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.)
tour-guiding, being tour-guided, taking pictures of Americanas blackberrying in all times and places, hash-brainery, feeling 16 again, teaching my Señora how to operate a box camera, contemplating the configuration and use of a bidet*, and, of course, pooping and snow.
