Well, I speak americano.

4:41 AM Sunday, Oct 3, 2010

Alone.
I should be in bed.
I should have done my homework.
I should have done a lot of things in my life, and more often than not I did.
I fear this will be something to contemplate for a long time now.
After updating my monster-blog with photos about my excursion to Gernika, I decided to hit the bars.
If you are new to this Blog, I should tell you that I've already proposed to you.
I should also tell you that I don't get along so hot with a lot of the other American students in my program.
So hitting up the bars means meandering around looking at the bars, hoping to see a friendly face, and occasionally ducking in for a glass of wine or two.
I did this, hopped a metro to the Party Stop of Bilbao and continued my meandering for about an hour.
Nothing.
So I began to wander about the city hoping to get lost, and find something new.
I found a hot-dog store.
Hot-dogs here? Passable.
Go to the east coast for good dogs, Boston probably has the best. (I imagine)
After the hot-dog store I tried to get lost again, but I found myself found and not lost.
So I concluded that going out to the bars alone in Spain was no more exciting than going out to bars alone in U.S.A.
Halfheartedly wandering around Bilbao wasn't going to make me any new Spanish friends, any more than halfheartedly wandering around Moscow I.D. would make me any new Idaho friends.
I decided to go home.
I decided to get started on my homework.
Not five feet from the elevator to the metro she stopped me.
The door was open and I was just about to hop on.
(I can totally hop 5 feet.)

No Speak Americano.
She asked me in a strange accent (I later learned it was German) 'I'm sorry, but do you speak english?'
Not something I'd expect to hear at all, I was caught off guard and responded (in a flat American accent) 'Yeah, sure.'
(She later told me that she didn't think I would, but I was the first person she approached. +2 local-looking points for me!)
My night, then, began.
She was looking for a particular place to meet a fellow German exchange student.
She was new to the area, and I knew where she was looking for.
So I walked her to the place, and when her friend wasn't there I waited with her.
I don't know why I didn't point and tell her, it wasn't far or hard to find.
Maybe I was looking for something to do, or someone to talk to.
However, she met her friend, and they began to speak German.
Not wanting to be rude, more often my downfall than my luck, I decided to wait until there was a lull in the conversation to say my goodbye.
They then explained that neither of them were very good in Spanish, and they were looking for a club, and wanted to know if I would come along.

What a night.
Anne, was the girl I met originally, she is dark haired, friendly, and very impatient, which, as she tells me, is a German thing.
She also speaks English better than half the people I know, and I fear that includes me. She's also very, what I would call, Ruthless. When she wants to do something, she does it.

Anika, her 'Friend' that she had just met when I met her, was blond, bold to a fault, a little careless, and poly as hell. (She's currently got two boyfriends, and didn't mind any action on the side, as the night unfolded.)
She also speaks Spanish much worse than she thinks.
(+7 Snob points for me.)
Anika took the lead, and tried to find a club called 'Night and Day,' which we never found.
Every time we stopped to ask for directions she would ask in English, and when I would attempt to translate for the confused soul we had stopped, she would talk over me with conjugated verbs, and confusing sentence structures.
This would be frustrating if I cared if we got to the club, but I was fascinated by finding two random German guys to communicate with.
We wandered around, got lost in Bilbao (Which I guess was my original intent) and then we found a squat.
A Basque only radical squat.
Very radical.
Anika wanted to go in.
Me and Anne were hesitant.
Me, because Basque for 'Fuck you Capitalist, Fuck you Nationalist' isn't to hard to read since Capitalist and Nationalist are not words that the Old Council of Biscay encountered, ever. I, being from a very Nationalistic Capitalist country, was very content to continue looking for 'Night and Day.' (Not Noche y Dia, Night and Day.)
Anika was not.
So she walked on up, and told me to ask people if we could go in.
I nearly pissed myself, but I did. (Something that scares you every day, right?)
They weren't involved, and they didn't know. But they had that smile like 'Go ahead little human, jump into the Rancor's cave.' [Star Wars Reference for those of you way out of the loop.]
Fortunately it was more of a club than a squat, and it was closing.
So were left.
We wandered around, got lost in Bilbao again, this time Anne and Anika explained to me the difference between German girls and Bavarian girls.
(Writing Bavarian Girls makes me giggle because: A) I am immature, despite being a mostly full-grown man, and B) Because I love doughnuts, and Bavarians are filled with cream. (Yeah, I did.)
Bavarian girls wear the girdle, and speak in the stereotypical accent UpndownUpndown and all that.
They say that no one understands what Bavarians are saying in Germany and no one wants to.
I thought of Jersey. (And subsequently thought of the Worst Othello production I've ever seen. Don't ask. You don't want to know.)
HOWEVER: German girls can drink beer. They assured me of this fact, and made sure I wouldn't forget it.
'Wey're German Girls, we can drink beeyr' they told me. Often.
After being lost for a bit we finally decided to http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=3309159180125292885hit up an Irish Bar.
Name o'the bar?
<< Mo'r O'less>>
I thought it was clever, and they had Guinness.
Still a good night so far.
Inside the bar there were two laser shows, conveniently pointed at my face.
There was also Guinness, a Soccer game of Epic Proportions, and the worlds shortest lecher.
This man was grinding on anything that looked like a woman, and this, my humble potential fiance, was no grinding bar.
There was music, there was booze, but there was for the most part little to no dance, maybe some shoulder shaking, at best.
This man? This man was going for it.
Grinding on women who were trying to ignore him, flirting with physically with uninterested women with their own man in arms.
He was going for it.
He was going for it like he would only survive the night if he copulated.
Me, Anne, and Anika arrive just in time for this poor sod.
The first half hour, Anika and Anne spoke to each other in German and I watched the fĂștbol game.

Padre.
Now you may not believe this, but I swear it to be true.
This soccer game was the Raiders vs. the Cowboys.
There was a team in black with silver Highlights.
And a team in white with blue stripes.
The team in Black? Throwing punches, grabbing other players, and slide kicking all over the place!
The team in White? Taking it all like the little bitches they were.
The Black team was far more agresive, and the referees, or whatever they call 'em here, were on the Black team's side, obviously.
I don't know how the game ended, but I thought my Dad would be glad to know that I was in an Irish Bar, drinking Guinness when I watched the Spanish Raiders play against the Spanish Cowboys. I, of course, raised a glass to my pop, and shouted at the tele.

Sansanika.
Anika, then found herself preoccupied with the bald (ad hominim) lecher (ad hominim again).
Anne, then began to speak to me.
We talked for a long time. About German schools, about secret music loves, about learning new languages, about art, and writing.
This blog makes me a certified journalist, right? Well... Let us just say it does...
She wants to be a writer, but she doesn't think she has the chops for it. I don't think anyone who can speak German, English, Latin, a little Italian and will soon speak Spanish could not have the chops for writing.
We also spoke of Brecht and Goethe it was fantastic. (Thankyou theatre history for teaching me how to pronounce that name, 'Ger-Ter.' Rob I officially owe you an apology for one time I complained about waking up early for class. All the other times will be apologized for as I find uses for the information. You have scored about +12 apologies by now.)
Eventually it got late, and Anne wanted to go home.
Anika wanted to stay and make-out with lecher-man, who was very happy with this, but she did not want to be left behind.
After two false starts, we left her behind. (Anne not wanting to wait any longer.)
On the metro I helped (Kind of) Anne find her way to her stop, and then went home, and I immediately recorded this blog.
What a night indeed.

Homeworkday, October 3, 2010

Warning! Strong Opinions ahead.
But you knew that.

I just finished reading a book.
This was children's book, and I am proud to have finished it.
It was entirely in Spanish.
Supposedly this book is for 8 to 88 year-olds.
False advertisement, my friends. As I'm sure you could have guessed.
The book wasn't bad, and for a long time it was actually cute if not cliche as hell. The tittle of the book is 'The Story of A Seagull, and the Cat that Taught it to Fly.' And to be perfectly honest, the title in Spanish doesn't really roll of the tongue either. (Oh yeah, I'm not above critiquing children's books.)
Basically a cat finds itself with a dying seagull in front of it, and winds up promising to hatch the seagull's egg, raise the bird, and teach it to fly. Dying wishes and all...(Oil pollution kills the poor bird.)
So we meet a slew of characters with catch phrases and they go on wild adventures trying to figure this problem out.
Steady pace throughout the book, until we get to flying.
The cats and the bird can't figure it out. So they decided to ask a human for help.
There have been six or seven humans established at this point, many of whom are interesting characters and could easily be used to solve the problem, and to progress the story.
But no.
Stop reading at page 119. Whatever you imagine to happen at the end, even if you imagine 'Gaviota is the seventh Horcrux', or even 'She Marries Edward' it will be a better ending than what the next 18 pages will offer you.

Page 120 (of 138)
They decide all these humans are inadequate, and that the real human to go to is a random writer who has never been mentioned before in the story. (Unless you count the bio in the front cover.)
A poet who hates all of his work.
Well, gee, I wonder who this unnamed writer is.
And he magically (in one page even) throws the bird off a light-house and it learns to fly.
Done.
Story Done.
Unnamed Writer drops out of the God machine, gets selected by the cats to be the only human with the privelege to hear one speak, and manages to easily save the day.

Oh the Mary Sue.
I realize that one cannot help but write oneself into a story, we, after all, cannot separate ourselves from our observations, imaginations, and what have you.
But I tell you one thing, nothing good comes from mixing Dues Ex Machina and the Mary Sue.
Hell there are even Dues Ex Machinas that are good.
But Mary Sues?
Fuck. That. Shit.
Sure, the Mary Sue sells because we all want to be the genius paragon of magic who was born of non-practicing mugs who are looked down upon, the girl who can take a rough and tumble adventure and keep up with the worlds most famous wizard and his ginger friend. (Gingers are crazy, don't deny it.)
We all want to be the center of attention, especially if it means supernatural attention from two extraordinarily conveniently cute men. One of whom is sexually dangerous and made of pure primal energy, while the other an unliving exemplar of lust itself, but is contained within the confines of his own will.
It's enjoyable to read about badasses who only flinch in social situations, or who have only the mildest character flaws.
Sure. Enjoyable.
But mostly only when we are allowed to relate to them, and they have some character development.
But even when its done well, it leaves a fakey aftertaste in ones mouth.
Some stories cover this with actually decent writing.
Some stories cover this with religiously permitted sexual tension.
Other stories, like this one, don't cover it at all,
The real question I have, is, How was this book published?
And how can I get ahold of this company?
I've got all sorts of trash that I'd love to be distributed as good reading for any age group between 8 and 88 year-olds.

Anyhow I was supposed to be doing homework right now.
History of the World in 350 Spanish words.
GO!


Kishpike Out.

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