When I finally understood…

So, last evening, I learned two things while having a late dinner with some older Iberians. One, there is no doubt in my mind that they could come to any college campus and run roughshod over just about all of my contemporaries in the ability to go hard. Drink you under the table? These cats would drink most of us under the basement. The second thing I learned is, in modernity, such a life of leisure was cast in a die of infamy.

 As I sat and watched my host mom and her friends shoot the breeze (when people talk that fast, all you can really do is observe and hope to use the proper tense when a comment or question is thrown your way) on a crisp summer evening in the hills outside of Bilbao, I suddenly realized why the Spanish can put olive oil on everything. It became clear to me why a typical meal consisting of something fried, bread and cigarettes hasn’t killed them at the age of 17. It’s something you can’t really learn hanging around your Spanish contemporaries because, by and large, people who just now grew mustaches don’t know shit. Not in Europe and not in the United States. Sure, they might know history, but often, they have never lived it.

 So why does the Spanish lifestyle seem so easy-going? Because the whistle of bombs is in their blood; because many have the indelible thumbprint of a dictator creased into their skin. Perhaps they can live like this because someone somewhere thinks they have earned it; perhaps they’re not fat because someone thinks they should get the karmic right of way (not to mention freshly prepared meals, which makes a world of difference). We in America are obsessed with time; these individuals appear more concerned with lifetime.

We learn to prepare for the worst and it drives us to excel. Still, such a life leaves room for little else, or so we’ve come to think. This is not a pithy attempt to say we don’t stop and smell the roses; it’s simply the realization that most of us have never smelled the blood.

 But the old folks have. Funny, as I sat and took in this slice of life, I realized I had, indeed, seen this before. This wasn’t Iberia; this was Belleville, Michigan. And, why would I think I was eating Mari Luisa’s paella when Mary Dean’s fried chicken is unmistakable? But the laughter was the same. The cigarette smoke lazily wafting into the night air was the same. The need to release was the same.

Are we then all Iberians, or is the indignation to fling such a life into the face of misery devoid of nation? Perhaps, when someone said, “Fuck it. I’m going to keep drinking wine in the middle of the day. And you know what? I’m gonna wear some linen pants while I do it, and after that, I think I’ll get a nap in because this mufucka is way too short to be worried about shit that might get blown to smithereens any damn way,” it echoed most loudly here. Young people know this. Old folks remember. Peace to vino tinto.

Penultimate Thought: I still haven’t gotten over the mullet.

Final Thought: I nearly lactated when I got to listen to my buddy’s iTunes.

I could still catch them boppas if I drove a cab…

So, in lieu of enriching myself with museum visitations and things of that ilk, I spend a good deal of my early afternoons watching la television (word to my madrilena duns). In doing so, I have found a program called S.M.S. which finds a way to be more hilarious than The OC, which I wasn´t aware was even possible.

SMS (Sin Miedo a Sonar) is a teen drama based mostly at some private school. The title is a reference to the constant use of cell phones, especially the text message (which is apparently called an SMS. Wack), in the show. Apparently, Franco cramped the techno-style bad enough to make it that any Iberian display of technological advancement is, evidently, a boon. Teen drama interspersed with random Spanish text messages that somehow relate to the storyline? Genius.

The show is effing brilliant. I don´t know if the acting is actually bad or if I´m just laughing beacuse the show looks like it has the production budget of ´Ghost Writer.´ It honestly legitimizes every show on UPN and the BET Network as a whole. Like vag to myself, I´m drawn to this show. The best part? I barely understand a word these mufuckas are saying. I pretty much get the story schematic and am then left to my own devices. The sensory delight my eyes get is almost criminal. It´s like a choose-your-own-adventure book, but with people.

To the show´s credit, it does some things right (in the American sense) in the way of television show convention. Its errors, which are apparently a convention in making me guffaw, are all aces.

Things They Got Right

1. There´s  a Hot Mom of one of the principal characters. Nothing more to say here.

2. The Dad that probably got the above mom into the sack by making her laugh, having a good heart, etc., because, in reality, he has no business ever seeing this woman naked.

3. Rich kids with nothing else to do but have Rich kid drama. Solid tv formula. Hell, it´s a solid real-life formula.

4. The 7 Principal Characters: 
A) Cool Guy who´s a jerk
B) Cool Guy´s requisite Lackey
C) Bitchy Girl 
D) Bitchy Girl´s Lackey
E) Dork With A Good Heart who just wants to fit in
F) Dork´s girl best friend who has been uglied up for show purposes and is the person for whom Dork carries a not-so-secret torch

 and of course…

G) The Bad Boy from the other side of the tracks who has good intentions, but is always at the wrong place at the wrong time.

5. General show action includes: Catty girl revenge pranks, hallway and cafeteria scuffles, chicks in school uniforms (knee socks, ties, the whole 9 yards), girls being catty while plotting misery-making on another girl while also undressing in the locker room, awkward sports sequences, weird “it´s night time in some random field and the stress of being a rich punk has caused Cool Guy to inexplicably brandish and fire a gun at nothing in particular as his friends recoil in fear” moments that have to do with storylines I don´t understand, and of course, the parallel adult drama, to give it that touch of credibility Gregory Peck would be proud of.

Things They Got Wrong

1. Cool Guy has, what we of proper televised programming (read: Americans), would call a Dork face. I find this off-putting, as it´s hard to believe a guy with such a face can carry of the burden of being the Cool Guy jerk. Rule: Cool Guys with jerk tendencies have to look like they can skate by on their looks. Example: Paul Walker in The Skulls;  Billy Zabka in every movie he was ever in; He Hate Me in his daily life. There´s really no getting around this.

2. Many advanced camera tricks haven´t quite reached Iberia yet, but there´s no excuse for allowing your actors, especially your lead males, to look their actual height on screen.

3. All the students look like they´re 30. Not the Ralph Macchio “I´m 30, but I look 16ish” 30, but the “I´m 30 looking 28 playing 16″ 30.

4. Superimposing the text messages characters send to each other on the screen in Spanish text message code as if I´m not already having enough trouble understanding the plot (clearly I´m just being American about this one, but hey, there´s a reason why our country code is 1).

5. The Bad Boy had a mullet. Moreover, in the episode, he´s dressed in dirty skate fashion. Problematic for two reasons. A) He´s the only one not wearing a school uniform and, considering the Fresh Prince wasn´t even allowed to do that, I find that highly improbable. B) He´s wearing a Shaq O´Neal jersey. An extra smedium, Orlando Magic, Champion replica Shaq O´Neal jersey which I´m pretty sure he bought off my boy Nate the summer before 4th grade.

6. Episode Conflict– After Bad Boy jacked up Lackey for picking on Dork, Cool Guy attempts to break Bad Boy´s vicious chicken wing (which he had Lackey in for about 117 seconds) and was summarily mollywhopped by Bad Boy (knuckle sandwich to the grill). This all took place in front of several people, including the Bitchy Girls; the Alpha of whom, after a failed attempt to stop the imbroglio, announced that Bad Boy was a delinquent whom her mother (Hot Mom) had taken into their home (why? I think she´s the lawyer for his dad in some case but I can´t really be sure because I, legitimately, only understand 10% of the dialogue).

6A. All that preamble was to say this: After that little dust-up, Lackey, who had gotten him and his boy jacked up in front of everyone, decided to start launching garbanzo beans or somesuch at Bad Boy in the cafeteria. First of all, Lackey´s cannot do unilateral hazing/ heckling. Cool Guy was sitting right there and I don´t think he gave him the green light (He might´ve. Again, my comprehension? Not there). Second, in light of a dual Lackey/ Cool Guy head-lumping, who would do that? When would that ever happen? We all know in such cases as these, the rich beatee often tells his assailant something along the lines of, “You´ll be serving my kids milkshakes (or perhaps in this case, tortillas) some day” while slinking off to do whatever it is Richies do after getting beaten up. Bad Boy, Shaq smedium and all, calmly left the cafeteria. After tossing Lackey´s face off his own tray. Come on Lackey, you didn´t see that coming?

7. Being more nuanced, the adult parallel story is too hard to follow.

8. The gym class two-on-two basketball showdown between the Coolies (no hate speech) and the Outsiders was epic. I swear it made the pick-up game in 3 Ninjas look like Game 6 of the ´98 Finals. Envision: Dudes in private school, phys ed issue polos (except Bad Boy of course), shants, fake tatts and a mullet. Now imagine weak pick and rolls, queer smiles and awkward high fives interspersed with rapid-fire cuts of the ball going through the hoop about 37 times in a row. Now top that off with the customary last bucket that Dork makes before getting the cheap Lackey elbow to the beak which (of course) the haggard gym teacher doesn´t see but feels obligated to mildly reprimand the Coolies about while Bad Boy tries to find a way to avenge his fallen comrade without find himself back on the wrong side of the tracks at the wrong place at the wrong time. Now imagine it in Spanish.

Oh, Iberia, how you tickle me. Peace to La Sexta.

Penultimate Thought: I prefer not to eat fish that has been left on the counter overnight.

Final Thought: I may go on a quest to find a barber of the Negroid persuasion.

Or must the flowers, and kisses, and glances, and wishes float away to be lost in the sea?..

More literary ragamuffinry.

Lord, you don´t have to move my mountains, or roll all my clouds away…

Maybe Ralph got it wrong. Well, to be fair, he didn´t because he hit the nail right on its ugly head. Maybe Ralph got it half-wrong, like an arithmetic problem in which you only get half-credit because you failed to show your work. Maybe Ralph just told one side of the story.

There is something to be said for the Visible Man. Something to be said for the man who is always seen and always accounted for when he wants nothing more than to be a face in the crowd or flora on the wall. He, who by virtue of his self-ness, becomes something other than mortal, something realer than real. Indeed, he becomes Spectacle itself.

His darkness? Darker. His heights? Higher. His countenance? More counted. The Visible Man never visit; rather, he tours, putting himself on display. He is never cold; stares burn his skin. But often, he is dry as eyes greedily sup on him. The Visible Man hasn´t any concept of Nowhere; if there is a Where, he is perpetually the Some. His fears? The Silence; for he has only known the whispering crickets, holding their satchels closer.

Ralph got it half right.

Penultimate Thought: Brunettes > Blondes.

Final Thought: Iberians consume enough ham to make Black people look like Orthodox Jews.

Then we played bones, and I´m yellin´domino…

So, in a shock to absolutely no one, I like talking about doing the grown-up. Sure, I could talk about modern art (I mean I have been to a Guggenheim and all) but why would I want to do that? Talking about it is akin to its performance: Not everybody does it, but everybody should (word to my George Michael duns {nullus}). In my opinion, there are few better things to talk about considering the discourse invariably sheds light on tangential elements of the human condition. And it´s hilarious to hear about people´s 4 pump defeats.

However, I can say there is something rotten in the state of sex talk and its stench finds its origins in some of those that participate in the discourse itself. Basically, the people that chime in without previous work experience really chap my grundle. I´m not talking about people with no experience; believe it or not, the Boy Wonder himself did not always have the complex infrastructure and cartel that you see today (To be fair, the cartel exists because you generally don´t see it, or at least don´t know you are seeing it. I´m something of  kaiser Sosay. now allow me to disengage from my own D).

No, I´m talking about the Imposters, the people that don´t have the courage or courtesy to explicitly say they are speaking from an utterly hypothetical point of view when engaging in the converse due to a lack of cut teeth.  These people give you the impression that they´re seasoned cock or boob handlers when, in reality, they are nothing of the kind. Some of us have had the unfortunate opportunity to encounter these insouciant frauds in terribly compromising positions. Often, the honorable among us make this discovery after said conversation; often times in intimate surroundings where our pants may or may not been working their way toward our ankles.

Again, it´s not the fact that these people aren´t veterans, it´s that they walk the streets virtually undetected  until the moment your genitals realize they will not be sated. These people cheapen the efforts of those of us who have been knee-deep in the struggle.  With their conversational smoke and mirrors, they make our triumphs and ego-shattering defeats something less, where we have borne scars, they have simply draw them on. Shame on you, Imposters. Shame on you. Peace to 10th grade.

Penultimate Thought: If you take a three hour break in the middle of the workday, you are, at best, a 1 1/6th world country.

Final Thought: The euro can eat D.

I wake up to the sound of music…

So, in taking my buddy Ma Barker´s advice, I did not perish on the way to the Iberian peninsula, which is pretty sweet. However, I did have a few d bag moments in the first 24 hours, thus making me wonder if people who cannot speak a language should ever be allowed into whatever country is in question.

The first was the simple issue of not being able to find the exact location of the apartment I was staying in. I got the street and everything down pretty good, but since Spaniards don´t have the good sense to clearly label addresses in the number, street, apartment number order like any decent superpower (oh wait, there´s but one), I ended up having to get someone to buzz the correct apartment after failing to do so at three different houses (Sidebar 1: You know those queer little listening exercises you had to do in language class? Listening to people speak on the intercom is exactly like that, except you don´t get do anything but sound stupid when you don´t understand what the speaker says and the speaker verbally tea bags you).

The second cornucopia of douche came with my inability to operate the door of the house itself. The first night I came back, a wee bit leaned, and after first going to the wrong floor altogether, I pretty much couldn´t open the door because, much the address situation, premier doors are not a thing of the junior varsity first world. After many futile attempts, I had to eventually go downstairs, and buzz my host mother out of bed to help me. Oddly enough, “what the eff?”, transcends language barriers. For the record, I´ve only just recently been able to open the door without incident, one time I needed the aid of a custodial samaritan and the other, my buddy Land O´Lakes, had to do it for me (nullus).

My favorite part of the country has to be the siesta, which, outside of the whole familial bond thing, is utterly absurd and sort of hilarious. I know I´m showing my bald eagle right now (what?), but the institution almost defies explanation. It´s a 2 hour meal and nap in the middle of the day. I know concepts of time are different in every country, but honestly, how can you just shut the country down for two hours. My buddy Captain America is convinced that when his dictatorship takes hold, he´ll know exactly when to invade Spain.

Two hours to chill? Word? I mean, what do the I-bankers do here? Can you imagine some of your buddies just getting two hours to rest in the middle of the business day? More than that, can you imagine business itself shutting down? They wouldn´t know what to do with themselves. In fact, they´d probably work through the rest, thinking that the two hour advantage would give them that little extra edge that most hedge funds need, and a little more time to do coke of their secretary´s breasts later in the evening.

On the brighter side of things, I thought the siesta would be right in Black peoples´wheelhouse, and openly wondered this morning why more Black people don´t emigrate here (and don´t tell me it´s because people in other countries don´t like us. No one likes us). The thought lost a lot of steam when I remembered that Black folks would turn siestas into Memorial Day weekend every damn day. Besides, if you want a siesta bad enough en los Estados Unidos (word to my Cubana duns), you can just go to Valhalla (if you don´t know what Valhalla is in reference to this witty journal, it is indeed the largest dining facility at my institution of higher education, infidels).

Alas, these are but some of the many hi-jinks misadventures and general xenophobic musings that have crossed my path in but a few days. I haven´t even begun to discuss the mullets, culottes, or man bags. Stay tuned. Peace to 011.

Penultimate thought: Everything´s better in falsetto (Revolutionary Penultimate Though Sidebar 1: I was in a bar with my buddy, and a Def Leppard song came on, causing my buddy to fly into a quiet rage as he pondered the Journey/ Def Leppard concert he was tossed out of before witnessing the latter. By the by, my buddy is 21).

Final Thought: “I don´t know why Spain even has the Euro. They´re only like a few steps away from being a third world country.¨”– Sammy J.

And the people bowed and prayed…

So, I’ll be traveling about the Iberian Peninsula today until the 15th of August. A Black man going to the Iberian Peninsula (freely). Who’da thunk?

Penultimate Thought: I think a smile from the right person can actually kill you.

Final Thought: Packing is an under-appreciated art.

The late, great Johnny Ace…

So yesterday, I decided to see ‘Superman Returns’ in lieu of ‘Waist Deep.’ Though it’s always a shame to miss any opportunity in which the few working Black actors (read: video girls, models, singers and rappers) play make-believe that white people think is real, I thought the safer bet would be taking in the Man of Steel (semper nullus and not to be confused with the short guy that killed about 9 million people in Russia).

At this juncture, I’m going to give my thoughts on the film, most likely in bulletpoint form, so if you have not seen the movie and wish to do so, skip this entry altogether and view another of my entries, which are equally poignant, funny or thoughtful. Some musings for your consideration: 

Point 1- It was a good movie that never quite got over the hump. I kept waiting for it to get really good, and it pretty much stayed just good. I certainly wouldn’t pan the movie, parts of the story were compelling and the action, when it happened, was pretty good, but it really doesn’t hold a candle to Superman I or II. I would give the movie a 7; it’s the girl that’s decent and fairly dependable in the clutch, but if you had your druthers, youhold out for the 8 with a tongue ring.

Point 2- The three principal characters had very tough acts to follow. 
               A. Christopher Reeves will always be Superman, and he never got enough credit for making Clark Kent just dorky enough that he could hide his identity and Superman just humorous enough to make him likable to just about anybody. To Routh’s credit he played the brooding Superman well and apparently has junk big enough to cause the studio to digitally minimize it in post-production (let’s be honest: that has to be a point of pride for dude).
               B. Margot Kidder’s crazy ass will always be Lois Lane. However, having made Lois more tame, it fit in Kate Bosworth’s wheelhouse (I’ll not dignify) pretty well. 
               C. Kevin Spacey did ‘The Usual Suspects’, so that pretty much puts him in the pantheon of ‘Guys Who Will Always Bring Something To The Movie,’ however, Gene Hackman so thoroughly kicked the crap out of the Lex Luther role that they probably should have just brought him back for this movie (I mean, if they can digitally minimize junk, they can call up Rick Baker or something, right?). I actually had someone tell me that Spacey was better than Hackman, but they also went to the prom like a week ago, so you do the math.

Point 3- The guy who played Richard, Lois’ boyfriend, was solid; I mean, he could have been a real jerk, seeing as it was obvious that Lois was still moist for Superman, but he wasn’t. It’s hard to compete with Superman, so he decided to just be as gully as he could possibly be, which any dude can appreciate. I have to admit, I found it  mildly distracting that he wasn’t wearing his Cyclops sunglasses, acting like a punk.

Point 4- Biggest Problem With The Movie: 
              A. After improbably being brought along while mom gets the scoop on a story (which of course gets them captured), Lois’ kid throws a piano across a room, killing the guy that was about the brick his mom, and pretty much no one addresses it until Lois drops the baby d bomb on Superman while in a coma. Mind you, because the kid’s in the room, she whispers this to him, as if he wasn’t present for his own piano-chucking, not to mention the fact that being Superman’s seed probably gives him super hearing. Are you serious? 
              B. After said piano-chucking, they get locked in the yacht pantry and when Lois asks the kid for help, he just says “I’m sorry.” Didn’t even try to bust the door. What? You just tossed a Yamaha across the room. 
             C. Are you trying to tell me this was the first time he exhibited super strength? Assuming that it displays itself in moments of extreme emotional duress, you would think he did some super shit by the age of 5, especially considering the fact that the kid was a punk and had to have been picked on at least once. 
             D. How they ain’t gonna tell Richard that he’s not the dad? This isn’t some human kid in a situation where it would be best not to shake his whole life. This is Superman’s seed, son. What was Lois gonna do? Just wait for the first time Richard gets throw across the house after being a little too hard on junior at soccer practice? Come on.

Point 5- Superman grew up in East Bumscrew, Kansas and is a reporter of the middling sort at The Daily Planet (a great newspaper name by the by). Where is he getting the dough for his wardrobe? The guy just leaves his friggin’ clothes and glasses on the ground. And what about his wallet and keys? Does he just leave those laying around? I mean the guy has to pretty much get new clothes every single day. And don’t tell me that he goes back and collects them because if you left a decent suit, shoes and shirt (busted buttons notwithstanding), they’re getting scooped up and either worn or sold for crack cocaine.

Point 6- Let’s say I believe he can fit a cape under his clothes, how in the name of Sammy Davis Jr.’s eye does Superman get those storm trooper boots of his into a pair of Rockports?

Point 7- You can’t actually tell me Lex would want to live on that land asteroid.

Point 8- If those crystal reacted like that in water, what are the odds that Kitty’s ditzy ass dropped like 7 of those suckers out the window of a moving helicopter onto the only dry flat place on a constantly growing land mass which happens to be about 117% damp considering it orginated from and is surrounded by the ocean?

Clearly, I have more to say about the movie, but I don’t really feel like it anymore. Despite the above rant, it’s a decent matinee showing and I would recommend it as such. Peace to Christopher Reeves.

Penultimate Thought: I need a big suitcase.

Final Thought: White people dreadlocks always look terrible.