Barcaninja

After being American and participating in my first pub crawl (?), I had yet another somewhat romanticized encounter with a Pakistani crackhead. However, this particular Pakistani crackhead, proved much more forward and valiant in his approach to getting in my pants. A colleague and I were leaving Bar Manolo around three in the morning, when a masked man came at me in an awkwardly homoerotic and aggressive fashion. I am not sure if it is my likeness to an all-American farm-boi from the midwest or my usual scent (beers and tears) that attracted this thief to me.

In my inconspicuous stupor, I looked up from the grimy La Rambla alleyway to witness this pocket-checking boy-rapist slurring Spanish and prematurely frisking me with his tourist and hard drug stained hands. Apparently he was unaware of the ninja-stealth most pick-pocketers practice. Regardless, I was afraid, but drunk, confused, and strangely smiling as well. I considered three different but flawless plans of action:

1. - A quick head-butt to his nose piece.

2. - Pai Mei's Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique.

3. - Run.

I disregarded Option 1 for, at the time, I did not have the desire to bathe my face in some poor street chump's blood. Two would have been sort of a cop out, and I did not want to take my hands out of my pockets mainly because I was tired, but also so the poor street chump didn't have any chance at the little money I had in them. So I opted for the third plan.

After a little stutter step and one failed attempt at breaking through, I juked the kook to the right, threw some high knees, and Barry Sander'd my way out of the alley to ensure me and my colleague's "successful" return home. Wu-Tang.

Greetings Earthlings

Although I have much respect for the gang over at MainGrain (minus Dave), I feel that in order for a machine to run properly and thus further itself, it must be met with legitimate competition. And as most of the gang (minus Aaron, Rob, and Drew) are playing their cards across the pond for the next few months, I would like to jump on the self-centered, cyber-journal bandwagon and announce my arrival by telling MainGrain to dame unos chivos. While the literal translation of the phrase reads "give me goats," I will rely on your well-furnished intellect to decipher the phrase's practical meaning.

Sorry. Actually, it is not out of self-proclaimed wit or a desire for progression that I find myself typing these words. Instead, I sit here and write because I am lazy and pathetic. I have no energy to read or do push ups. I can't sleep and enjoy the siesta. And, lastly, I am scared that my host family might force me to eat clams or other strange, vagina-looking things if I do in fact venture out of my room.

I am even self-conscious about leaving my room to go to the bathroom. See the walls in Spain are very thin and every one hears every scratch of an ass. Seeing that I live with dos chicas de Brazil (Deborah y Rebecca), una de Israel (Nitzah), and a flamboyantly crazy señora (Nieves), each time I sit on the toilet I stare at my underwear and envision them laughing at every fart, plop, and whistle....

Anyways, I figured this thing could act as a sort of euro-journal, or eurnal, and transform my time spent on the internet into something somewhat productive. The main thing I wanted to start was Primeros Euros. These will be things I do for the first time while in Europe. Por ejemplo, First European Fixie Rider: Observed. Thought of Andrew Wheeler. Looked away. Wiener began to itch. And so on...

I guess I'll just start by a telling of the morning after my first euro party. As most of you know, it is common in Spain to nap throughout the day and stay out until 6 in the morning after the metro awakes again. After a night of "never have I ever" with strangers, an oddly romantic harassment by a Pakistani crack head, and a bottle of cheap rum smuggled out of a mercado in my pantalones (I paid for it but it was sold to me illegally), I awoke at 930 in the am to a fuzzy Spanish gawking, church belling throughout our apartment building. After discarding the belief that I was dreaming, I started to adjust and return to my sleep.

However, in my daze, the gawking then transformed into an echoing

of Bob Marley songs. Though confused, I decided to ignore my PCP flashbacks, leave it be, and allow the music to sooth me back to bed. But, of course, as my eyes began to rest once more, the most obnoxious clang startled me upright in my shitty bed. This dumpster smashing or Chinese orchestra exploding or whatever the heck it was, was so outrageous it literally made me flinch and bounce every time I heard it (however, a good way to make a morning pee-boner go back to sleep).

This is when the hungover cussing to myself began. With a few puta madres riddled within a number of are you mother fucking serious you goddamn shit-eating country people I slid out of my bed and into my slippers. I stumbled out into the living room to find Nieves reading her daily fix of ¡Hola!, the Spanish rendition of People. Without saying good morning, and with a Catalonian lisp she abruptly announced Eth una fiestha! I responded with a que? and shimmied out onto the 7th story patio.

With the crashes never ending, I peeked my head over the ledge, and was seemingly overwhelmed by the circumstances taking place en la calle. Sure enough, the crazy Spaniards had the road blocked off and a stage erected. Upon this stage square-danced approximately ten Spaniards, clad in flannels and cowboy hats, marching in unison to Creedence Clearwater's "Proud Mary." America!

However, as odd as it was, this did not explain the explosions. I proceeded to look to my left to witness four militarized Spaniards wielding 18th century muskets annihilating anthills of gun powder in the middle of the street. The scattered spectators spectated rather calmly and seemed to actually be enjoying themselves. The square dancers continued to square dance and seemed to ignore the soldiers' decimation of the surrounding infant population's hearing abilities. More cussing and laughing ensued, and then I got a haircut.

Anyways, I just never would have fathomed that my first hungover Spanish wake up call would be at the hands of pseudo-Rastafarian, Creedence-loving rednecks equipped with ancient fire-arms.

If any of you are still reading, I am sorry. To sum up my first chapter I will update all of my Primeros Euros.

First Euro Bar: 86'd. Nuff said.

First Euro Kickflip: Stomped. First try. No warmup.

First Euro Poop Sesh: Pathetic. But dry none-the-less.

First Euro Missing of Aaron Cleveland: Heartfelt at Razz Ma Tazz when I only half-wrecked the euro dance floor with awkward leg swinging and fist pumping.

First Euro Denial: At Razz Ma Tazz when the boyfriend of our Spanish "Guardian Angel" told me I better stop dancing like Aaron was with me if I wanted to get any chicks.

First Euro Skate Spot: Biebel'd - Paral-lel.

First Euro Pro: Encountered - Jesus Fernandez.

First Euro Footy: Stacked - Crooks to fakes over stairs. Blunt to regs (:() on mellow bank.

Nong a Nong a Nong Nong.