"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>attack of the killer tomatoes

>i awoke at 6:45am sharp. i was a littany of boisterous energy for such little repose. i dressed like a lightning round, at and early breakfast that still left me empty-stomached, and ran jubilantly for the special trains to buñol. all train cars were overpacked, and while people hung in the doorways and aisles, we sat like firehazards on the floor, quiet with sweet expectation.

although the sun played trickes behind the almost-rain-clouds, we dashed down to the main Tomatina strip like the sun was energizing our shoulders. actress (if you can call her that) tara reid was there with a camera crew, wearing boxing shoes and exposing her sickly-shaped cleavage. as everyone around me scrambled to get a photo with her, i felt absolutely nothing at the sight of such a crappy celebrity. i´ve interviewed much more interesting people.

the boys, foreign and local, were scrambling up the greased pole to get the white-sheet-wrapped ham. we would explode in cheers as the boys, an el niño, and a few random chicas would inch closer like monkeys on vines to the prize, but would ultimately slip where the grease was too thick. people tossed up t-shirts to help, others poured water from balconies. nothing could aid these boys but their own sense of courage and teamwork. the locals would sickly pull down the foreigners to prevent them from succeeding. others would pull down their pants. we would all BOOOOO like a talk show audience.

mariachi bands on the rooftop led us in chants of Olé olé olé and BUÑOL! and TOH-MAH-TEE-NAH. japanese tourists smugly watched like party-poopers behind a green-gauzed balcony. we all collectively held our breath, until one brave foreigner sans-shoes made his way up the pole without support under from others underneath him, and wrenched off that ham that hit the ground like a lottery bell.

then came the t-shirts. the sun removed the t-shirts of many wet men, and, along with the beach balls and plastic water bottles, flew through the air over our heads like a swarm of gnats. when one of those heavy suckers hit you in the head, it felt like a bat. i threw my fair share around the 20,000+ festivalers, and laughed as certain boys dangling off ledges became t-shirt targets. they´d goad us on by mooning us or gesturing wilding for more.

i held tightly to my body as i watched other girls, having been swarmed by chants of CAMISOLE, have their shirts ripped right off their bodies until some where in nothing but bras and shorts, nothing but shorts, or nothing at all. some girls left naked were crying for help, and some gave them clothes like chivalrous knights.

then, when we were left completely restless by the chanting, t-shirts, and throb of the monstrous crowd on our backs, the opening gun-shot rang out.

like an eruption of vesuvius, we roared with delight and fierce passion.

the first truck loaded with roma tomatoes honked its way through the body-to-body crowd. the thrill of this event ripped through my veins, and i moshed and pushed and chanted and leapt in the spray of the heavy fruits that ran across my body in a messy and smelly glitter-juice.

as each truck passed, the flurry and blur of tomatoes in sight grew from a spatter to a complete flood. i grabbed nails-and-fists full of red tomatoes and launched them in every direction. coupled with the constant water spray, the tomatoes at our feet quickly became a sauce, and mounds of it in your cupped hands became a lethal weapon.

the sting of tomato juice in my eyes did not weaken me as it debilitated many others. but the crushing WHACK of whole tomatoes hitting your body was enough to induce osteoperosis. i took many good whacks to my head and cheeks.

but the worse was when i took a whole tomato to the nose, and the blood flushed down my face unknowable to anyone with all the tomato juice everywhere. i took a breather as the blood-flow thinned. i relaxed when i realized i hadn´t lost any teeth.

i became a riot then, venturing into the worst of the lion´s den, my body bashing up against countless skins and souls, as i smashed tomatoes on everyone in my path. courageous men dumped mounds of the sauce down my panties and my cleavage. so i retaliated in kind by downing equal amounts up their ass/scrotum area.

it´s the oddest kind of flirtation i´ve ever engaged in, but probably the most effective.

bits of tomatoes assaulted our bodies. it clung under our breats, our necks on every strand of hair, in all crevices of our torsos, down our legs, up our elbows,under our nails, inbetween toes. the screams and roars of the crowd never thinned once.

an explosion of lost flip flops, goggles, and t-shirts ran through the sauce, making each throw more than just fruit. i felt like mob mentatlity was thrilling me and changing me. i squealed with delight even as my body ached. and before i could inhale another round of sauce-assaults on my face, the closing gun-shot rang out, and the spray of the hoses washed us to a deep freeze.

we blindly wandered through the maze of antiquated streets ( like roman territory), looking for good samaritans with garden hoses, and our way back to the train station.

as i ran back through the war zone, my freshly showered body was re-tomatoes again by men with no sense of an ending.

i heard a man call out, “chica! chica!” i turned, and a photographer pointed his lense right at me, so i performed like a true actress, and grabbed my breasts, pushing them together under the wet hood of my smouldering eyes. he snapped his shots, and i kept walking like i do this all the time.

i am a pro.

i have never been so aroused by the thought of a shower in my entire life. as the mob of red soaked and beaten 20-somethings climbed back up the hill, i felt like a whipped sould, but glad to have had the cojones to do it. the train ride back was a messy tomato-water craze with each car rampant with floor-sitters. one guy even lay down in the space under the seats. the brakes smoked in overload, and we feared a fire larger than the ones in our viens.

i made it back to the hostel, showered like a fiend, running the drain red, and laundering my clothes with massive appreciation.

the tiredness of the day is setting in, and i feel i will sleep upon the instant.

but i will always pat myself on the back because i survived the attack of the killer tomatoes.

i was at LA TOMATINA 2005!

that´s right, mothafucka.

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10 responses

  1. >I’ve always wanted to do that. Sounds fun.

    September 1, 2005 at 4:16 AM

  2. I’ve always wanted to do that. Sounds fun.

    September 1, 2005 at 4:16 AM

  3. >Hey Christine:I think your photo from this event made it over her to Canada. It was in one of the daily free papers. Were you wearing a baby blue bra??

    September 1, 2005 at 1:17 PM

  4. Anonymous

    Hey Christine:I think your photo from this event made it over her to Canada. It was in one of the daily free papers. Were you wearing a baby blue bra??

    September 1, 2005 at 1:17 PM

  5. >Wheeee! You got filthy, chica! I’m glad it was you and not me. 🙂

    September 3, 2005 at 4:39 PM

  6. Wheeee! You got filthy, chica! I’m glad it was you and not me. 🙂

    September 3, 2005 at 4:39 PM

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