Thunder

Last night the heavens opened and opened with a bang. 

Crack

Bang

Krash!

(Forgive the Batman TV Show effects)

We were lying in bed asleep when the explosions began. I'm not overselling this. The skies erupted in thunderous applause. It startled me to say the least.

I have never heard thunder that actually lasted as long as this did and growled as thoroughly. It seemed to surround us completely. Being the wimp that I am, I stayed in bed and waited for the storm to subside (not quite hiding under the covers, but I did contemplate it briefly). Clarissa barely awoke. In the morning when I mentioned the power of the storm, she verbally shrugged. 

Emo?!

Standing in a very long "Express Line" at the Supermercado the other day, Clarissa and I observed a race of creatures that sprouted initially in the mid-1980's and have now spread to incorporate a large representation of teenage counter-culture. I am, of course, talking about the 'EMO' kids.

They look to me and maybe I'm wrong, like lazy Goth's. Dark haired, but with a pink/green/blue/red tint and tight black clothing, but lacking in the 'attitude' that made Goth's the eye catching creations they were. Summed up well in a South Park episode recently, the frustration the Goth's must feel at this lack of social standing is ironic, given they never wanted it in the first place, or so they say.

Waiting patiently in the queue, we watched as a slew of Emo's (I prefer the plural of Emo as Emu)/ Emu waiting to buy their individual Budweiser beers. Honestly, there were three of them, all with one bottle. Why bother? Why not give one the cash and have him buy the booze? Is it possible that Emu must travel in groups? There didn't seem to be a leader, no matriarch or patriarch. I suppose it's a common conciousness.

The Emo invasion is on...

Where one Emo goes, the Emu follow?!

Up, Up and Away

In a few days I, along with my girlfriend/partner Clarissa and my new family shall be entering a vehicle approximately 63 feet in length, 19 feet high, weighing around 774,000 pounds and capable of speeds in excess of 590 MPH. I am, of course talking about an aircraft. Were it a land based vehicle, I might be less inclined to board it.

I have loved flying since I was a child. Holidays in the Canary Islands called for extended flights and as such, that meant we travelled on very large aircraft. I don’t mean large because I was all of 7 years old, I mean large as in it had three seats on either side of the cabin, with a row of 5/6 seats in the middle. On trip home, we had almost the entire back cabin to ourselves. Awesome.

I love flying since before these trips of course. I loved flying since I first realised I in fact were capable of flight myself. I’d dream that I stood on the top of a perfectly rounded, grassy hill top on the outskirts of a cityscape, giant branch laden tree behind and would begin my run up. I’d jog, then dash, then sprint and before I knew it, I was airborne. Arms outstretched I would bank left and right, pull up and nose dive down. The clouds were always far above. I could reach a mid-level and then I’d wake up.

To this day the dreams I had of flight as a child are still steadfastly lodged in my memories. Memories that never happened…or did they?

On this occasion, I shall have to leave the flying to someone I hope and trust is well trained and vastly experienced in the art of aeroplane piloting. If for some reason he is unable to perform this duty, I shall have to step up. Although, I’m not entirely sure how many people I can fit on my wings.     

The Coma

Not mine, someone else's.

Yes, it's another book review.
Yes, there will be more on life in Brasil shortly.

For the moment, I am trying to catch up on my reading, having thrown myself full bore into writing my second children's story. This one happens to be a novel and I'm really very excited about it. I fair rattled through this novel in particular and you'll read why soon enough.

Plot: A man of an unspecified age, receives a phone call at the office, from his assistant, advising him he has worked really quite late and as a result, if he doesn't get a wriggle on, he'll miss the last tube home. He then 'wriggles'. While on the train, he observes a young woman reading a book and seemingly oblivious to the four 'youths' entering the carriage. They proceed to hassle her, until she pushed back and goes to join the man a little father up. Now, we all know what's coming next and thankfully that isn't the end of the story or even hugely important to the story, but given Garland's literary capabilities, you'd have thought he could create a better introduction to the title.

Anyway, he gets his ass kicked and the next we hear from him, it's his disembodied essence taking us on a ride through his conscious memories on a mission to find his way back home. Sounds a little Quantum Leap, but it isn't.

The story is short, mainly because it shows images throughout made by Mr Garland Senior and every scene is separated as a new chapter. As such, a book that initially appears in the 250 page realm, is in fact more like 80 pages. That's not such a worry. You have to take this as a short story.

Using his imagination and descriptive skills, Garland Junior takes us on a journey through confusion, understanding, obscurity and delusion. The character seeks solace in friendship, relationships, abstract impressions and faulty memory until he understands his predicament and endeavours to solve it.

While being one of the Garland stories that would probably never find itself on the screen, it is in fact expertly well told. The limbo realm is deep and leaves the reader swimming for life and rationalisation.

Worth the read if you are an aspiring novelist as it taxes the writer to delve into his own memories annd understanding.  

Rainin'

Yep, that's right and it's been at it for the better part of a week. Stopped now, but it'll be back I'm sure.

Not that I mind, being from Britain we are somewhat familiar with both the pro's and con's of said weather systems.

I personally like the rain. I see dodging eye gauging, umbrella wielding elderly and ignorant folks a challenge. I see the resulting soggy feet and trench foot as a reminder that sooner or later I shall be snuggled up warmly under a blanket. I like sitting in the car, or more recently, the bus and watching the windows steam (occasionally fingering a few words on the glass, but not recently). I like staring out and seeing the rain pool into mini lakes at the side of the road. 

This was a dry, grassy area of the local park, prior to the rain and wind. Brutal and majestic.


Said reservoirs will no doubt be gone in the morning however, as Porto Alegre is in the south and as such, it has fickle weather. This makes planning what you're going to wear the following day increasingly difficult. Difficult for folks that care that is. I, as it stands, have been wearing the same shirt for the last three and days and am seriously contemplating going for a fourth.

It rained on the weekend too. That was the day when Clarissa and I, having put off the trip the last few weekends due to bad weather, finally took our day trip to the hamlet of Gramado.

Gramado is a German enclave located the better part of one and a half hours outside of Porto Alegre and is accessible in two ways; a dull, grey, concrete path filled with shops and advertising billboards or via a winding road, through archways of mammoth trees shedding their autumn weight and as it happens, also populated by billboards ads.

We chose the trees. This path is happily called, Rota Romantica.

After passing through the toll roads, we arrived in the drizzly Deutscheland.

Pretty ain't it?!

Most of the buildings are like this.

We parked up and ran (dodging the rain, as we had inevitably forgotten our golf sized umbrella) into the nearest buffet restaurant and I duly weighted my steak laden plate at R$19.00, Clarissa's, by comparison, was a respectable R$8.00. Although there was a real lack of veggie stuff on the menu, so, there you go.

Next stop; Umbrella!

We popped into a shop just over the road and availed ourselves of a very swanky one- black, short (though very large when extended), matt style and button ejected- sweet. I got to wield the potentially harmful implement and was surprisingly successful in managing to avoid eyes.

Further stops included shops. Yep, more shops. I'm not complaining though (for a change). It was cold and neither of us had brought hats or gloves. For my part, I'd not even brought 'em from the UK, believing, as I did, that having been to Brazil once before, in the summer, that Brazil was indeed perpetually warm...I was wrong and am on occasion reminded of this by both weather and girlfriend alike.

So, now gloved in brown, snowflakes and toasty warm on the head with equally brown woollen style, Clarissa and I ventured at a more casual pace- no longer needing the speed to insulate us.

Gramado was wet, sure, but it was a slice of Europe, isolated from the mainland and in fact, separated by quite a few miles (I'm not doing the mathematics on that-you do it). I'm advised that at one point, the region- Serra Gaucha (encompassing Caxias do Sul and Nova Petropolis) thought seriously about adding a dry ski slope. They didn't in the end. What they do have though, is the festival de Gramado, a major film festival in Brazil. Not sure when it's on, but I wanna go!

So. That was Gramado for this trip. We're gonna go back, but I think we'll wait until the rain eases and the sun re-emerges. There are hiking trails to scale and given my recent conversion to exercise, I'm up for it!

On the way back we stopped and bought a kilo of Pinhao, derived from the Brazilian Pine tree or Parana pine. Basically, it's the pine cones that drop, are then boiled in salted water over a few hours and consumed by nibbling the hard ends to push the yellowy insides out. I did the boiling, Clarissa added more salt (I tend to under salt everything) and we feasted...as did Pricilla and Joca, because they kept looking at us with those big pleading eyes.

      

Fat Bottomed Girls

At the age of ten, I stood with my father at one side of the road, across the street stood a woman in her late 20's who to a young man, appeared really rather attractive. Kinda like the women you'd get at a shoe store or a hairdressers. Tall (to me), red nails, long flowing hair, high heels. They would run their thumbs over the bridge of your foot, feeling for the space left and ask if it was comfy. They would run their fingers through your hair and almost massage your scalp. These were the type of ladies I had touching me at a young age and I have to say, I enjoyed it. Pre-pubescent frolics.

My Dad turned to me and asked in a way that an Yorkshireman would and still does, 'Son, are you a bum or a breast man?' To which I replied, without delay I might add, 'Dad, I'm a bum man'.

Out of context this might seem odd, but let me try to add context.

This morning on the local Rio Grande do Sol television channel, we (my girlfriend was watching with me) were treated to approximately twenty minutes of a news story on what Brasilians find sexy in their ladies. Specifically, what kinda bums do they enjoy.

Brasilans have big bums. Not all, but it seems the commonplace. Big booty dancin' is everywhere, there's even a name for it- Funk. This primarily involves women turning away from the men, sticking out their ample derrieres' and wiggling them around. Now, this is a skill. I'm not kidding, you can do it wrong. From my observations (against my will, of course) it seems that said lady wears tight/latex mini short things, high heels, spatulas of make-up and has long/preened hair, she then rotates, turns her head occasionally to gauge the reaction of her audience and proceeds in bouncing her bottom vertically. Imagine lap dancing, but without the monetary element (not that I have any experience of this).

I have attached an image for your approval.

The answer to what Brasilian men find sexy? Fat bottomed girls, who enjoy a good wiggle.
In contrast, Brasilian women are just happy with a notable lack of cellulite (this seems a common feeling).

Kurt Vonnegut Jnr Lives!

It's true! I saw him.
I was standing in the rather wide window in the study/dining room that overlooks the busy outside road, when I happened to glance downward.
Low and behold, whom should I see but the King of Tralfalmadore himself!
Walking his little white poodle.
He even looked up at me!
Part of me remembers him smiling, part hopes he did, part know's he's dead and part wishes he weren't.

If I ever imagined Kurt V Jnr having a pet, a wee white poodle is ideal.