Nutcaseheadliosis

November 2 could be the day that America willingly chooses to perform a substantial lobotomy on itself. If the lying, misinformed, new GOP 'Tea' totalers find success and distract this country by getting into power; it could be the beginning of a dimness we didn't think possible. Who would have ever thought we could suffer anything worse than the Bush years! When the W reign began, I thought to myself, "Oh Christ... This is scarier than the Reagan years. I didn't think that was possible." I am learning. It seems things can always get a whole lot worse before they ever get better.

Any thoughtful, far reaching vision of 'doing the right thing' is so bedraggled and morally strangled that I am not certain we ever will truly progress and allow this country to lead the way through a coming century of dire possibilities. We are already 20 years behind on legislation that should have seriously curbed carbon emissions back in the 1980s or earlier. With a very conservative Republican run House of Representatives, we will lose at least another two years with nothing getting done. Teaheads like Ken Buck of Colorado have no problem at all spouting that climate change is a hoax. As he states such alarming commentary, (not to mention he thinks gay people are the equivalent of being alcoholic) he does so with cavalier smugness showing zero regard for science and the people who devote their lives to such research. His disdain for anyone who would believe and understand the evidence that has been presented time and time again is brushed aside like a little girl who wants to show daddy her crayon drawing. People like him embrace intellectualism and higher learning like a vampire who wakes up in the park at daybreak. In essence: they run the hell away! It's like, "Let me say the most irresponsible, sophomoric thing I can come up with and eventually bring our nation to its knees through willful ignorance." To say he is deplorable is cutting him some slack.

Unfortunately, Buck is not an anomaly in this coming election. Sharron Angle, Christine O'Donnell, Rand Paul, Joe Miller and John Raese appear to be the leaders in Nutcaseheadliosis. And just think, if these yahoos get in (O'Donnell won't. Even she is too much of an embarrassment for Republicans), they can join forces with our current line up of stupidity mongers like Jim DiMint, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachman. Luckily Carl Paladino is so hot-headed and lame brained that he's been pulled off to the rest stop for the remainder of the race.

To the liberal people in my camp (and we may have to put barbed wire around us and move into a secluded valley in Vermont soon), we know all this. It's my Republican friends (do I really have any?) who are already dancing in the streets and celebrating the continued loss of brain cells and greed that I worry about. Case in point: Log cabin Republicans have always been an unsettling presence within the gay community. However, it was one thing when they were supporting Bob Dole or Mitt Romney. Now they are practically jubilant that they can be part of a power base that partners them with some of their most vehement opponents. It is more than mind boggling. It is shameful. Bizarro World doesn't get much better than this. It's like a McDonald's worker giving donations to the Anti-minimum wage Club of America. I have never gotten them. I never will. How about all the seniors who want the health care reform peeled back but will undoubtedly scream if their Medicare or Social Security is taken away as proposed by Alaska's Joe Miller?

Those are just two examples of what the mindset of the hypocritically challenged purport. I could list dozens as you well know.

The bottom line is this. Until the two houses of Congress and all of their constituents figure out a way to change the laws so that true campaign finance reform is enacted, we are screwed. Now that corporations can funnel as much money as possible into elections without any consequences, things will only get worse. Both parties are dependent on corporate money and now they can fill their private pools with it. Republicans are without a doubt more diabolical in their use of cash but an equality in limited public spending needs to apply to both ideologies. When and if that happens, this country may have a real chance to get something done. The scary thing is, no one sees that reform anytime soon. We are already paralyzed with polarity. Extreme conservatives appear to be winning the battle at present. Significant progress could conceivably be stalled for a decade unless a concerted effort by both sides comes about. I don't see it. The Republicans want the power forever and if they can hold it, nothing will change.

I will be the first to admit that I have had my frustration with Obama and the Democrats the last two years. He has largely ignored his base and the mandate that swept him into office. Allowing the minority party the ability to steer us to where we are now is really quite unforgivable in many ways. There were times when the President was left without choice because the blocking began the moment he took his hand off the Bible on that cold, January day in 09. Still, the White House messaging team has done a very poor job of listing whatever accomplishments they did achieve and now the Right has muddled everything so badly that the uninformed simply do not know.

Certainly governing is much harder than campaigning but Obama's leadership and vision were manipulated when both could have stayed strong. All we can hope is that Mr. President will go for broke the last two years. I would rather see him crash and burn doing the right things than give in anymore to the lock-stepping plutocrats who are about to take over. It would be beautiful to see him finally find his mojo and become the hot mess he is supposed to be. Maybe this country will come out of its coma and see that electing crazy people is not the answer to being upset about a poor economy and our tax structure. The President walked into a flying blizzard of excrement. Sure he lost his way at times but who wouldn't when the Republicans were dead set against helping him really solve the problems beyond the raging storm. I just hope we don't pay too high a price for the emotionally immature tantrum voting that these jerks excelled at every chance they had.

And as far as the screaming about national debt and over spending goes, I am in the Krugman Klub. We should have made the stimulus even bigger with more flashy projects. Instead of some meager sign touting 'The American Recovery Act' for an anonymous bridge being rebuilt in Florida, a Tennessee Valley sized solar energy project in the Nevada desert would have been nice. The New Deal worked for Roosevelt until he caved to the Republicans in 1937/38. The Works Progress program put multitudes to work. When it was cut back, the economy slid precipitously until World War II came along.

In the end, it may take a 'true' revolution that is not run by dumb people in colonial tri-cornered hats who misinterpret the constitution. If we don't get this country on the freeway to Smartsville and catch up to the rest of civilized society, we may become a very large Banana Republic that only brags about its extensive variety of reality shows numbing our masses. A broken class of people could very soon be living off the scraps of modern Marie Antoinettes. American Feudalism is just around the corner and no one seems to care as long as a Kardashian is fighting with her sister.

"Let them eat IPods and give me another tax break!"

I try to be optimistic but this time really is pretty downright spooky. At a time when we very much need our best and brightest working in Washington to figure out a complex future, we are left with some true idiots who shouldn't even be running for student council. The Tea Pod People are really going to set us back if too many get into power and metastasize. They could not have come along at a worse time. If I weren't agnostic, I would say "God help us." The best I can do is "Gaga help us." I'll take a woman in a meat dress any day over a meathead who dresses like Paul Revere and thinks our constitution was divined by God. How very mortified Mr. Jefferson would be.

Aging is only a number and blah, blah, blah.....

Birthdays, Schmirthdays.... They just don't feel as celebratory as they once did. If one likes cruel reminders once a year as to how your body is quickly grinding to a halt; they're just peachy-keen.

I turned 54 a few weeks ago. That is exactly ten years older than 44 (and that was a year prominently situated in middle age that appeared to have somewhat crisis oriented numerals.) Now I find myself in my mid-50s which is essentially 60, since six years will go by in a rheumy blink of an eye. And that little fact is not only wrong but uncalled for. I want my money back and a Botox special thrown in. In approximately 10 years I will be collecting Social Security (unless the Tea Party dumps it overboard) and receiving Medicare (unless the Tea Party yanks it too and forces us to barter with chickens for health care.) I mean, I will BE a senior citizen and most likely driving a K-Car while wearing over-sized sunglasses. R.E.M. will be playing on my car speakers and I will be confused.

The process of aging is looked upon a bit overly optimistic. People always say "Oh, it's just a number...." Tell that to my mother who turned 92 this past summer and has no choice but to take a daily water pill and scoot back and forth in her walker several times to the bathroom because she has neuropathy in her feet. Congestive heart failure requires her to keep her lungs clear, thus the need to release moisture from her body. She wears two hearing aids, has a shoulder that is a constant aggravation and must be on oxygen at night to keep her O2 levels up during the day. She tires easily after enjoying lunch with friends and must return for at least a 45 minute nap. But, it's only a number. A number that is a lot different than 36 or even 76, in her case. Luckily her mind is good and she has most of the personality she had when I was a kid. In some ways it is a curse too because she knows exactly what her limitations are and it can be very frustrating. I admire her tenacity. Giving up would have been easy but she pile drives on. Per perseverance has a deep well.

I guess age does bring some fringe benefits. You get called "Sir" a lot. That's kind of fun. Next year I will get a discount on the menu at Denny's. I can correct people in their 20s when they are trying to be authorities on anything before 1975. For instance, one day I was talking about the night the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan. The kids were impressed until I wandered into other guests I had also seen on the show like Mrs. Miller and Topo Gigo. The last two caused them to feign checking text messages.

Oh sure, it could be worse. It can always be worse. Even my mother can say that. Still, it is not a process I am readily willing to accept. Not yet. Once my body completely sags and black socks with crocks are my favorite shoe wear then maybe I can give in a bit. Until then I will keep 'Just for Men' in business, moisturize myself intravenously and maybe get away with looking 42 in candle lit rooms.

So, here's what I'm left with.....one 'wicked' and inspiring act (As in Elphaba sings to Glinda.) "I think I'll try defying gravity and you can't pull me down!"

South Brakota: Year one of an unusual merge

September 7 is Raphael's and my one year anniversary. (It is also Brazil's Independence Day. I'm sure there's some irony there somewhere.) 12 months ago he captured my heart when I saw him drive up to my place in his red beetle. He jumped onto the driveway and I was quite smitten. The guy looked like a million dollars in his white shirt, vest and tight black slacks. My heart rate increased immediately and the rest is history.

It's been quite a year. We moved in together, traveled to Brazil and found a shared appreciation for the color red and 'Dexter' (how odd that they would go together so well.) He has learned to tolerate my political rants and I have learned to be patient with his confusion concerning American satire. Where he comes from, you don't skewer your political figures quite so openly. There are no Bill Mahers or Steven Colberts.

Raphael and I find each other equally exotic yet our backgrounds both share sexy guys on horseback. (Gauchos on his end and the Dakota cowboy for me.) And yes, I believe it was foreshadowing that I wore a pair of Gaucho pants to school in 1971. Never mind that they belonged to my mother. When I found them in her bedroom, I thought they were an early birthday gift she had left unwrapped for me...Oh a confusão!

I lucked out on the food wheel of fortune. My Brazilian is a great cook and every night I sit down to my own installment of 'Top Chef.' The same cannot be said about me. (However, I am amazed what one can do with Spam, a blender and a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos....magic!) My cleaning up efforts are commendable. I specialize in 'shiny' and do it quite well. He is also an avid fashionista and has helped me considerably with outfit abnormalities. I can now run to Walgreen's for multiple vitamins and Grape-nuts and look fabulous. We don't always agree on music but I love that his is so important to him. His IPods have more songs than Sao Paulo has occupants. I enjoy hearing him sing Samba favorites while he makes me quiche. It can be very sweet. The Carmen Miranda hats are a bit much while slaving over a stove but that's his choice. His face turns a bit ashen when he walks in from work and I am listening to Gillian Welch or some other Alt-country/rock/folk artist. Brazilians aren't really wired for anything Nashvilleish. Wait til he catches me listening to the hardcore stuff like Blue Grass. That might be a deal breaker.


The guy is also an amazing salesperson and should be negotiating rainbow pride accessories/ manufacturing deals between the US and emerging third world gay populations. He could sell sand to Bedouins. If we ever buy a house, a car or barter for an African baby, he will be very handy. I lucked out with having such a cutie too. Still, I am jealous that he has a lot more hair and better legs. On the other hand, my parallel parking skills are exceptional. However, my skill level of knowing how to separate the recycleables; possibly getting up by noon and making a fairly good cup of coffee are superior.

He also puts up with my need to sing karaoke from time to time. I have a tendency to pick inappropriate ballads for the wrong crowd. Performing 'Good Morning Heartache' between two guys singing drunken renditions of 'Poker Face' and 'Highway to Hell' doesn't go over too well.

Both of us are big fans of Chelsea Handler. We like to watch shows like Weeds, Breaking Bad and Nurse Jackie. Family Guy is a favorite. Tosh.O always reels us in. (How can you not be with Daniel's great smile and his devilish demeanor.) We like foreign and independent film. I am a huge enthusiast of Stewart and Colbert. He's not as political as I am and prefers the Food Channel. That Paula Dean is revolutionary in her own way. I'm just not sure what her cause would be. (Most likely a coup d'etat involving butter with some fatback thrown in.) When we are feeling we want to scrape the barrel of popular culture, our guilty pleasure is Cheaters. It's a cautionary and episodic tale that any decent couple should be repelled and drawn to simultaneously. Both of us try to read but get distracted by old Will and Grace episodes or falling asleep. We both enjoy the Huffington Post and a good Vanity Fair article. I feel my job is to keep us informed as to the state of the nation. As of late, it's a depressing job but it needs doing. When it all gets too overwhelming, we go to the beach. He tans and I reflect.

In the future we will definitely do some traveling. ( I will have to sit him down and be firm: "No steamer trunks...We're just going to Sarasota for the weekend...." Italy is a goal. (Not to mention Weeki Wachee.) Our trip to Brazil was great fun and we did well with no fights. I think we'll have a blast when we take off for other corners of the world. (It is often fun for us to just go to Costco and watch people in mismatched outfits. (There's lots of bejeweling in such places.) Plus we can pick up paper towels in bulk and eat hot dogs.)

Most of all, Raphael is wonderful to me. He takes good care of this guy and puts up with my sometimes squally moods. The man is very loving. I couldn't ask for more. I love him too and we watch out for one another. He also laughs at my jokes and that's important. (although, sometimes he just seems like he is laughing at me so it gets confusing. Either way, he seems happy.) It is a pleasure to wake up next to his handsome, sweet face unless its bad morning breath day and he had Jambalaya the night before. He shows me respect and has taught me so much about truly caring and sharing. At almost 54, I have grown up a lot this last year. He has kept me going and held me aloft during an often difficult time of shaky economic and potentially dark political shifts. I can go dark and need to be drug out of the basement from time to time.


So, there you have it. Hopefully, this gives you an idea as to who we are (or aren't.) Happy Anniversary to us and here's to year two! Love you Raphael.

Here is your brain. Here is your brain on Snookie...

In a recent Facebook posting, I stated that "Snookie was proof that the end was near." I stand by my statement. By 'the end', I don't necessarily mean seeing people fly into the sky as they depart their abandoned cars all over the freeway or the way Mayans intended to ruin Christmas for us, on December 21, 2012. My 'end' refers to the ceasing of entertainment common sense. The more you were not meant to be a celebrity, the more you appear to become one. (not only is this absurdly unfair; it's seemingly permanent.) How did we ever get to this point of nutcaked culturerama? We certainly can't blame all of it on Snookie and her NJ buddies. She is just the steaming spectacle pulled from the oven; the result of a recipe gone bad.

The UK can be credited with having the first authentic reality show. It was called 7-Up and came out in 1964. The production began with 14 English school children who were all age 7. Every 7 years, new installments have come along with updates on their lives. I loved An American Family when it appeared on PBS in 1971. Who knew that Lance Loud's lisp would spawn such a hideous animal (and he doesn't even procreate.) 1992 brought The Real World and it would cement the pathway. I admit I was a fan of this show in its early days. It was voyeuristic glee to watch attractive young people thrown together in cool, city lofts yelling at each other because Puck didn't do the dishes. Real lives were made dramatic. It all felt novel and edgy. There was a tacky goo left in my psyche after watching but I thought little of it. The so-called 'real world' temptations were the exception and definitely not the rule.

But that was way back during the early Clinton administration. What seemed a little silly and train wreck light would take some time to build into a tsunami of 'actuality' garbage rivaling Pakistan's recent water woes. The seemingly endless cretin show is now hideous. Rewarding mediocrity, impetuousness, ignorance and spoiled brattiness has gone far beyond code red status. These show's mutated cells keep multiplying faster than they can be produced. Cussing, lying, narcissistic dopes and their irresponsible actions are now the pop icons young people emulate (not to mention the parents and other adults that encourage their elicit behavior.)

OK, OK.......sorry to get so preachy. "Just don't watch" you're saying. Trust me, I try not to. Admittedly, there are times when it is just too hard to turn away. On occasion, I tune into one or two of them to get an update on the ever expanding modern culture meltdown. Other than that, House Hunters is about as far as I go. (I enjoy seeing a decent three bedroom condo with an updated kitchen and good closet space!)

Alright. I'll come clean. There's a few I have watched quite a few times. (I self flagellate when I've licked clean the popcorn bowl) Its particular guilty pleasure reels me in a special, twisted way and It may be the worst of the lot....the most base..... and truly deplorable. This production fascinates me because it is so mortifying and devoid of boundaries. (No, not the O'Reilly Factor.) Everything from the creepy voiced host (No, not RuPaul) to the poor, 'raw to the bone victim' of seeing his or her lover caught in the "Oh no you dint'" act is mesmerizing. Give up? That's right: Cheaters. It is a show completely centered on humiliation, lust, betrayal and innumerable Motel 8's. Could it get any lower? The only thing that's missing are the philandering partners getting their heads blown off. (Maybe next season...when the Tea Party gets into power, they can dismantle the FCC AND broaden the 2nd Amendment: zero government regulation and do as you please firearms can rule the day!) Oh wait.....but that would mean there might be the possibility of a show about a gun toting, gay couple from northern Idaho who run a day care center/interior design firm. They would never go for that. Never mind. But I digress.

Cheaters wins in my book as one of the all time worst (best) reality horrors (or whores) worthy of dubious accolades. It's magnetic grossness hypnotizes. It is just the kind of show that scares me the most. You can't turn away from it... Your wife might have just broken water and you make her wait until LaQueena catches a nude Tyrone with Shaquita in the whirlpool at the local La Quinta.

Guilty pleasures are a human trait. They just shouldn't become an obsession.

As my mother would say, "Let's get down to brass tacks." America is pretty much a numbed out landscape of stalwart dullards: The United States of Stupid. Our shrinking brains cannot handle the overload of vomit our remotes plug us into daily. Yes, times are hard. We need escape. We desire anesthesia. Feeding off of the too rich dregs of society like the Kardashians and anything New Jersey offers, is not going to bring us back to sober. If we aren't going to read, can we at least go outside and play? Is a game of Clue too much to ask? Will we ever pick up a National Geographic article and stick to it until the last word is absorbed? (The Mauritius Islands need to be understood!) Can we sit and have an hour's conversation without tweeting or checking a Facebook be(de?)friending message on our IPhone? And if the inevitability of TV is going to rule our worlds, can we at least try to find something worthwhile to view between Hoarders and The Littlest Groom? (The latter in reruns only.) The Bachelorette will still find a husband whether we watch or not.

All is not lost. Test drive that clicker. There's still a lot out there to see in spite of the piles of glittering litter. Choices abound. Perhaps the most amazing thing about present day television is that it couldn't be more of a dichotomy. Some of the very best and worst shows in TV history are currently available. The polarization of tastes is astounding. One can watch the incredibly well written and riveting Breaking Bad or click on Kendra. The digital cable universe offers you Mad Men and The Real Wives of Orange County. Consider Frontline over Bridezillas. Alright, maybe those examples are a bit extreme. You get the idea. I'm just saying that if you make yourself watch Charlie Rose once a month instead of Tool Academy, you might be surprised what you'll learn. You can go right back to Sextuplets Take New York. I promise I won't tell. Your brain will thank you and send a sweet little gift of new neurons.

July Turtleneck. My last day in Porto Alegre: Part four and the last entry about my trip to southern Brazil.

Our last day in Porto Alegre was cold. I bundled up the best I could but never did feel adequately layered. Luckily, it was bright and sunny but the wind made the chill enter deep. What I needed was long underwear. If I ever go to this part of the world again during their winter; you can be assured, two sets will be packed. It's that kind of freezing feel when in San Francisco in August or even here in Fort Lauderdale when it gets down below 50.

Raphael and I took a cab to the Public Market and had lunch. The structure was a marvelous neoclassical edifice built in 1869. It reminded me of a much scaled down St. Peterburg's Winter Palace. It has around 100 stores and stores. Numerous fish purveyors, produce vendors, restaurants and fruit shops were present. A well known ice-cream parlour was popular but had little appeal with the brisk air temperature. Upstairs, a vast eating area assembled several restaurants that came together to make a robust dining experience. Most of the light was natural from an atrium design.

We ate lunch in a famous old place that looked like it went back at least 100 years. It reminded me a bit of some old New York restaurants. We had tasty steaks with sunny side up eggs on top.

After our meal, we walked around and I took a lot of pictures. At one point we ducked into a cheap clothing store so I could buy a turtleneck. It helped with my layering but it was apparent a parka was what I desired. As we moved about, we found ourselves in the nerve center of downtown Porto Alegre. There were droves of people everywhere and all were bundled up. The walking mall (called Rua da Praia ) was like a breezy canyon with tall buildings on both sides. Some great architecture graced the street. Early on I had to decide that I would only be able to take a smattering of pictures because the amount of subject matter would be too much.

Raphael stopped and bought a pair of shoes and then we strolled to Claudia's restaurant to warm up and get a bite to eat. It felt great to get into her cozy nest and have a hot cup of coffee. Feeling rejuvenated, we continued our downtown journey and passed a variety of cool residential buildings that dated from the 30s into the 60s. It was a pleasure to look upon them as most had not been marred by graffiti.

It was along this stretch that we passed all of the military headquarters for the city. Uniformed sentries stood outside as we passed. We saw several handsome soldiers, pilots and naval guys. I wanted to take pictures but was too intimidated. Across the way was a commanding white cathedral with a tremendous amount of steps leading up to its doors.

When we got to the end of the street we entered another art museum that was housed in an old electric works building. The place was huge inside. We viewed a few galleries and then walked outside to the river. The sun was in its last hour and it warmed us as we stood in its glow. We would have stayed to watch it set but we had to get back to Claudia's and do our packing and prepare for the last night in town.

We stayed in our last evening. Claudia made us scrumptious edibles and we sat huddled near the fireplace. We watched TV and enjoyed our last hours together. Claudia and Naiara's rather disagreeable Shih Tzu, Shimoky , continued to hump her soiled, fluffy bear into the night. The dog had been fixed years before but it didn't stop her from being a compulsive rapist of stuffed animals.

Eventually after filling up on several plates of Brazilian snacks, I turned in. We would get up around 3:30 to be at the airport by 4:30. I was exhausted and I knew the bed was the warmest place in the flat. I said my goodbyes to Naiara as I would not see her in the early AM. Raphael stayed up and watched TV and I drifted away quickly.

The next morning Claudia walked us downstairs to wait for our cab. We hugged and kissed goodbye in the frigid, early morning air. It was 33 degrees but felt like 15. The cab picked us up and whisked us away to the airport. The little Renault blasted heat and I was in heaven. The trip to the airport was fairly quick. We would fly out by a little after 6. Our in-flight TAM experience was not as comfortable as the trip down. The return plane was a bit older and more cramped. I had a periodic snorer behind me and a woman to my left who liked to speak loudly in Portuguese about what rides she would jump on at Disney World.

I never thought I would be so happy to be back in a sweaty, heavy Florida day. When we walked outside to get our car at Miami International, it must have been well over 90. My bones relaxed and I sucked in the swelter.

In the coming days, I would ponder my week in southern Brazil. The experience seeped in quite strongly. I liked it down there....as long as you have an emergency Snuggie in July. It was a complicated place with a lot of decay yet showed promise with a stable, independent economy not vulnerable to the world's economic conundrums. They didn't experience the economic collapse that many countries were weathering. Brazil employed its own people...made their own shoes and jeans and didn't outsource like the U.S. Their middle class was emerging quickly and there was a sense of hope. A presence of energy was pervasive. Of course, I live with a part of Brazil every day: Raphael. He embodies that spirit. Through him, I understand it more and more.

I would look forward to my next trip back. I just hope Bruno is locked up.

Contortionist baby and baba ganoush: Part three of my trip to southern Brazil

As Raphael and I walked into the arts complex in Porto Alegre, we noticed that the latest Woody Allen film, 'Whatever Works' was playing at its cinema. It's the one with Larry David. We decided to attend it in an hour or so. How weird to see the star of 'Curb your Enthusiasm' in southern Brazil. The oddness was very appealing.

We walked through what used to be the lobby of a once very fancy hotel. It was now the entrance to a 6 story contemporary arts facility called the Mario Quintano Culture House. The name comes from a famous Brazilian poet who lived here in his remaining years, shut away in a room. His presence had kept the hotel running. When he died, the government bought the property, restored his room to the way it looked the day he died and built an arts facility inspired by his lifetime of work. Several galleries, a small cinema, performance spaces, libraries, two cafes and a few teaching facilities were created. Atop the structure was an unused area long lost within the history of the hotel. It had unused space along with open air seating under a cupola. Its walls were exposed brick and the original doors and windows were intact. This is where Raphael's sister, Claudia, had opened her cafe/bistro. It is called Cafe Santo De Casa. Its theme is saints: both Catholic and Santeria. It was a cozy room with small tables and chairs with a performance space where traditional Brazilian musicians could play. Claudia's delicious sandwiches, salads, soups, coffees, desserts and Brazilian beer filled out a great menu. We would come and go from her place over the next several days and use it as an anchor when downtown.

We emerged from the elevator and were greeted inside the dining room by Claudia and Raphael's very pretty cousin, Luciana, who is co-owner. As everyone got caught up in Portuguese, I sat and ate a delicious sandwich and sipped an espresso. The day was a little cool outside but pleasant. Raphael, Naiara (Claudia's partner) and I would soon hit the streets in search of local culture. I would also take a lot of photographs of city architecture.

Throughout the afternoon we walked about busy city streets and visited the state funded art museum and a contemporary art facility housed in an amazing Beaux Arts bank structure. Incredible photography and a vast array of Brazilian painters seemed to make the biggest impression. Both institutions had fine collections. The other bonus is that all museums are free...always. After our visiting these two, we took a cab and went to the south side of the city to see an incredible museum reminiscent of the Guggenheim. It was called Ibere Camargo . The building was all white inside and out and had interesting, long hallways that sloped, curved and descended within its walls. It was very quiet and had that rarified air that art museums often do. The predictable installations of things like a pile of old cinder blocks in the center of a room were displayed. Guards would politely whisper to you to please step back if the toe of your shoe was touching any of the spilled grit that had fallen outside the piece's perimeter. There was also the less heady stuff like sculpture, drawings and oils. Finally, after being cultured out, we had a snack and coffee in its small cafe and planned our evening ahead. Naiara had secured tickets for us to see a show at the Theatro San Pedro .

On the cab ride back, Naiara dropped us at a mall so Raphael and I could go in and look for a few items. I wanted to bring my friend Dan a porno magazine from Brazil and there were a couple of bookstores. It was just like any American mall except that the teenagers yelled and squealed in Portuguese. I didn't find the gay porn I'd wanted but discovered a good book on Brazil. Another cab ride and we were back downtown near Claudia's restaurant. We would meet Naiara at the theatre in a couple of hours.

Before going to Claudia's place, we stopped at another, smaller mall to look for some postcards. While there, we dipped into a McDonald's. Raphael got excited and said I had to try the 'Cheddar Melt' which is not available in the U.S. We grabbed a couple and got seated. He said going to McDonald's in Brazil was still not as commonplace as it is in the states. People often save the experience for a treat. In the Real, it was still cheap for us with the exchange rate. The sandwich was delicious and tremendously calorie filled. I think the cheese was some sort of Santeria inspired Velveeta melted over roast beef. The cholesterol and carb intensity were chemistry changing.

Within a few hours we would be snacking again. The Theatro San Pedro had a restaurant upstairs that looked like a place where a women's society would have met in the 1870s and listened to a lyceum speaker or maybe watched a pianist play Chopin. It had a high, decorated ceiling with two, good sized, crystal chandeliers. Long windows graced two walls with, long, red velvet drapes. There were large oil paintings of past patrons or other important people. We had a few appetizers and a drink while we waited for Naiara. The theatre was built in the 1840s as the first really elegant, legitimate stage in Porto Alegre. It was restored twenty some years ago and is still going strong. Shortly before showtime, we walked downstairs to our seats. On the way in, Raphael pointed out a tiny, elderly woman in her 90s who was greeting patrons. He said she had been the one responsible for the restoration of the theatre in the 1980s and had funded much of its rehabilitation. Her tiny hand shook mine warmly and she smiled as we passed her.

We were ushered to our seats. The interior was intimate and had a wrap around, two tiered gallery. It was elegant but simple. The floor seating had regular theatre seating while the gallery utilized ornate and elegant, spindle back chairs. A mural surrounded a large chandelier in the center of the ceiling. The proscenium arch was high and fairly narrow with beautiful, burgundy curtains. Its stage protruded outward in front in a semi circle with an orchestra pit just in front. The entire interior held approximately 750 people if filled. It was easy to imagine 19th century Brazilians gussied up for a night of theatrics.

The curtains opened and strangely painted, kabukiesque, costumed dancers emerged who transformed further into hybrids of Cirque Du Soleil , felliniesque thespians. An extremely giggly and (of course) scary clown anchored the show. He pulled a couple of cute, young men from the audience and made them do embarrassing things with one another. Antics like forcing them to run and jump into each others arms and cling to the receiver's waist were employed. Later, acrobatics took place by a skillful guy who could balance straight up in the air atop four stacked chairs. There was a little 4 or 5 year old girl who was a contortionist and performed almost indecent feats while making herself into a pretzel. Incredible dancing and balancing acts came and went. It was circus like and made you gasp at times. Ed Sullivan would have had an orgasm. They were extremely talented but a few times lost their balance or dropped a pin during juggling. It was evident a little more work would be needed before that tour of Europe. The men and women all had incredible bodies and showed immense strength. Over all, it was damn impressive. The whole spectacle was very gay in appeal and so was about a third of the audience. We never made it to any gay clubs while in town so this was as closed as I got. Luckily the child contortionist didn't go flying into the front row during one of her flips. Numerous gay couples could have been demolished along with her tiny, Gumby physique.

The three of us waited outside the theatre until Claudia could pick us up. We watched the crowd merrily disperse into the night. Across the way was a large square and farther, the giant, aged cathedral. It was a great place to wait for a ride. After about 15 minutes, Claudia showed up in her Fiat and we piled in. The next twenty minutes or so was like a remake of Bullitt starring Claudia instead of Steve McQueen. Porto Alegre is very hilly and steep in places. It can remind you of San Francisco. It was a wild ride up and down steep streets; through narrow passageways with sudden turns and squeezes while negotiating busy neighborhoods. She would be a great cab driver in any major, hilly, city of the world.

We arrived at a unique tavern in a very upscale neighborhood. It was privately hidden in the home of a residential area. You could only enter if you knew the password or the owner. Behind the door were a couple of rooms that were full of antiques and collectibles. The largest room resembled the interior of an old mercantile store. In the back were a couple of smaller rooms that had a jukebox, old album covers plastered to the ceilings and many framed photos of 19th century Porto Alegre. The establishment was owned and operated by a famous beer maker. So, there was a vast array of Brazilian beer available along with all kinds of meats, cheeses, marinated olives, etc. of which we noshed. The owner is successful enough that he has the place just for him and his friends and a few others who get invited if they are in the bar or restaurant business. After several tastings of beer and finger foods, we again were off to the neighborhood where we were staying. It's bohemian with lots of cafes, clubs, fun stores and tons of young people. We attempted to go to a gay bar but parking was impossible. Instead we parked in the space above the supermarket near Claudia and Naiara's apartment and walked to a restaurant that specialized in food from Brazil's northeast coastal area (near Bahia.) It was here that my companions had me try acaraje (which is a stuffed yucca croquetta.) It was delicious and I had as many as I could devour. More beer was ordered. (Brazilians LOVE beer and it was evident on this evening.) Luckily we only had a block or so to walk. Being a little tipsy, Raphael, Claudia and Naiara thought it funny to try and teach me Portuguese and see how I would pronounce words. I did better than expected although I still can't roll my R's. I never have been able to. My tongue just doesn't get it.

Back at the apartment, we laughed and hung out in the kitchen for a bit and then eventually fell into bed. Raphael and I managed to watch TV for a while and try to find info about the gulf oil spill. We of course got our Bruno updates. At this point, the story could have had its own 24 hour network.

We woke up the next morning around 10 and prepared for the barbecue at Raphael's parent's house. Claudio, Raphael's dad, would barbecue for a small group that afternoon. It had warmed up again and the day was gorgeous and blue. It would be back up in the 70s. The four of us drove to Montenegro. Claudia and Naira's Shih Tzu came along too and utilized itself as a muffler, wrapped around Naiara's neck.

As we passed scores of neighborhoods, suburbs, car lots, truck stops, factories and eventually farms, the glaring unfortunate spectacle of graffiti became more and more apparent. The spraying was almost catastrophic in places. Everything from beautiful, ornate structures to bus benches had some kind of symbol or wording painted. It got depressing after a while. The finer neighborhoods didn't have much but many public areas were marred. Grand fountains and historic buildings were frequent targets. They needed a citywide campaign to stop it. There was one high rise in downtown Porto Alegre that was at least 15 stories and every balcony's front had scribbles. One of the few places that it was non-existent were a couple of city blocks of military structures for the three branches of service. Raphey said you would get shot if you took out your spray can along that stretch.

We arrived in Montenegro and retreated to the patio behind his parent's house. Some other guests arrived and Claudio would give us little pieces of grilled meat with yucca to dip it in. Paloma, the family's old Weimaraner, stood staring at you with sad, red rimmed eyes hoping for a tidbit. We had a beer and warmed ourselves in the sun. A friend of Raphael's who is a doctor sat next to me. She was nice, successful woman and could speak good English. Her daughter is a good friend of the family. The doctor's niece sat across from me. She was very well dressed and attractive. She also spoke English and had a sophistication about her. At the end of the day she said she would love it if I could find a decent, responsible husband for her in Ft. Lauderdale. She said she wasn't kidding. I told her I would see what I could do....

It would be a while before we ate so I took a walk. I brought my camera with me. It was a bang up, beautiful day. The streets were quiet. A few couples strolled and the occasional bicyclist pedaled by. Sunday is traditionally a day to stay in and barbecue and be with your family. I could smell the aromas of grilled meat everywhere I walked. When I returned it was time to eat. Claudio brought in a huge platter of barbecued beef, pork and chicken. My favorite was the pork. It was scrumptious. There was more yucca to dip into. They eat it with everything and I can understand why. I loved it. We stuffed ourselves once again and eventually took a nap. My nap extended a little longer while Raphey watched the championship soccer game from South Africa with his mom and dad.

During the night, the weather changed dramatically. Around 3 or so, it began to rain. The temperature dropped at least 25 degrees. The wind picked up ferociously and a storm hit. We shut the windows and shutters. We could hear the dog scratching to get in next door. Then the cats started to howl until someone let them in. Soon after, a set of wind chimes crashed into the side of the house. We turned the lights on and decided to get up around 4. It was like a mini hurricane. We walked to the kitchen and closed the door. We sat and had a snack and listened to the ear splitting cracks of thunder and jumped with the flashes of lightening. After a while we retreated to our room only to find the ceiling leaking right onto the middle of the bed. We placed a bucket to catch the water and removed ourselves to Raphael's childhood room. It only had a single bed. After some negotiating, it was apparent we could comfortably lay and face one another in its narrowness. We were wide awake at this point so we sat up and read until we finally got sleepy around 6:30. The wind continued to howl and the rains slapped against the side of the house. We fell away around 7. When we woke up later that morning, it was freezing. I put on my jacket with my pajamas. Outside it was still raining with low clouds. The house did not have central heat. I got as warm as I could with my steaming coffee. Raphael was in a bit of a funk and not happy with his mother over a personal family matter. He announced quietly that we would be leaving later that day to go back to Porto Alegre. His mother was driving him crazy and we would shorten our stay. Both hid their tension well. I could barely see anything was going on. We had planned to make a drive to the wine country on this day with his parents but the weather had put a stop to it. It was just as well. Emotions were high.

Around 4 PM we grabbed our bags and Claudio dropped us at the bus station. It was a quick goodbye. Isabel gave me a strong hug and a kiss. I could see she was sad to have us leave early. It had to be. I know how these familial dynamics go. Raphael didn't like it either but sometimes you just have to pick up and leave. It is the prudent thing to do. Not really knowing the inner workings of his family I could only understand what he communicated. It was a private matter concerning his father's health and how his mother was dealing with it. He had found himself exasperated. Luckily this had been behind the scenes. My end of things had been great. His parents were really sweet to me. I had enjoyed my time with them. The weirdness of family visits is always unpredictable.

We arrived at the large, downtown bus station in Porto Alegre that evening. It was chilly. We grabbed a cab and made our way to Claudia's. That night we sped off on another one of Claudia's thrill rides to a great Lebanese restaurant for dinner. What awaited us still amazes me. I know I have never had so much food served at a table so quickly. It was like magic. I would look away for just a few moments and suddenly there were five more dishes of food in front of me. When we were seated, I wondered why our four chairs were so far apart at the table. There was a reason for all the unused space. Baba Ganoush, yogurt and hummus, Tabouleh, Fattoush, tasty breads and pitas, Falafel, and something called Esfihas (small, delectable pizzas .) I could go on and on but I would get overwhelmed all over again. In short, it was like being served a 'Beat the Clock' version of Thanksgiving dinner in Beirut.

In the span of less than 10 minutes, there must have been twenty dishes dispersed around the table. You would no sooner scoop something onto your plate and the waiter would be right behind you waiting politely to set down something anew or ask if you wanted another plate replenished. It was extraordinary. It cemented my love for middle eastern food. Overly satiated, we somehow got up and made it to the car in the parking garage. I filled up the back seat and felt like my body had expanded into Michelin Man territory.

It was now officially cold. The temperature had dropped below 40. I was having more and more difficulty getting warm. When we got back to Claudia and Naiara's, they made a fire. I got under a blanket and stayed on the couch near its warmth. The chill had taken root. Claudia made hot tea and we all snuggled in. Bruno's old friends from the slums of Rio were being interviewed. They all found it hard to believe he could have hatched such a diabolical plot. Circumstantial evidence seemed to differ. He was a great goalie but his skills as a 'Murder, Inc.' director, weren't as savvy. He could deflect a ball brilliantly but not the press and a young accessory who spilled the beans. When you order the feeding of your dead girlfriend's body to mastiffs or whatever scary dogs consumed her, you better have a good alibi and know your hired killers can prove they went bowling that night.

Before bed, I walked to the terrace and looked down on the street. It was quiet with only a couple of people walking. The moon burned bright in a royal blue night. I shivered, closed the shutters and dove under warm blankets. Dreams of swirling Lebanese waiters rustled me off to sleep.

Next: The last day in Porto Alegre.

Faux radiators and Bruno updates: Part Two of My Trip to Southern Brazil

Raphael and I sat in the backseat of his parent's micro Chevy as we raced through farm fields, forests and mountain valleys. The rain pelted the windows and fog hung across mountain peaks. The beginnings of German architecture hinted at what was to come. It was very green and wet. I was a little chilly and kept a jacket over my legs. We began to climb into the mountains on winding roads and the steep slopes around us were covered in pine. These were the same trees that dropped those delicious pine nuts. Some crazy drivers zoomed around us and took perilous passes with oncoming cars. It was a little scary at times. The fog grew thicker and Raphael's dad had to focus his attention on the sudden stops of trucks and other vehicles.

We stopped into a little town known for sweater production. The parents had a smoke break. We walked around a bit and I took some shots of mannequins in the various shop windows. These were the first of many who were picture worthy. One store was called 'Dakota' so I had to have my picture taken in front of its sign. The day was getting colder and damper and the chill was setting in. All those sweaters were starting to look mighty inviting. It was apparent that I probably wasn't going to have the right clothes for this weather.

A short time later we drove into Gramado and parked at a favorite Italian place that Raphael and his parents like. I was thrilled to get inside. It was toasty and felt great. It looked and felt like we were actually eating in northern Italy. The food was tremendous and it definitely warmed me up. Some wine helped. Full of pasta and other dishes we proceeded to our inn. It was time for a nap. I looked forward to a homey room with warm lighting and big, heavy blankets. That fantasy was dashed rather quickly. What we found were spartan spaces with one, dim light in the center of the ceiling. Only a single heating register set against the wall. The TV was compact and hung on the ceiling across the room. You needed the Hubble to see it. In the bathroom, the icy, yellow tile gleamed dully under one ceiling bulb. Even the towels seemed to shiver as they hung limp. The rooms had the ambiance of a storage container with beds. I jumped under the blankets and pressed against Raphey. Our bodies warmed and the sleep felt great. When we awoke, neither of us wanted to get up because we knew we would feel like we were stepping onto tundra tile.

What had happened was Raphael's mother could not get us in anywhere decent for the night. Everything was booked and this was one of the few places available. The outside was charming and it looked inviting but you really needed a snowmobile suit to wear while walking to and from the bathroom. The lodge was even colder. There was a huge fireplace in the lobby that could have been roaring for its guests but it sat dormant. The lighting was dim. A small area to the side of the great room had a small TV showing soccer. A few tables were scattered around with magazines and chairs. You could tell the place had been really nice at one time but the current owner was not living large. The view was great...had we seen it. The fog was so thick one could only make out images, fifty feet hence.

That night we drove into downtown Gramado and walked around. It was a beautiful resort town. It kind of reminded me of Vail, Colorado. All of the architecture was either German, Italian, Swiss or a hybrid of all three. (not that I really know the exact difference between Swiss and German architecture but I know there is nuance.) The shops were pricey. We had coffee in a cafe that was sweetly charming and European. The chocolates were tremendous. It felt like Christmas. People were bundled up. All that was missing was snow. And, I guess that happens every ten years or so. It was actually about 45 degrees but it felt like 25 to me. I could not get warm. I bought a stocking cap and wrapped my muffler tighter. By dinner time I was more than ready to get into some place warm. Raphael kept laughing at me because of my Northern Plains roots. I guess my blood has thinned by living in Florida. I get cold in Fort Lauderdale too. If it falls below 50, I need electric socks. Luckily, we were seated next to the fireplace in the restaurant. It was a fondue place like I had never seen before. Who knew you could dip so many different things in so many different things. The table was full of bowls of horse radish, vinaigrette, farofa (yucca flour), grape preserves, orange preserves, aioli (garlic mayonnaise), ketchup, mustard and cottage cheese. After dipping our skewered chicken, beef or pork in the hot fondue pot, we would swirl away in these dips. Prior to that we dipped tiny little potatoes and stale bread into cheese. That was delicious until the apples, kiwis, grapes, bananas and papayas were dipped in chocolate. It was truly decadent. WARM and decadent. I just wanted to curl up next to the fireplace and fondue myself into slumber. With all this eating and the wine included, I felt like a Zurich street car. It was bliss.

After the glorious dinner dip we returned to the Igloo Inn. I managed a hot shower and survived the arctic run to get into bed. I found some extra blankets on another bed and nestled in. The heat register was working a bit better but I felt like I would see my breath by the dawn's early light. In addition to the refrigerated conditions, there was a very active and verbose child next door. The parents didn't seem to notice the walls were thin. So, now we had a screaming child and hypothermia to worry about. Raphael fell asleep within seconds of hitting the bed. He could have slept through Pearl Harbour. I of course, lay awake and tried to make sense of Portuguese language TV. It appeared Bruno was getting into deeper problems. I was able to make sense of him hiring somebody else to do the dirty work. It appeared that he enlisted a killer to whack his girlfriend....and feed her to the dogs! Some things translate better than others; especially when there are re-enactments. Such grisly, sordid tales are enticing but all I really wanted was the weather. If it was to be rainy and foggy the next day, we would cancel our trip to the wine country. No point in trying to imagine what is right in front of you. Earlier in the evening the fog had been so thick in Gramado that I didn't even know I was standing in front of its massive cathedral. When I saw a postcard of what I missed, I was amazed.

I kept flicking through the channels....there was a tour of the Brazilian countryside showing people living off the land; a cop show about the dangers of Sao Paulo; a nineteenth century period Telenovela with beautiful young actors and flawless skin; a wacky variety show with people dressed as leopards....you get the idea. No Chelsea Lately here. After two hours of waiting for news and weather teasers, I gave up. I did get several Bruno updates before retiring, however.

It was Alaska-ish when we woke up. I gritted my teeth and got dressed as fast as I could. Isabel, Claudio, Raphael and I drove down to the lodge for breakfast. I thought this time the owner would have to stoke up that big fireplace for the diners. Wrong again. It was damp and cold in the main dining room. There was only light from a hanging fluorescent in the middle of the cathedral ceiling. He obviously needed some design help in addition to his heating loss woes. The spread, however, was ample. Lots of meats, pastries, breads and jams. I enjoyed one particular concoction called a pao de queijo (a little ball of cheesy bread.) I think I ate about 19 of them. The coffee was hot and it seemed to help my body temp stay relatively stable in the upper 90s.

I waddled outside on the terrace and took some photos. The fog was amazing as it rolled in and out of the valleys beyond. The rain was coming down in buckets. Rhododendron plants surrounded the building and along the road tracing up to the lodge. At Christmastime they would be in bloom. It must be incredibly beautiful. The place had such potential if it were to be fixed and given some flair. The porch was broad and deep. The windows large. It had definitely seen better days. If I ever return, I am bringing my space blanket and leg warmers. Raphael and I continued to peer into the valley until two rather conspicuous German Shepherds appeared out of nowhere. Raphey indicated it was like a scene out of 'Twilight.' Their presence hastened our retreat inside.

We sped down the mountain and out of town through the heavy mist (and not because of the dogs....) Even though the atmospheric conditions left something to be desired, I enjoyed what I could see. I have always loved foggy mountaintops and dripping eaves. Such scenes are romantic to me. Next time I hope to view it all with sun and get the full effect. The European flavor of this region was stunning. I only knew I was in Brazil because I knew I was in Brazil. Otherwise, if I had suddenly awakened in the car, my first guess would have been Bavaria. If I had awakened in the motel room...most likely, Belarus.

I wrapped up my legs in a blanket and held Raphey's hand as his dad whisked us back to Montenegro. It felt cozy and sweet to be with my baby in the back of the Selta while his parents listened to Tango music. I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my head up. I drifted off while rain patted the back window. I got dreamy. This was a far away world for a guy who grew up in Spearfish, South Dakota.

Part One: Arriving in Rio Grande Do Sul: Part One of my trip to Southern Brazil

When we landed at Sao Paulo's international airport, I knew we were definitely out of town. We deplaned from our aircraft and walked down steps into the night air. It was cool. All of us were quickly hoarded onto a couple of packed buses that snaked in and out of airport hangers and utility buildings. Once inside, I went one way and Raphael went another as we approached customs. The rooms were dimly lit. The airport was cheerless but the customs woman was friendly and whisked me through with ease. Raphael was pulled aside and inspected a bit longer. I think it was his cologne. He smelled better than the wench who deemed him just a little suspicious. It didn't last long and we were both united quickly.

The terminal was dusky and institutional. It looked like it had been built in the late 60s or early 70s. A dictator's daughter probably got the contract while finishing architectural school. It wasn't as cavernous as I would have suspected but buzzed with activity. After a bite to eat we nestled in at our gate which was packed with domestic fliers. I found myself looking for blonds or redheads. Their absence was apparent. This was a very brunette country. It was here that we first noticed that most all of the younger and middle aged women wore boots. For the rest of the trip, we would see more booted females than Brazilian soccer stories on TV. Whomever was supplying leather for this footwear was doing very well indeed.

Another bus ride to a smaller plane and another hour and a half to our destination. At this point we had been traveling approximately 10 hours. Luckily, the Tam aircraft we had taken from Miami was spacious and new. My back had weathered the flight. A week before we left, I'd thrown it out. I was doing well and felt little fatigue. Flying out of Sao Paulo I could see the lights of the city and its environs. Its vastness was extraordinary. 26 million people in all and the world's 4th largest city.

At approximately midnight our flight touched down in Porto Alegre. Its airport was modern and clean and bright. It put Sao Paulo's to shame. It pumped up my spirit and my energy increased.

Raphael's sister, Claudia, greeted and drove us to her place in the city. The streets were dark and there was little traffic. We wound our way through the red light district that looked deteriorated and ramshackle. They pointed out some cross dressing whores to me while we idled at a stoplight. Ahh...the local fauna.

When we arrived in Claudia's neighborhood, we found ourselves careening up a steep driveway into a parking garage. It set above a large supermarket. After parking her Fiat, we pulled our luggage down the same steep incline to the street. A half a block away was her building. She unlocked a gate and proceeded to unlock another door and then took us down a long outdoor corridor that skirted the building. Another door to unlock and then a fourth floor walk up. Raphael had to cart the bags as to preserve my healing back. We arrived at a large flat that reminded me of the place I had stayed in Buenos Aires 6 years earlier. It was the first time I would see and feel a lot of similarity between Buenos Aires and Porto Alegre.

Claudia's girlfriend, Naiara, greeted us exuberantly and we settled in. She is a bank manager by day and an accomplished actress by night. She had just done a theatre production at a famous venue a few nights prior. Then the food came....the first of a week's meals that were truly memorable. Claudia started bringing us plates of goodies and the first one was warm pine nuts from trees that grow in the southern Brazilian mountains. They were in season and delicious. They were big and you sucked them out of their shell. They had a meaty consistency and taste. The shells actually looked like dead Palmetto bug shells. No matter. I ate them until I thought I would pop. I don't recall what else we inhaled. It was all delicious. Champagne was served and we didn't get to bed until almost 3 AM! Our expanded stomachs said enough and we retired and fell away fast.

The next morning we got up and drove to Raphael and Claudia's hometown. It is a town of about 60,000 that is approximately a half hour's drive. As we passed through suburbs and industrial areas, I got my first glimpse of a slum. On the outskirts of Porto Alegre, there was extreme poverty. As an American, scenes like this always shock me. Even our worst urban areas don't compare. American Indian reservations come closest but they usually have government housing. I had seen it around South Africa and parts of Argentina. But, I am still not seasoned enough as a traveler to not be affected. Brazil is an emerging nation with a growing middle class. Hopefully one day these types of living conditions can be eradicated.

It took a while to get into the countryside. Zoning was weird. There didn't seem to be a lot. Industrial seemed seamless with a lot of housing and agricultural. As we drove, the elevation increased. Eventually urban clutter gave way to farms and cattle. A few roundish, low mountain peaks started to come into view. One of them was our destination area.

Montenegro sets in a valley with much of the city on a slope. There is a tree covered hump of a mountain that separates both sides of town. A long boulevard angles down into the community and around the peak. There on the south slope, an inclining street brought us to Raphael's parents place.

The house was a cute white, brick, bungalow with blue shutters. A gorgeous poinsettia bush graced the front gate. The house is elderly and dates back to at least the first part of the 20th century. His parents greeted us and shuffled us into the kitchen through small rooms and a hallway. We were seated in a very sunny and breezy kitchen. The windows were all open and we could see into the back patio area. There were maid's quarters where an actual maid had lived when Raphael was growing up. This is not uncommon in this part of the world.

Raphael's mother, Isabel, was very friendly and greeted me warmly. With a flurry of hands and Portuguese I was ushered to my seat as Raphael explained what she was saying. His father, Claudio, stood stoically and looked for direction from his wife. He smiled at me as if to say "I know...I know...it's a lot. You'll be fine." Suddenly a beef stroganoff was placed in front of me and its deliciousness was evident. Warm bread was passed around. Yucca was served. Isabel, Claudio and Claudia all had Brazilian beer. The warmness of the day was gliding in through the open windows. It felt very Mediterranean. The casual comfort was apparent and I felt right at home. After a very hearty meal, Raphael and I took a walk.

The town had a bustling downtown with all kinds of merchants. Lots of pharmacies were apparent along with clothing, appliance, furniture and hardware stores. Open air sandwich shops were abundant. Here and there 'botecos' sat on corners (Brazilian roadhouses.) People were friendly and the commerce of the place seemed healthy. Lots of subcompacts buzzed by us. A mushtachioed man in full gaucho gear strolled into the street. Families ate ice cream at little tables. People ran by us chattering on cell phones. There was a hubbub to the place and it was gleeful. The shops and businesses were clean and very engaged. It was nice not to see any chain stores or franchise places. Everything seemed to be independently owned like in the old days of America.

We strolled past historic homes from the late 19th century. Some had been restored and some not. One was the home where Raphael's mother had grown up. Her father had owned the most successful department store in town when she was a girl. It was a beautiful, Victorian era looking home with two stories. Some had lovely lawns and gates while others were right on the street. Women leaned out their open windows to rest and cool themselves. You could look right in some houses with their openness.

As we continued out of downtown, we entered an older neighborhood with colorful, antique structures that dated back to at least the mid 1800s. Many had the original shutters, molding and woodwork details. I am not that familiar with Brazilian architecture but I assume it was a Portuguese inspired design. It looks kind of like Spanish colonial but a little different. They were lovely structures. Some were totally abandoned and in disrepair while others where inhabited and lively. Interspersed were modern homes with beautiful landscaping. Contemporary high rises dotted a few streets. Often, both old and new were painted in bright colors. Eventually we made it to the river. It was muddy and not too appealing. It got broader, more rapid and wooded out of town. We would keep crossing it the next day as we drove into the mountains. Raphael said the river neighborhood often floods and you could see the water line on some of the buildings. An old abandoned factory stood near its banks. We looked down into the water and saw some brawny men working on a boat that was tethered to a landing. They glistened. We noticed we were sweating and he said we were experiencing unseasonably warm temperatures. It felt more like summer. We made our way back to his parent's house through more colorful houses and businesses.

The sky clouded up as we walked and the wind picked up. The weather was about to change. By the time we had dinner that night, the air was cooling rapidly. Winter conditions were on the way. When we awoke the next morning, it was gray, cool and wet. The temperature was in the low 50s. It had been around 80 the day before. We ate breakfast and gathered our things for our trip to the mountains. A very damp and foggy couple of days were awaiting us.

As I sat sipping coffee and gazing out at leaden skies, I caught my first glimpse of a Brazilian soccer star who would dominate the news cycle. On the TV were pictures of a hunky guy who had been arrested on conspiracy of murder charges. It was only the beginning. As the days unfolded, so did the sordid life of Bruno... Raphael announced the car was packed and ready. We were off to Gramado.

Next: The mountains, Wilkommen and fondue.

Cousins, Cottonwoods and fear of the next Applebee's

I guess I lost my momentum......

There hasn't been anything new in this blog for weeks. I've no excuses. Plenty of subject matter has come my way. Better late than never.

Let's see ... reasons I could have been writing: Made a trip home to South Dakota; twisted my back; ate tripe and liked it without knowing what it was; was exposed to the Novella culture of Brazil; learned how to construct a very delicious salad; became frightened of falling mangoes; met a cousin I had not seen since 1958; came up with a business idea and found a camera I had lost 12 years ago.

Let's begin with South Dakota.

In June, I flew home to see my immediate family and a couple of cousins from my mother's side of the family. Family reunions are somewhat of a rarity in my experience so I thought I would make a point to see these women. They are sisters. One lives in California (Darrellyn) and the other (Sharon) in Idaho. ...my Aunt Norma's daughters. Aunt Norma was my mother's sister. Sharon is 71 and Darrellyn, 67. They both look ten years younger. Such an age spread is typical for my extended family. Everyone is quite a bit older. I have always been the youngest. My delivery came in the mid 50s whereas most of my aunt's and uncle's kids were hatched in the late 30s and into the 40s. The last time I had seen Darrellyn was in 1958. I was two and she was 14. Gives you an idea.

The first evening after everyone arrived had that slightly awkward air of "OK...we're all here. Now, what do we do?" This kind of thing can be especially hard on the spouses. Their presence is out of duty. They don't share blood and are forced to listen to stories about family history that means little to them. I admire such patience.

My mother had purchased a huge box of fried chicken from the local Safeway. We ate it diligently and sized each other up all the while ripping apart breasts, drum sticks and potato salad. Luckily, there was a pleasantness to our sudden pow wow status. We would be together a lot for the next few days so hopefully it would hold. Early on I could see that it looked positive and we had a very good time. It helped that we were in agreement when it came to politics. I could speak freely and not worry. This is a challenge nowadays with the polarization of this country. You never know if someone may be in the wrong camp. It's like the 1850s, leading up to the Civil War.

My cousin Sharon is Mormon but an anomaly. She heads the Democratic party in her county in Idaho. She said people actually whisper to her in church that they are Democrats. It sounds kind of like being part of the French resistance in 1942. Darrellyn is more a-political and has other concerns. She is liberal but doesn't follow the day to day battles of Washington and all the trimmings. Her husband Tony is an extremely quiet guy and mostly read or only commented when he really had something specific to add. He was always pleasant and listened for long stretches. On the day they left, he admitted that he belonged to the NRA. He had held his tongue on that and some other topics for four days. It was best I didn't know because I liked him. Had I known, the prejudgment might have surfaced and squelched interaction. There were times when Sharon's husband, Jay, (also an extremely 'liberal Mormon') and I completely shredded the tea partiers, Palin, Fox and anything else related. Tony just sat and looked polker faced while perusing a coffee table book. I would have never guessed he probably didn't cotton to all we had discussed. Like I said, you never know and luckily there were no hard feelings.

Throughout the course of the visit I missed a few conversations. Some family secrets were spilled. It seems I am never around when the red meat is slit open. The important thing is that we laughed a lot and we ate well. A few aspects of our personalities were peeled back for the taking. It may never happen in this way again so it was fortunate we had the time together. My mother is about to turn 92. Time is precious for gatherings such as this one. Luckily the melancholy of her advanced age did not permeate the air. There were many aspects of this relatives visit that I wish I could include but will bring about another time. My two remaining cousins on my mother's side were worth the trip. I hope they felt the same about me.

In the midst of it, my hay fever symptoms increased daily. It had been an incredibly wet spring and the pine pollen coated everything in yellow dust. On top of that, the Cottonwood trees were exporting their puff balls in a blizzard of floating, silky white. The curbs and yards around town looked like light snowfall had occurred. Plus, it was unusually humid with noisy, delinquent thunderstorms that bombed the skies at least once a day. It hailed one morning for a full half hour until my mother's backyard looked like it was covered in pearl onions.

My cousin from California had never seen or experienced such rumbling of thunder, lightening and powerful rain. The Monterrey area gets rain but rarely the smashing thunder and Thor lightning known in western South Dakota. She was amazed at the power behind it all...the constant warnings on local TV that tornadoes were a possibility and that going to the basement in a moment's notice was ready for the taking. It put her on edge at times and it was not fun for the poor woman. She knows rumblings underneath but not above. Darrellyn had been through several earthquakes over the decades. Fortunately the really awful events never became catastrophic but the Weather Channel was frequently checked.

I spent treasured hours with old friends and laughed heartily at times. One night I had dinner with my old pal Debra as we ate at a new Italian restaurant that occupied a hill on my family's former ranch land. As we dined, I looked down on where I grew up and across the open expanse of field beyond. It was a bit surreal. A reality was now in place that may have been a 'what if' thought when I was a boy. I often imagined such things like fancy lodges or pricey restaurants somewhere on our land. Now it had happened. Be careful what you wish for...even when you are 10.

My hometown has morphed and expanded so much that bewilderment, sadness and a lot of anger often surfaces when I visit. I grew up in exceptionally beautiful country and too often, the direction of progress has developed into some very bad turns. Super Walmart next to Subway next to an industrial park next to a Hampton Inn and so on. The new streets, homes and businesses are hodge podge and disjointed. Gorgeous fields and hillsides are gouged with expensive homes and condos. No one looked at the big picture. There are exceptions with a few builders but most of it is detritus and I take it personally. I love my hometown and it deserved better. But it is everywhere. America is brash and only cares about convenience and getting it done fast. Planning is for sissies. Our countryside has gotten punched in the stomach countless times and only the recession has eased it a bit. Except in South Dakota where the economy is chugging pretty well. I can barely speak of it, it is so upsetting. The extreme of this topic is open pit mining which I happened upon one day when out on a ride with my mother. She and I were driving on mountain roads in country that has changed little in 40 years. We took a wrong turn and pulled right into it: Hundreds of acres of holes where surface extraction for gold takes place. It was a hellish sight. Just over a ridge were verdant meadows and fishing streams. You can't imagine how frightening it is to see them so close together.

My sister Susan and I took a drive one day and went far away from this visual heartbreak. We drove through ranch lands and open space that is typical of the high plains. It felt good to see things left alone. Places that could breathe with a view. I took her to a fair grounds building that was built in the 1930s as a WPA project. It is round, wooden and totally authentic. On the National Register. Three stories with windows in a circle on the top. Once a year two counties hold their gathering where livestock, pies and knitting are judged. It looked like a movie set. There was still bunting on some of the tables from the year before. Down the road we came to a town called Vale. It has maybe 40 residents. There is one cafe in town and we ate indian tacos and had iced tea. Our table sat on one side of the room opposite the groceries. The cook made our meal behind a partition. It was so simple. So pure and so non Applebees. My dad and I would stop at places like this when I was a boy when he would be out buying cattle. It was good to have that memory tapped. Good to know such places still existed. We left and drove by Bear Butte on our way home. It gives off energy when you drive by. The Sioux and Cheyenne find it sacred. So of course it would make sense that a mile down the road is an outdoor biker bar the size of a football field. Within weeks it would be filled with cyclists from around the world and someone like Molly Hatchet would be screaming rock from its stage. Native Americans and concerned citizens had tried to stop it from being built a few years before. It bordered ancestral, sacred land. The county commission could have cared less and gave it, it's full seal of approval. This is the mentality that makes me crazy when I go home. This is why my heart must stay away.

Further down the road we pulled into the town of Whitewood which is nestled in the foothills of the Black Hills. The setting is gorgeous but is often ruined in places by mobile homes, interstate business garbage and diesel pickups the size of Connecticut. We drove into the old part of town where it is Victorian and parklike. We found a beautiful Queen Anne home and sighed at its perfection. We savored it and moved on. The next morning I met my friend Michael in the same town at 6 AM. I had left my computer charger at his home and it was the only time we could connect. On the way back to Spearfish I took a detour and drove through a development of new, expensive homes that overlook a valley. The view was extraordinarily beautiful. It was a curious satisfaction. Here I was on a high street on a ridge on one time ranch land that overflowed with history. The mountains were to my south as the sun came up and the green undulating foothills below could not have been more exquisite. Here it all was. The way that I wanted to it to be. The way that it should always stay. And, I was taking it all in from a road in the kind of development that I usually loathe. It felt weird but I had to embrace it. There was some optimism that Republican land use and natural beauty may be able to coexist. I returned to my mother's and made breakfast. There was some hope. Such are my visits when I go home to western South Dakota.

next time: Brazil

Red Dye 2 Much

As a guy, I am finding aging is not a bowl of strawberry sherbet. Well, unless you are 19 and are using a fake I.D. to get into a bar. That is not only fun but exciting. It is also good to be male and enjoy your 'Jesus' year: age 33. If you look swell the year of the double 3; it's a bonus. It is supposedly the high point in attractiveness if you sport a penis. After that, things start to careen down the slippery slope of added birthdays. The hair falls out. You wake up with diagonal ditches across your forehead. Wiry, hoary hairs sprout in places like your ears, nostrils and back. Eyebrows can suddenly look like John L. Lewis'. Musculature shrinks. The libido gets a headache more frequently.

I can only speak for the male population. Women generally don't worry about things like unwanted back hair unless they are of certain Mediterranean persuasions or possibly weight lifters. There are the usual aches and pains and increased disease susceptibilities. Lower energy comes into play...loss of eye sight, hearing and of course, memory. Patience starts to stunt. Curmudgeon mood swings surface more frequently. That "Get off my Lawn!" kind of attitude can infiltrate more easily. Easy breezy begins to dry and the smallest speed bump can ruin your day.

Yeah sure, the 'wisdom' thing is just great. You can pontificate about all you have learned and sit on your laurels (but not too long because the back goes numb) and sooth say until the cows come home. There can be a dignity and graciousness with your advancing years if you are lucky enough to keep your health and not need too much lypo.

Considering I am almost in my mid 50s, things could be worse. (That was a terrifying sentence I just typed.) The body is mostly intact and if I fall down I can usually get up. My wrinkles aren't cavernous and I can stay on the elliptical for 1/2 hour without having an asthma attack. All of that curly, dark hair I used to have is long gone so I shave my skull and it looks OK. Fortunately my head isn't shaped like the Hindenburg. The only particular that kind of bothers me and has become a challenge, is my beard. (Well, that, and uneven dry face patchiness, knee wrinkles and trying to remember why I just parked, walked into Publix and am standing in the bread aisle without a clue.)

In recent years, my beard has definitely gotten more and more gray. What used to be a beautiful auburn has dulled with speckles of snow and well, dirty snow. I allow the grandpa effect only up to a point. When too much white appears, I have to rub on the dye. I feel I have to because my opinion is that I get too washed out looking. If I was as tan as Charlie Crist, well, then, maybe....Raphael and a few friends like the salt and pepper but I am not ready to live with it just yet. I listen to the "Dye, baby, dye!" crowd....So.....

Usually I get a medium brown that I basically 'paint' on and leave for about 6 or 7 minutes. I then go and shampoo my face and hope I haven't left it on too long. There is that tricky period where if you go a minute or two over, it looks like you have dipped the lower part of your face in ash. One can end up looking like a pageant actor portraying one of Jesus' disciples in a Passion Play. I vary the 'depth' of darkness and often will leave some white here and there to make it less obvious that I am, indeed, dying my facial hair. If anyone is paying attention at all to my age they have to know that my beard is unnaturally dark. I do it anyway. It just makes me feel better (even if I end up looking like Billy Mays.)

Well, yesterday I thought I would be adventurous and try something different. Like I said, my original beard color was a rich auburn. After searching for a reddish/brown in the the 'Just for Men' beard dye aisle, I came up short. I settled on a woman's Clairol hair color that I thought would work. It was a deep sequoia color that looked believable on the box's picture. My friend Mookie had done something similar and said it sufficed. The directions indicated it would cover gray so I was set. I got home, put on the see through plastic gloves and started mixing up the concoction. It was way more complicated than regular beard dye. I had to squeeze a gooey solution into another bottle and shake it. Next came a slow, squirting process where I dabbed. It was runny and clumpy. Beard dye always has a brush that makes it easier to manipulate. This stuff was designed to be spread all over your head and rubbed in with your hands. It would also possibly plug the gulf oil leak.

Very quickly it became apparent I would have to be swift in my application. My artistic side would need to be tapped. While simultaneously blotting on an increasingly alarming burgundy, slightly red radish-like color combo, the dripping picked up steam. Skin bordering my hair follicles also was staining rapidly and turning crimson. I had to wipe with a wet cloth to remove the pigment from my skin while trying to even out the color throughout the beard. My juggling fingers somehow worked and I peered into the mirror. My beard appeared black raspberry and glistening. The trim line was even and clean from smears. The box said I was supposed to wait 10 minutes but the color was going Kodachrome / High Def in a way that was making me very nervous. After a minute or two, I jumped in the shower and washed it off. When I emerged to dry, it took all my courage to take the first peek in the mirror. Finally I looked. It wasn't horrific but the gray areas were lighter and kind of an eggplant/red licorice hue. The consistency was pretty even but it wasn't really a dense brick/brown. It was more like that beautiful deep burgundy/garnet mix that is seen on the fancier pillows at Target. The ones that are satin with tassels and are tossed into a harem. Not feeling that exotic, I decided to deepen the shade with some of my regular brown, beard dye and stepped back in the shower.

After my second attempt, I determined my appearance normal enough that I could go out in public and do a few errands. I would wear a baseball cap so the contrast of my shaved head wouldn't look so alarming. I stopped at a UPS store to fax some documents. No one seemed to look at my face with alarm or amusement. So far so good. I stopped for a coffee. I ran into a friend. We chatted a bit. At first he wasn't looking directly at me as he conversed and perused a hook up website on his computer. Later, he gave me his full attention and I caught a quick widening of his eyes. Though subtle, I could tell he had done a quick visual intake of my lower face...kind of like when you notice a person has a piece of sun dried tomato caught in between teeth. He didn't say anything but it was apparent something gave him pause. Yet, no one was talking in hushed tones and looking my way. It was hard to say what the truth was. Perhaps denial had settled in. The real test would be what Raphael says when he gets home.

The door opens an hour later. I am at my computer. Raphael appears and walks toward me, smiling and carrying some stuff from his car. ( seven chocolate cupcakes to be exact, but I digress.) As he nears me, I can see his expression stiffen, then stretch back as in a wind tunnel and then finally fall. There is that 'Oh Christ...what have you done?' look. Immediately I say "Is it too much? I was trying for my original coloring......" He just sighs and looks away and says "Yes. it is too much. It looks like you applied henna to your face." All I could think of were those Indian girls with tattoos on their fingers and suddenly felt a spiritual link.

I immediately knew I would have to change the color. I trusted Raphael's opinion on this one. After a few "It freaks me out when I look at you" comments it was time to cover it with my usual dye. The first attempt didn't work and it just took it down a shade. The second time I plastered on a kind of chocolate mud concoction and it seemed to do the trick. Of course, now my skin was burning from several applications and the beard would be so intensely dark that its appearance might possibly be more obvious than the red. I didn't care. This was my fourth application of dye in 6 hours. My face felt like a hot sidewalk and I was looking rather sinister but the Leaf Erickson look had disappeared.

The beard ended up the color of raw umber mixed with dried blood. All I need is a powder blue leisure suit and a lot of gold jewelry and I could sell watches at a flea market out of my mini-van. It seems a lesson was learned. If you are going to amateurishly betray youth, at least have a back up plan like two weeks in Costa Rica where no one will know you. Maybe I should try extensions next. They would at least cover the creases on my ear lobes and distract from the gray that will eventually reappear in my beard. A monocle might be a nice touch. I could add a tam. Either way, I would welcome some white hairs back on my jaw line. It is distracting as Raphael talks to me while his eyes dart back and forth from my eyes to my blackened facial growth. I feel bad for him. For the next several days he will be waking up next to Kevin, the community theatre actor face. Aging be cursed!

To Corolla with love

I got my car painted.....

It needed it. The exterior was looking p-r-e-t-t-y bad. The hood was uber oxidizing and the back bumper was cracking. I had gotten the trunk and top 'spot' painted at different times in the last three years but the fade and breakdown was taking over almost everywhere.

When I bought the car in August of 2006, the body inside and out were in very good shape. An elderly woman from Century Village had owned it. The car only had 14,000 miles on it! It was a 2001 and looked brand new. She literally only drove it from her complex to Publix and back. The engine was spotless. I had just totaled my 96 Saab in a smashup and I had to act fast with the insurance money available. When I found her car it seemed like the practical thing to do. It was not glamorous (it's the most basic Toyota Corolla ever made.) The only extras were a cup holder and a little dash bin where I could keep toll change.)

The insurance check paid for it in entirety and I haven't had a car payment in almost 4 years. The vehicle purrs like a top and is virtually maintenance free. The only problem has been that the previous owner let it 'bake' in the Florida sun. She never waxed it or protected the interior from heat and exposure. Consequently, the deterioration of its exterior was hastened. I tried to stay on top of it but there had been too much early damage. The molding along the interior door jams succumbed to solar stress from almost the beginning. It started pulling away within months of my purchase. Headliners don't do well in this climate either. Material began hanging and pulling loose. I no sooner got it fixed when the door upholstery shrunk from its confines and started peeling off. I had to pin it. Luckily the dash never cracked and I am amazed at its resiliency.

For almost a year, the car's exterior has accelerated its bleach. Wax jobs helped a tiny bit but within days the oxidizing looked like Rorschach test blots. It was apparent I would have to get a total paint job at some point. I was also becoming increasingly embarrassed. To add insult to injury, my headlights were getting that filmy look and getting increasingly cloudy. In short, I was somewhat humiliated to be seen in my car. K Bruce was officially driving a 'beater' and my ego was taking a pounding (no pun intended.) Every time I pulled into a spot next to a shiny car of any caste, mortification welled up. I felt like a shabby old goat cart on radials.

The first time I picked up Raphael for a date I made sure it was dark with little street light. I was worried what he might think a 52 year old was doing in such a vehicle. It would take a while for him to completely understand what a gem this car was. It did look like something a uni-bomber would park in front of his double wide. My persuasive abilities eventually proved to him this car was an Infinity in homeless car clothing. I think the Corolla's incredibly efficient air conditioning convinced him first. His is just OK in his 08 fancy Beetle.

For most of my adult life, I had always had an attractive car or at least an interesting one. I prided myself in what I drove. The Corolla had been bought for prudent reasons and nothing else. It was basic, bland and dependable. I was going to be really responsible and not go for image. I succeeded. One time I parked it at the Ft. Lauderdale airport garage and ran in, not paying close attention to what level and color I left. When I returned, it took me over an hour to find my car. There were at least 10 that looked exactly like it. It was one of the most anonymous autos ever produced. I think I could drive it across the White House lawn and no one would notice.

In a single day it is possible to see at least 50 gray, 'custom' 2001 Corolla sedans on any piece of asphalt. Their utilitarianism is pervasive. They are like the practical shoe of the car world; a pair of colorless Crocks with a steering wheel. This is both good and bad. The good is proof that this car is still running and a gazillion drivers continue operating them. The bad is that their generic appearance makes yours hard to spot in a Target parking lot. Sometimes there might be an identical three parked in a row. I can't tell you how many times I have tried to get in the wrong one and cursed my key for not working. Now I know what Vespa operators must have felt like in the Rome of the 1950s.

In the past I have owned the previously mentioned Saab ( a beautiful quirky, convertible but that constantly whined with ills), a handsome silver Passat, a cherry red Mazda MX-6 ( I loved this one. It was sexy and ergonomic), a sharp and nimble Bronco II, a vintage red and white 1959 Edsel station wagon that was in pristine condition (it was like navigating the Carpathia), a Fiero two seater (adorable but probably not too safe if a semi had hit me) and a sweet, little 74 crimson Mustang II. In college I had a Vega station wagon. It was cute but the clutch went out on it twice in six months. I think it was one of the cheapest cars every produced. Prior to that was my first car: A 69 VW Beetle that was white with a red interior. I truly loved this car even when I had to push it to get it started towards the end of my ownership. The Bug was even a bit fancier than my Corolla. It had a sun roof.

So, given I have owned more alluring cars, none have been as dependable and trustworthy as my current Toyota Wonder Machine. It may be boring but it is a fabulous piece of engineering. I can honestly say that it continues to be the most reliable car of my life. That is why I invested in its paint job. And, I am not stopping. Plans are to continue with some other cosmetic improvements like wheel covers and upholstery fixes. The car costs me nothing and as long as I change the oil and do yearly maintenance; who knows how long it will last. I would be a fool to sell it and get something newer and more luxurious. It only has 42,000 miles and is 9 years old. (Kind of likc Noah Cyrus without the knee high leather boots. (See www.rightcelebrity.com and gag....)

Eventually I will tire of my prudent wisdom and want to move onto something more satisfying. Even then I may keep the thing and use it as a back up ride. This little car of the masses continues to prove its brilliance. Abandoning it too soon would be harsh. I respect its undying cooperation.

Slapping on a new coat of dawn gray was the least I could do for it. Never has there been a more faithful servant with cloth seats and a cup holder.

An'glow' Saxon

Yesterday Raphael and I went to the beach. It was a beautiful, breezy, blue experience. The water was clear and vibrant aqua. The sand reflected the brightness of the shining, expansive sky. Palm trees swayed elegantly as muscled bodies jogged to and fro in front of us along the waterline. It was the perfect day to lay on a towel and tap your foot as the latest GaGa streamed into your earbuds.

When we arrived it was quite windy. I had a hell of a time trying to get the umbrella pole stationed into the sand. People all around smiled politely as they internally laughed at my clumsy attempts. I looked like a frazzled Roald Amundsen in flip flops trying to lay claim to this part of the beach. Finally, Raphael did some kind of 'drilling' technique with the collapsed umbrella pole. He tamped around the base and pushed open the flowery canopy. Voila! I was in the shade. Neighboring beachies returned to their books and lost interest.

I positioned my chair as Raphael spread out his towel. We settled in with our Ipods, magazines, cooler of Coke Zeros and veggie chips. Stripping down to our swimsuits, we again gained notice. One of us was olive and not working as a solar power alternative. The other was, well, working as a solar power alternative.

Digging into bags, out came the sunblocks. Raphael had a very sophisticated system of 'numbers' for various parts of his body: The SPFs ranged from a 15 for his face, 4 for his legs and arms, 30 for his shoulders and any other assortment concerning various appendages. It was like watching an Australian Gold sponsored skin cancer symposium. He replied stoic-like without looking at me; "Don't knock it....it works." I had no doubt. When I met him last fall, he looked like he had just driven to my place from Ipanema. Over the fall and winter his tan had faded because of weather obstacles and work related time constraints. His spray-on technique would have him looking luminous by dinnertime. I could envision him all carmelly as he tossed the salad while I still looked like a saltine setting the table.

As he rubbed in his sun potions I broke out my Sunblock with an SPF of 70. White paste was spread onto my arms, neck, face, legs and all over. I felt like I was applying window caulk to my skin. Every inch of exposed body had to be covered. If not, a literal hot pink results. I burn like a Southern California brush fire and have to take extreme precaution. My redheaded Welsh/English mother is responsible. I didn't get the freckles and ginger locks but pretty much everything else that comes with my inherited epidermis. In short, I don't tan. Absorbing UV rays and frying is my specialty. My back could be utilized on the 4th of July for various meat and poultry dishes.

A smiling Raphael spread out on his towel and contented himself in a shower of sun. Positioning my chair just so, I huddled under my umbrella. I was clear of direct beams except for the first three toes on my left foot. Reaching forward, I slathered them in cream and lay back in exhaustion. My whole outer layer had been sealed. I should have just put on a hazmat suit. The plan was to stay in the shade for at least a half hour and then do a quick little splash in the ocean for less than 10 minutes. If I kept my exposure to a total of less than a half hour, a crimson skin should be kept at bay. I opened up my Vanity Fair and read about Tiger and the waitress from the Orlando Perkins. Speaking of exhaustion...how did he have the energy to keep all these women in order? But, I digress.

30 minutes went by and it was time to test the welcoming ocean. Raphael was bopping to Mary J Blige and smiling as I mouthed "I am going for a dip." Jumping up, I trekked down to the water. It was surprisingly cool. I stood and tried to get used to the temperature. The fahrenheit was in the 80s but the water had not warmed. I took little steps in the sand and moved farther toward the waves. There was a gorgeous clarity below me as I pushed against the foamy tide. I turned and waved at Raphael who was applying #8 to his neck.

He doesn't know I can't swim. I haven't gotten around to telling him. It is enough of a chore to get me to the beach let alone it's watery depths beyond. The few times we have gone he has never asked why I don't plunge and float like he does. I guess he'll find out when he wants to go snorkeling in the Keys. The truth will eventually come out. In the meantime, wading around in the shallow areas and bobbing a bit will possibly give the impression that I have no aquatic fears. It is tough living in Fort Lauderdale and having to admit you can't swim. People's mouths drop open and can't believe it. They tell me how 'easy' it is to learn. They don't know what they are talking about. I can't stand to stand underneath a shower head. I hyperventilate. Water in and around my ears makes me panic. It is a hard thing to explain to a swimmer. It's like trying to defend not sleeping to a cat. They don't get it and I am fatigued with giving the reasons for my phobia. I tried dating a marine biologist once. It was an impossibility.

After some safe and light bathing, I trudged back to my beach chair. All eyes are on me as they privately converse as to whether I'm an albino or Canadian. Many reapply their sunglasses to prevent the harsh glare. I could never walk on this beach at night during the sea turtle nesting season. The balance of nature would be seriously screwed. (people in Florida will understand this reference.)

Plopping down into my shade, I settle back in its coolness. Raphael offers me a chip. He has already darkened two shades and re-established his Brazilian roots. We peruse the scene and silently shake our heads at old men in thongs, young studs running in unison, giggly girls in bikinis and young children fearlessly charging the water with aghast parents in hot pursuit.
The day is exquisite. It is a beach day extraordinaire. My discomfort with feeling out of place is lessening. The warm skin tones and hazy brightness feel less threatening. A salmon square on the side of my left foot has appeared. Somehow I missed that spot. I pull it out of the sun. The lapping sea lures me into sleepiness and I don't care. I let go.

Just as I slip into a nap I hear Raphael in a lowered voice: "Look! Someone whiter than you!" I smile, shut my eyes and drift away to a land where pale people rule the pool.