Friday, September 29, 2006
I am the King of No Pants
So there I was, acting as a just and benevolent ruler to all my subjects in the kingdom of NoPantsylvania. The city-state was flurrishing. The people were happy. The economy was on an up swing. The treasury was not only in the black, but through clever economics NoPantslylvania had acrewed a substantial surplus. Most importantly, as the Chief of the Fire Department assured me, the NoPantsylvanians were safe.
It is a little known fact that all firemen are liers. They lie right to your face, and then they laugh about it to their buddies later. I learned this horrible truth about firemen when, during the NoPantsylvanian 3/4 centenial celebration, the pilot of an airplane (who was obviously tripping on Abscenth) flew his jet into the heart of my industrial disterict like a friggen lawn dart. Needless to say the ensuing fire spread like herpes at an all girls school (I don't know what that means, but it spread fast).
That's about the time when my fire chief, who had promised me my city was beyond safe, showed up. He was alone, and visibly drunk. I won't go into too much detail as to how he attempted to put out the fire. I'll just say it involved urin, and it didn't work.
There comes a time when every captain has to go down with his ship. But this was't my time, so I quickly quit Sim City 2000, and in doing so, put out the fire.
Almost all of the IES folk from the dorm are out of town this weekend, most of whom are in Mallorca. I don't know what or where Mallorca is. The only information anyone could give me was that it is the pearl capital of... then I would stop listening. I don't wear a lot of pearls, and I don't really care to discuss them. I have this image of Mallorca being an island, but that's only because it has the word "Orca" in it, which is the other name for Killer Whales. Whales live in water, hence Mallorca must be an island.
Not wanting to waste a lovely Spanish nigh playing video games from 1993 alone in my room, I decided to have an adventure. I decided to take a midnight swim in the Mediterranean. I figured it's here, I might as well.
I must have seemed an odd sight for all the Spaniards who saw me in my commute. The beach is on the other side of the city from me, so it takes about an hour to get there by metro. Meanwhile, Friday night the metro is filled with people going out to nightclubs dressed to the nines. Me, in my bathingsuit carrying a towel (the Hitchhiker reference not lost upon me) and wearing a Hawaiian shirt (for affect), I stuck out. Way out.
There's something I've noticed about Spanish people, there's two kinds. There's the dwarven people of old. These are the two feet tall elderly people with heads like old wrinkled fruit. I mean no disrespect to these people, I know they survived Franco. The only other people you see in Spain are tall, attractive, and obsesively fashion concious. The most fashionably inept guy in Spain makes even those Americans who make it their business to be in touch with fashion look like a backwoods bumpkin. To them, I must look like some sort of chimp that has wandered out of the jungles of France and is trying to masquerade as a person. I cannot help but be reminded of Chicken Boo on "Animaniacs".
But no matter how out of place I looked, I was determined to go night swimming (it deserves a quiet night, after all). My flip flops flapped as I walked down the street. Of course the trendiest clubs are down by the beach, and as I walked by each club I heard the bouncers sigh with relief that I was not going to try and be seen at their club.
Not surprisingly, the beach is where the people go when they leave the nightclubs and want to be alone. I'm not saying people were having sex all over the beach, at least I didn't see any, but it was a romantic location. I cannot, and therefore will not attempt to explain the allure of the Mediterranean sea, especially the Barcelona beaches. But I will say this, the water sparkles gold. I don't know how, or why, and it's not like anything I've ever seen in the States, so I cannot compare it to anything. It is just something you have to see, and once you see it, you just want to be near it. This explains why couples would come down to lie under the stars by sea. I hope it also gives a hint as to why I would travel so far in the middle of the night just to splash around in the water.
I know what I did tonight was silly. But that's kind of why I did it. There is a freedom that I've found comes with night swimming. Once you cross that line that divides land and sea, nothing on the land can get you. I don't mean to imply that I was trying to escape something, just that the elation that comes with that freedom is intoxicating. Splashing around in the sea at the center of the world in the middle of the night half crazed, there is no experiance that makes me feel so alive.
-Tim
PS
I tried to change the settings so that anyone can post on my blog rather than just people with their own blogs. I hope it worked.
It is a little known fact that all firemen are liers. They lie right to your face, and then they laugh about it to their buddies later. I learned this horrible truth about firemen when, during the NoPantsylvanian 3/4 centenial celebration, the pilot of an airplane (who was obviously tripping on Abscenth) flew his jet into the heart of my industrial disterict like a friggen lawn dart. Needless to say the ensuing fire spread like herpes at an all girls school (I don't know what that means, but it spread fast).
That's about the time when my fire chief, who had promised me my city was beyond safe, showed up. He was alone, and visibly drunk. I won't go into too much detail as to how he attempted to put out the fire. I'll just say it involved urin, and it didn't work.
There comes a time when every captain has to go down with his ship. But this was't my time, so I quickly quit Sim City 2000, and in doing so, put out the fire.
Almost all of the IES folk from the dorm are out of town this weekend, most of whom are in Mallorca. I don't know what or where Mallorca is. The only information anyone could give me was that it is the pearl capital of... then I would stop listening. I don't wear a lot of pearls, and I don't really care to discuss them. I have this image of Mallorca being an island, but that's only because it has the word "Orca" in it, which is the other name for Killer Whales. Whales live in water, hence Mallorca must be an island.
Not wanting to waste a lovely Spanish nigh playing video games from 1993 alone in my room, I decided to have an adventure. I decided to take a midnight swim in the Mediterranean. I figured it's here, I might as well.
I must have seemed an odd sight for all the Spaniards who saw me in my commute. The beach is on the other side of the city from me, so it takes about an hour to get there by metro. Meanwhile, Friday night the metro is filled with people going out to nightclubs dressed to the nines. Me, in my bathingsuit carrying a towel (the Hitchhiker reference not lost upon me) and wearing a Hawaiian shirt (for affect), I stuck out. Way out.
There's something I've noticed about Spanish people, there's two kinds. There's the dwarven people of old. These are the two feet tall elderly people with heads like old wrinkled fruit. I mean no disrespect to these people, I know they survived Franco. The only other people you see in Spain are tall, attractive, and obsesively fashion concious. The most fashionably inept guy in Spain makes even those Americans who make it their business to be in touch with fashion look like a backwoods bumpkin. To them, I must look like some sort of chimp that has wandered out of the jungles of France and is trying to masquerade as a person. I cannot help but be reminded of Chicken Boo on "Animaniacs".
But no matter how out of place I looked, I was determined to go night swimming (it deserves a quiet night, after all). My flip flops flapped as I walked down the street. Of course the trendiest clubs are down by the beach, and as I walked by each club I heard the bouncers sigh with relief that I was not going to try and be seen at their club.
Not surprisingly, the beach is where the people go when they leave the nightclubs and want to be alone. I'm not saying people were having sex all over the beach, at least I didn't see any, but it was a romantic location. I cannot, and therefore will not attempt to explain the allure of the Mediterranean sea, especially the Barcelona beaches. But I will say this, the water sparkles gold. I don't know how, or why, and it's not like anything I've ever seen in the States, so I cannot compare it to anything. It is just something you have to see, and once you see it, you just want to be near it. This explains why couples would come down to lie under the stars by sea. I hope it also gives a hint as to why I would travel so far in the middle of the night just to splash around in the water.
I know what I did tonight was silly. But that's kind of why I did it. There is a freedom that I've found comes with night swimming. Once you cross that line that divides land and sea, nothing on the land can get you. I don't mean to imply that I was trying to escape something, just that the elation that comes with that freedom is intoxicating. Splashing around in the sea at the center of the world in the middle of the night half crazed, there is no experiance that makes me feel so alive.
-Tim
PS
I tried to change the settings so that anyone can post on my blog rather than just people with their own blogs. I hope it worked.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
See? This is Why I Shouldn't be Given Free Time!
A Frighteningly True Story
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Chapter 1: I am the Night
Without any more a due, I present to you the story of my Merce weekend. Incontrovertible proof that them thar Barcelonites be loco. I promise you that everything I say happened this weekend is true (excluding hyperboles, jokes, and lies).
Merces is a four day long holiday (beat that Birth of Christ and Birth of Christ Eve) in Barcelona celebrating a peasant revolt some four hundred years ago. Back in the day, the Barcelonian populous rose up to fight for independence. They’d had enough of the Spanish tyranny, and unjust imposition of taxes (Stamp Acts, Townsend Acts, Sugar Acts, Tea Acts). As I am led to believe, an amusing musical starring Mr. Feeney ensued. In the end the Barcelonarian Consell de Cent agreed to declare war against the parent state.
The Spanish National Army crushed their revolution. Now we celebrate with fireworks four nights in a row.
The first night we (the San Jordie dorm crowd plus Tom the Bush-lover) went down to the Ramblas to see what was going on. There were so many people and so much energy it was impossible not to have fun. I didn’t even care that there were just as many English speakers abound as native Spaniards, because that’s still 500 Spaniards.
Eventually we stumbled across a plaza in which there was a strange pagan festival going on. There were people dressed as demons (or demons dressed unconvincingly as people) dancing in a circle around a huge Man-Bat with a staff that shot fire and sometimes the top exploded. Knowing little of Catalonian native culture other than most of them are Catholic, I can only assume this Man-Bat represented Jesus. This led me to the conclusion that God must be a bat, seeing as Mary was a person and their bastard son was half and half. This revelation of course led me to the logical next step, that Batman and Jim Gordon are waging a fundamentalist crusade in Gothem. Batman, understanding that criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot uses the guise of Jesus to strike fear into the hearts of sinners. Batman uses fear to try to influence people. Ergo Batman is a religious fundamentalist terrorist. Score one for the Superman is better front.
Meanwhile as the behorned apostles danced around the leather winged Son of God there was a band all playing a traditional Catalonian Woodwind instrument. The band, I learned, only meets once a year for this bizarre festival. They were quite good, and the rhythms of their traditional music were hypnotic. It is a shame they don’t play more often. No joke. I liked the music.
Merces is a four day long holiday (beat that Birth of Christ and Birth of Christ Eve) in Barcelona celebrating a peasant revolt some four hundred years ago. Back in the day, the Barcelonian populous rose up to fight for independence. They’d had enough of the Spanish tyranny, and unjust imposition of taxes (Stamp Acts, Townsend Acts, Sugar Acts, Tea Acts). As I am led to believe, an amusing musical starring Mr. Feeney ensued. In the end the Barcelonarian Consell de Cent agreed to declare war against the parent state.
The Spanish National Army crushed their revolution. Now we celebrate with fireworks four nights in a row.
The first night we (the San Jordie dorm crowd plus Tom the Bush-lover) went down to the Ramblas to see what was going on. There were so many people and so much energy it was impossible not to have fun. I didn’t even care that there were just as many English speakers abound as native Spaniards, because that’s still 500 Spaniards.
Eventually we stumbled across a plaza in which there was a strange pagan festival going on. There were people dressed as demons (or demons dressed unconvincingly as people) dancing in a circle around a huge Man-Bat with a staff that shot fire and sometimes the top exploded. Knowing little of Catalonian native culture other than most of them are Catholic, I can only assume this Man-Bat represented Jesus. This led me to the conclusion that God must be a bat, seeing as Mary was a person and their bastard son was half and half. This revelation of course led me to the logical next step, that Batman and Jim Gordon are waging a fundamentalist crusade in Gothem. Batman, understanding that criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot uses the guise of Jesus to strike fear into the hearts of sinners. Batman uses fear to try to influence people. Ergo Batman is a religious fundamentalist terrorist. Score one for the Superman is better front.
Meanwhile as the behorned apostles danced around the leather winged Son of God there was a band all playing a traditional Catalonian Woodwind instrument. The band, I learned, only meets once a year for this bizarre festival. They were quite good, and the rhythms of their traditional music were hypnotic. It is a shame they don’t play more often. No joke. I liked the music.
Chapter 2: Inflammable
The next day, which I will call Saturn’s Day, was by far the height of the weekend for me. There was an event that was described as the Fire Run, which I took to mean there was some sort of flaming hoop or bone fire that I was supposed to Little Jack Horner through (no wait, Little Jack Horner sat in the corner. Who jumped over the candle? Jack Flash? Flash Gordon? Barbara Gordon? Another terrorist and now she’s in a wheelchair. But that’s ok because she’s 1337 hax). The IES Events Coordinator sent us all an email that if we were going to go to the fire run we should wear protective clothing not only over out arms and legs, but over our head, mouth, and eyes too. But that was just them being over protective to legally cover their asses. Right?
The directions provided to us as to how to get to the Fire Run were vague at best (You know the Milkyway? Yeah, it’s around there somewhere). And no one we asked seemed to know where it was. We asked plenty of people, some were tourists, some were security guards, some were our pals the policemen, some worked in stores filled with dead animals that creeped me out, no one knew. Eventually I figured out the best way to get to something that you don’t know the location of, is to go to the least likely place for it to be. I knew the Fire Run involved demons, so I took the gang to the Cathedral. Well, I took Hanna, Courtney and Deeba (the Muslim Republican who doesn’t realize her party hates her); it’s hard to keep a group of ten people together in a citywide hubbub. It is also hard to find a way to use the term ‘hubbub’, but given time to prepare it can be done.
So of course, relying on my vast intellect (or lucky guess) the four of us were able to find the Fire Run just outside of the Barcelona Cathedral. Based on the sheer number of people in attendance at the thing, I was able to assume that all the people we asked knew exactly where it was, but since they could not go they acted jealously and attempted to hide the information from us. The plaza, which is fairly large, was packed wall to wall with people. I’m fairly certain that there were at the very least a kaggillion people there (it’s a real number, look it up). Having that many people crammed into that finite of a space and then adding fire seemed a stupid idea. But Spaniards apparently put very little value on human life when fiery trampley death is a possibility, so the night went on.
Out of a huge doorway, reminiscent of the gates of Hell, galloped The Morning Star in a dark chariot. Well, the horses galloped, he just sort of waved at people. He winked at me. That’s a good sign right? Right?
Lucifer then mounted a huge stage and gave an impressively long speech. I have no idea what he was saying, but I called out ‘yay’ or ‘si’ along with the crowd. We called out excitedly at first, eager to impress our dark master, then with increasing apathy as it became clear he was reading the Oscar acceptance speech from… well… Heck, with no sign of a band to play him off. Finally, (and I hope you understand the utter relief I’m trying to affect when I write that) Satan climbed back into his chariot and began to ride away. It was great, because from where I was standing, I got to be the person right behind the departing chariot as the crowed followed. I was kind of hoping the Devil would invite me to ride with him, sort of like a demonic version of Santa and Elf, but it turns out the Prince of all Darkness is a selfish douche-bag, and I had to walk.
All of a sudden Douchey McBaggerson stopped his chariot built for two, but occupied by one. He lifted his trident into the air and it exploded, raining sparks and fire onto the crowd, specifically onto me. Then the devils demonic pyrotechnic minions burst into the crowd with more staffs that showered the crowd with fire. In celebration the whole crowd danced in heathen depravity through the streets of Barcelona.
Just in case the imagery escapes you, readers, allow me to impress upon you the important fact that fire was raining from the sky. Real, hot, flaming fire was falling onto those foolish enough to dance with the devil. They were shooting us with flamethrowers, and we were dancing because of it. And I don’t know if you’ve played with fire recently, but that stuff burns. Hanna’s shirt caught on fire. Fuego! And when I tried to put it out (because only I can prevent people fires) do you know what happened? I caught on fire. Fuego! Don’t worry, all shirts and persons survived the fire (nothing can kill the Harvard shirt, its self importance is just too powerful). But next time I go to a place where they shoot you with flaming death, and someone tells me to bring a hat so my head doesn’t catch on fire (Fuego!), I think I’ll do it.
The directions provided to us as to how to get to the Fire Run were vague at best (You know the Milkyway? Yeah, it’s around there somewhere). And no one we asked seemed to know where it was. We asked plenty of people, some were tourists, some were security guards, some were our pals the policemen, some worked in stores filled with dead animals that creeped me out, no one knew. Eventually I figured out the best way to get to something that you don’t know the location of, is to go to the least likely place for it to be. I knew the Fire Run involved demons, so I took the gang to the Cathedral. Well, I took Hanna, Courtney and Deeba (the Muslim Republican who doesn’t realize her party hates her); it’s hard to keep a group of ten people together in a citywide hubbub. It is also hard to find a way to use the term ‘hubbub’, but given time to prepare it can be done.
So of course, relying on my vast intellect (or lucky guess) the four of us were able to find the Fire Run just outside of the Barcelona Cathedral. Based on the sheer number of people in attendance at the thing, I was able to assume that all the people we asked knew exactly where it was, but since they could not go they acted jealously and attempted to hide the information from us. The plaza, which is fairly large, was packed wall to wall with people. I’m fairly certain that there were at the very least a kaggillion people there (it’s a real number, look it up). Having that many people crammed into that finite of a space and then adding fire seemed a stupid idea. But Spaniards apparently put very little value on human life when fiery trampley death is a possibility, so the night went on.
Out of a huge doorway, reminiscent of the gates of Hell, galloped The Morning Star in a dark chariot. Well, the horses galloped, he just sort of waved at people. He winked at me. That’s a good sign right? Right?
Lucifer then mounted a huge stage and gave an impressively long speech. I have no idea what he was saying, but I called out ‘yay’ or ‘si’ along with the crowd. We called out excitedly at first, eager to impress our dark master, then with increasing apathy as it became clear he was reading the Oscar acceptance speech from… well… Heck, with no sign of a band to play him off. Finally, (and I hope you understand the utter relief I’m trying to affect when I write that) Satan climbed back into his chariot and began to ride away. It was great, because from where I was standing, I got to be the person right behind the departing chariot as the crowed followed. I was kind of hoping the Devil would invite me to ride with him, sort of like a demonic version of Santa and Elf, but it turns out the Prince of all Darkness is a selfish douche-bag, and I had to walk.
All of a sudden Douchey McBaggerson stopped his chariot built for two, but occupied by one. He lifted his trident into the air and it exploded, raining sparks and fire onto the crowd, specifically onto me. Then the devils demonic pyrotechnic minions burst into the crowd with more staffs that showered the crowd with fire. In celebration the whole crowd danced in heathen depravity through the streets of Barcelona.
Just in case the imagery escapes you, readers, allow me to impress upon you the important fact that fire was raining from the sky. Real, hot, flaming fire was falling onto those foolish enough to dance with the devil. They were shooting us with flamethrowers, and we were dancing because of it. And I don’t know if you’ve played with fire recently, but that stuff burns. Hanna’s shirt caught on fire. Fuego! And when I tried to put it out (because only I can prevent people fires) do you know what happened? I caught on fire. Fuego! Don’t worry, all shirts and persons survived the fire (nothing can kill the Harvard shirt, its self importance is just too powerful). But next time I go to a place where they shoot you with flaming death, and someone tells me to bring a hat so my head doesn’t catch on fire (Fuego!), I think I’ll do it.
Chapter 3: Picasso and Piggiebacks
The next day was a Sunday, as per usual. However, this was a very special Sunday, because all the museums in Barcelona were free for the day. Which you would think would be great. It was an opportunity to see some of the most beautiful masterpieces in the world, and pay no money for it. Or so I thought. We went to the Picasso museum, which afforded me the opportunity to stand far away from Picasso’s art in a room filled with people who had not only waited for “Free Art Sunday”, but also seemed to be waiting for “Free Soap Wednesday” as well. That is all I will say about the Picasso museum, which was the only museum I had time to go to that day.
The true highlight of the day was just after lunch. We ten Musketeers were just exiting a pizza place (oh god was it good to have pizza again. Pizza, unlike traditional Spanish cooking, has flavour) when we looked to our left. The simple act of looking to one’s left so often affords surprises, I do it whenever I can. Right now I see a door. Not an exciting find. Sunday when I looked left I saw a three story tall tower of human men, and capped with a wee child, crumble to the ground. It all happened so fast that I didn’t get a chance to take a picture, but it was one hell of a sight for me.
I have to hand it to the Spanish, what they lack in culinary prowess, they more than make up for in dangerous past-times. Fire Runs and bullfights are one thing. But in the Spanish art of human tower building (which is what the name implies), the trick to building a tall tower is to put little children up high and really little children (I think they draw the line at children who have already been born) at the very top. The ‘top’ being the place that is farthest away from the ground. The ‘ground’ being that stone thing that your face smashes into when someone three levels below you all of a sudden realizes that they are holding up three or four people; and hey, isn’t that impossible.
I have to give the tower people credit though, the first tower (the Red Jaguars) was the only one we saw fall. The Purple Parrots, Green Monkeys and Teal… Pigeons (?) all succeeded. I have pictures. Russian Roulette of child abuse aside, they were really cool to look at. We even talked to some of the tower men after they had deconstructed. They spoke Catalan. I smiled at them.
The true highlight of the day was just after lunch. We ten Musketeers were just exiting a pizza place (oh god was it good to have pizza again. Pizza, unlike traditional Spanish cooking, has flavour) when we looked to our left. The simple act of looking to one’s left so often affords surprises, I do it whenever I can. Right now I see a door. Not an exciting find. Sunday when I looked left I saw a three story tall tower of human men, and capped with a wee child, crumble to the ground. It all happened so fast that I didn’t get a chance to take a picture, but it was one hell of a sight for me.
I have to hand it to the Spanish, what they lack in culinary prowess, they more than make up for in dangerous past-times. Fire Runs and bullfights are one thing. But in the Spanish art of human tower building (which is what the name implies), the trick to building a tall tower is to put little children up high and really little children (I think they draw the line at children who have already been born) at the very top. The ‘top’ being the place that is farthest away from the ground. The ‘ground’ being that stone thing that your face smashes into when someone three levels below you all of a sudden realizes that they are holding up three or four people; and hey, isn’t that impossible.
I have to give the tower people credit though, the first tower (the Red Jaguars) was the only one we saw fall. The Purple Parrots, Green Monkeys and Teal… Pigeons (?) all succeeded. I have pictures. Russian Roulette of child abuse aside, they were really cool to look at. We even talked to some of the tower men after they had deconstructed. They spoke Catalan. I smiled at them.
Chapter 4: Smoke on the Water
As I mentioned before, every night at ten there was a different fireworks show in a different area of the city. I love fireworks. It is my belief that if the idea of shining coloured lights shining in the sky, and then falling towards earth in a shower of gold, crimson, azure, violet, whatever, doesn’t make you grin literally from one ear to the other, then there is something wrong with you and you should seek professional help. It’s amazing. I see it and instantly I’m five years old.
Monday night, the last night of Merce, was the most spectacular of the spectaculars. The final night of airborne pyrotechnics took place over the Plaza Espania, and if there were a kagillion people at the Fire Run, well then all those people brought their families to the plaza Monday night. Never before in my life have I seen so many people. Well except for that time I dreamt I was giving a speech at the Million Man March, but somehow I managed to show up naked, and then I realized it wasn’t a dream. But this was by far the largest group of people I’ve ever seen while I was wearing clothes.
For the commute down to the plaza, Deeba, Ellie, Armand and I took a cab. We could have taken the metro, but that would have involved walking to a metro stop. The Hebrews call that a ‘schlep’. The cab had to stop even before it got to the huge rotary at Plaza Espania, the largest rotary I’ve ever seen. It’s got a fountain in the middle, and trying to cross the street on a busy day is… well… did you ever see that movie “Meet Joe Black”? (Spoiler Alert) You know the scene where Brad Pitt gets hit by two cars and dies? Yeah, crossing the street is like that. But Monday night the street was filled with people, they were crammed into the rotary and quarter mile long plaza in much the same way brains aren’t crammed into Walker Bush’s head. (hayoooh!)
I think Ellie and I drove Armand and Deeba a little crazy, because we spent the entire cab ride, and the whole time we looked for a good spot to watch from, hypothesizing about the next Harry Potter book. I will spare you all the theories we concocted for the sake of time, and the fact that I don’t think the Internet can hold so much nerdiness. I might clog up one of the tubes. But so help me, if you think Severus is evil, I will fight you.
The theme of the fireworks was (yeah I didn’t know they had themes either) the history of jazz. Which made it pretty cool, they blasted music, and the fireworks danced along in the sky. I don’t know who picked the music for the show, but while there is a gray area between swing and jazz music, I don’t think Beatles songs and sixties TV themes count as jazz. But, you know what? I couldn’t care less, the music was pretty and it went along with the magical lights in the sky. The fireworks, when watched from where we were standing, were perfectly framed by the twin Venetian towers, and centered over the Palace de Espania, so it all looked perfect.
I feel as though I need to some up this weekend, perhaps give some final thoughts as to what I learned about Spanish or Catalonian culture. Honestly, I have been sitting here trying to think of some wisdom to impart upon you loyal readers, or to at least think of some clever way to finish up. Hell I’d settle for a pun, anything.
Alright, this doesn’t really apply, but I want to post it anyway and I can’t think of when else I’ll have the chance. My cousin had a baby. It’s a girl. Her name is Addison. From what I’m told she has my hair. I can’t wait to meet her. Hi Addie!
Monday night, the last night of Merce, was the most spectacular of the spectaculars. The final night of airborne pyrotechnics took place over the Plaza Espania, and if there were a kagillion people at the Fire Run, well then all those people brought their families to the plaza Monday night. Never before in my life have I seen so many people. Well except for that time I dreamt I was giving a speech at the Million Man March, but somehow I managed to show up naked, and then I realized it wasn’t a dream. But this was by far the largest group of people I’ve ever seen while I was wearing clothes.
For the commute down to the plaza, Deeba, Ellie, Armand and I took a cab. We could have taken the metro, but that would have involved walking to a metro stop. The Hebrews call that a ‘schlep’. The cab had to stop even before it got to the huge rotary at Plaza Espania, the largest rotary I’ve ever seen. It’s got a fountain in the middle, and trying to cross the street on a busy day is… well… did you ever see that movie “Meet Joe Black”? (Spoiler Alert) You know the scene where Brad Pitt gets hit by two cars and dies? Yeah, crossing the street is like that. But Monday night the street was filled with people, they were crammed into the rotary and quarter mile long plaza in much the same way brains aren’t crammed into Walker Bush’s head. (hayoooh!)
I think Ellie and I drove Armand and Deeba a little crazy, because we spent the entire cab ride, and the whole time we looked for a good spot to watch from, hypothesizing about the next Harry Potter book. I will spare you all the theories we concocted for the sake of time, and the fact that I don’t think the Internet can hold so much nerdiness. I might clog up one of the tubes. But so help me, if you think Severus is evil, I will fight you.
The theme of the fireworks was (yeah I didn’t know they had themes either) the history of jazz. Which made it pretty cool, they blasted music, and the fireworks danced along in the sky. I don’t know who picked the music for the show, but while there is a gray area between swing and jazz music, I don’t think Beatles songs and sixties TV themes count as jazz. But, you know what? I couldn’t care less, the music was pretty and it went along with the magical lights in the sky. The fireworks, when watched from where we were standing, were perfectly framed by the twin Venetian towers, and centered over the Palace de Espania, so it all looked perfect.
I feel as though I need to some up this weekend, perhaps give some final thoughts as to what I learned about Spanish or Catalonian culture. Honestly, I have been sitting here trying to think of some wisdom to impart upon you loyal readers, or to at least think of some clever way to finish up. Hell I’d settle for a pun, anything.
Alright, this doesn’t really apply, but I want to post it anyway and I can’t think of when else I’ll have the chance. My cousin had a baby. It’s a girl. Her name is Addison. From what I’m told she has my hair. I can’t wait to meet her. Hi Addie!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Livingston I Presume
Well I was planning to post today about the crazy Merce Party that made my entire long weekend rock it hard core. To any of you that have heard my vague allusions to spending a night with the Devil (prince of darkness), or about the crumbling tower of men (i have pictures to prove it), or me being set on fire (damn villagers and their pitchforks), all these things were true. And barring some more exciting happening to me tomorrow, and the only thing more exciting than the devil is the second coming of Jesus with a big bowl of Mac & Cheese, I will write up a post for you all to read tomorrow.
Today, as the title of this post suggests, I went exploring. It was after enjoying the lovely lunch our lunch-lady Doris had prepared. Actually the lunch today was surprisingly food-like. I had bread and an Avacado Salad. After lunch I went exploring around the dorm, which we learned was comprised of two towers, and not just the one we lived in. There's a giant Eye at the top of the other one. He reminds me of Greg. And I have this really cool ring, but you can't have it.
Before I forget, I also had desert with my lunch. A fruit. A fruit the likes of which has never before been beheld by man. It is the dark bastard of all life on earth. It's very existance disproves science. The Galactic Creator, that one must infer exists once we realize evolution is void, is clearly a malevolent and depraved power.
Upon first examination of the fruit (not even the lunch ladies could tell us what the fruit they had provided for us after persumably purchasing it from a store could tell us what it was called) appeared to be a lime. But the shape was not quite right. And the shade of verde seemed not quite right and sent a shiver up the spine of those unused to dealing with matters of the occult. I needed a silver dagger to pierce the veridian skin of the fruit (luckily I keep one in my utility belt at all times), the fleshy interior of the fruit resembled (including the colour) and orange. But it smelled like a grapefruit. Finally working up the courage, I tasted the fruit. It tasted like a lemon. Just so I can claim to have described how the fruit effected each sense, I'll say it felt like evil. There were no seeds inside the fruit, so I can only assume it was created by allowing all citrus fruits to hump on a full moon night. Or that the way they reproduce is by having a tree burst out of the chest of those fools dim enough to ingest them. I ate two.
In our investidation, the Scooby Gang and I discovered that the dorm we live in has its own courtyard, library, computer lab, two tv lounges, and a friggen basket-ball court. Oh, and a Ping-Pong table in an alley that, so far as we can tell, cannout be accessed by the outside world, and therefore must exist in its own dimention.
The most exciting thing we discovered in our wanderings through the Escher painting that is our dorm, was a gym. We have our own gym right in the dorm. And it works too. My aim was to get changed right away and work out. But first we watched Family Guy and what must have been Spain's Funniest Home Videos (though they were more like accidental snuff films) with some Spaniards.
Then I worked out. It was fun. I hurt now. My butt particularly.
Maybe I'll skip the Merce stories tomorrow and just post more about the pain in my butt.
Gabe Out.
...I mean Tim
Today, as the title of this post suggests, I went exploring. It was after enjoying the lovely lunch our lunch-lady Doris had prepared. Actually the lunch today was surprisingly food-like. I had bread and an Avacado Salad. After lunch I went exploring around the dorm, which we learned was comprised of two towers, and not just the one we lived in. There's a giant Eye at the top of the other one. He reminds me of Greg. And I have this really cool ring, but you can't have it.
Before I forget, I also had desert with my lunch. A fruit. A fruit the likes of which has never before been beheld by man. It is the dark bastard of all life on earth. It's very existance disproves science. The Galactic Creator, that one must infer exists once we realize evolution is void, is clearly a malevolent and depraved power.
Upon first examination of the fruit (not even the lunch ladies could tell us what the fruit they had provided for us after persumably purchasing it from a store could tell us what it was called) appeared to be a lime. But the shape was not quite right. And the shade of verde seemed not quite right and sent a shiver up the spine of those unused to dealing with matters of the occult. I needed a silver dagger to pierce the veridian skin of the fruit (luckily I keep one in my utility belt at all times), the fleshy interior of the fruit resembled (including the colour) and orange. But it smelled like a grapefruit. Finally working up the courage, I tasted the fruit. It tasted like a lemon. Just so I can claim to have described how the fruit effected each sense, I'll say it felt like evil. There were no seeds inside the fruit, so I can only assume it was created by allowing all citrus fruits to hump on a full moon night. Or that the way they reproduce is by having a tree burst out of the chest of those fools dim enough to ingest them. I ate two.
In our investidation, the Scooby Gang and I discovered that the dorm we live in has its own courtyard, library, computer lab, two tv lounges, and a friggen basket-ball court. Oh, and a Ping-Pong table in an alley that, so far as we can tell, cannout be accessed by the outside world, and therefore must exist in its own dimention.
The most exciting thing we discovered in our wanderings through the Escher painting that is our dorm, was a gym. We have our own gym right in the dorm. And it works too. My aim was to get changed right away and work out. But first we watched Family Guy and what must have been Spain's Funniest Home Videos (though they were more like accidental snuff films) with some Spaniards.
Then I worked out. It was fun. I hurt now. My butt particularly.
Maybe I'll skip the Merce stories tomorrow and just post more about the pain in my butt.
Gabe Out.
...I mean Tim
Friday, September 22, 2006
Panic at the Disco
Well, I know I said before I wasn’t going to do it again. But last night I once again found myself dragged out Clubbing. And if you are not aware of the caliber of disaster invocated by agreeing to go to a discotecha in your community. Ya got trouble, my friend, right here, I say, trouble right here in Barcelona. Why sure I enjoy having a good time, certainly mighty proud I say. And I ask you to find me someone who doesn’t. I consider that the hours I spend Out with friends to be golden. Help you reduce stress
Keep a cool head and enjoy life. Never take and try to give yourself a melancholy frown to a guy out having fun with his friends?
But just as I say, it takes judgment, brains, and maturity to make a friend in a foreign city. I say that any boob kin go and get into a nightclub. And I call that sloth. The first big step on the road to the depths of deg-ra-Day. I say, first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon, then beer from a bottle. An' the next thing ya know, your friend is payin’ 15 euros
For a single rum and Coke. And you’re list'nin to some Hip and Hop record
Bopping to the music when someone comes up and starts a-dancin’. Not a wholesome dance, no! But a but a dance that involves the hips bumpin’ and grindin’! Like to see some strung out clubbing girl rubbing her belt up against yours? Make your blood boil?
Well, I should say. Friends, lemme tell you what I mean. Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six shots from the bar. Shots that mark the diff'rence between a between a pretty girl and a tart. With a capital "T," and that rhymes with "C" and that stands for clubs!
And all week long your IES youth'll be frittern away, I say your young students'll be frittern! Frittern away their noontime, suppertime, classtime too! Get past the bouncers. Never mind gittin' homework done, or the studying for quizes or eatin’ proper meals. Never mind missin’ all your classes ‘til your parents are caught with a drop out kid with tuition still due and that's trouble.
Oh, yes we got lots and lots a' trouble. I'm thinkin' of the kids in the designer jeans, ironed shirt young ones, peekin' through the neon door after school. Look, folks! Right here in Barcelona. Trouble with a capital "T" And that rhymes with "C" and that stands for clubs!
Now, I know all you folks are the right kinda students. I'm gonna be perfectly frank.
Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes on while they're loafin' around that club? They're tryin' out Bevo, tryin' out cubebs, tryin' out Tailor Mades like Reefer Mandness! And braggin' all about how they're gonna cover up a tell-tale breath with Trident.
One fine night, they leave the club, headin' out of the dance and not alone! But with Libertine men and Scarlet women! High on the Hip Hop, shameless music that'll grab your boyfriend and your girlfriend with the arms of a jungle animal instink!
Mass-staria! Friends, the idle brain is the devil's playground!
Trouble, oh we got trouble, right here in Barcelona! With a capital "T", that rhymes with "C", and that stands for Clubs. We've surely got trouble! Right here in IES! Gotta figger out a way to keep the young ones moral and in school!
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble!
-Tim "Music Man" Lunardoni
Keep a cool head and enjoy life. Never take and try to give yourself a melancholy frown to a guy out having fun with his friends?
But just as I say, it takes judgment, brains, and maturity to make a friend in a foreign city. I say that any boob kin go and get into a nightclub. And I call that sloth. The first big step on the road to the depths of deg-ra-Day. I say, first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon, then beer from a bottle. An' the next thing ya know, your friend is payin’ 15 euros
For a single rum and Coke. And you’re list'nin to some Hip and Hop record
Bopping to the music when someone comes up and starts a-dancin’. Not a wholesome dance, no! But a but a dance that involves the hips bumpin’ and grindin’! Like to see some strung out clubbing girl rubbing her belt up against yours? Make your blood boil?
Well, I should say. Friends, lemme tell you what I mean. Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six shots from the bar. Shots that mark the diff'rence between a between a pretty girl and a tart. With a capital "T," and that rhymes with "C" and that stands for clubs!
And all week long your IES youth'll be frittern away, I say your young students'll be frittern! Frittern away their noontime, suppertime, classtime too! Get past the bouncers. Never mind gittin' homework done, or the studying for quizes or eatin’ proper meals. Never mind missin’ all your classes ‘til your parents are caught with a drop out kid with tuition still due and that's trouble.
Oh, yes we got lots and lots a' trouble. I'm thinkin' of the kids in the designer jeans, ironed shirt young ones, peekin' through the neon door after school. Look, folks! Right here in Barcelona. Trouble with a capital "T" And that rhymes with "C" and that stands for clubs!
Now, I know all you folks are the right kinda students. I'm gonna be perfectly frank.
Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes on while they're loafin' around that club? They're tryin' out Bevo, tryin' out cubebs, tryin' out Tailor Mades like Reefer Mandness! And braggin' all about how they're gonna cover up a tell-tale breath with Trident.
One fine night, they leave the club, headin' out of the dance and not alone! But with Libertine men and Scarlet women! High on the Hip Hop, shameless music that'll grab your boyfriend and your girlfriend with the arms of a jungle animal instink!
Mass-staria! Friends, the idle brain is the devil's playground!
Trouble, oh we got trouble, right here in Barcelona! With a capital "T", that rhymes with "C", and that stands for Clubs. We've surely got trouble! Right here in IES! Gotta figger out a way to keep the young ones moral and in school!
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble!
-Tim "Music Man" Lunardoni
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Dan
Warning: The following account is true. It is neither allegory nor hyperbole, rather it is the character description of a real human being alive and on the earth at this very moment. Be afraid.
Perhaps there are those among you who might think that the name "Dan" is an alias I have given this person to protect his anonymity. It is not. I'm not worried that through some freak occurrence Dan will stumble upon my blog and read this entry, because I am fairly certain (in much the same way I am fairly certain there is gravity) that Dan cannot read. Those of you who might think I am being cruelly facetious now, may find you agree with me once you get to know Dan.
Most of the students in the IES program are from Santa Clara University, a jesuit school in California. I cannot speak for the entire Santa Clara population, though the Santa Clara IES students have a way of making IES business majors look smart, and post-op labotomy patients look like MENSA material. If you still think I'm being too hard on them, I will provide a brief bit of evidence. On Monday I was asked by a girl studying for her History class if it was true that the Roman Empire conquered much of Europe. On Sunday (that is the previous day for those of you keeping track) that very same girl was on a tour of Roman ruins with me in northern Catalonia. I laughed politelyt at the question at first, thinking it was a not very clever joke. But she was serious, and something deep inside me got very sad.
Of all the braintrusts out of Santa Clara, Dan is their king. Tall, tan, and blond I have never seen him attired in anything but a very cheap looking backwards baseball cap and a pink pollo (not chicken) shirt. Collar popped. Looking at him it is not hard to get the impression that it is a balloon that sits atop his shoulders.
Originally I did not know his name was Dan. Yet as soon as I saw him, I became perversly interested in him as a human being. Not knowing his name, I dubbed him Spicoli. To meet Dan is to get the reference. He is the tall modern day version of Sean Penn's classic character. The first day of Spanish class when asked to tell the class something about himself en espanol; he replied, in english, that he loved stickers.
If I were the only one to have had contact with Dan among the people in my dorm, I might have not have been so facinated by his character. He may have just blended into the blur of vacant minded Santa Clarans that make up the back rows of my classes. But one night at dinner, Trish, who is one of the ten San Jordi kids and is also from the Boston area, treated the assembled crowd to a story told to her by Dan himself. This is how i learned Dan's name, because no one else could possibly have told this story.
Trish's tale goes something like this:
Last week Spain was hit by a serious of the most spectacular and unpredictable thunderstorms I've ever had the fortune of living through. One day after class Trish found herself with no umbrella, as she began to leave the IES building the skies opened up and the clouds began to empty themselves like it was going out of style. She thought better of walking to the bus is such a squall, and decided to wait for the sun to come out again. There she met a tall, somewhat attractive Santa Clara boy who proceded to initiate a conversation about the weather in a flirtatious manner.
From the way Trish tells it, and from what I know of Dan I'm inclined to believe her, there was no logical lead in to the story he told her after only a minute of attempted flirty banter. I can only assume he was trying to impress her with an anecdote of his own personal inginuity.
The previous night, Dan relayed to Trish, he had gone to a Barcelona football game (thats soccer to you Americans), and a downpour began not unlike the one that was occuring outside the building at that moment. Now, as Dan was interested in having a good time at this game, and as (i can only assume) the rules of football were too difficult to grasp (you mean you can't pick up the ball?), Dan entertained himself by having a few too many drinks. But no so many that he was incapable of logical thought as he will momentarily demostraight. When those drinks hit his bladder Dan realized that he had an option other than finding the servicios. He figured he was already sufficiently wet due to the storm, who would notice a little more liquid?
Dan peed his pants. He made the concious decision to pee in his pants. He then made the decision not only to make this information public, but he thought the knowlege that he was a pants pee-er would somehow impress Trish.
I am well aware of the mathematic principle that two points make a line, not a pattern. So if you will, please allow me to expand upon Dan's character just a little more. This pants pee-er is not a bad guy. He might even be considered friendly, not unlike Lenny in "Of Mice and Men". My original urge to dislike Spicoli was set aside when, on one of the many bus rides that made up the IES Orientation Trip, punctuated only by short excursions into places of varying interestingness, Dan approached me. At the time I was reading "Moby Dick" (which is wonderful by the way), and in no mood to socialize. He seemed, however, not as interested in socializing, as discussing the book. Now I, as a nerd, am always eager to have an academic discussion (I'm sick, I know). I think in my eagerness to talk about how much I was enjoying the complexity and imagery of the book, I over estimated Dan's ability to keep up. He admitted, not far into our discussion, that he had only ever begun "Moby Dick". But, he always had trouble getting into books written in verse. Iambic pentameter confused him. Admittedly, iambic pentameter confuses me too. But not so much as his statement. I looked at him dumbly. Something about his mind was contagious, and I could not form a thought.
While I try to regain use of my brain I will entertain you with the fist passage from Herman Melville's "Moby Dick":
"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little money in my purse, and nothing particularly to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim around the mouth; whenever it is a damp drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can".
That is not iambic pentameter. That's not even verse. Dan had absolutely no reason to comfront me and lie about "Moby Dick", let alone a lie for which I had the controdicting truth in my hands.
Dan you poor fool. You sweet pants wetter.
Mark my words, if trends continue, he'll be president one day.
-Tim M Lunardoni
(of the dry pants)
Perhaps there are those among you who might think that the name "Dan" is an alias I have given this person to protect his anonymity. It is not. I'm not worried that through some freak occurrence Dan will stumble upon my blog and read this entry, because I am fairly certain (in much the same way I am fairly certain there is gravity) that Dan cannot read. Those of you who might think I am being cruelly facetious now, may find you agree with me once you get to know Dan.
Most of the students in the IES program are from Santa Clara University, a jesuit school in California. I cannot speak for the entire Santa Clara population, though the Santa Clara IES students have a way of making IES business majors look smart, and post-op labotomy patients look like MENSA material. If you still think I'm being too hard on them, I will provide a brief bit of evidence. On Monday I was asked by a girl studying for her History class if it was true that the Roman Empire conquered much of Europe. On Sunday (that is the previous day for those of you keeping track) that very same girl was on a tour of Roman ruins with me in northern Catalonia. I laughed politelyt at the question at first, thinking it was a not very clever joke. But she was serious, and something deep inside me got very sad.
Of all the braintrusts out of Santa Clara, Dan is their king. Tall, tan, and blond I have never seen him attired in anything but a very cheap looking backwards baseball cap and a pink pollo (not chicken) shirt. Collar popped. Looking at him it is not hard to get the impression that it is a balloon that sits atop his shoulders.
Originally I did not know his name was Dan. Yet as soon as I saw him, I became perversly interested in him as a human being. Not knowing his name, I dubbed him Spicoli. To meet Dan is to get the reference. He is the tall modern day version of Sean Penn's classic character. The first day of Spanish class when asked to tell the class something about himself en espanol; he replied, in english, that he loved stickers.
If I were the only one to have had contact with Dan among the people in my dorm, I might have not have been so facinated by his character. He may have just blended into the blur of vacant minded Santa Clarans that make up the back rows of my classes. But one night at dinner, Trish, who is one of the ten San Jordi kids and is also from the Boston area, treated the assembled crowd to a story told to her by Dan himself. This is how i learned Dan's name, because no one else could possibly have told this story.
Trish's tale goes something like this:
Last week Spain was hit by a serious of the most spectacular and unpredictable thunderstorms I've ever had the fortune of living through. One day after class Trish found herself with no umbrella, as she began to leave the IES building the skies opened up and the clouds began to empty themselves like it was going out of style. She thought better of walking to the bus is such a squall, and decided to wait for the sun to come out again. There she met a tall, somewhat attractive Santa Clara boy who proceded to initiate a conversation about the weather in a flirtatious manner.
From the way Trish tells it, and from what I know of Dan I'm inclined to believe her, there was no logical lead in to the story he told her after only a minute of attempted flirty banter. I can only assume he was trying to impress her with an anecdote of his own personal inginuity.
The previous night, Dan relayed to Trish, he had gone to a Barcelona football game (thats soccer to you Americans), and a downpour began not unlike the one that was occuring outside the building at that moment. Now, as Dan was interested in having a good time at this game, and as (i can only assume) the rules of football were too difficult to grasp (you mean you can't pick up the ball?), Dan entertained himself by having a few too many drinks. But no so many that he was incapable of logical thought as he will momentarily demostraight. When those drinks hit his bladder Dan realized that he had an option other than finding the servicios. He figured he was already sufficiently wet due to the storm, who would notice a little more liquid?
Dan peed his pants. He made the concious decision to pee in his pants. He then made the decision not only to make this information public, but he thought the knowlege that he was a pants pee-er would somehow impress Trish.
I am well aware of the mathematic principle that two points make a line, not a pattern. So if you will, please allow me to expand upon Dan's character just a little more. This pants pee-er is not a bad guy. He might even be considered friendly, not unlike Lenny in "Of Mice and Men". My original urge to dislike Spicoli was set aside when, on one of the many bus rides that made up the IES Orientation Trip, punctuated only by short excursions into places of varying interestingness, Dan approached me. At the time I was reading "Moby Dick" (which is wonderful by the way), and in no mood to socialize. He seemed, however, not as interested in socializing, as discussing the book. Now I, as a nerd, am always eager to have an academic discussion (I'm sick, I know). I think in my eagerness to talk about how much I was enjoying the complexity and imagery of the book, I over estimated Dan's ability to keep up. He admitted, not far into our discussion, that he had only ever begun "Moby Dick". But, he always had trouble getting into books written in verse. Iambic pentameter confused him. Admittedly, iambic pentameter confuses me too. But not so much as his statement. I looked at him dumbly. Something about his mind was contagious, and I could not form a thought.
While I try to regain use of my brain I will entertain you with the fist passage from Herman Melville's "Moby Dick":
"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little money in my purse, and nothing particularly to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim around the mouth; whenever it is a damp drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can".
That is not iambic pentameter. That's not even verse. Dan had absolutely no reason to comfront me and lie about "Moby Dick", let alone a lie for which I had the controdicting truth in my hands.
Dan you poor fool. You sweet pants wetter.
Mark my words, if trends continue, he'll be president one day.
-Tim M Lunardoni
(of the dry pants)
Friends and Enemies
Greetings readers,
As many of you have reminded me, I have been remiss in updating my blog. And I apologize for this, but not without an excuse. While you all wanted me to be toiling away in front of my computer detailing in amusing anecdotes about life in Barcelona, I was off creating anecdotes about living in Barcelona. Without the experiance, this blog would have to be either boring or fictitious. While I promise to keep my blog factual, I also will attempt to keep it interesting. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the return of the Barcelona Blog.
They say the first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well my name is Tim, and I'm a Fantaholic. They don't have it in the states, or at least I've never seen it there, but here in the magic bubblegum world of Europeania there is a magical drink called Fanta Limon. For those of you who think it is just carbonated lemonaid or a lemon version of orange soda, you are wrong. Not only are you wrong, but youre going to Hell. A very special Hell.
Drinking Fanta Limon on a hot day is the equivalent to having every happy feeling you've ever had in your life come flooding back to you all at once. All of a sudden the sky is a deeper azure than Crayola can create, birds are singing, and you realize that it's ok that there is war and pain in the world because all that is needed to solve every problem is a bottle of Fanta Limon. It is the liquid equivalent to the Red Sox winning the World Series. Fanta Limon is the nectar that the Greek Gods of old would sip atop Mt. Olympus to wash down their ambrosia.
Ambrosia, as has been scientifically proven by doctors in white lab coats, is nothing more than simple North American Gummy Worms. I'm certain I don't need to point that out to anyone with at least a third grade education. At the simple mention of Gummy Worms I have known people deadset on going out clubbing change their minds so that they can get some of that wiggly goodness. I bring up these segmented specimens of spledor to juxdapose against my Fanta.
One the bottom floor of the San Jordi dorm, where I live, there is a room of utter condridiction. For one, there is a vending machine that sells beer and a full service bar. Which seems strange, seeing as how at San Jordi it is against the rules to bring alcohol onto the premises. But the hooch hypocracy is not what interests me about that room. On either side of the beer vending machine, creating a sort of hops and barley sandwich, are two other vending machines. One is pure good, the other is pure evil. One of the machines sells me my Fanta Limon, which I have just finished prasing. The other machine taunts me, it is a snack machine. In slot E7, right in the heart of the beast, is a row of Gummy Worms. I have lost no less than four Euro in pursuit of said ambrosian worms because that damned machine, which haunts my nightmares, is broken. Every so often the out of order sign (which is written in Spanish or Catalan or some such gibberish) is removed from the machine. But this does not signify that the machine is fixed. Oh no. Meerly that it is ready to feed again upon the Euros, nay the very soul, of whatever student next summons the courage to try and snach some snacks from its malevolent grip.
Devil thy name be Vending Machine.
More to come...
Tim M Lunardoni
As many of you have reminded me, I have been remiss in updating my blog. And I apologize for this, but not without an excuse. While you all wanted me to be toiling away in front of my computer detailing in amusing anecdotes about life in Barcelona, I was off creating anecdotes about living in Barcelona. Without the experiance, this blog would have to be either boring or fictitious. While I promise to keep my blog factual, I also will attempt to keep it interesting. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the return of the Barcelona Blog.
They say the first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well my name is Tim, and I'm a Fantaholic. They don't have it in the states, or at least I've never seen it there, but here in the magic bubblegum world of Europeania there is a magical drink called Fanta Limon. For those of you who think it is just carbonated lemonaid or a lemon version of orange soda, you are wrong. Not only are you wrong, but youre going to Hell. A very special Hell.
Drinking Fanta Limon on a hot day is the equivalent to having every happy feeling you've ever had in your life come flooding back to you all at once. All of a sudden the sky is a deeper azure than Crayola can create, birds are singing, and you realize that it's ok that there is war and pain in the world because all that is needed to solve every problem is a bottle of Fanta Limon. It is the liquid equivalent to the Red Sox winning the World Series. Fanta Limon is the nectar that the Greek Gods of old would sip atop Mt. Olympus to wash down their ambrosia.
Ambrosia, as has been scientifically proven by doctors in white lab coats, is nothing more than simple North American Gummy Worms. I'm certain I don't need to point that out to anyone with at least a third grade education. At the simple mention of Gummy Worms I have known people deadset on going out clubbing change their minds so that they can get some of that wiggly goodness. I bring up these segmented specimens of spledor to juxdapose against my Fanta.
One the bottom floor of the San Jordi dorm, where I live, there is a room of utter condridiction. For one, there is a vending machine that sells beer and a full service bar. Which seems strange, seeing as how at San Jordi it is against the rules to bring alcohol onto the premises. But the hooch hypocracy is not what interests me about that room. On either side of the beer vending machine, creating a sort of hops and barley sandwich, are two other vending machines. One is pure good, the other is pure evil. One of the machines sells me my Fanta Limon, which I have just finished prasing. The other machine taunts me, it is a snack machine. In slot E7, right in the heart of the beast, is a row of Gummy Worms. I have lost no less than four Euro in pursuit of said ambrosian worms because that damned machine, which haunts my nightmares, is broken. Every so often the out of order sign (which is written in Spanish or Catalan or some such gibberish) is removed from the machine. But this does not signify that the machine is fixed. Oh no. Meerly that it is ready to feed again upon the Euros, nay the very soul, of whatever student next summons the courage to try and snach some snacks from its malevolent grip.
Devil thy name be Vending Machine.
More to come...
Tim M Lunardoni
Friday, September 01, 2006
dis-Orientation
Morning Chicas and Hombres,
Ok let's get past how clever that title is. I mean i know i'm a genius and all, so i don't want to see a whole bunch of replies telling me i'm just that. I get it ok?
Other than that, i started my IES orientation today. Remember the first couple days of college. Where you didnt know anyone, and you were just trying to get a handle on a completely new situation without totally losing your mind? Remember how you had a couple people that you hung out with, that, once your real life started up, you never saw again? Yeah i'm going through that right now. Let me tell you, it's weird. A stage of my life i thought i was completely done with, and here it is again. Just another case of history repeating.
My room is, (not a single) half the size of my room from last year. At first i thought i had a single. It was great. Roomy with a great view. I unpacked. Then my roommate arrived and there was an issue. Two boys, one bed. And that didnt fly. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Anyway, long story short, im two floors lower... a room the same size... and no killer view.
Waah!
Ok. I'll keep you posted as how this stuff works out.
Seacrest Out
-Tim M Lunardoni
Ok let's get past how clever that title is. I mean i know i'm a genius and all, so i don't want to see a whole bunch of replies telling me i'm just that. I get it ok?
Other than that, i started my IES orientation today. Remember the first couple days of college. Where you didnt know anyone, and you were just trying to get a handle on a completely new situation without totally losing your mind? Remember how you had a couple people that you hung out with, that, once your real life started up, you never saw again? Yeah i'm going through that right now. Let me tell you, it's weird. A stage of my life i thought i was completely done with, and here it is again. Just another case of history repeating.
My room is, (not a single) half the size of my room from last year. At first i thought i had a single. It was great. Roomy with a great view. I unpacked. Then my roommate arrived and there was an issue. Two boys, one bed. And that didnt fly. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Anyway, long story short, im two floors lower... a room the same size... and no killer view.
Waah!
Ok. I'll keep you posted as how this stuff works out.
Seacrest Out
-Tim M Lunardoni
