Normally I wouldn’t do this; I’m sure I’m going to regret having told you all my secret weakness for hooking me into a professional assignment. But it’s a story and it was too blatant to ignore. Someone must know so, well, ok, then. I’ll tell you.
When I hear my boss talking crazy like this, it grabs my attention savagely:
“I need you to go to Barcelona. Now, I know this is really last notice, but a client needs asolutionarchitectblahblahblah whateverwhateverwhatever. But it’s in Barcelona. Would you be able to be there next week?”
–
Oh people.
Oh grown-ups.
Oh major software company with giant appetite for revenue.
When will you learn?
You had me at “Barcelona”. I mean, I know that this is probably just the begging and that a year from now I’ll be choosing which European capitals are good enough for me and which are not…but are you kidding? At this point I’d staple my tongue to an alligator for 5 bucks - you think I won’t go to Barcelona on your dime? Who cares who the client is? And who the hell needs more than a week to prepare? Who the hell needs more than a couple hours to pack and get to the airport?
Just buy me the tickets and pay for everything and you’ve got yourself a consultant.
–
The football game in the corporate Hilton that the company had paid for was playing as if it were on fast forward. Barcelona was up 1-0 on Leon by the time I looked up. I was literally sitting under the TV, which explained finally and once and for all why everyone had been staring at me for the last 30 minutes. I knew it wasn’t the client’s spreadsheets they were cheering on, but I work hard and I play hard and, dammit, I was focused.
But looking up changed that. Touches came and went as if the ball were on fire. I had never seen anything like this: and Ronaldinho was on the bench. It would’ve been madness to hear, but to see it was something else entirely. I’d never seen so many white people without English accents cheering for a futbol game in my life. American businessmen and women, old people on vacation from Arizona, all creeds and breeds of white westerners were taken with the speed of this game, the velocity and the control with which these Spaniards controlled la pelota, and for a moment there, Brazil had nothing on them.
For a moment. Let’s not get crazy with this.
The passing was precise and the dribbling was fanatic. No goals were scored except the one majestic scissor-kick from the far post. This was evidence of jedi-play at work if I’ve ever seen it. But the handling, and like I say, the speed, it left nothing to the imagination. Barco had stripped futballnaked and I stared at it with excitement, like a 13 year-old seeing the faint outline of a nipple through a bikini for the first time, excited for the moment but somewhere in his mind worried that it will never be quite the same after this.
Oh well. Live hard. Die young. Go Barca!
–
I wandered the old Quarter of Barcelona for an hour or so after I’d found a hotel for the night. There was a festival in town and somehow I’d missed the memo that every European and his neighbor’s hot Polish sister comes to Barcelona for this thing called La Merce. Consequently, it’s naar impossible to find a hotel in the city. But you know me, readers — I’m unstoppable…
The truth is that we don’t know what we will find around the corner. We don’t know what clouds will look down at us, what skies will peer. We don’t know what door will be unlocked or what walls we’ll face and have to climb or turn back. What we do know is that the sun will always smile down on us, will always be a step ahead, even if we’re below the clouds and can’t see it. We know that we choose, either to turn left or right, or else do what the man from that other hostel says, which is to turn around and head out of town where the challenges are few and the rewards even fewer. And maybe there you’ll find a place to stay for the night.
But I’m a man of rewards, great and plentiful, and I don’t do out of town.
With two bags and a leather jacket in the heat and humidity of a Barcelona night I follow the streets, then, the sweat beading at my temple — my thin Mediterranean shirt soaked with rogue streamers. I follow it all to where it runs and then I follow that: the cobblestones, the trickle of European waters down the central gutters on narrow gothic streets of ancient roman cities. They have no end but the sea, and neither does the will of the mind. And where there is no end there is bound to be an answer… at least statistically.
Let’s see what this city has for me… and what else I can take…
Barcelona, Spain — September, 2007
Diagonal Hilton, lobby
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I am constantly being nagged about not sleeping enough. My parents and grandparents are constantly hinting, sending me articles on the dangers of sleep deprivation and lecturing me on the short life-span of those who do not get a healthy 8 hours of sleep every night. I know. When I was a kid I was the last to fall asleep and the first to get up. In college it was quite the hangover that would keep me in bed past 9 on a Saturday. 10 on a Sunday.
My flatmates must have a suspicion that I actually don’t sleep. At all. Consistently, it happens that I’m writing when they go to bed and then writing again when they wake up. It’s especially bad since my brother gives siesta lessons to Spaniards as a hobby, and has been mistaken on several occasions for a hibernating animal. I’m not sure if it’s always the same kind of animal. Something furry though, I’m sure.
I don’t really know why I don’t sleep.
What little sleep I get is satisfying enough, I suppose. I don’t have regular nightmares or anything traumatizing.
Noise levels are acceptable where I live.
I guess the morning light is a bit much, but this is more about sleeping late than getting up early.
I guess I just fight it. Sleep is time wasted. You’re going to sleep your entire death away, may as well not waste time now. There are things to do, words to write, music and pictures to sort through and organize…whatever.
But mostly it’s the allure of the possibility of privacy, of solitude…utter, desperate solitude. Independence can be had within a community — but it must be actively sought out, and it should be noted that it’s no light matter. For the mind to explore the fantasy within there is no silence like the night, no muse like the dark. In it, dew forms on the blades of grass outside, and a billion others around the planet. In it, the clocks tick away a little slower, the toxins penetrate a little deeper. The thoughts race a little faster. Memories seep, in and out of my face and skin. Feelings are replaced with words and still, the dust never does stop falling.
In it, the house settles.
I like it.
Posted in Rants | No Comments…
Ataque sent me this beautiful thing.
Yeah, that’s hot.
–
I once asked a priest at my grandparent’s anniversary parties if it was ok to idolize rock stars.
Emphatically, he said, “No“. I expected him to say that, so I wasn’t shocked or anything. But I kept proding with the topic and said that I was aware of the whole ‘no idolizing false idols’ thing and the yellow cow and all that but, “what if the guy’s technique is amazing?”
“No,” he said, sternly, “you may not idolize rock stars just because their technique is amazing.”
“What if he plays the organs?” I semi-interrupted.
“Like, the big sounding ones in churches?” He asked me.
“Yeah. What if he sounds like that?”
“Would he play an actual organ or would he still use an electric guitar and make some kind of volume knob adjustment that makes it sound like a pipe organ?”
“The guitar one.”
He thought about it for a second.
“That’s pretty fu-freaking cool, I guess. Yeah, that’d be ok, I think. God’s not made of stone, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
And I thought he was making up the whole volume knob technique shit but I had no idea that it was even possible. Jesus Christ.
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How anyone in America can travel anywhere in the world without being laughed out of town must be some kind of testament either to the pity of foreigners or to the charm of the Yankees. I mean, seriously.
Did President Bush really come out and say that he talks to god and cries at night, and will, in fact, go cry a little more later? Does he really think that drinking is bad because it affects your decision-making? I’m so glad that captain cuckoo banans didn’t make any decisions concerning Iraq while drinking, eh? That could’ve impaired his judgment and wouldn’t that have been disastrous?
Seriously, why are people not storming into the White House to drag that muffy little prick by the cuffs of his slacks to the cold and wet banks of the Potomac to be cleansed of his lies. I’d wonder if it was too bad that the Potomac is heavily polluted but it works well enough as a literary tool that even such polluted water could wash some filth off of this douchebag.
–
Fortunately, I maintain a constant-enough level of distance from what you people do these days that I’m able to scoff and ridicule without later transitioning to soft whimpering tears in the corner of a public library as I consider that what you asses vote for affects me too.
Whatever. Buy the ticket, take the ride. You people dug your own graves letting these creepy little baboon asses run the show that feeds them their spankings and I left because I want no part of that. That the quarters these evil ass-bags spend on vibrating beds in expensive hotel rooms for which we pay $800,000.00 a pop and is actually justified as a serious line item on a budget somewhere that no one with scruples or a sense of humor ever laid eyes on only makes the whole situation that much more pathetic for you.
It comes down to this: I truly and miserably hate you all. I cannot sum up enough the disappointment that this place has become, mostly because I had so much pride in the potential of what it could’ve been.
Damn. What a downer, eh?
But there’s no sense in sinking into despair over the shame of the whole affair. At the end of the day, the villains will get away and who cares? Why shouldn’t they? They did what they should, their capitalist hands grabbed what they could and will make for Belize when they see what a breeze it is to dupe the fools that stay mute when you distract on the left with words shiny and bright, only to pillage and plunder what’s on the right.
Yeah. So where do we go from here? Do we search for answers?
Whoa, whoa, easy tiger. Too big a step. In the state most of you are in, I think first you’d do well to figure out what questions to ask first. So start with that.
Me? I’m going to go start being famous. I recently received something from one of my good 2-day friends I met at Wildflower ‘07 who’s had the impression that I’m just a bit pissed about the whole situation with these United States of America, amongst other things and…well - here:
…you seem angry in some and deliriously entertained in others … you seem to be under the impression that no one reads, or cares about the more serious things you so eloquently weave a story of for our eyes. Simply not true my 2 day old friend. Some of us care greatly and do pay attention.
So it’s official. I have an audience; this is good. Somebody put that down in the record, eh?
–
This doesn’t make any sense. I thought it was enough that I became that kid that Willy Wonka told Charlie about at the end of the Gene Wilder version of the movie:
“But Charlie, don’t forget what happened to the kid who suddenly got everything he ever wanted…he lived happily ever after.”
aaaaannnd scene.
But no. Not enough, friends (enemies too. My audience, judging from my comments, is probably too small to be excluding people at this point). It’s never enough.
Perhaps I need the literary equivalent of oompa-loompa’s in my life…
There’s a metaphor that makes a lot of sense somehow, if only I knew what it meant.
Posted in Politics, Rants | No Comments…
Recently the discussion has come up around why I’m so nonchalant towards the idea of a girlfriend (to put it mildly). It’s a question I hate to even have to address in this place but even the people closest to me seem to be unable to stand the curiosity. So let’s just get this over with, shall we?
Katie walked into the living room one evening as I was working on a piece to frighten the love right out of one of the editors at the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Oscar, how come you haven’t met any girls here yet?”
“Hang on a sec. I’m almost done telling this editor in San Francisco why he must run my article in the Chronicle… ‘ and if you don’t address this issue then the terrorists, sir, have WON. Period.‘
“Ok, sorry. What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”
“I asked you how come you haven’t met any girls here since you’ve moved?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve met plenty of girls since I’ve moved here.”
“None that don’t serve you your breakfast or make your martinis in the strange places you frequent. Oscar, waitresses and bartenders don’t count.”
“Why the hell not? Is there a better kind of woman? Because I’m this close to giving up on smart and engaging girls entirely and just making sure that I hook up with girls who know how to make a good martini and a well-buttered piece of toast in the morning. God, are those that low-enough standards or what?”
“You know what I mean. You’re a good-looking guy with a solid job and a steady paycheck. You cook. You play the guitar. You use napkins. You floss.”
“I think you made up the napkins one.”
“See? You’re funny too. And athletic. You speak three languages…”
“Four.”
“What?”
“I speak four languages.”
“Are you counting Dutch?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t count Dutch! You speak it like a chimp with a stutter.”
“But I do speak it, yes?”
“Fine. Three-and-a-half languages.”
“And… ? Ok, so I’m great on paper - my CV is a glowing beacon of the American Dream. So what?”
“Don’t pretend to be modest. You think you’re fantastic.”
“I am fantastic.”
“Yeah, I know. You actually said that last week. I heard you.”
“No I didn’t…wait, what did I say? There’s context to be considered if I’m going to be accused.”
“You said: ‘if there were more of me, we’d have fewer problems. God, I’m fantastic.’”
“Hmmm. Yeah, there’s very little room for context there. Ok. But I AM pretty freaking sweet. A pretty good deal, as they say.”
“So, ok. Why no girl then?”
“First of all, what’s so great about ‘having a girl’ anyway? Why do people define themselves based on whether they can depend on someone else for happiness? That’s horse shit. Besides, fuck if I know. You’re the one with a habitual cling to Sex in the City reading the goop that the British tabloids slide into our mail slot. YOU tell me why I haven’t met someone yet.”
“Well, you’re obviously not trying. Probably at all.”
“Whatever. I sang for that girl at the cafe the other night and she wouldn’t even look at me. Why the hell doesn’t that count?”
“You mean that time when you got up from the table, ran across the street to the canal and joined a platoon full of Irish boys hollering football chants at the passing boat of freshman girls?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wait. You’re asking me why chanting football slogans with Irish hooligans at other, younger women doesn’t count as singing to a girl, right?”
“Well, when you put it like that anything sounds bad. Besides, she had a boyfriend.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m avoiding it very successfully.”
“Is it really that hard to find a nice girl?”
“Without a boyfriend?”
“Sure.”
“Then yes.”
“But you go out all the time. What do you do, snarl at them?”
“Look, I’m not looking for a girlfriend when I go out. I’m just looking around, sometimes hoping to be looked at right back. It’s validation and a hope of an off-chance encounter with someone who’s as adventurous as me, if not more so. I always want to learn new shit, know what I mean?
“Women are creatures of the sirens who cost a lot of time. I have plans - plans more important to me than having another person on speed-dial, than having one more person who wants me to call when I’m traveling. I have plans bigger than weekends of dreamy-eyed mornings wasted on my bed. Time is precious. I have cities to check off my list, guitar rifts to learn and kilometers and kilometers of road to put under my feet.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’ll happily make out with the first pretty thing that crosses me with eye-contact. I’ll smooch all night and even bring her home if she’s up for it. The trouble is, so far it’s been either Dutch girls (who don’t flirt), or a bad case of the boyfriends. I hate boyfriends.
“No eye contact at all?”
“Seriously? Two girls have looked at me at bars since I’ve been here, and I’m confident one of them may have been a leper. The lighting wasn’t that good, but still. I’m not that good with bacterial diseases.”
–
“Oscar?”
“Yeah?”
“…where did you learn to sing Irish Drinking Songs like that?”
“Vallejo Pirate Fest 2007.”
“Interesting.”
Who said that every wish would be heard and answered when wished on the Morning Star? Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it, and look what it’s done so far…
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