You're My Obsession

Occasionally I bounce at random through the blogosphere to see what others are rambling on about. I always am struck by the degree to which there are daily, heart-felt posts about ___________ (fill in the blank with any thought that enters your head). Why does it seem as though everyone but me is obsessed with something? From alcoholism to zoology, adoption to zoroastroism, there are blogs dedicated to just about everything. And here we are with nothing but the religion dedicated to synthesizing all other religions.

So, I'm looking for something new and trendy about which to obsess. How about one of these:

• Oprah.


• People whose eyes don't line up right.


• Where are my car keys?


• Female human breasts.


• Cute things my dog has done.


• Did I turn off the stove?


• Light switch, light switch, step, back, light switch.


• Celebrity drunkeness.

UPDATE: Nice Goiter!

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Tres)

So, to recap, Alceste and myself were living the life of a smelly American, getting drunk, falling down and acting stupid in Espana, more specifically Madrid.

Despite the fact that Alceste and I were now both gainfully employed, we had each blown through our respective savings in the first couple of months, and our spend-thrift habits in combination with the fact that we had to give our landlord a security deposit/donation had left us eating far more potatos than either of us preferred. Our usual routine was, after an early (for the Spanish) dinner of potato tortillas and red wine, we would head out bar-hopping for the afternoon-evening-night carrying only the amount of money we expected to blow in that given night, and we did. Every time.

One evening I recall we were drinking pitchers of Sangria at an outdoor streetside patio when we invited some passing American tourist girls to join us. Unfortunately, we were running a tab and we had no idea how expensive the sangria was. After 5 or 6 pitchers, we thought it best to find out how much we'd spent. Unbeknownst to us, 3 pitchers had completely exhausted our remaining funds for the night. We had no credit nor any backup plan other than to say, "Thanks girls." Since they each had a few drinks, it really was only fair that they paid for half the tab, though it was not exactly what they were expecting.

Fortunately for our nourishment, the Spanish have the wonderful custom of serving tapas with drinks. With each round, one receives, at no extra charge, a little sampler of one of the items on the menu. If you have enough rounds, you actually get quite a varied meal. Olives, fish, pork, vegetables. It is an ingenious custom which kept us fed during most of our stay.

Since we only got paid once a month, and since our budgeting skills were severely compromised, we were just about out of money (again) when we received word that Colpliscol would be joining us in Madrid. I don't recall exactly how we received this word. Our telephone could only receive and could not initiate calls. (This was a handy excuse for why we never called back the various Marias and Nurias). I suspect that Alceste may have written a letter or something, but, anyway, Colyp would be joining us shortly.

For the next couple of weeks, during one meal after another of potatos and wine, Alceste and I shared our dreams about what we would do when Colyp arrived with all of the money he was sure to bring. We would splurge on steaks, cognac, fresh vegetables, whisky, ice cream, port, and maybe even a trip to a laundromat (if we could ever find one). Now that we had laid the groundwork with accomodations and employment connections, Colyp's savings would go a long way toward getting us through until the next payday. The only flaw in this plan was that Colyp neglected to bring any money with him along on his intercontinental excursion. Any!?!

"What the fuck do you mean you didn't bring any goddamn money?" Alceste inquired.

"You said there were jobs," Colyp reminded him.

"How are you going to live until you get a job?" we both asked, though, of course, we knew the answer.

"I'll just hang out with you guys."

This was the first time I remember seeing the large vein in front of Alceste's temple begin to visibly tremor. A red hue overcame his face, and his head began to contort as though his brain was trying to purposely implode. He could barely refrain himself from spitting the froth that appeared to be brewing inside his mouth. Alceste said not another word but just stormed out of the apartment.

I, on the other hand, tried to develop a better understanding of the rationale of a person who would fly to Europe without a dime to his name. "You seriously didn't bring any money?" I asked incredulously. "We are broke," I advised him, "and now we've got your stupid ass to feed as well." "Even if we can get you a job immediately, you won't get paid for another month."

Colyp was unperturbed by this news. He smirked and then began unpacking his few belongings in Alceste's room (as the better paid of the two of us, Alceste had the larger room and therefore got stuck with Colyp). Colyp had brought his watch, some clothing, his classring, and that was about it.

With another mouth to feed, Alceste and I went from "mildly disatisfied with our cuisine options" to "hungry." Although we did manage to get Colyp a job at the gay Frenchman's academy in the Michael Jackson enthralled suburb, indeed he would not get paid for a month. Alceste and I thought it best to feed Colyp occasionally because it seemed slightly more expedient than explaining his death to his family and the American consulate.

After a month of teaching, he received his first paycheck. In order to believe what happened next, you would have to actually know Colyp. Otherwise, this story is just too unbelievable. Yet it is true.

Colyp and I were earning about $1000 a month. I think Alceste was getting $1300 or so. Colyp had been "borrowing" money from Alceste for his entire stay on top of eating our food and drinking our drink. So, what do you suppose Colyp did when he received his first $1000 cash payday? Perhaps he repaid his debt? No. Perhaps he bought a feast for the two friends who had been supporting him? No.

Colyp's first expenditure was to have his classring re-sized because it no longer fit due to the weight loss caused by starvation. He actually had his ring re-sized rather than buying food. This was the second time I remember seeing the large vein over Alceste's temple appear ready to burst through his face. When Colyp came strolling in, his hand waving like some kind of model on the home shopping network, he couldn't have been prouder of himself for getting such a nice fit to his ring. We next learned that his second purchase was a new watch because, as he explained, "the old one was only waterproof to 1 atmosphere." Recall that we were in Madrid and therefore nowhere near an ocean. I was too dumbfounded to think clearly enough to strangle him.

to be continued

More forgotten heroes...

Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy.

Hong Kong Phooey, quicker than the human eye.

He's got style, a groovy style, and a car that just won't stop.

When the going gets tough, he's really rough, with a Hong Kong Phooey chop (Hi-Ya!)

Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy.

Hong Kong Phooey, quicker than the human eye.

Hong Kong Phooey, he's fan-riffic (gong!)

(This is Mr. Phooey aiding CoCoa with slicing an orange in CoCoa's office, to cover the smell)

Readers Anxiously Await Velma Loses Her Glasses (Tres)

Well?

Scotty's Fat Ass Will Require Bigger Rocket

"How cool for James "Scotty" Doohan to have his remains launched into space," I thought.

Little did I know that the plan was to launch his cremains into low orbit where they would inevitably crash back down to Earth in the mountains of New Mexico?!? Instead of drifing off into the eternity of space, Scotty and 200 other people's ashes were lost in the mountains for several weeks. What is so great about that? I got lost in the mountains of New Mexico when I was still alive.

On second thought, this would be a great premise for a new reality series - "Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down."

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Dos)

So, to recap, Alceste and I were behaving like boorish, alcoholic American slobs living in a shit-hole in Madrid.

I had arrived in Madrid on a round-trip plane ticket which had a return date of anytime within 1 year. I had saved $1,000 and my plan was to stay in Spain until I ran out of money or got a job, whichever came first. As the budget for gluttony consumed my savings, my job search quickly became more urgent.

Eventually, I landed a teaching gig in some suburb which was a 30 minute busride outside of Madrid. Col can help me with the name of that crappy little town. I do remember that there were very few bars and the only disco was named "Thriller" or "Beat It" or something similar which was related to its Michael Jackson theme - red and black leather jackets, single white gloves, chimps, young boys, etc.

The academy at which I worked was owned by a homosexual Frenchman and was managed by his boy-toy. Over time, I learned that I was hired because the gay boss wanted to be gay with me, and this infuriated the management. Fortunately for the management, I had no interest in this primarily because I am not, and was not at the time, gay.

To the contrary, I had, rather by coincidence, stumbled upon a gimmick which was delivering muchas chicas directly to our doorstep. In order to improve my Spanish speaking skills, I had run a classified ad -"Americano, 22 anos, quiero intercambiar 1 hora Ingles por 1 hora Espanol." The crafty Spanish have developed their language in such a manner that one can determine the sex of a person by the adjectives used to describe him. From my ad, readers could glean that I was not only American but also male. Thus, all of the respondents were chicas anxious for a little intercambiar. We were virtually rolling in Nurias and Marias.

In the meanwhile, since I was now employed, Alceste and I could afford (barely) better accomodations. So, we moved into a different shit-hole, but with separate rooms and 2 beds! This was a third floor walk-up with 4 bedrooms and a shared bath and kitchen. Our 40 year old virgin landlord, Juan, lived on the second floor with his 400 year old mother, La Bruja. We shared our apartment with Gunther, a German who worked for one of Spain's national newspapers, and John, yet another gay English teacher. It just occurred to me this minute that I should have introduced John to my boss.

John was from New York, and he had come to Madrid for some sort of exotic foreign experience. He was about to get it when Alceste and I moved in, but I don't think that was the experience that John had in mind.

To be continued

OneEar Seeks Whisky Czar Appointment

I am seeking Senate confirmation of me as Whisky Czar. For those of you not in the know, perhaps a couple of definitions would be helpful.

"Czar"= a supreme autocratic ruler, such as an emperor or king; a male monarch, especially one of the emperors who ruled Russia until the 1917 revolution.

"Whisky" = a liquor distilled from fermented mash of grain (as rye, corn, or barley) used medicinally as a sedative and vasodilator.

I expect my duties as Whisky Czar to include drinking whisky and czar-ing around.

Blue Pyramid Book Quiz - A Portrait of OneEar

You're Ulysses!" by James Joyce

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Strangely, though I've tried twice, I've never been able to actually read this book!?!

Velma Loses Her Glasses

The following tale comes to you by special request, a long-distance dedication from LB in LA to AL in LA:

After Alceste and I convened in Madrid in the Fall of 1990 (or was it 1991?) 2000 (or was it 2001?), our accomodations for the first several days (or was it weeks) consisted of sleeping bags on the rooftop patio of Brigg. Brigg was a guy who neither of us knew but who had gone to high school with the RA from our freshman residence hall. I don't recall exactly how poor Brigg got stuck with us, and I doubt whether he even knew how he got stuck with us. I do recall that Brigg didn't know how to get rid of us.

So, for several days, (or was it weeks), we camped out on Brigg's roof drinking cheap Spanish wine and reminiscing. The wine came in liter boxes, and it was literally cheaper than milk. Also, it really wasn't that bad (relative to, say, MadDog or Boone's Farms). In fact, it was a lot like the boxed wine you can buy in the US now. The quality did fluctuate quite substantially, but after a few liters, it seemed to smooth right out.

During the daytime, we would "look" for jobs and/or apartments. For my part, "looking" involved wandering the city taking in the sights and bar-hopping until it was time for a siesta. I often chose one of Madrid's many parks for my siesta if I didn't feel like walking all of the way back to Brigg's roof.

Alceste was somewhat more diligent than myself, and he soon had a job. His job involved teaching English, which, as luck would have it, he spoke. This was perfect, I thought, now we had an income and we could continue our wine-drinking and bar-hopping ways. Alceste didn't see it quite this way. He preferred to enjoy the fruits of his own labor, or, as he put it, "get a fucking job, you asshole." I have a feeling he was referring to me.

Alceste then made the mistake of letting it slip to Brigg that he had a job. We were given an ultimatum of a certain number of days (or was it weeks) within which we had to stop sleeping on his roof. So, we found an apartment on the South side of the city.

This particular apartment was something of a shit-hole in a rather decent building. In fact, the building had an elevator, though it was designed to carry no more than 2 lilliputians, and a door-man. The doorman was an interesting fellow who clearly hated everyone and who openly longed for the return of the fascist dictator Franco (who is still dead).

Alceste and I, and a fluctuating number of foreigners from various locations shared this apartment with one bathroom and a kitchenette. There were usually 5 or 6 of us living there, but sometimes there seemed to be more like 8 or 10 of us in the fairly cramped quarters. Alceste and I shared one room, and we agreed that whoever passed out first each night was entitled to the bed. Thus began the long and storied tradition of "Number 1."

"Number 1" went something like this. When Alceste returned home from work, and I returned from "looking" for work, we would begin drinking the cheap Spanish wine. Since the pot of gold at the end of the drinking rainbow was a soft bed rather than a hard floor, drinking would quickly accelerate into something like a Nascar race, only with wine. (Of course, this would later develop into the card game "Up the Brandy, Down the Wine"). One of us would soon sense an advantage over the other in terms of proximity to unconsciousness which would cause a proclamation, "I'm Number One!" It was as if to say, enough with the warm up laps, let the race begin.

As you can imagine, this kind of challenge would precipitate a frenzied and furious escalation of the drinking activity by Number Two who might soon find himself in a position to shout, "I'm Number One." And so on. There were several endings to the game. Very rarely, Number One would leap to an insurmountable lead, never to be caught. More usually, there would be a back and forth, mano a mano, for several hours during which many bad things might happen until one or the other of us conceded, "Yes, you are Number One." And, occasionally, no victor would emerge until long into the morning when the whole point of sleeping had lost any meaning. Typically, those battles would be resumed after work (or "looking" for work).

Eventually, Number One began to carry with it additional privileges. Not only did you get to sleep in the bed, but also you got to use the fork to eat with. You also got to wear around your neck the compass on a string by which we navigated on our drunken escapades out into public. And, finally, as Number One matured into a fully developed sport, you got to pick the itinerary for oour drunken escapades out into public. And each of these privileges belonged to you, but only for as long as you remained - Number One.

To be continued........................

Fall Well, Jerry

Score one for Satan, Winkie-Dinkie, Larry Flynt, and the "First Class Nuts." Our comrade in arms in the battle to usher in the apocalypse is no more. Yes, brother Jerry Falwell is dead.

At 11:45am EST, the vacuum inside Falwell's head finally collapsed unto itself creating a pinhole sized approximation of a black hole (dubbed a pin-head). Due to the immense gravitational pull, neither light nor logic escaped the event, but Falwell's demise was verified by the sudden cessation in the stream of shit flowing out of his mouth. The official cause of death was initially reported as a "bowel obstruction," for which many suspected the aforementioned head. However, Doctors later confirmed that Falwell's death was caused by the lack of a functioning heart.

Jerry, you made the world a better place simply by leaving it, and for that we thank you. May you rest in peace (briefly, until Judgment Day).

_______
NOTE: For those who may consider it callous, cowardly, or conventionally crappy to dance upon the grave of another regardless of his bigotry or the degree to which he preyed upon the faith of others, you are generally correct. Sorry.

Post-graduate studies

So my college reminiscences are of little interest to anyone. How about stories from the year after graduation spent in Madrid "teaching" English? Bundeskraut?

I vaguely recall one night when 4 or 5 of us were out painting the town red. I don't recall why. I do recall that we all got paid once per month all around the same weekend so that we were always flush with cash for several days until we had blown most of our money and had to return to eating potatoes and drinking Spanish wine. This particular evening must have fallen shortly after a payday, because I was flushed.

So, there I stood, minding my own business, while the 3-4 others debated which nightspot we should next grace with our presence. Would it be the chess bar, a cozy club that received us warmly, where the regulars smoked hashish and played chess, and where we were often allowed to stay after closing and to make our own drinks? Would it be the cowboy bar where, for some reason, they drank Budweiser and acted like John Wayne if he were a foot shorter and Spanish? Would it be the (help me out here Coco, I've forgotten all of the choices).

Anyway, I was minding my own business, waiting for the group consensus, when I oh so carefully leaned backwards against the wall behind me. Unfortunately for all of us, the wall was not a wall but rather was a wall-sized plate glass window. Also unfortunately for us, the Spanish apparently have not yet embraced tempered glass or lean-able windows.

And so I and thousands of shards of broken glass proceeded to fall into the fairly fashionable restaurant situated behind me. Fortunately, I landed delicately between two tables rather than on top of any diners, and I suffered only a minor gash on my ear to show for my journey. The patrons were understandably surprised to make my acquaintance, and while I attempted to properly introduce myself from my prone position, my friends immediately jumped into action to intervene in my defense.

First, they intercepted the horde of approaching staff to advise that 1) it was not my fault that I had crashed into their restaurant (not true) and 2) that I was bleeding from the head (true) and needed medical attention (not true). In the meanwhile, two of the others hoisted me to my feet and out the door while whoever was left offered sincere apologies to the diners before we all took off running down the street.

I felt as though I should make reparations when, a couple of weeks later, we passed the spot and saw the plywood boards where the window had been. Unfortunately, we were, by that time, down to the potato and Spanish wine diet without enough saved to make it to the next payday. I could only hope that the Spanish had invented insurance claims.

Temptation and "Dark" human emotions found to be the clear result of aliens

Welp, the latest Spiderman movie has hit the screets, and I'll be honest: I liked it. I guess the secret is to talk to a few people who hated it first (with any movie), and then promptly go before you start realizing the fickleness of the haters' sense of taste. With that fresh sense of "this movie is going to be yet another expensive, over-promoted Hollywood piece of crap, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but let's face it, I'm single and I can walk to the Fox Movie theater anytime I want", you can actually be pleasantly surprised by any form of quality that happens to show up on the screen, whether it was intentional or not.

The basic premise of the movie, aside from the requisite but nevertheless cool action scenes, was that Our Hero (Spiderman) has weaknesses. Try Kryptonite--except black, alive, but also from an alien planet. Again. His weaknesses actually make him act like a dick, but in a cool way. I think 4 out of 5 dentists would prefer the black-suited Spiderman for his cockiosity. I know I did.

But then, Eric Forman shows up. Crap. And no Fez. And no hot red-headed chick from next door, unless you want to count the movie's heroine, "MJ" as a hot red-headed chick from next door to Peter Parker. Ok, so I guess there WAS a hot red-headed chick from next door, now that I think of it. Well, at least no one was from Wisconsin. Thank God, also, that no one wanted to put Ashton Kutcher anywhere in the movie.

Die-hard Marvel Comics fans will be pleased to see that Stan Lee makes a cameo appearance as a "man on the screet", and is instantly recognizable by his horribly-lopsided post-plastic surgery hairline. Oh, well. It is the price Los Angeleans pay for a thick fur coat to impress the chicks.

So, in summary, if you expect little to nothing from this movie, you should enjoy it. And the high-tech jet-skateboard scenes from the "I'm bad I'm good I'm bad I'm your friend I stole your girlfriend I'm dead" Green Goblin Junior are actually pretty cool.

Silly the Clown

Silly the Clown"is accused of assaulting a woman after she passed out in his bed. Prosecutors say he also took nude pictures of her -- and physically abused her on another occasion by throwing her against a wall and jamming his fingers up her nostrils until her nose bled." Full news story

Now I'm not here to defend Silly. Obviously Clowns should not sexually assualt people who happen to pass out in the Clown's bed. Permanent markers should not be used either.

Silly seems to be a bad, bad clown. He was considered a suspect in the death of an infant, and he has an apparent history of violence. This kind of behavior is simply not tolerated by clowns.

However, what is striking about this particular story is that the victim and Silly had been together on another occasion during which Silly jammed his fingers up her nose until she bled. One might have expected a different response from her after that performance. Instead of retaliating, calling the clown police, or avoiding him, she elected to pass out drunk in Silly's bed. Who is the true clown here?

Free Paris

The Free Paris Petition shows the truly awesome power of the internet. Truly awesome.

Where There's Smoke

Another time, and the details are particularly cloudy on this one, two fellows I know, we'll call them TwoEars and CocoNut, had elected to spend a beautiful afternoon enjoying some of the fruits of God's great garden before attending class. Both of our protagonists were enrolled in an upper level business class, the correct name of which escapes me, but which was colloquially known as "Cocktails with Cole." The course name was derived not only from the apparent drunkeness of the professor and many of the students but also from the fact that many class meetings occurred at taverns or other places where alcohol was freely imbided. Professor Cole used something like the Socratic method, only without the distraction of all of that "learning."

Apparently, Cole's flexible teaching philosophy led our protagonists to conclude that it would be acceptable, nay enjoyable to get extremely baked before going to class. And so, on this beautiful Friday afternoon, our two heroes wandered in to class, late as ususal, disheveled, with bloodshot eyes, reeking of smoke, and one of them carrying in his pocket a fairly sizeable bag of oregano. After spending some time finding seats, they tried to figure out what was going on and who was up in front of the class. I forgot to mention that much of Cole's teaching strategy involved having others actually teach the class. Guest presenters frequently would appear to lecture about who-knows-what. And so it was on this day that an unfamiliar someone stood at the head of the small seminar classroom patiently waiting for the two late-comers to find seats before resuming speaking about who-knew-what.

Imagine the surprise of our heroes as reality slowed inched its way into their fogged brains enough to enlighten them that the guest presenter that particular day was an agent with the FBI. I also forgot to mention that this episode occurred during the late 1980's when the intoxicating possibilities promised by a "War on Drugs" had not been tempered by the sobering reality inherent in such a policy. This was not simple prohibition, this was a War on controlled substances. Under some interpretations of the US Code, the recreational vegetable that our heroes had been enjoying might have been classified as a controlled substance. This caused them considerable distress, and their facility for managing the situation was substantially impaired by the fact that, well, they were higher than kites.

Bravely, they squirmed and twitched in their own pools of sweat with just enough restraint to pass for non-lawbreaking students until, after what seemed like 14 hours of lecture, class finally was dismissed and our heroes escaped unscathed. Although their paranoia told them otherwise at the time, apparently the FBI was none the wiser. Boy did they learn their lesson from that one.

What Would Rusty Sing?

The question we should all ask ourselves, the yardstick by which we should measure our behavior, the simple paradigm by which we should exist, is this: "What Would Rusty Sing?"

If Rusty were on American Idle, would he perform "Down by the River?" No. He might sing "Sunshine Day" or "The Preamble to the US Constitution - Grammar Rock," but he most certainly would not sing "Lola" or any other transvestite-related classic rock numbers.

And so it is with the War on Fear in Iraq. If the American military relaxed its standards enough to permit into service a sheep with a hearing issue who happens to be the creator of the universe, and if he agreed to serve, what would Rusty sing as he marched into, well, I guess they don't march much, but if he climbed aboard an unarmored HUMvee to drive through an IED-laden neighborhood? "I shot my baby?" No. "Girls will be boys?" No. He would sing something else. Something much more appropriate, like "Hello lamp-post, whatcha knowin?"

So, as we go through our daily trials and tribulations, let us emulate Rusty by singing the right song, and let us thank Rusty that we're not the ones over in that Rusty-forsaken shithole. "Life I love you, all is groovy."

F^ck You Pluto

So, they've discovered a planet that may support life. Well, la ti da! Congratulations Professor Galileo!

I've been living on a planet that supports life for most of my existence, and did anyone give me the Noble Piece Prize? (No.) Why don't you find a planet that destroys life? Then you would have something.

I read about the Ice Cube project in Antarctica where they have created an array of sensors a mile deep in the ice in an effort to measure particles shot out of the collision between other particles and neutrinos. I had to ask myself, "Why did they ask Rich Little to host the Washington Press Corp. conference this year?"

Do I have to do everything?

1rsh n0 spll

1rsh n0 spll

Beat Your Head

Comments Alceste?