Sucios Animales

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the hiatus. Contrary to your probable belief that I am most likely slaying Spanish babes in tube-tops and taking body shots off of hairy Catalan bartenders, it has been a rainy couple o weeks here in Barthelona, and I have rarely left my room. Yes it is true. Because I am white and lonely, I spend most of my days watching my facebook page reload in order to view the latest When in Rome! album someone has just published or simply wonder what my toenails would look like painted. However, it is not just myself who suffers in this European boredom. I asked my friend Zachary what he has been doing in his spare time, and he promptly replied, "I usually just sit in my kitchen and flip off my host family's dog while he begs... Watching ice cubes melt is cool too."

Only joking, of course. We are not that pathetic. Despite the rain's takeover of productive things like skateboarding and sightseeing, it has rather inspired random spurts of binge-drinking and hash-brained mayhem. For instance, although last weekend awaited with a mellow foreshadowing, due primarily to Z-Boi and Brooks-the-drunk-Texan's leave of absence, the weekend proved to be one of the more exciting.

Now, for those of you who don't know, the Barcelona/global club scene is, for lack of a better word(s), complete and utter American-sororitized excrement. I like to think of it as the tenth circle of hell (coke party). Actually, more like purgatory. A dark, loud, smoky basement engulfed among crackly-voiced hosebeasts, erections with gelled-hair, and the never ending echo of "Tonight's gonna be a good night." Regardless, after some bar hours, many bar hours, and a convincing or two by Phillip-the-Swiss-Navy-Seal (my roommate), there I was, at Club Shoko (?) clad in a cheesy button-up and my beat-ass sneakers.

Although the disco was advertised as gratis (free), my comrades, Philipp, and myself (but mainly my-dirty-mustached-self) were stopped at the door by a backwards, Rico-Suave of a bouncer in need of someone to love him and an attitude adjustment. Although I spoke not a word of English to the man, he repeatedly announced to me that my admittance to Shoko was denied, not because of my beat-ass sneakers, but because of my lack of an education (?). After some bartering en Español, I decided to let this one go.

After a few minutes and street-beers passed, we noticed a bouncer-swap. The newer tool happened to be much shorter and hair-gelldier, so we decided to give it another shot. To make a long story short(er), our second attempt at entering through the front-door ended with a leather-glovéd, back-hand slap to the face executed by the tiny bouncer onto myself. Of course, this is when the drunken English and melodramatic aggression came out, and (with Phil dragging me off) I made a fool of myself.

However with some words of wisdom from the Gods of Metal, it was I who was to have the last laugh. After the lack of security personell at the beached back door, six or seven smuggled-in street-beers, another expulsion from the club, and a swift jump over the guard-rail back in, Philipp and I decided it would be a good idea to "make it rain on them hoes."

The Swiss Seal aided the Mustached-Avenger in smashing numerous glasses and bottles with their hands and feet without being spotted by the bouncer fascists. The strobe-lit ground glittered with the broken alcohol of revenge. Then, after closing, the Mustached-Avenger proceeded to steal three glass vases (about the size of a tennis-ball cans) and obliterate the measly houseware outside the club in sheer disrespect. For a grand finale, the MA chucked the last one off of the pier like a molotov-cocktail down to the back patios next to the conversing gestapo (I made sure not to kill anyone). Victory. Sorry Mom. Fight the power.

(I will give an update in a few days. The story is too long for a combo pack.)

Sodomy and Gomorrah

When they had brought them outside, one said, "Escape for your life! Do not look behind you, and do not stay anywhere in the valley; escape to the mountains, or you will be swept away." - Genesis 19:17

Although it was bound to happen sometime, I regret to inform you, that Hellamaria has officially offended someone (and it only took three posts!). For this, I apologize. I happened to see this picture while perusing about facebook like the lonely white dweeb that I am. At the time, this particular photograph embodied my current idea of the short-black dressed Americana club-goers of Barcelona. Apparently I was wrong.

However, instead of going through all the trouble of finding this post, searching for the picture, logging into the edit mode, removing the picture once its found, and finding a replacement, I would just like to ask everyone who reads this thing to promise not to go back and look at it. Okay? Super.

But Lot's wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. - Genesis 19:26

Stuck in the Middle is Dave

Ladies and gentlemen -

I have decided to take a break from my self-rooted chronicling of the European adventure and do a piece on a comrade of mine. You will always find this man pearl-snapped, big-hearted, and whiskey-dicked. For those of you not familiar with the founder of my rival publication "MainGrain," I give you, David Edmund O'Boyle:

...Or, for a more accurate depiction:

(coming to a playground or internet chat room near you!)

For a brief bio, this is the town where David grew up. ¡Aurora!:

In a state smack dab in the middle of the good ol' U S of A. Colorado:

Despite his likeness to a pedophile, David is a good man. The reason I tell you of David is to uncover, highlight, and deflower his pathetically un-popped ocean cherry. By this, I am stating that in David's 21+ years on this planet, David has never seen an ocean. Never inhaled a salty breath or felt the stinging sand in the wind. He has never built a sand castle or heard a sea lion's eloquent bark. Never has he wrote his name in cursive where the water meets the earth. In simpler terms, David has never felt like this:

To suture this wound and fill the void, David decided to travel abroad. I would have thought perhaps Nice or San Sebastian, or Barcelona even... But David decided to travel to Italy: the boot kicking island futbols smack dab in the middle of the Mediterranean with more coastline than most (if not all) countries connected to the European landmass. Not bad, eh? Hurray for Dave! Naples? Or even Rome, perhaps? Nope...... Perugia:

If you can't see, Perugia is that little dot smack dab in the middle of the country. So no ocean for David. And with those 21+ years on this earth, and roughly 30 of those days abroad, and even a trip near the coast, David has yet to physically see the ocean. Apparently his attempt failed because "it was too foggy." David sad...

So now, this David:

and this David:

However, I offer this blog not out of malice or an ill-humored motive, but with concern. It is up to us to make David's dreams of ocean viewing become a reality. I have set up a number of websites and charities that will assert this problem (see: savedave.org and the "Making Fat People Happy Foundation"). To sum things up and gain your sympathy I gave you this David:

A David who has never experienced this:

David smack dab. David sad. (Lets just hope the Mediterranean even counts as an ocean. If not, our good friend David is shit out of luck.)

Gang Banging Will Never Die

I believe it was my father who once told me, "When does James Bond ever find the time to shit?" And it is with these words of wisdom that I excuse myself for the massive "hiatus" I have taken after publishing only two posts. I have been overwhelmingly busy and lacking creativity for the past two weeks.

Here are some of the things that have been passing the hours in place of "blogging":

sun bathing; regular bathing; not bathing; stepping in dog shit then proceeding to step on my skateboard (thus stamping the shit of dog onto my griptape); drinking Sangria in the parc; breaking my phone parcouring in Parc Guell (Parcouring in Parcs: video coming soon!); slaying babes in Madrid; witnessing the homie Brooks's magnificent display of America in Europe (Right. More to come later.); eating za with a fork and knife (and everything else including chicken fingers and fries); watching Z Boi slay babes from afar; chompin' prawns; smelling the mysterious surges of weed being smoked; sitting in hipster bars reeking of fresh vomit; envying the gelled-hair, blue and white stripe buttoned-up assortment of Boners (not the technical term; i.e. not referring to an erection) deciding which vodka-filled, cigarette-cloud engulfed Chica* will be in the next Taken sequel, etc.

(*Gypsy Diva Betch)

In an ode to MainGrain, here is and upd8 for Z-Boi: He's still back-180ing like a champ, babe-watching, and claiming he doesn't smoke cigarettes.

Homoerotic Compliment of the Week: Zach's so smooth, even his falls are characteristic of the ashes floating off of my doobie.

Primeros Euros:

First Euro Babe Caught Admiring my Mustache: Yeah right. :(

First Euro Mustache Moment: Passionate. Just minutes ago I saw a hatted hipster setting up his guitar in the metro station. Initially thinking it was Langhorne Slim, I noticed he bore a mustache identical to mine. Our eyes met for only a second, but the moment mirrored a meeting of souls. Mi gemelo.

First Euro Chica Witnessed in Lingerie: My Señora, Nieves. Although I was aware of the Europeans' ability to be comfortable showing some skin, I did not expect to walk into the kitchen this morning to find my grandchild obsessed, 65 year old host-mom cooking clams in her bra. Although the encounter was hangover-destroyingly awkward and disturbing, she did not seem to care, and it provided me with another check off my list.

This is just a "quick" summary, but more to come soon. Its a brewin'. Heart, hug. Paz Fuera.

(Right: Jessica showing how its done. Belowish: Slim, check him out)