on the back is $24.95. It is a small book and the print is quite large, as are the margins.

Verdict: It is a decent read, with some interesting moments in there, but it is not worthy of the roaring around it.

The City & The City - China Miéville

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I've always loved Miéville's world building, he has an exceptionally unfettered imagination and plunders from sources as yet still rich and ripe. It's rough, and raw, and loud. Brutal and unrepentant. Bewildering and awe-inspiring.

Generally, such vibrancy makes up for unbalanced plotting and prose. When reading his books, I generally get the impression that he is not in control of his writing. He's riding it, but that bronco isn't listening to him (and I say this having loved every single one of his books regardless).

When I finished this book, all I could think was, "Wow. He tamed that bull."

There's a precision in prose, plot, characterisation, a precision in everything that is new and exquisite. The relationship between the two cities is revealed slowly, the perfectly appropriate detail being fed to the reader at exactly the right moment in the only order there could be for the reader to have the world shift slowly beneath their feet without any sort of culture shock, no adjustment or suspension of disbelief kicking in. It was amazing to behold, something that's rare to encounter in any work of fiction.

I wasn't sure the climax would be equal to the mystery that swelled in the book and threatened to split the pages, or that the final denouement would be sufficient, and it almost wasn't, but it juuuuuuuust was. Just enough. Just enough for me to consider this the best thing Miéville has written to date.

Verdict: I'm going with the majority of talk and saying it's a damn fine book, this. Damn fine.

Beneath the Red Sun - Ben Peek

author site

The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

Matthew Brady was a soldier, and as a soldier he killed people the state deemed it appropriate to kill. On his own initiative, he killed a man the state did not deem it appropriate to kill, and because he laughed at the hypocrisy practiced in the court room, he was sentenced to transportation.

On the day of his release, he is approached by a mortician who informs him his brother and family have been murdered, and that the whereabouts of the murderers is known.

What to do.

I'd say this story is like an onion - nothing but layers on layers on layers with shit that will sting your eyes (and it totally will) - but that's not entirely true. It's more like a Mandelbrot picture. Saying it's an onion implies that beneath all the layers is a core. Mandelbrots never end. If you wish, you could read it as nothing more than a cycle-of-violence/revenge story. Good luck trying it. I don't think it's possible to read such an intensely unforgiving story and be oblivious to the many grey areas and uneasy questions being posed. Class, race, gender, culture, personal ethics and political morals, and more. It's meaty, yet lean. No spare flesh, all the muscle on the bones is exactly what is required and does not lie idle.

It's also the most Australian not-Australia I've encountered in fiction. Heat (possibly empathising a bit much due to the weather today and tomorrow) and dust, and dust and heat. A desert that isn't sand, but dried cracked clay, run through with gullies and no water. Townships set up to mimic the Motherland, impractical in the new climate. Massive divides between the colonisers and colonised. Half-castes caught between. And oh, I don't know, I know I'm babbling now, but it was just breath-taking. The details were perfect, precise, and fresh.

And you may not notice if you're from the US or UK, but there's a shitload of books based in or extrapolated-not-too-loosely-from US/UK in both landscape and history, and it's quite easy to overdose on it. At least, I hit saturation point pretty regularly. Hence I leap about seeking out books from other places, to counterbalance and keep me interested in reading. Keep it fresh.

And here! Something based on the furious, cheating, thieving, murdering history that makes up the world I live in, something I'm pretty familiar with, and yet, was goddamn fresh. Man, I want more. Washed my head right clean.

Fuck kangaroos. Let's get murdering and looting.

(You know, I almost understand nationalism. Here's a piece of fiction that makes me raise my fist and go "FUCK YEAH! THAT'S MY HOME! BE JEALOUS AND WEEP YE OTHERS!")

(Which further leads to the idea of looking for yourself in fiction, something I have never really understood because I've considered myself too much a mongrel with outsider psychology to even consider a character would echo me, but this, I think this is what was meant...)

It's also a brilliant piece of craft. There are two streams, one following Matthew going forward in time, the other being Matther's brother's diary. Although we already know the family's fate, both streams are equal in their power to progress the plot and gift the reader with further insight into the politics and personalities involved. In a strange way, the two streams work backwards as they thread around each other. It must have been a headache to write, but extraordinary to read.

You can't buy this book because it isn't published. The world is fucked up like that.

Verdict: Fucking oarsum, and oh please some one buy it and publish it?

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson

THIS BLOG NEEDS MORE SHARK ERECTION.
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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I've had a couple of glasses of lemonade and something to eat now, feeling a little less monstrous.

I remember reading this at a backpackers down in Apollo Bay, and being asked by the various people witness to me reading exactly what the book was, because I was laughing so much. In all I've heard of the Beat writers, I don't think anyone's ever told me they were a bunch of comedians. Absurdism just runs to my taste.

Having not seen the movie I had no idea what to expect, and now I think of it, I can't remember what prompted me to pick the book up at all. Glad I did, regardless. It hilarious and appalling, following the Duke and his 'lawyer' through several drug-saturated mayhem-infested days in Las Vegas, covering a motorcycle race, a narcotics conference, and several hotel rooms in shit. The two of them stagger from calamity of calamity and bluff their way out of a ridiculous amount of disasters and...you know, reading it made me never want to go near drugs. Ever. That is an alarming world to move through. Perfect for watching other people traverse.

What has stayed with me since reading is a single scene, with the two of them sitting in a diner and telling the waitress they're looking for "the American Dream" and the conversation that follows seeing them given haphazard instructions to what has become a bar? club? called the Psychiatrist's Lounge or similar. The whole 204 pages of the story serves to give this scene the context it requires to be heard.

Verdict: Fucking oarsum. SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARK!

Trujillo - Lucius Shepard

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

SHARK! SHARK! THERE'S A SHARK IN THE WATER.

The only other book of Shepard's I've read is Viator, which I adored despite it unraveling at the end. When reading this, I found myself coming over with pretty much the same obsessive behaviours, it being a book I would sneak sips of at work and devour on the train and at home. It didn't last long at all.

The story largely follows Dr Arturo Ochoa, semi-retired and coming home from a very unsettling patient to an equally unsettling daughter who is doing what daughters do, ie, asserting her independence. The patient, Stearns, a privileged ex-pat, is under suspicion of murder with only amnesia muddying the waters, and is not particularly concerned about this.

Slowly blossoming is a strain of something decidedly other influencing events, and this, I believe, is what I get captivated in. A precise degree of mystery with an equally precise level of menace. A mystery that you're forced to create for yourself before you can even start attempting to solve it, and after you've put all that work in identifying the mystery, well, why undo that by solving it anyway? The world is better with patches of the inexplicable included.

I did come out of it wondering at the massive divide between men and woman that existed between. That's purely subjective on my part, I tend to go through life paying no attention to any socially-perceived differences in place/role/whatever between the genders. There is a difference, it's naive of me to act as though there isn't...but it isn't always a bloody war.

And the heat. The heat. The heat.

Verdict: Shepard is an amazing writer, seriously just gobsmackingly amazing.