HUMANDERTHAL

Sorry faithful readers, I’ve been slacking on my macking/blogging. To make up for it, I’m going to hold on off on explaining my latest observations about the phallic nature of big cameras.

Okay you’re right, I’m not really going to hold off. How can I avoid such an intriguing topic. I mean look at this guy, he’s fuckin’ stoked.

Now, on to the camera phallus.

San Pedro de Atacama is rife with wealthy tourists decked out in thousands of dollars worth of top-notch gear that they could probably use to scale Everest. Seriously, some of the restaurants looked like K-2 base camps.

So one night, as Ari and I pondered the Gore-Tex fineries of our fellow diners, I noticed that sitting beside just about every well-plated empanada was a camera fit for the most accomplished Time/Life photojournalist.

Granted, I know plenty of people who count photography as one of their hobbies––I think the “amateur photography” phase of female adolescence comes just before armpit hair––but none of them rock the uber-zoom lenses that seemed the norm in this place.

As I looked forlornly at the little point-and-shoot slung around my neck, I realized that the feeling of inadequacy that had washed over me was no run-of-the-mill consumer envy. This was penis lens envy!

All the subject lines from my Spam Inbox flooded my mind, and suddenly I was swimming in ways to “grow my pole” and “keep her coming back for more.” Exactly how my digital camera had suddenly become a 10 mega-pixel member I was unsure (Jianne, perhaps you can enlighten us by explaining how it is undoubtedly a substitute for the maternal penis). But the confident smiles of the huge-lensed men at the surrounding tables assured me that I was not alone.

Although the damage can’t be undone––big cameras now join Italian sports cars, candy canes, hair dryers, those foam fingers you buy at sporting events, lamp posts, street signs, baseball bats, softball bats, Rolos, King Size Snickers, glowsticks, wooden spoons, piccolo Petes, cigars, and of course pictures of penises, in that world of objects that remind me of penises––worry not fair reader, my feelings of paltriness quickly subsided and things returned to business as usual.

But in conclusion I say this, be attentive to those instances of conspicuous consumption that feel a little too conspicuous, chances are wealthy tourists are trying to mind-castrate (mindstrate) you.

Now on to the Geysers. Ari and I had to wake up at 3:30 a.m. to get to these bad boys, and despite the digit-numbing coldness, we rocked the Geysers del Tatio and their adjoining thermal baths like the hardcore Americans we are. Enjoy the pics.