Broke Down Doctor

DBok's reminiscences about Rusty Sessions of yore caused me to recall the time when the sessions were last held at my house. It was the winter, probably about 10 years ago, and I had recently moved into a 100 year old house in a small village in Wisconsin. Friday involved heavy drinking and frequent trips to/from the airport to pick up the Clowns as they arrived. “Music” probably was played as well.

Saturday consisted of more drinking, more “music,” and frequent trips between the two bars located in this particular village. On Saturday night, we were at the yellow-house bar and were engaged in some dialogue with the local clientele. DBok was impressing nobody in particular with his unique grasp of arcane, trivial factoids, and, as usual, he was utilizing his most know-it-all-ish tone and demeanor. Eg. “I live in Norfolk, Virginia, the world’s largest natural seaport!” or some such nonsense.

Just about this time, one of the patrons, apparently tired of DBok’s relentless condescension, addressed another fellow very loudly across the bar. “Hey, Randy, this guy (DBok) wants to suck your dick!” “Did you hear me Randy, this guy here really wants to suck your dick!” “This guy, right here, (again pointing to DBok), wants to suck your dick!” This went on for several minutes with the reiterated inference being created that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick.

DBok first tried to reassure Randy that he did not, in fact, want to suck Randy’s dick. However, the other patron was unconvinced. “Randy, I’m telling you this guy wants to suck your dick!” Soon DBok and the man who was convinced that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick were entangled in a robust embrace, and it became clear that a Clown retreat was necessary.

The Squad extricated ourselves from the establishment and escorted DBok back toward my house. DBok insisted on standing in the street yelling taunts at his newly-made friend, but after numerous tries, we eventually shepherded him back to my house. We reconvened in my living room, but, when we took a roll-call, DBok was absent. He had snuck out the back door and was headed back to the bar to further debate with the other gentlemen his desire to suck Randy’s dick, or lack thereof.

It became clear to the rest of us that DBok was intent upon having his ass kicked that particular evening. So, on motion made and duly seconded, and with a quorum being present, we resolved to go kick his ass ourselves. Our thinking was that, since he had just become a surgeon, his hands needed protection from the damage which might occur during a fist-fight. We figured it unlikely that his new acquaintance would extend the same courtesy. Further, we saw no reason why a surgeon needs his face, neck, ribs, back or legs to be uninjured. So, we caught him out in the street, dragged him back to a snowbank, and dog-piled him. Coco was particularly zealous in this effort to protect DBok, and, while the rest of us were pummeling him, Coco shoved some ice shards up DBok’s nose. This, while probably unnecessary, was very funny.
Eventually, we had literally beaten some sense into DBok, and we went back home to resume the normal Rusty Session activities.

The following morning, I had to lend DBok a walking cane to limp his way through airport security toward home. Something about a broken something. But his hands were fine.

You know, come to think of it, I don’t think I ever heard him say “Thank you.”

Velma Loses Her Glasses (El Fin)

RECAP: Loyal viewer and occasional contributor LBok requested a retelling of the fascinating tale of a young American living in Spain who lost his glasses. Actually, LBok requested a different story involving Alceste's loss of his glasses, but I was unable to recall many of the details from that instance other than that our african-American-female friend Sitnay had picked a fight on Alceste's behalf with a large african-African man who proceeded to punch Alceste in the face and thereby knocked his glasses off. I don't think there was much else to that story, but my memory is fairly foggy since I was pretty heavily medicated at the time.

Instead, I opted to tell about the time that Alceste lost his glasses at the Plaza Mayor (or was it Puerta del Sol) on the night of New Year's Eve 1990-91. Frankly, I don't recall that night very well either, but I kept a journal of the events leading up to it, and I've been reminded by Alceste on numerous occasions as to what allegedly happened.

The story picks up where Alceste, Colyp and I had returned to Madrid after spending a week in Portugal. By the way, lest I leave the reader with an incorrect impression, the Port we drank in Portugal was generally very good. We only had one bad bottle of Port, but that was what made that bottle noteworthy enough to note. Also, the Aldera Nova that I referenced as the World's Worst Liquor was not Port. It was some type of Anis drink with an unbelievably strong flavor. It wasn't bad in the sense of rotten. It tasted like some sort of evil reduction of black licorice and turpentine. Apparently it is supposed to taste like that.

Speaking of inadvisable alcohol purchases, Coco often reminds me of the time we went into a liquor store somewhere before boarding a train to somewhere else and I spent our available funds on a bottle of Grenadine. Having heard the Grateful Dead song lyrics "Brown-eyed women and red grenadine, the bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean," I'd always wanted to try it. Little did we (I) know that Grenadine is concentrated cherry syrup.

But back to New Year's Eve, 1990. Incidentally, is it New Year's Eve 1990 when the New Year will be 1991? I can never keep that straight. Nor could I keep it straight that night. As evidenced by my journal:

31st- prepared for the night - 1 bottle gin, 1 bottle vodka - took nap - drank vodka - gave presents=BBall "dirty stuff" & IV for liquor. (So, here we are at the infamous New Year's Eve. It appears that we've procured the refreshments and exchanged Christmas presents. I do recall that I gave Colyp and/or Alceste a basketball and we fashioned a hoop and played tackle basketball in Alceste's room with the Germans. I don't know what the liquor IV could have been all about).

Ate chicken. (Again, chicken plays a role).

Filled flask for road and brought bottle of gin. I continued drinking with little assistance. Left with Gunter and the Germans and 2 French girls. (For some reason, I headed out for the evening with the Germans, and, apparently, 2 French girls. I infer that Alceste and Colyp were not with us, but that doesn't seem right. Perhaps they were still napping while I was enjoying a beverage or two, but I really don't remember. However, we must have either made arrangements to meet or they knew where I was going, because, as you will see, we met back up in a sea of 100,000 people).

Got to Sol. (Ah, it was the Puerta del Sol.).

Saw Air Force dude from Moncloa (We had met a group of US Air Force fly-boys one night at a bar. You may recall that the US was conducting bombing raids in Iraq in Gulf War I during the winter of 90-91. This was an unnerving situation for us for numerous reasons, not the least of which was because we were illegal alien Americans in a country that had been ruled by Arabs for an 800 year period. Also, the Spanish public was not generally enthusiastic about the US bombing operations. They thought it was all about oil.

As an example of the social climate at the time, on another occasion, Alceste and I were walking up a street when we noticed a large and growing crowd, or "mob" if you will, building in front of us. As we progressed onward between the burning trashcans, etc. toward our destination, our oblivion was shattered as it slowly dawned on us what was going on. In addition to burning effigies and waiving home-made flag-signs with impolite slogans, the mob was chanting, "Bush - Asesino - Destruye del mundo" or something to that effect which, in our rudimentary understanding of Spanish, we interpreted to mean, "let's get the fuck out of here!" For those who might be amazed at the prognosticating prescience of the Spanish mob who was calling President Bush a killer and destroyer of the world, do not be amazed. This was the first President Bush they were rioting about.

By the way, another problem often encountered while dicking around in a foreign country while your motherland is at war is that it is difficult to get decent news. We had to choose from the slanted Spanish press or US Armed Forces radio from Torrejon, neither of which is very objective. Given the tense situation and the occasional kidnappings, etc., the Torrejon Air Force base was on high alert. When pilots returned from bombing runs on Iraq, they were supposed to keep a low profile. And so it was when we met these guys one night and sat down for a night of drinking. These four 30-something Americans with crewcuts claimed to be visiting Madrid on vacation as an award for meeting their sales goals selling Amway. Right.

Well, it appears that one of these guys was down at the Plaza del Sol. He marks the first in an unbelieveable series of people I/we had met and drank with days, weeks, or months prior who would emerge from the throng of 100,000 to reunite on this magical evening.

-sin dedo (I don't know what this means).

- Saw drunks from Portugal=soccer players=still drunk (These were the freak brothers, one of whom pulled the emergency stop on the train. Again, a bizarre coincidence to run into them again. Who would've guessed that they, and I, would still be drunk days later?)

-German from Faro trip (I think this guy had been on his way to Morocco. He told us some horror story which I don't remember).

-Bought some champagne (There were champagne street vendors. Great concept.)

-drank 1 bottle with gin shots, drunk came along, he helped himself. Ladies, one grabbed Alceste's crank. (I vaguely remember Alceste remarking to one of the ladies, "Hey, you just grabbed my crank!")

-Saw Aussies again. (This was the 2 chicks 1 dude group). Again, what are the odds?

So, my journal entry ends for the night. The remainder of the story is pieced together between my steel trap memory and the unsubstantiated allegations of Alceste (and Colyp).

Many of us who drink to excess have experienced the occasional "blackout." I've been told that it is a symptom of alcohol abuse. Usually, the way that it works is that one drinks too much, and, the next day, when trying to recollect what happened, there is a foggy period after which you don't remember anything and then you wake up somewhere (such as in the bushes) in the morning. This occasion was different. My next recollection was sitting at a table early the next morning. Apparently I had not slept or been home, but I had spent all of my available money (as usual). I was sitting in a tavern that I didn't recognize with a group of people I didn't know. I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Presumably the adrenaline brought me to a sharp state of awareness. There was a young lass sleeping cuddled against me who, again, I didn't recognize.

The other folks at the table were carrying on a conversation as though we had known each other for some time. I excused myself, and the young lady awoke and, despite my urgent indications that I was leaving, decided to follow. It turned out that she apparently spoke only French, which I don't, and I recall spending several minutes trying to explain that I had to leave because I wasn't sure where (or when) I was. Eventually I left the bar into a neighborhood that I didn't recognize and began trying to figure out where I was. With the sun rising, I could determine East, but I had no idea which way I should head. I walked for the rest of the morning in concentric circles until I found a street the name of which I recognized. I eventually found my way back to familiar ground and walked home late in the morning.

What happened after midnight is a mystery. Alceste alleges that, for no known reason, just after midnight, I walked up to him and smacked his glasses off of his face. He claims to have reached down and put his glasses back on at which time I allegedly knocked them off again.
Though I can't deny it, I would likewise have no reason to believe him but for the fact that a) Colyp concurred and b) Alceste was angry with me for several years which seems like alot of histrionics if it was a joke. Also, he did, in fact, have broken glasses.

So, at this time Alceste, I am willing to accept responsibility for breaking your glasses, and I would like to say, "Sorry." Or should I say, "Rorry."

-

(Christmas story courtesy of McHenry Co. Illinois blogger McHenry County Blog

PS: I think it only appropriate that you now apologize for the hotel incident.

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Seis)

Where in the Hell were we? Oh yes, Portugal. We're en route to that infamous moment when Alceste loses his glasses on New Year's Eve 1991 in Espana, more specifically Madrid.

But why refer to Alceste as "Velma?" The Clown Squad has, at times, shown surprising similarities to Scooby-Doo and the gang. Due principally to my height but also because I do enjoy the occasional snack, I've been tagged Scooby Doo. Coco, with his gangly posture and unkempt appearance plays Shaggy, though he was not along on this adventure. LBok is obviously Scrappy-Doo. This is due not so much because he is an annoying dwarf but because most fans wish he had never been invented. Bundeskraut usually plays Fred, though I think that this was Colyp's role while in Spain.

But what of Daphne? Many, if not most, of our gang's adventures involve the search for a willing Daphne. We've had many participants over the years, most of whom have been less than satisfactory. Some, if not all, of our wives, girlfriends, girl-friends, girl-acquaintances and girl-strangers over the years have been asked, in so many words, to be Daphne. Many have declined, and the rest have failed.

Anyway, that leaves Velma. Alceste, like Velma, displays a certain "frumpiness." Though he lacks her analytical tendencies, he, like Velma, typically cuts quickly to the heart of a problem. Whereas Velma might deduce something like, "This dirt only could have come from the abandoned gypsum mine shaft where Mr. Thompson stored his armadillo-flipper," Alceste would be likely to say, "Stop tracking in dirt you fucking dickheads." Also, Alceste wears glasses and, as you will see, he has the same propensity as Velma for losing them.

-Got up early, went for breakfast beers and sandes-got tickets -checked out a Hermitage - got some groceries & a couple bottles wine to kill the time ->saw a yak - got the evil eye from the conductor - train.

-Got to Lisboa at night - met Alceste's friend at the station, had a cute Texan with her, ate with two airheads at a nice restaurant near the center -grilled swordfish - rushed to catch the train - sin alcohol - crowded car - met freak bros., banker from Brazil, other drunks in the dining car -> they gave us some rum - one pulled the emergency alarm and stopped the train - we went back to our cabin but too hot to sleep, I went back out, met Australians =two chicks and a dude, & Madrid guy ->shot shit for two hours, went back to sleep. (So, now we're on the return train from Lisbon to Madrid. We had gone out wandering in the dining car again and had encountered a new set of drinking friends. The "freak brothers" were a couple of soccer players who were far drunker than any of us. One of them stopped the train by pulling the emergency alarm, and this caused quite an ordeal. We all played "dumb" while the conductors tried to find the problem. We should have turned the idiot in because he ended up costing us about an hour sitting still in the stifling heat. He did have rum, though. I remember the Australians were very entertaining, though I don't recall why. Presumably, they laughed at my jokes.)

Madrid - beds filled with Germans - Al y yo finished and started bottle DYC, drank a bit w/ the Germans, 2 wines & chocolate. (So, now we're back in Madrid. When we got to our apartment, we discovered that our German room-mate Gunther had filled our beds with Germans. He had 3 or 4 friends visiting from Germany for the New Year's celebration, and Gunther must have figured we wouldn't mind if they made themselves at home. How presumptuous.)

Remember that our accomodations, though not properly described as "spartan," were yet quite minimal. My bedroom was a 4 foot x 9 foot former closet which was just barely big enough for a bed. Alceste had the largest bedroom, and he slept on a mattress/nest of clothing and blankets on the floor. I think Colyp was still sleeping on Alceste's floor at this time, but this was just about the time when John-the-gay-New-Yorker moved out and Colyp took over his room.

Gunther the German and we clowns maintained a certain detente through mutual respect, only without the respect. John-the-gay-New-Yorker, however, found us more difficult to stomach., and he had been fairly miserable since Alceste and I moved in. I don't recall what set him off first. Perhaps it was the bathtub full of dirty laundry soaking for days. We didn't have a washing machine and could not seem to find a laundromat, so we would just load our clothes into the tub to let them soak for awhile. We would just stand on top of the clothes to shower (kind of like making wine). Perhaps John-the-gay-New-Yorker did not enjoy wine-making. Perhaps what set him off was the fact that we seemed to always be losing and/or breaking all of the kitchen utensils and appliances. Though, to be fair, we did find a substantial amount of replacement stuff during our dumpster diving. John-the-gay-New-Yorker didn't seem to appreciate our recycling program either. Perhaps John-the-gay-New-Yorker most disliked the fact that we would stumble in at 3 or 4 or 5 am, drunk, singing, and hungry and sometimes accompanied by a group of random others. Whatever it was, John-the-gay-New-Yorker found it difficult to have us for housemates.

We knew we had a problem when, shortly after we had moved in, Alceste and I were sitting in his room drinking wine when John-the-gay-New-Yorker poked his head threw the doorway. "Uh, guys." he began cautiously, "Do you think we could set aside some time to schedule a meeting?" Gunther was standing behind John-the-gay-New-Yorker, obviously at his request. Alceste and I looked at one another with slight confusion.

"I'll have to check my appointments." I finally answered. But Alceste, as I've said, is more direct. "John, we're all right here, what the fuck do you want?" I don't remember which of John-the-gay-New-Yorker's complaints was his first, but, as you can see, in addition to his actual concern, there was also a clash of styles.

UPDATE: I have been advised that the infamous "Guys, could we set aside some time to schedule a meeting" conversation took place after not only Alceste and I but also Colyp, LBok and Coco were all more or less residing at the 3 1/2 bedroom flat with Gunther-the-German and John-the-gay-New-Yorker. The likely reason why John wanted a meeting just dawned on me.

Admittedly, we were not the best housemates. Frankly, Alceste, Colyp and I could barely stand one another either, and we had known each other for 5 years by this time. But John just couldn't take the combination of filth and gluttony, not to mention the smell. If I remember correctly, and I don't see how I could, John-the-gay-New-Yorker was also a tee-totaller. We weren't. So, John-the-gay-New-Yorker moved away and Colyp took over his room.

Gunther also disliked many of our lifestyle habits, but he was much more game about playing along. I think he found us to be something of an entertaining curiosity. For example, on one occasion, Alceste, Colyp and I were sitting in Alceste's room drinking wine when Gunther strode in. In his stern German accent he informed us "Guys, there is a chicken in the kitchen."

"Yes." I replied. One day while walking home from work, I had encountered a stuffed taxidermy rooster in a dumpster, so I brought it home and put it underneath the kitchen sink. We called him, "the Cock." We would take it out on our excursions playing guitar in the park for change, and it turned out to be quite a draw with the children. It was Gunther's preference that the bird not be stored in the kitchen. However, none of us wanted that filthy thing in his sleeping area.

The cupboard under the sink was also what we called the "dishwasher." After we had burned food to the bottom of one of the pots or pans, we would fill it with water and place it in the cupboard. Then, we would forget about it. Our assumption was that we would find a new one, and we often did.

While John found these kind of tactics intolerable, Gunther would just stare at us with a slight smile as though he were trying to solve a clever riddle. The riddle was not that clever.

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Cinco)

To continue, the time is winter of 1990, the place is Europe. Alceste and I had been in Spain for a few months. This is after Colyp arrived but before Coco and LBok showed up. Alceste, Colyp and I were on vacation from our jobs teaching English in Spain. We had grabbed a train from Madrid to Lisbon in our continuing adventures living the life of a smelly American, getting drunk, falling down, and acting stupid. Continuing on Day 2 of our train excursion to Portugal, my notes are italicized, my current comments parenthetical.

-Morn, woke at 10, shower, snack & got on train to Sintra. Train ride uneventful - walked up hill following directions in "Let's Go," but couldn't find turn off - took the "long unscenic route." ended up hiking up the impenetrable face of the fortress. We penetrated. Brigg y yo scouted for about 30 minutes and finally found a route. The ascent was beneficial if only for the fact that it demonstrated how out of shape we are. Colyp's knee functioned adequately though he had to think about bending it - met nobody interesting - drank flask of gin - ate sandwiches -> trains leave promptly.

-Notable: 1) Colyp's knee pain (excrutiating) 2)sobriety and its painful consequences. (This castle I remember. The Castle of the Moors, is, like many castles, difficult to enter. Difficulty entering is one of the features that made it a good, you know, castle. We couldn't find the right road or path, but we could clearly see the castle up on top of the hill. We'll just hike up, we figured, until we can't go up any more, and then we'll be at the castle. We hadn't appreciated the fact that this is, you know, a castle. As you can see, there is a fairly steep cliff covered with boulders and overgrowth which one must traverse before then encountering the tall rock wall. To add to our problems, Switch was wearing loafers and Colyp had severely injured his knee somehow and could not bend it. We spent several hours trying to figure out how to get in and finally did make it into the place. By this time, we were extremely tired, hungry and out of booze.)

(UPDATE: Alceste reminds me of another part of this tale. After we had stormed the castle, we were, as stated previously, very tired. We hadn't seen another soul in the entire castle area, and the 4 of us were sitting in some type of tower area with a great view overlooking the city. We were retracing our footsteps leading to the idiotic decision to hike "up." Needless to say, there was a lot of second-guessing. Given the lack of other people and commenting on the beautiful view, Alceste stated very matter-of-factly, "This would be a great place to bring a bitch." Just at that inopportune moment, a pair of American tourists, a man and a woman, entered from behind us into our tower (they had taken the easy way up). The woman gave Alceste a look of disgust, looked suspiciously at her escort, turned her nose skyward at a sharp, 45 degree angle, and the two of them exited as promptly as they had entered. Apparently not, Alceste.)

X-mas Eve - Dinner at the Comida & Bebida = cabbage soup and fat raw steak on dirty tablecloth. Waiter 1) reuses dishes without washing & 2)reuses bread. (This I also remember. We were back in Lisbon after the day-trip storming the castle, and we were treated to the worst meal eaten by human beings in recorded history. We hadn't realized that few restaurants would be open on Christmas Eve and that those that were open would be completely reserved. Alceste, Colyp and I walked around for much of the evening and into the night looking for a restaurant. I don't recall what Brigg & Switch did, but they weren't with us. We finally found a dive back by the train station and sat down to order. The "waiter" took the table cloth from the next table, shook it, and put it on our table. He grabbed some plates out of a stack in a tub, gave them a wipe and then set them before us. Same with the bread.

None of us speak Portugese, and, though Spanish is very similar, we couldn't communicate with this guy. Apparently we must have ordered cabbage soup cooked with dirty sweat socks because that is what we were served. Cabbage soup is never good, but this was stuff was bad even for cabbage soup. Then came the "meat." If anyone has seen a three-legged horse running around Portugal, I think I know what happened to its other leg. You've heard the saying, "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse." I guess none of us was really that hungry. We ate what we could, but the fact that the meat wasn't even really cooked made it difficult to stomach.


-Got up Xmas - at Bfast, sandwiches to go, took ferry to other side of Tagus. Played war & drank - Colyp lost. On train - finished drinking Xmas presents. Alceste almost died of fever. Met Mozambique Anna and her dog Spot -> Colyp got some tongue from the dog & talked to Anna. (I don't specifically rememer any of this, but it all sounds familiar. I hadn't realized until now that Alceste's fever dated back this far.)


-Got to Faro - raining - stayed at the Pinto - wandered - ate dinner -> Sin Pao = "no bread for Americans." I had fish. Music -> fountain -> dog attack -> cool architecture. Colyp can't run but had a knife -> came back and went to bar -> saw some legs & stole a "reserved" sign. ->sleep (Faro is a port in the Algarve region on the Southern tip of Portugal. I think the dog attack happened on the boardwalk when Colyp and I stopped to take a leak and a German Shepherd ferociously chased us back up onto the boardwalk and down the street. Colyp, with this bad leg, couldn't run, but he pulled out a pocket knife to threaten the dog. The dog was not threatened).

-Bfast = egg, dogs, beans, bacon, lettuce, tomato $5.00. (I don't think I really meant dogs.) Market, met Death again -> got groceries and bottle of Aldo Nova (possibly the worst liquor ever) & some terrible mixer along with the worst bottle of Port we've had here. -> Nap 20 lbs of blankets for nut X-rays. (One would think that I would recall meeting Death a second time or that I would have mentioned the first meeting, but yet I don't recall meeting Death at all. I also doubt that any of us had his nuts X-rayed in Faro, Portugal, but there it is right in my notes. Alceste, any recollection of this?)


Went to museum - it was closed. Went to catch bus - couldn't find it. Ended up drinking beer at an outdoor cafe. Nap -> beers, dinner at Fin del Mundo. Great chicken, back to room to drink worst drink ever after visiting completely empty bar. Called home. (I'm glad to see that I called home)


Went to Empty Bar - no bartender, noone. Went to Hotel Eva & considered crashing a wedding party, hung out on the roof.


Back to Empty Bar (Dali) but there were people this time - had a few, went to look for more action, found a poster of street club, good reggae band - teach the bass-player the tune type. Had a few - moved on to another bar where guitarist jammed accompanied by rythm machine - met a chick and some English dudes - Colyp getting down, Disco African Dude, Spent $100 and went home drunk- met American chick who followed us home. (Nope, don't remember any of this).

Caught bus -> heat, rough roads, Aldera Nova hangover - pushed to the edge of vomiting. (This sounds familiar).


Conductor on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere - punched tickets & got back off bus. (I remember this because it seemed so bizarre. We got on the bus and noted the fact that we hadn't been asked to show our tickets. The bus took off and we made sat dumbly nursing our hangovers and fighting the waves of nausea. After about an hour on the bus, there was a guy standing on the side of the road in a conductor outfit. The bus pulled over, picked him up and began driving again. The conductor then came through the bus and punched everyone's tickets. When he had finished, he made his way back to the front and the driver pulled over and left him again out in the middle of nowhere. I guess he is the lonesome conductor who lives on the side of the roadways).

-Got to Evora -> raining, found hostel at $35/night, went to Capela dos Ossos ie the bone church = macabre - no smell or at least not as bad as us. True Believer interrogated Alceste -"Do you believe in Jesus Christ?" Alceste took easy way out to save us a lot of time. Went to train station and back to hostel. (The bone church is something one doesn't forget. The walls are mostly constructed out of human bones such as femurs stacked on top of each other (like logs, the long way). There are corpses hanging around and skulls everywhere. The guy who accosted Alceste correctly guessed that Alceste spoke English and stood uncomfortably close, stared into his eyes, and held his shoulders when asking "Do you believe in Jesus Christ?" Alceste paused for a minute, looked over at me, and then said, "Yes, yes I do.)"

UPDATE: Portugal's tourism site for Evora does not include the Capela Dos Ossos among the sites to see. Very curious.


-Ate at restaurant below hostel ->pork fried in clam sauce = good

-Went for beers -> no open bars, went to Mr. Snobs & then home.

-Morn- cathedral in main square with collection of relics, museum of Evora, Roman Temple of Diana - went by other palace, went for lunch of cheap sandwiches & beer. more cathedrals. Dinner = whole roasted chicken @$7.50, not quite as good as the other but a better deal. Back to hostel to nap & drink remainder of Aldera Nova & bad port. Out for beer, got tip, found pub with small "bar" sign, had a few beers surrounded by 15 year olds, went home. (We're still days away from the moment when Alceste lost his glasses, and the tension is building like a night spent drinking the world's worst liquor while surrounded by 15 year old Portugese).

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

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........................

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.

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.

Oh No I Won't

Another time, also late at night, I was minding my own business whilst leaving some sort of dance, social gala, or similar excuse for drinking when it occurred to me that I should liberate one of the Student Center gazebo chairs from its shackles of slavery. So, for reasons that are less clear to me now than they must have been then, I picked up the chair and began carrying it with me.

As I later explained to the Dean of Students, I wasn't attempting to "steal" the chair from the College. To "steal" implies to remove from the possession of the owner. The chair was no less in the possession of the College during my walk than it had been previously. In fact, since I lived on the grounds of the College, there was no question but that the chair would remain on the College premises. At worst, I could be criticized for malicious furniture rearrangement.

So back to that fateful night when I and 3 or 4 of my closest friends were walking across the campus, me with my newfound chair-friend on my back. We hadn't traveled far before the keen eyes of one of the campus student patrolmen noticed something unusual about my attire. I believe it was the chair on my back that gave me away.

"Hey, what are you doing with that chair on your back? Put that chair down and stop right where you are!" The safety patrolman demanded. He then began frantically describing his situation to a walkie-talkie.

"Tall male caucasion carrying chair has been apprehended .... Hey, come back here!"

By this time it had occurred to me that there was probably someone on the other end of the walkie-talkie radio-waves and that, while the guardian of the chairs apparently carried no fire-arm, the radio listener might. After carefully considering my options, I concluded that my best course of action involved running away.

Do you think my "friends" would run any sort of interference or at least create a distraction. No, they just laughed. I think one of even sat in my chair while they all watched the ensuing chase scene.

As I began jogging away, the safety patrolman engaged in hot foot pursuit. "You will stop right where you are!" He stated emphatically. I'm guessing he had received this tip during safety patrolman training. However, no reasonable person could have expected that statement to be true.

I confirmed the expectation of the reasonable person. "Oh no I won't." I correctly predicted.

I had about a 50 yard head start, and he didn't seem to be very fast, so I wasn't all that concerned about out-running him. However, he had that damned walkie-talkie, and, one could only assume, reinforcements. One's assumption was correct.

For a while, the chase was rather comical. My pursuer would announce my whereabouts and trajectory into his radio at which time I would change course. Another tip to be incorporated into safety patrol training: Do not assume that your target is deaf - he probably can hear what you are yelling into your walkie-talkie.

As we ran around and around the bushes and various buildings, I began to realize that what this predator lacked in speed and cunning, he made up for in stamina. I was getting tired. Plus, every time I headed down a street, I would see squad cars approaching. I could only assume that there was some major crime going on, and I didn't want to get tangled up in that mess.

Eventually, I jumped over a brick wall and hid in some bushes to catch my breath. I could hear police radios all around, so I figured that the other suspect must have been cornered in the same vecinity. Poor guy, it sounded like he was surrounded. Suddenly, a blast of light shined over the wall into my bush and a voice stated, "Get up."

"Me?" I wondered aloud.

Apparently catching one's breath whilst lying in the bushes in the middle of the night is some sort of criminal matter, so I was cuffed and stuffed and taken down to the station. I don't recall being breathalyzed, but somehow the officers concluded that I had been drinking - alcohol - in large amounts.

They removed my cuffs and put me into some type of a holding area which was - note to self - not locked. Having already experienced my fondness for late-night jogs, I'm not sure what they expected to happened next. My expectation was that I would release myself into my own custody, and, again, my prediction was correct.

I returned to my room, explained to my room-mate that he had not seen me, and passed out. Later, he told me, some officers arrived to inquire as to my whereabouts and to confirm my identity. He displayed my comatosed body and they elected to let sleeping dog lie.

And so, the Dean put me on some sort of probation, the terms of which were, as I understood them, if I didn't get caught driving the skid-steer in the basement of the gym reconstruction project, then I could still attend law school.

Alright you f^ckers.

Well, it turns out that "OneEar's High School Memories - the Game Show" was not as big of a hit as anticipated. One would have thunk that Col would have backed me up on the toy noose story, but so be it. I didn't even go into the time that the cheerleader with the fake leg kicked it off during a homecoming assembly.

So, now I'm left with college memories. OK. You asked for it.

I have a vague, cloudy recollection of a time that I and 4 or 5 of my closest friends decided to jump the fence to get into the football stadium for some reason. This sounds like a relatively easy task except for the fact that I recently had experienced knee surgery and was hobbling around on crutches.

At the time, my disability apparently did not disable me (or, perhaps I had even greater disabilities) because I threw my crutches aside and followed the rest of the idiots over the wall. (Disclaimer: I may have been the lead idiot, I really don't remember).

So, what does a group of 20 somethings do when they scale the wall and break into a football stadium? They head for the press box. I, being less nimble than the rest due to my full leg brace, stumbled along across the football field whilst the other 3-4 idiots scampered up the bleachers to the press box. As luck would have it, one of the press box windows was unclasped, and the idiot brigade managed to infiltrate the enclosure. I, of course, was still on the field hobbling ever so courageously toward my comrades. One of the fellows, we'll call him Coco, began poking at the buttons on the PA system. You've heard about chimpanzees using typewriters? Same thing. And, by some coincidence of rudimentary intelligence and luck, this fellow, we'll call him Coco, managed to turn on the Public Address system for the football stadium.

You can probably predict what happened next. After several inappropriate announcements of increasing volume, the system began feeding back into a squeal amplifed by the speakers of a football stadium (= LOUD). The chimps had no idea as to how to shut it off, nor the inclination to figure it out, so they scampered back across the field, past your limping hero, to scale the wall and leave.

There comes a time in every man's life when he is limping across a football field he has unlawfully entered around bar time wearing a leg cast whilst a PA system is screaming to all law enforcement personnel to come detain him when he asks himself, "Is there any reason why I should not kill those F^ckers?"

Dead Toys

Here is another in the popular series "OneEar's High School Memories."

Late at night, we would drive into a seemingly normal neighborhood where one of the houses, tucked among many, always had its interior lights illuminated. The front living room of this particular place had a large front window with no curtains through which we passers-by could see very clearly. The large, white room was empty. Empty except for the ceiling. Hanging from the ceiling, by hang-man's nooses, were 50 or 60 dolls and stuffed animals.

The parents of the poor suicide victim had created this memorial to remind of (or punish for) the fact that their young daughter had hung herself. Or so the story went.