Try to ignore that it means more than that…

I warned them all from the beginning. I always said something along the lines of, “I must advise you, I am stamped with an invisible warning. I will not commit, I will never marry.” Despite my best efforts, I’m beginning to feel some small cracks in my faux finish. You know, when I look back on my little life and all the women I’ve known, I can’t help but think about all that they’ve done for me and how little I’ve done for them how they looked after me, cared for me, and I repaid them by never returning the favor. Yeah, I used to think that I had the best end of the deal. 
                                                                        -Alfie

So. There you have it. I certainly can’t claim victimhood. However perverse, I’ve been a soldier of fortune in the battle men and women have been waging since the day before forever. Some people call it The Game. I prefer to call it The Life; not only because of its seriousness but also because of its organic complexity. It is a living, breathing entity that is sustained and perpetuated by its ability to intoxicate and debilitate. Its volatility cannot be underestimated. The Life recognizes those that respect it and, more importantly, punishes those who slight it.

As a Lifer, you quickly discover that The Life is governed by a system of rules; a code of ethics that,  illuminated over time, brings a degree of order to man, woman, chaos. The most crucial of these tenets is the most difficult to accept: It is never how you feel, but rather, what you have the right to say. Silence is often a begrudging ally. For all of The Life’s vitality, there is little room for the heart. So you ration it and train it; the better you are, the colder you get until, one chilly day, you almost feel nothing at all.

There’s the catch: To be a success in this is to be numb to the more basic human emotions. So while you lay the pipe as best you can, and hang out as best you can, and listen as best you can, you feel next to nothing because you trained hard and well. And for all the moments of quantifiable success, for as many arrows from your quiver that struck true, you’re rewarded with a feeling that you wish you could drink into oblivion, or perhaps somethingness, but don’t pour a sip because it would be a monumental waste of time.

Instead, you say nothing because you haven’t forgotten the Gilded Rule. Remember, as much as it chose you, you chose The Life. So maybe your friend is right when they say a one-time cheater is a full-time cheater. Maybe they’re on to something when they tell you that, romantically, involvement with you is easy because you are something slightly more or less than real. Sometimes, on lazy afternoons just before dinner, you feel real as you ponder hearts you’ve disappointed, including your own. In those moments, you can hardly think yourself more than a turnstile for hearts to pass through on their way to more permament destinations. You are a commuter flight.

And therein lies the secret of The Life, a truth you either accept or reject– The Life, for all its vitality, is predicated upon destruction to sustain itself and when you accept that reality, you become predicated upon the very same. Though no one can see the edge of their vision, they know it has limits. And so it is with The Life. The end of things and the beginning of something else that will end is never hinged on ‘if’ but rather, ‘when.’ So you become accountable for little and fight for nothing; you merely wait dispassionately, knowing there will be others.

Sometimes, someone gets through to your heart and you are so baffled and outdone by this accidental thawing that you have no choice but to cool even further because, in The Life, too much heart just won’t do. It’s not something you want to do. In fact, you think you might have enjoyed the feeling; it nealry reminded you of the days when love and loving wasn’t your business.

 Still, you trained so long and so hard and so well that too much feeling is something you are repulsed by. Diligently, you recall that in The Life, it is only eros that exists. Love? A myth, a figment of curious happenstance. So rather than embrace somethingness, you train harder, remembering not to complain because you know the rules and this is The Life you’ve chosen.

Penultimate Thought: I’m probably the 10th loudest person in my family.

Final Thought: The Magic Bullet Blender infomercial is mesmerizing.

And you know that my ride doesn’t really exist…

So, rather than do a simply pro/con list like other mere mortals, I’ve decided to compile a Iberia-Gaul Good/Handjob Travel Review List, because I feel it has an accuracy and depth that p/c can’t hope to approach (Author’s Note: If you’re asking yourself, “What’s wrong with a handjob?”, you need to reassess your priorities). Enjoy.

GOOD: Siesta                                             
HANDJOB: Siesta in a supposed major city

GOOD: Tortillas                                          
HANDJOB: Tuna pate

GOOD: Paella                                            
HANDJOB: Leaving perishable food on the counter overnight

GOOD: Kalimotxo                                          
HANDJOB: Summer business hours with siesta

GOOD: The month of August off                 
HANDJOB: The month of August off

GOOD: Pamplona- Sanfermines               
HANDJOB: The country on a Sunday

GOOD: The fiestas                                        
HANDJOB: Fiestas mulitple times a week (Come on. Their whole life is a vacation)
GOOD: Botellon                                              
HANDJOB: Prolific public girl urination

GOOD: Airport close to my house               
HANDJOB: Grossly miscalculating the airport’s distance and walking 4 miles to reach it

GOOD: Female manner of dress             
HANDJOB: Mullets, fannypacks, and shants

GOOD: Nude beaches                                
HANDJOB: Nude beaches

GOOD: Shakira                                              
HANDJOB: All the other “music”

GOOD: Euro hours phone card                 
HANDJOB: Using said card at a pay phone

GOOD: The show SMS                                 
HANDJOB: Shirts with grammatically-incorrect english on them

GOOD: My host mom                                    
HANDJOB: People looking at me like I was about to try and sell them a belt

GOOD: CNBC Europe                               
HANDJOB: CNBC Europe

GOOD: The World Cup                                
HANDJOB: Every other televised sport

GOOD: The playoff beard                          
HANDJOB: My line-up

GOOD: Seeing a bit of Europe                  
HANDJOB: The Lasties not seeing a bit of Europe

GOOD: Not getting eyes in Paris             
HANDJOB: Getting shushed in a bar during a soundcheck during happy hour

GOOD: People I met my hostels              
HANDJOB: Getting woken up by someone grinding their teeth

GOOD: The Last Real Niggas Alive         
HANDJOB: Bank overdraft fees

GOOD: The real Basque Country            
HANDJOB: Bilbao making it look wack

GOOD: Larrina and his cohorts                                            
HANDJOB: Calling Basques “Spanish”

GOOD: Zapola
BETTER: Eating and drinking ALL damn day

GOOD: Bakery bread for $1.50
BETTER: General Basque coonery

GOOD: Alitalia being semi-bumass
BEST: The peripeteia of life

Peace to The Peninsula.

Penultimate Thought: Seeing grown-ups smoke kush at dinner is hilarious.

Final Thought: Perfectly well-adjusted girls from the Northeast are often single because they are not nice.

Lustin’, bustin’, all out of my boxer draws…

So, I was talking to my buddy the other day about the goings-on in the world and the discusion turned to the female menstrual cycle, as they are wont to do when discussing current events. As I sat there attempting to make sense of post-9/11 geopolitics and their effect on the American dollar, I had time to contemplate the foulness begat of the XX nether regions. Maybe too often we rag on…well, the rag, rather than toast and welcome it (in an extremely sanitary manner).

Now, if I was a situation comedy, this would be the part where Mom sits on the foot of Daughter’s bed while they have a heart to heart. Yes, one of them will probably be wearing a large crewneck sweatshirt, most likely Daughter, with knees firmly tucked to her chest, eyes cast in shame. In this scenario, Mom would reassure Daughter that she had nothing to be ashamed of and, in fact, she should be proud to be a woman now, even though it’s tough a few days a month. At this point, I’d cue the dramatic resolution music while the two embrace and the screen fades to black; piped-in audience applause throughout.

Thankfully, I’m a witty biped with a knack for finding the profound in the mundane who thinks the above reasoning, though heartfelt, does not have cache with most women. While some of you ladies are doubled over in agony for the better part of one week a month for the next 40+ years, I tend to doubt you strain a smile through freshly-ground teeth and say, “Well, at least I’m a woman now.” Call me crazy, I just doubt it.

I mean, we all had 5th grade health class, we know what’s going on (to be fair, a lot of the fellas don’t really know. In fact, all we know is that we don’t want to). Some girls have the audacity to allege that heels are a prime example of female suffering. I, of course, reject this out of hand. No one’s making you walk on stilts. It’s just that pretty people usually do. Shit, the broads in Iberia jog in heels. However, when someone brings up the Lady in Red, I pretty much have to tip my cap to that and thank The Kahuna I have testicles.

Why then do I say we should make an effort to laud this vaginal treachery? Because, especially if you are 21 and under, its arrival means you don’t have put onesies and tickets to The Wiggles into your budget. How come that’s not on a tv show?

Daughter: Mom… I got my period today in social studies! (weeping into crewneck sweatshirt).
Mom: Aw, honey… well, at least you’re not knocked up, right? (Exits).
Daughter: ( Shrill, exasperated) But mom!…
Mom: “But mom…”, words you don’t have to hear for at least a little while, right? (Exits while daughter sits dumbfounded, absent-mindedly kneading crewneck sweatshirt).
Mom: (Off camera) Hey, honey?
Dad: Yeah?
Mom: I’m not a grandma!
Dad: (Quietly, with a subdued fist pump) Fuckin’ Slayer.

You’re telling me that wouldn’t be Must-See TV? In reality, the joy of Big Red’s arrival can only truly be appreciated by girls who bang and dudes who don’t want to pay child support, but those who don’t can rest assured that they are… at least a woman. Or something. Peace to Tampax.

Penultimate Thought: Buckwild is my dark horse favorite for Flavor of Love 2.

Final Thought: When sleeping, I prefer to put my head on the girl’s shoulder because I get to snuggle boob and not get hair in my face.

Old habits die hard…

So, though I spent a good deal of time relegating Iberia to the second world, I really need to take the time to highlight my host mom and her gullery.

Conchi, while Iberian, has Negro tendencies that are right up my alley (no Lance Bass). Loves to laugh, bullshit, fry things and chill. As far as her momliness, she’s right up there with Bern, Comfort and the rest of the No Limit Soldiers. Though one could argue that she was paid to do a service, I’d argue that she did more than was necessary and that “one” needs some Jesus in their life.

My meals, however peculiar, we always nutritious (somehow) and plentiful. And her tortilla? Stop playin’. Only once did I rebel against the cuisine (I’m very picky about my seafood and said pickiness increases when it is topped with bacon and left on the counter overnight). Never once did I eat tuna flan, a fact which some of my fellow comrades in studies cannot say they are party to. 

She saved me twice– Once because I was too inept to operate the front door (Sidebar 1: I don’t know what the deal is, but apparently the idea of a doorknob that works in conjunction with the locking mechanism has not reached that part of the globe) and another time, she left a party to come rescue a stranded Boy Wonder, then brought me back to said party to drink and eat paella. What? Did I mention she washed, ironed and folded all my laundry? Draws and socks included?

Our conversations were generally hilarious seeing as I butchered her language and she only knows how to say “How are you?” en ingles (word to my Salamancan duns). Though there were more than a few occasions were I smiled and nodded dumbly (Sidebar 2: One thing that’s tough about castellano {act like you know something} is detecting the inflection differentiation between statements and questions, especially if the speaker is not looking directly at you. It’s kinda like being on stage wondering why no one is talking only to realize it’s supposed to be you), we understood each other pretty well. The phone however was usually a complete disaster as I consistently won the Depends Geriatric ” The phone is small so I must have to shout and say “huh?” a lot” Memorial Cup.

Truly I have to give her at least partial credit for getting me out of the house on my own when I first arrived. She didn’t so much encourage me as she called me half a vag for not doing so. When a lady in her 50s leaves before you, comes in after you, and then heckles you about this fact, it can be extremely motivational.

Now, lest you think the above describes any matriarch you know, you should be made aware that she hunts. Large animals. Birds, Her living room is a taxodermists wet dream. Birds, bucks, a boar, quills of some sort; she’s thorough. In fact, one day, she proudly pulled a baby deer head out of the freezer while making my lunch (which was, thankfully, not the baby deer head). I have a macabre respect for a woman who dutifully irons my socks while having the ability to gun me down at long range. Oh, and she didn’t give a fuck that I was Black either, which was cool. Step your game up June Cleaver. Peace to San Rafaela Ybarra.

Penultimate Thought: The Air Tuned Max is THE Nike running shoe in Europe.

Final Thought: I rode bitch in a plane for 9 hours and got up to pee once. Gully.

Joshua set out to find his Jenny…

So, I’m currently among the Gauls and have not had the opportunity to be properly witty. Fear not, upon my return to the world’s greatest nation, there will be some word crack. Peace to free internet.

Penultimate Thought: Parisians physical appearance > Spainards.

Final Thought: Parentheses: Hushed tones on paper.