Disassembly Required

As I was disassembling something yesterday, I had to reflect upon the fact that "disassembly" is such a wonderful concept. "Assembly" implies hours of tedium with a screwdriver, an adjustable wrench, and 23 pages of instructions written in 45 different languages. But "disassembly" is something one can do with a sledgehammer. It is simple but terribly gratifying.


So I was disassembling a chest of drawers from our basement with my sledgehammer out in the yard. I then burned the disassembled components in an old steel barrel. I live in an area where there is extremely lax enforcement of any ordinances which might exist. Nobody really seems to know or care whether I am even supposed to have a burning barrel.

When I first moved in, I was going to burn a large pile of brush I accumulated from trimming all of the hedges. I asked one of my neighbors, the guy who lives next to my pet cemetary, "what is the protocol for obtaining a burning permit?" I could tell by his perplexed look that he hadn't understood my question, so I rephrased, "I'd like to burn this pile of brush, whom should I call?" Again, confusion. I pointed to the brush, "I'm going to light this on fire." Finally he said, "Oh, do you need some matches?"


Since that time, I've adopted the local customs and I burn whatever I want whenever I want. So, I was out in the backyard burning the disassembled pieces from a chest of drawers. The fire was just roaring when, all of a sudden, something shot out of the barrel skyward into a tree 30 feet away. Then, it happened again?! After ducking for cover, I emerged to try to figure out what I was launching all over the neighborhood. There were pieces of metal, formerly hinges and such, that had somehow reformulated themselves as flying projectiles. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but I did have to pause to consider, "Wouldn't I feel like an idiot if one of those had hit me or someone else?" There ought to be a law.





Incidentally, the ife-way has esumed-ray eading-ray the ustyblog-ray. Ixnay on the aphne-day.

Hold em, Texans

Somehow I got roped into playing poker tonight. I feel as though I'm somewhat at a disadvantage. The problem is that I haven't played poker with any regularity in 10 years and haven't played period (that I can recall) within the last several years. I can't remember when to hold em, when to fold em, when to walk away and when to run.

In the meanwhile, it seems that everyone else in the world has become an expert at Texas Hold'em. I've even seen a TV show with Danny from the Partridge Family playing against Everybody Loves Raymond's brother and some other celebrities. These people are not all that entertaining when teams of professional writers tell them what to say, so why are they on my TV playing cards?

My lack of recent experience is compounded by the fact that I tend to forget how to play games fairly quickly. For the past 16 years or so, the Clowns and I have gotten together once or twice a year, and we always play spades. Each and every year, they have to re-teach me the rules. Fortunately, I am a fast learner and my team usually takes the upper "hand" by day 2. Unfortunately, my team usually loses the upper "hand" by day 3 because I am unable to concentrate on anything but the waves of nausea and occassional spasms of vomiting.

Anyway, can someone remind me about the guidelines for Texas Hold'em. When should I go "all in?" When should I go "all home?"

Working Class Gyro

One of my fans considers me to be a "smarty pants." By this, he/she/transgender seems to really mean that my pants are not, in fact, smart. This is a literary device known as "irony." The ironic thing is that my pants are, in fact, of average intelligence for pants. Granted, they are not smart relative to, say, a prescient being. But for pants, hey what do you expect? They stay on until I take them off and then they stay off until I put them on. Nice try though.

I do not belong to the working class. Instead, I belong to the class that goes "to work" but who then dicks around instead of working. Perhaps we should be termed the "dicking class." Judging by the blogs I've seen, the dicking class seems to be a large and growing segment of the world.


According to a definition I heard on the radio from a guy who was authoritative enough to be on the radio, "working class" is defined as a person who works where, when, and for how long the boss directs. To me, that doesn't seem right. My employees never seem to work where, when, or for how long I tell them to. I, on the other hand, always seem to be working. Maybe I do belong to the working class. But yet, don't forget about the dicking around.

Much of the working and dicking around that I do is uncompensated. For example, every year, I volunteer at the Toys for Tots program to hand out toys to parents of "underprivileged" children. Because my pants are not smart enough to object, I always get stuck standing outside in the cold to help people load the bags of toys into their vehicles. The deal is that parents somehow qualify to get free toys which are donated by the rest of us. There is a large convention center which is chock full of every toy imaginable. They are divided by age category and sex category and there is some type of rationing system that allows a parent to get, say, 1 large toy, 5 medium toys and 10 stocking stuffers per child (don't quote me on the numbers. I don't really know because, as I said, I'm standing outside in the cold). Whatever the rationing, the end result is that each parent seems to end up with at least one if not two or three 40 gallon bags full of stuff. These are what I get to cram into their vehicles.

Sometimes the folks are very grateful, and, as I load a bag into their 1976 Corolla, I figure I'm probably helping some kids enjoy a nice holiday. Other times, when I'm trying to negotiate around the giant speaker system in the back of a $60,000 Escalade but I dare not ask the owner to help for fear of breaking her unconscionably long, freshly manicured nails, I wonder whether I shouldn't belong to that class. I rationalize my assistance by assuming that this idiot's children won't get any decent toys but for the program despite the fact that, obviously, there would be better expenditures of her money. Yet I still have to wonder, am I really serving society best by enabling the continued gross consumption.

No, I better serve by dicking around. Witness the religion to synthesize all other religions and thereby render them unneccesary and end all need for warfare. Them are some smart pants.

RUE launches NEW Alternative to Passive Aggression

Rusty Enterprises (RUE on the Newark Stock Exchanger) has developed an exciting new alternative to passive aggression. It is hoped that RUE's alternative to passive aggressive behavior will reduce the amount of passive aggression. According to Wikipedia,

Passive-aggressive behavior refers to passive, sometimes obstructionist resistance to following authoritative instructions in interpersonal or occupational situations. It can manifest itself as resentment, stubbornness, procrastination, sullenness, or repeated failure to accomplish requested tasks for which one is assumed, often explicitly, to be responsible.

RUE's exciting new alternative is named "Active Aggression." Instead of resenting that person who is causing your life to be more problematic, why not just pick up a board and hit him/her/transgender in the face? Don't like your bosses latest assignment? Don't delay and sabotage the project - stab him/her/transgender in the kidney.

As for 0bstructionist resistance to following authoritative instructions, RUE is working on a new solution to his problem as well. This project has been tentatively named "Blind Obedience".


Both Blind Obedience and Active Aggression are expected to be extremely popular and should be big sellers for the ailing Rusty Enterprises, a faith-based initiative. "We really hope this drops directly to the bottom line," stated RUE Chief Chief Chief OneEar, "because that is our favorite line. In fact, I'm not clear on why we even have the other lines."

Victims & Churck Elders Reach Historic Settlement

Following an all-night session of tense negotiations, the First Unichuck has announced a historic settlement with alleged victims of alleged clergy alleged abuse. Expected to result in the largest such settlement since the Boston Catholic boy-raping thing, the FU settlement involves more than 500 alleged victims. Attorneys for the sheep as well as attorneys for the FU and FU leader OneEar announced the deal after a sleepless night of negotiations. According to the sheep's attorneys, "the victims appear satisfied with the settlement. None of them objected to the arrangement or to our rather sizeable attorney fee. They just ate some hay."

FU leader OneEar offered his condolences. "First, I would like to offer my sincerest, deepest, and hardest apologies to the sheep and their families, and I would like to reassure them and the general public that this should not happen again. The FU will do whatever to ensure that elders do not have inappropriate relations with non-consenting minor sheep." OneEar claims to have obtained a deep empathy for the victims and their families following extensive, private one-on-one meetings. "I really cannot overemphasize the need for more of these one-on-one meetings," claimed Ear.

Asked why the negotiations needed to occur during an all-night session, Ear responded, "Many important decisions, such as whether a nation should withdraw its fighting force from a foreign civil war, can be made only with the clear thinking achieved through the lack of sleep. Plus, we told some ghost stories."

Braking News

King of Rock.

A woman in Colorado has had revealed to her a rock enshrined with the image of Elvis Aaron Presley. This is one of the most important findings since the Virgin Mary appeared in a burrito.

____________________

Blow Job

A Virginia man who was making home-made fireworks, probably in preparation for Munitions Day, blew up his garage. Please remember: blowing up one's own home is one of the risks associated with making home-made fireworks at home.

____________________

Paris and Nicole

Reowned blogger OneEar cannot tell the difference between Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. According to Ear, "They may both be Lindsey Lohan.

____________________

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.

Meme Me

Catching up on my two-dew list from September:

1. One book that changed your life: 1995 Chevrolet Suburban Owner's Manual.


2. One book that you’ve read more than once: Green Eggs and Ham, by Dr. Suess. I read it doing a Jesse Jackson impersonation ala SNL.


3. One book you’d want on a desert island: How to Keep Other People From F^cking Up Your Desert Island.


4. One book that made you laugh: Catch 22, by Joseph Heller. It was the last occasion when a book caused me to laugh out loud. Of course, at the time, I thought it was fiction.


5. One book that made you cry: To Kill a Mockingbird. It was my first step in the direction of becoming a lawyer. The crying only started recently.


6. One book that you wish had been written: Free Drinks and Free Tacos - a World Guide.


7. One book that you wish had never been written: What Color is My Pair of Shoes?


8. One book you’re currently reading: Green Eggs and Ham, by Dr. Seuss.


9. One book you’ve been meaning to read: Various laws. They might come in handy some day.

Now, if I understand this meme concept correctly, I need to infect someone else. How about my number one disciple, sort of the Magdalene to my Mary, ML.

Top 10 Most Annoying Clown Squad Songs

Everybody seems to be publishing lists of the most annoying songs.

So, without further adieu, here are the top 10 most annoying Clown Squad songs.

10. Where has he gone? This is the Clown Squad's Macarena.
9. Happy Bigamy Where is Hanson when you need her?
8. Funky Monkey Crap Rap Please let the dogs out - poo - poo poo.
7. Penny For Your Thoughts Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs.
6. 1-900 Baby My Hump, but long-distance.
5. Whiskey Infused Train Wreck This should have been the theme for the Titanic.
4. Two Steppin Surgin It's funny because it's true.
3. Life is Like a Sausage Ricky Martin couldn't have done it any worse.
2. Her Nookie's a Leaker Snoop there it is.


And the number one most annoying Clown Squad song - eggroll please.............
1. The Grumpy Sergeant. You're Beautiful.

Shiny Happy People

Many people, or at least one, have posed the question, "Why the First Unichurck? Don' t you think it is kind of silly to worship a one-eared, slightly incompetent sheep toy invented by (your friend) Cocoa-no-Gogo?"

Have you never sat out in nature watching a sunset at dawn? Have you never smelled the sweet fragrance of flowers in a field covered with new fallen snow? Have you never heard the mating dance of a flock of wild ponies? If you have, then you know what I'm talking about, and that goes doubly if you haven't.

It has been established by "science" that happy religious people are happier than unhappy people. Honestly, it is true. Studies show it. Why would this possibly be? Because the contemplative life is best achieved by pondering an undead magical savior-ghost?

Meditation changes the human brain, and we assume that this change is for the better. (Alcohol does too, but that is a different matter). Meditation actually increases the brain size, and, in religion, size matters. So, if you are a human being that values his/her/transgender's brain, the evidence is clear. You should meditate each and every day. Warning: Do not meditate to excess or while driving. If you think that you might be a meditation-holic, you are one. It is time to slow down and get some help.

"That doesn't answer the question," you might be thinking. "Why worship Rusty when there are so many other more widely-accepted magical savior-ghosts to consider?" The answer lies in the question. What was the question again?

Now, I've gone back to the beginning of this post to remind myself about the question, and I've ended up here again. This seems to be some kind of a circular-type circle. And so it is with religion.

As Arlo Guthrie once said while misquoting someone else, "You can't have a light without a dark to stick it in."

Awkward Paws

I've become accustomed to the fact that nobody likes to correspond with me for very long. Not long into a dialogue, there is often an awkward pause which typically seems to occur after I have taken my turn. Then, watches will be examined, pens will be placed back into pockets, papers will be stacked and placed into portfolios, and hasty retreats will be beaten. I find this strange for two reasons: 1) I would think that I'd be no less interesting to communicate with than anyone else. In fact, I find myself very intriguing. 2) You might think I would be a better communicationist, particularly since my livelihood involves communicating (or attempting to communicate) with people. Some might think my propensity for alienation would be debilitating. However, it is hard to argue with successfulness.

Opponent: "So, for reasons x, y, and especially z, your client is not entitled to your unrealistic, unwarranted, and frankly ridiculous demands."

Me: " I really enjoy discussing this with you. But, I'm feeling that this would work much better by moonlight."

Opponent: "Er, to reiterate, we are awaiting a more reasonable counteroffer."

Me: "They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Some time ago, we got a baby goat named "Azalea" as a companion for our first goat, but then I accidentally killed the baby while vaccinating it. You might say I loved it to death, only my love was incompetent."

Opponent: "What does this have to do with anything. Please focus on the negotiations."

Me: "I cherish these moments together. Do you think our families would enjoy meeting?"

Opponent: "What? No!"

Me: "Azalea is buried in the back yard next to my dog Zeke. My neighbor still reminds me about this. It is near the property line."

Opponent: "Where should we send the check?"

Disclaimer: The above is not literally true, except for the part about me winning negotiations and accidentally killing our baby goat and burying it in the yard next to my dog Zeke. And the part about my neighbor. And the part about alienation.

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.

When....when will we hear again about Velma and her glasses?

This question haunts us; haunts us all.

CSI

Maybe this only happens on my TV, but whenever there is a murder reported on one news channel, the same murder gets reported numerous times on every other news channel. What are the odds? Thank you for asking.

If you do a little research, you will find that there are typically 16,000 or so murders per year in the US. That means there are 44 murders on the average day. The one murder that gets all of the news coverage usually dominates the media for about a week (unless the killer is a Heisman trophy winner). Meanwhile, 306 other non-newsworthy people will have been killed. That is weird.

What about the story about a little kid that got abducted? Thank you for asking.

Unbelievably, there are 800,000 child abductions in the US per year (2,200 per day). Most of those involve family members in custody battles. However, there are still 58,000 non-family abductions in the US per year. That is about 160 per day. And yet, my TV shows me the same abduction over and over again for a week.

That is curious.

Al Gore's Transvestitism

Has anyone else noticed that this internet is all full of words and images and sounds? Isn't there anything decent on this thing?

Where can you find justice or holiness or a Baco-dog (TM)?

Not on this fucking internet, that is for sure.

Man Is a Political Animal

Now I see the problem. All of the really cool, popular blogs are doing politics and ours is merely religious.

Well, I've never been one to segregate churck from state, and I've got as many opinions oozing down my inner thighs as the next person, so let's get down with some political banter. Here are my predictions for the coming year:

1. Tommy Thompson and Fred Thompson join forces as "The Thomspon Twins" - a mid-1980's new wave trio.


2. John McCain tea-bags Ron Paul in an alley after an anti-pro-in-migration rally protest.


3. Bill Frist diagnoses Adolph Giuliani with an accessory spleen.


4. Hilary Rodham Clinton gets the Dirty Sanchez from Joe Biden who later admits that he stole the idea from Screech from TV's "Saved by the Bell."


5. Barak Obama admits to using marijuana and cocaine, but the brother still can't get the black vote until he pimps his Volvo.


6. Mitt Romney's insistence on detailing how "hot" his then girl-friend was at age 15 creeps out all but the most devout Mormons.


7. Newt Gingrich's campaign is doomed when he pulls back his mask to reveal that he is, in truth, Newt Gingrich.


8. The amount John Edwards paid for a hair-cut in LA is dwarfed by the amount he paid to blow a donkey in Juarez.

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).

That Which We Call A Seat

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Last night, a woman told me that she is able to sit with her legs in a certain cross-legged fashion and to thereby masturbate by bouncing one leg. Needless to say, I've spent the better part of this morning adjusting my seating position, but no such luck.

Has anyone had any luck with this concept?

Immaculate Deception

This so-called magic bull just doesn't add up. How could a person like Paris Hilton possibly capture the attention of the American news media? She is an heiress. Who isn't? She is a drunk. Who isn't? Her blow-job video has been spread all over the internet. Whose hasn't?

She couldn't possibly do it alone. There must be an accomplice. But who?

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Cuatro)

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Colyp, Alceste and I were living the life of a smelly American, getting drunk, falling down, acting stupid in Espana, more specifically Madrid. I've recently run across a small note pad from 1990 (or was it 1991?) which contains my notes from the Christmas to New Years period of travels in and around Spain. The journey begins as we prepare to load a train from Madrid to Lisbon a few days before Christmas.











\Sat-Left at 11:00

-Drinking since party at Lingua maipc(??undecipherable, and I don't recall any party).

-Drank 1L. cheap wine - packed bags - Sang Ode to Judea & Bobby McGee - Forgot food for the 1st time - 2 liters wine for train ->flask=gin/vodka (One of us usually carried the flask to tide us over on long trips. It must have been filled with gin mixed with vodka on this occasion. That means we were running low on booze and had emptied two bottles).

-Got in wrong seats drunk skunks, then found our seats. Colyp told us of his misadventures, Alceste y yo yelled at him for the next hour - we were hated (I don't remember what Colyp told us that made us yell at him for an hour. The possibilities are virtually limitless).


-sang songs w/the Brazilian Sleeper, Julia, & The Friend *Rita Moreno (I don't recall whether we brought the guitar on this journey or whether we were singing Acapulco. I don't know who or what Julia was or what Rita Moreno was doing in our train car. I had forgotten about the Brazilian Sleeper until re-reading this. She was a young Brazilian lass who was quite lively when we first met but then proceeded to sleep for the entire voyage and eventually used each of us respectively as her pillow.)


-passed out (right on schedule).

-woke up wrapped up by the B.Sleeper - went out for Big Mace - Met the French Dude again - Drank Champagne - Asked Colyp for the XMas Present (I don't know to what the Big Mace refers, and I don't recall the French Dude. I had woken and left the others in the train car while I went exploring in the lounge car. I encountered some new friends and drank champagne with them. Previously, Colyp had let slip the information that, in order to make up for his past transgressions, he had purchased a Christmas present for Alceste and myself which was a bottle of decent liquor. I think it was scotch, but it may have been cognac. Anyway, Colyp had this with him in his baggage, and I wanted to break it out. Obviously, I was Number One while Alceste and Colyp were sleeping. Colyp wouldn't give it to me).

-resorted to sending in the women (So, I resorted to sending in some women to coax it away from him. This worked like a charm and Colyp joined me in the lounge car with our new champagne drinking friends and the bottle of something. Crack the bottle and the simple vessel transforms into a beautiful fountain showering bountiful memories lost forever).

-Alceste took over as pillow for the B.Sleeper.(I already went over this situation).

-Colyp missed score of food with Julia (No idea what this means).

-Got to Lisboa and met up w/Brigg & Switch. (Brigg, you'll recall, was the high-school friend of the RA from our freshman dorm hall who had let us sleep on his roof for some reason. Switch was the RA from our freshman hall. They both lived in Madrid, and we occasionally hung out together on our escapades. In fact, if memory serves me, and I don't see how it could, Brigg was the first to christen us with the name "The Clown Squad. We called them Brigg & Switch after the sales scam known as the "Bait & Switch" ("Baitar & Cambiar") because they were forever offering unfulfilled promises and less than satisfactory results. Some other time I'll tell you about the occasion when they ditched us cold and broke with no accomodations at the Las Rosas bull-fighting festival and we had to sleep in the bushes. Anyway, apparently we had arranged to meet them in Lisbon. I'm not sure who thought this would be a good idea).


-Went to hostel - got some sandwiches - went to castle = cool, overgrown, had reindeer - went to monastery = impressive but yet disappointing - went to dinner = baked trout - went to nap (I don't remember any of this, even the reindeer?!? A wikipedia search causes me to believe that this was the Castle of São Jorge and that the monastery was the Jerónimos Monastery)



-woke at 10pm ->Colyp, Alceste y yo went for beer -

-beers, sandwiches, bottle of port. Back to hostel to sleep.

Notables: 1)Port in castle; 2) Dinner; 3)Red light district where multi-lingual bouncers know profanity in 20 languages; 4)interesting proposition - met Sandra and Jani who made proposal: "We all go for drink, go to hotel, go to Crematu disco" We huddled up -concluded hookers -said "no." They bolted slightly offended. (I vaguely recall this interchange with this couple of young ladies, but I'm not sure what made it noteworthy. Perhaps it was the abrupt directness of their group sex proposition. This is one of many times when poverty allowed us to easily avoid the tough decision). 5) Hostel was cold, bed was hard.


TO BE CONTINUED

Hello Lamp-post

"Where has Coco gone?" LBok asks. Good question. Maybe he is busy birthing a child.

Or maybe, just maybe the Official Site of the First Unification Church of Knowledge has failed of late to deliver enough quality timely news. Well, hint taken. Here is the very latest in knowledge.

1) A California man has sued the maker of a vitamin drink for giving him an unstoppable erection. In an unrelated story, I filed suit agains the same vitamin drink maker, but for the opposite reason.

2) A California woman who lived with 120 rats and who was hospitalized for treatment of the animal bites all over her 81 year old arms said she started with two rats but then it "got out of hand." This recalls what happened with Michael Jackson after the movie "Ben."

3) A Washington DC Judge is suing a dry cleaner for $54M because they lost his pants. Between this guy and Marion Barry, I'm getting the impression that running for office in DC might be right up my alley.

4) Principal of Catholic school in Ohio gets probation in foot-kissing case. Holloway told authorities he paid each student $15 and kissed their bare feet 50 times each in the school's library and gym to pay off the bet on a student-teacher volleyball game.
"It's going to be a long road to get back to a normal life for myself," he said.


5) Does anyone have any idea of what happened to Paris Hilton? I haven't heard anything about her in quite some time, and I'm getting worried.

New Cuisine Takes Kitchen By Storm

On Saturday, I invented an exciting new entree'. The Bacon-Dog (TM). We had some left over bacon from breakfast, and when I was cooking hot-dogs for lunch, I thought, "Why not."

Folks, let me tell you how excited I am about this new invention. In retrospect, it seems as obvious as the nose on your face. Like the first guy who said to himself, "Hey, I've got some left-over chili, I'll bet that would be good on my hotdog," I feel as though I've made a tremendous contribution- one small step for my stomach, but one giant leap for stomach-kind.

I'm having my attorneys work up the documents to franchise the Bacon-Dog (TM) concept. In the meanwhile, anyone interested in using my recipe "(1) bacon (2) hot dog - mix in bun" can contact me for details on where to send your licensing fees.

Peach Bush

As I was driving in to work this morning, I noticed that the VW Passat in front of me had a hand-made poster that read, "Impeach Bush Now!" covering the entire back window. I couldn't help but stop and really think hard about the fact that, "That car must be a son-bitch to parallel park with that big poster blocking the back window."

The thought also crossed my mind that this particular protester, whom I could not see due to, you know, the sign, was somewhat geographically challenged even if well intentioned. The folks in charge of impeachment are at least a thousand miles from my commuting route. At most, 2 or 3 of them visit here a few times a year. I don't think this VW Passat is going to change the political direction of this country unless it goes to Washington D.C.

Further, if the Passat is really committed to its cause, there should be posters covering the front windshield and side windows as well. That would show them.

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.


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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.