Hey Guys!

Guess what?! It turns out I totally have a blog! Crazy, right? I know! It's like when someone tries to bum a cigarette and you're all like "I don't smoke", and then you get home and empty your pockets and suddenly remember that you've had a carton-a-week habit for decades as you pull out a pack of Camels, open it, lovingly caress your last one and light it. "Thank God I didn't give this one to that mooch," you think as you inhale deeply, adjusting the wig that hides the toll that months of radiation therapy have taken on your fragile frame. Just like that!
I mean, instead of ranting futilely into the void, I could have been ranting productively on the interwebs. Colour me embarrassed.
So much has happened:
I went back to Istanbul. Second time there. I love that city. Have you been? I don't know - you don't have a blog. It's a crazy exciting metropolis with millennia of history and culture and amazing food. Go.
Japan is up next. Woo hoo!
Closer to home, last week a corrupt Spanish politician was gunned down in the street by the mother of some girl she'd fucked over. Right now, the Spanish police could be kicking in my door to arrest me for suggesting that maybe some awful lady who scams over a hundred and fifty grand a year from the public coffers while faking eligibility for free trips to NYC and bullying the opposition and the press deserves to eat a lead sandwich with the works. (They're making it illegal, you know) If only I'd been paying attention to my bookmarks.
Eurovision! The fun I could have had with Eurovision. Buxom slavs and bearded ladies. Oh well. Next year.
In the meantime, I have a band too. That one is easier to remember. We recorded and played a couple of shows and I keep paying for rehearsal time, so it's harder to ignore. We've been accepted as semi-finalists in a radio contest. I'm not sure what we can win (apparently not too hard to ignore) but it's probably something cool like hats or beer, so I would really appreciate it if you would click on the link and vote for us. Just tick the box at the bottom of the page and click Enviar. Thanks.
My annual rock orgy takes place next week as I spend three days in the ugliest part of the city taking in the sweet noise of Primavera Sound. (With JB. Woo hoo!) I'll tell you all about it if it doesn't slip my mind.

VOTE FOR LES FAT JONES HERE!

Groins of Steel

You may have noticed I haven't been blogging much lately, and by lately I mean 2013. You've noticed, right? You've felt a nagging lack in your life where Salient Green used to be? Hello? Anyone? Bueller?
The reason for this is simple. I am lazy live a life that, while interesting to me, doesn't seem like the sort of thing worth discussing with the internet. Lately I've felt like leaving the pithy bon mots to Twitter hoaxers and focusing on the more pressing matters of trying to get the damn waiter's attention for another round. I'm just not doing anything that I necessarily feel like sharing. That is, until yesterday afternoon. That shit needs to be shared.
Yesterday, I went to a roller derby. As a child of the seventies, I remember the tales of women on roller skates beating the crap out of each other for fame and fortune, but I always thought that, like Jesus, it was something made up to sound cool. But like Paul on the road to Damascus (just like it) yesterday, I was made a believer.

Amen!

We took the subway to the end of the line, where the mountains that frame the horizon of Barcelona are strikingly close, snaked through a humble neighbourhood of low houses and bars to the local sports centre. There, we discovered two teams of women in spandex and roller-skates (not roller blades) engaged in the high speed, full contact sport that is roller derby.
The whole event had a very punk-rock vibe, from the pierced door girl and the tattooed announcers to the actual punk-rock music playing over the loud speakers. The Barcelona team, named Groins of Steel, (really!) were hosting the less imaginatively named Roller Derby Porto. (From Porto. Duh)

Barcelona's mascot is a cockroach

The athletes all have groan-worthy nicknames like Cam Pain and Lady Di-struction, but after watching them fearlessly smash into each other while flying on skates, I'll leave it to a braver soul than me to mock them.

eg: AnnieWhere

The rules of the game are difficult to explain, but easy to pick up in person. After about ten minutes, I had a decent enough understanding to follow the starts and stops of the match and cheer at the appropriate moments. It got really competitive and violent, with moments where almost entire sides were sitting in the penalty box for throwing elbows and such, but the vibe was fun, with the crowd and the competitors enjoying themselves immensely, high fiving and grinning all the way through. And really, what's not to enjoy about standing with a beer in hand (unlike the football stadium where alcohol is banned) watching some wheeled athletic ladies in tight clothes throw each other to the ground. I think  I've found my new sport. Suck it New York Jets!

Ten Lessons in Ten Years

Yesterday I went over to my friends' for a barbecue. What better way to spend a sunny Sunday than eating meat and drinking beer? None way, say I, and so was meat eaten and beer drunk and all were merry. One of several featured desserts was a cheesecake with a big number ten on it, commemorating my decade in Barcelona. (How long is Noah going to milk this? - You. No more after this, I promise. Probably.)
"Speech! Speech!" came the cries. "Tell us ten things you've learned in ten years."
Fortunately, attention spans had been shortened by booze and everyone was easily distracted by the cheesecake itself. As well as ice cream and brownies, all of which were far more interesting than my ramblings would have been.
However, I have now gone for over twenty four hours without dessert so I'm ready to present my list. If you should happen to have cheesecake or brownies or ice cream at hand, stop reading this and start eating. I guarantee it will be much more rewarding.
For all you poor dessertless folk remaining, I give you the ten things I've learned:

1. First and foremost, beware a British barbecue on Sunday. While I love the grilled flesh of beasts and the alcohol it comes with, if your host and/or most of the guests hail from that foggy island off the coast of France, think long and hard before you engage in a midday meal with them on Jesus' day, for they are not like us. Your Monday will thank you, as you will at the very least avoid beginning the week with a dry mouth and a headache, and at most, save yourself from getting lost on a bicycle in countryside vineyards after dark, forcing you to careen blindly along dirt paths until you find a kindly rural drug dealer who is willing to put you up until the first train can take you back to the city next morning.

2. I really love the beach. If you follow me on Instagram (noahdjgreen) you know I love the seaside the way people love cats and food. Floating suspended in warm salt water watching the shore makes all my troubles just slip away. It's easily the number one reason I'm still here.

3. Spanish. I thought I spoke it before I arrived. I didn't. My first apartment was full of Argentinians who spoke no English. On my first day there, I sat on the corner of my tiny bed in my tiny room contemplating the huge mistake I'd made. However, not wanting to be the creepy roommate who spent all his time in his bedroom (that came later) I ventured into the living room and desperately tried to follow the conversation. It took several exhausting months, but it got easier. Eventually, having a Spanish girlfriend helped. Especially with the slang.

4. Catalan. It's the other language. Didn't even know what it was before I arrived, and now I speak it like a New York taxi driver speaks English. That counts as learning, right?

5. Everything is late. Try eating lunch before 1.30 or dinner before 8.30. Enjoy your McDonald's, cuz that's what'll be open. I pulled more all-nighters as a teacher in my 30's than as a musician in my 20's.  I recently went to a movie, dinner and drinks with friends, but didn't call it going out because I was home by 1.30 in the morning.

6. Racism. Coming from the States, you'd think I would have this one covered, but when you get to a country where the locals call Arabs Moors (while wearing keffiyehs), label convenience stores Pakis, and hate South Americans more than the Tea Party does, you realise you're playing in a different league. Generalisations and dismissals of entire ethnic groups are the norm. It's a thoroughly pre-PC society where speaking English badly is speaking like an Indian and racist jokes/skits/theme parties are hilarious. Olé.


7. Corruption. In a country where rules are treated like suggestions, I guess it's not surprising that entire local governments get hauled off to jail for illegal land permits, regional politicians are found with trunkfuls of cash, the president gets paid under the table with embezzled funds and the royal family sets up shady deals with questionable regimes.

8. It ain't a party till you start a fire, endanger some kids and torture an animal. All Spanish celebrations include at least one of those activities. Whether it's building a giant statue and burning it down, or parading through the streets dressed as a fire breathing dragon (fire included) something's gotta burn. Next, line up your newborns so the village demon can long-jump them, or send your toddlers to the top of a teetering human tower. But don't worry, they're wearing a helmet. (Not the newborns, cuz fuck 'em.) Finally, throw a goat from a church tower or play piñata with a hanging duck. Catalunya banned bullfighting and will thus claim moral superiority, but they will still set a bull's horns on fire and chase it into the sea. For real.

9. Dancing is hard. I wish I could say I'd learned to swing dance, but after six months of class, I've picked up just enough to embarrass myself with strangers, apologising profusely as I sweat all over them while stepping on their toes and twisting their arms against their natural articulations.

10. The Wire is the best show on TV ever. Not related to Barcelona in any way, but I watched it while living here.

Decade two, day one

How fast does ten years go? Pretty fucking fast!
I had punctuality beaten into me as a child. (Not actually beaten. I'm not accusing you of anything, mom.) So engrained in me is it that after all this time in Spain, a country where even Christmas is celebrated two weeks late, I cannot help but show up on time for things, knowing that I will inevitably be waiting for others. I always explain to the chronically late that time inexorably goes by at the rate of one minute per minute, but now I'm not so sure.
I mean, it doesn't seem that long ago that I stepped off the airplane, suitcase in hand, into a city I had never visited where I knew nobody and barely spoke the language with the vague idea of checking it out. I blinked and a decade had passed.
I woke up yesterday well rested for the first time in a week. I had spent a long weekend eating and drinking my way across southern Spain, getting up early to catch various modes of transportation or to visit some culturally relevant building (the latter to justify all the eating and drinking.) Prior to that, I had suffered a four night bout of insomnia that kept me staring at the walls and dreading the innocuous melody of my alarm. But yesterday I opened my eyes after a full eight hours of blissful sleep to begin my day, which consisted of classes with adults and children in companies and homes around Barcelona. One student, a 40 year old engineer, is leaving for Qatar next week, so we concluded our class with a relaxing cup of cafe con leche in the restaurant across the street from his office. After a year and a half of classes together, we have something approaching a friendship, or at least a cordial professional relationship, sharing personal anecdotes (and the twenty-first century equivalent thereof - funny youtube clips.)(Speaking of which, everybody on Facebook posted the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake hashtag skit, so I watched it and chuckled. #insertobvioushashtagjokehere)
In the evening, I dropped by a friend's house to borrow an amp, so that I may annoy my neighbours as I experiment with my keyboard. Les Fat Jones continues to be the most productive, best kept secret, as we jam regularly, write songs frequently and play shows hardly ever. We keep promising ourselves that will change. I also keep promising myself to get back to running in the mornings, and you will notice that wasn't included in this super fascinating glimpse into my schedule.
For dinner I had some curry and wine, and went to bed.
That was my day, the first day of my second decade here.
Despite myself, I have become a settled, semi-responsible adult. It wasn't really the plan. When I left New York, people said moving here was brave. To me, it felt like the opposite. I was running away from the end of my twenties, from the end of life as a rock star, from the reality of finding a job or going back to school, of living a normal life, something I had studiously avoided up to then. Yet here I am, with a job, living with my girlfriend in a nice apartment in a cool neighbourhood around the corner from my family and friends with whom I get together, drink too much and laugh about bullshit. It's awesome. Let's see what happens in the next ten years.
Just don't blink.

The Kindness of Strangers

Dumpster diving is a popular sport in Barcelona. Even before the crisis hit and sent a multitude of unlucky souls scurrying for the discarded remains of the more fortunate, it was common to find folks digging through the trash for hidden treasure. The day the city collected large objects was particularly awesome. I became an expert, finding several chairs, a bed frame, a couple of mirrors and other random furniture that has decorated my apartment over the years living in Barcelona.
It's been a long time since I've picked anything up, but today on the way home from work, I saw this shelf.

I moved recently and there has been a shelf-shaped void in my apartment where some things could be stored, so despite the rain, I stopped and called the lady-friend to get her opinion. She agreed that it would be a welcome addition to the household, so I stood guard, fighting off other scavengers while she came to help carry it.
When we picked it up, it was heavy. As fuck. For realz. We staggered down the street towards our house, only a block away. As we did, a fifty something year old woman who was coming out of her door offered to help us. Although we politely declined, she gamely grabbed a corner and walked with us the remaining 30 meters to the front door of our building.
We heaved the beast (the shelves, not the lady) through the lobby where we immediately ascertained that it would not fit in our tiny elevator, which can hold at most three slim people who are very comfortable with each other.
Our apartment is on the third floor of the building, but that's a Barcelona third floor, which comes after the bottom floor, the between floor and the main floor before you get to the numbers. I'm not kidding. In France ours would be the fifth floor, in America, the sixth. (When you see how they count, the financial crisis in this country starts coming into focus.)

This is the view down to the lobby from the stairs of my apartment. That glow all the way down there is the entrance.

We were ready to return the shelves to the street and call it a day, but our new moving buddy wasn't having it. She immediately began calling people and, despite our protests, summoned her housekeeper and son to help us get it upstairs.
Half an hour later, after some heaving, lifting, pushing, negotiating tight corners and much sweating, we triumphantly set the beast down in our dining room, where it fit perfectly.

Trashing the Catalan, especially for being stand-offish and cold, is a time honoured hobby of all those who move here, a right earned through cold stares on the street, dismissive comments in shops and abysmal service in restaurants. Tonight, however, I am deeply indebted to the selflessness of the family of a local woman who literally would not take no for an answer. Merci.

Whose Side Are You On?

Of course it rained today. In the decade i've spent in Barcelona, it has never failed to rain on Carnaval weekend. Considering it's a holiday which, being tied to Easter, moves around the calendar, this is quite a feat. But it was inevitable. Even my shitty weather app, which is wrong enough of the time to completely distrust it but not enough to rely on it for consistently incorrect forecasts, warned me. The sky was filling up with threatening clouds so I decided to forgo my bike and take the subway to work.
We all know that the nineties are back. From rock to hip hop to fashion, the world is partying like it's 1994. Barcelona, being the bad fashion idea capital west of the Urals, reached into the same bag they pulled mullets and poopy pants from a decade ago and produced this.

Not pictured: the smell of stale beer and damp human

These specimens were sitting in the seats across from mine, ready for their Vice don't close-up. But before you assume I'm about to launch into a tirade about their obviously deeply flawed decision making process, take a quick look at this.

This was the woman sitting opposite me who wasn't even trying to hide the contemptuous gaze she would periodically cast their way, then look at me, one eyebrow slightly raised, in complicity. I smiled, amused that I have crossed a definite line in the one-of-us camps that generations have drawn.

The Sentence of the Year

It's only February and I'm convinced we have a clear winner for the best collection of words assembled in 2013. It will be hard to top.
"It's all untrue, except for some things."
This, courtesy of our fearless leader, Mariano Rajoy. The Spanish president was responding (finally) to questions about the financing scandal that has rocked his party, where the treasurer embezzled millions of euros and used them, among other things, to pay under-the-table bonuses to party hacks, including the president. Now we know for sure that none of it happened, except for some of it.
With this genius bit of linguistics, he also accomplished something I never believed possible. He made me feel sorry for Angela Merkel. The German chancellor has been riding over the european economy like the general of a Panzer division, forcing poorer countries to swallow society-choking cuts to their social nets so that the euro remains viable enough to justify producing Mercedes SUV's. She is the least sympathetic German since GODWIN'S LAW ALERT. Yet, I could not help but pity her as she stood on the podium next to Rajoy as he uttered the bestest defence/denial ever. Knowing she would appear in all the photos accompanying the quote, she must have thought "What the fuck am I doing with this clown? Get me the fuck outta here. Schnell!"

This Guy for President

A boy in the north of Spain, worried about an impending parent-teacher meeting, faked his own kidnapping in an attempt to divert attention from his less than stellar academic record. Seriously.

This kid is already set to be a high-ranking politician in the Spanish government. He's got all the attributes:

1. Family connections (dad's a cop)
2. Mediocre performance (recent grades)
3. Refusal to accept responsibility (parents and teacher to talk? oh no!)
4. Ludicrous diversionary tactics (calls dad "from trunk of car" to communicate his ordeal)
5. Failure of diversionary tactics (dad notices keys to second home missing. finds boy hanging out there)
6. No consequences (see number one)

Sounds about right. One of the parties, and frankly it doesn't matter which one, should snap this kid up and promote him through the ranks. They've got a future leader on their hands.

The Whatever Case Situation

"A lo mejor..." said Joan and stopped, looking at me inquisitively.
"How do you say that?" he asked. (Joan is a man's name, the Catalan version of Juan.)
It translates literally as "at best" but that's not what it means. These instances are called false friends, where two seemingly identical words or expressions mean different things in different languages. My favourite is constipado which means congested, resulting in a ridiculous number of times every winter that my students inform me with bleary eyes about their terrible constipation. A lo mejor simply means maybe.  I figured this out years ago when a roommate once answered a question of mine with "A lo mejor si, a lo mejor no," giving me no clue as to which was actually the preferred outcome.
I gave my students the explanation and the story of my discovery of it. Anna thought it was hilarious, saying it showed cultural differences, with the Spanish unwilling to commit to an actual statement. This echoes something that the language and culture geek in me has been fascinated by since my arrival. What do linguistic choices say about the culture that made them? When like and love are the same word in French, and want and love are the same word in Spanish, does this reflect their view of what love actually is?
Perhaps (a lo mejor) the most extreme example of this is the Spanish use of impersonal verb forms. Se ha roto means it broke itself. You never break anything. If you want to admit your involvement in the events that led to the item in question's current state, you say Se me ha roto, or It broke itself to me, making you the victim of the item's nefarious breakage agenda. Likewise, should gravity snatch it from your noble paws, Se me ha caido. (It fell itself to me.) Never do you drop anything.
Sure, in English, it fell or it broke absolve you of the blame, but Se me ha olvidado? It forgot itself to me. I think when you report this situation as a memory escaping from your brain of its own volition, we can safely say that the Spanish have removed all notions of personal responsibility from the language.
This goes a long way to explaining the politics of this country. They are not necessarily more corrupt than other countries where those in power continually game the system to their own advantage, but consequences here are different. SPOILER ALERT: there are none.
This week's outrage is courtesy of the ruling right wing Popular Party (PP). It was revealed that the former treasurer, forced out due to a previous corruption investigation, had squirrelled away 22 million euros in a Swiss bank account. Maybe (a lo mejor) I'm being idealistic, but I think that in other Western democracies (with the likely exception of Italy) when the guy in charge of the country's money is found to be taking that money for himself, hiding it with the keepers of Nazi gold and using it for illegal payoffs to his own party members and South American politicians for land acquisition deals, that government would be out of power by the end of the week. Here, the government sent threatening messages to the TV station reporting it and promised an internal audit. My math skills are weak, and my accounting knowledge nil, but I'm pretty sure that money circulating under the table won't show up in the ledgers being audited, since the money was UNDER THE TABLE in the first place.  However, the PP seems to feel it has done enough to address the situation and got back to the important business of running the country by introducing a law that says being a convicted felon is not a legal impediment to running a bank.
Spain has a national inferiority complex vis-a-vis the western world (mostly due to the racist shame of having been ruled by Arabs for centuries) and when their institutions act this way, I want to pat them on the head and give them an E for effort.
They might (a lo mejor) want to look into it.

Iberianism

Spain doesn't get capitalism. I don't know what existed here before, but clearly capitalism was imposed on the peninsula by outside historical forces, and the natives went "Ok", but just. They adapted to the system to the bare minimum so that they could get X-boxes, and left it at that. As a person with serious problems with capitalism (the inherent exploitation that comes with assigning worth based solely on monetary value), I find it brave and  beautiful. However, as a person who buys shit and does stuff, I find it really fucking frustrating. The thing with capitalism is it's really convenient, and the thing with Barcelona is it's really not. Is there another country in the west that shuts down almost completely at lunchtime? For THREE HOURS?  EVERY DAY? Does anywhere else consider it good business practice to close up on Saturday at noon and not reopen until Monday morning? Seriously, is there a populace less interested in selling you the crap they have in their stores, even when they work in, or actually own those stores? Undoubtedly a great attitude for one's personal work-life balance. A demonstrably shitty attitude for one's national economy. The examples I could cite are myriad, but I'll just go with the latest.

Yesterday was a holiday celebrating some Spanish or Catholic event. It's one of those. Tomorrow is a holiday celebrating the other. I took advantage of my free time to attend a workshop on Christmas cocktails, since nothing says Yuletide like drinking. (Nothing says  Friday, or Saturday, or Wednesday when work is almost finished like drinking either, but that's for another tale/confession. "Hi. I'm Noah and...") An energetic guy dressed like the trombone player from a ska band cheerfully led us through some of the worst concoctions you could imagine. (Egg nog with nougat blended in? Champagne with all the lemons? Yum?) He was personable and funny, and despite his awful taste in mixology, apparently knowledgable about distilling and infusing various alcohols. In a rare display of marketing and promotion, he repeatedly mentioned the two businesses he runs/is affiliated with. One is a shop of international food that charges you two euros for Dr Pepper cuz it's exotic, and the other is a bar that, the previous night, had told my friends and I that we had to wait outside because the waitress was busy reading at the bar and didn't feel like serving us, under the pretext that it was a city ordinance. So despite his best efforts, he will not sell me anything in the future. He probably doesn't really give a fuck.
I know I shouldn't complain, because the joy of the lifestyle here is largely based on people's ability to not give a fuck. (Also weather and beach. You could not give a fuck in Edmonton, and it would still be Edmonton.)
I leave you with this email sent to me by my brother after trying unsuccessfully to by a computer on Wednesday. Imagine it in Catalan and it's practically a documentary.

"Please, sirs, may I give you money": a one-act play

Hide Details

FROM:

• Eli Green

TO:

• Noah Green

Message starred

Wednesday, December 5, 2012 9:01 PM

CUSTOMER
Hello, merchant, I would like to purchase one of your fine goods at the advertised price.

MERCHANT
I am sorry, for arbitrary reasons that will seem absurd to any person not affiliated with this establishment, that is not possible.

CUSTOMER
I am in possession of several forms of currency.

MERCHANT shrugs.


FIN

Perfecting Democracy

I'm taking a moment between all the rock and roll to discuss something a little more trivial: politics. (Hilarious! Nobody in 2012 has ever made light of politics. Where do I pick up my Nobel Prize for jokes?) I followed the American presidential elections with a mix of hope and disgust. Not all the disgust was levelled at Romney, btw. Obama has been a disappointment on so many levels, from financial reform to human rights, that he only deserved to lose less than the Republicans. But after the rape comments (really guys?) and the blatant soullessness of the GOP, I woke up relieved to find out he'd won a second term. Now I can go back to criticising him.
It's election time here in Catalunya, with people going to the polls on Sunday. At the heart of the campaign is a separatist movement that has long smouldered in the region and has burst into flames with the crisis and the conservative government running Spain. I'm mildly against Catalan independence, in that it seems many here view it as a panacea to cure all our ills. This disregards the fact that an independent Catalunya would not be the socialist utopia of these hippies' dreams, but another ineptly mismanaged free-market economy circling the drain of Europe. Take the current president, and leader of the separatist charge: Artur Mas. An opportunistic right-wing hack who only discovered his separatist passion in September when a million and a half people marched through Barcelona in support of the cause, his prior accomplishment was pushing for the creation of Eurovegas. This giant gambling complex helmed by Sheldon Addison (of Sarah Silverman fame) was to be a tourist trap that disregarded labour and environmental laws with the blessing of local government. It was such a terrible idea that I was sure it would happen. That Mas failed to secure the deal, losing out to Madrid, provided the minor relief of knowing that he is too incompetent to be sufficiently corrupt. And this man wants to lead Europe's newest nation.
He is not alone, nor even the worst. Spain has either completely misunderstood or brilliantly perfected democracy. One votes for a despot who then proceeds to act out at will while the populace grumble but take no action. Sure, that happens everywhere, but here they don't even bother to hide it. This month, the mayor of Madrid took off to a spa in Portugal the day after a tragedy at a stadium left several young people dead. Imagine Bloomberg, or even Giuliani, doing that. A politician in Valencia has won the lottery multiple times. Buying winning lottery tickets is a common money laundering trick, but he just claims to be improbably lucky, and nobody investigates. His daughter, a congresswoman for the ruling People's Party (a strange name for a right-wing group, but oh well) was filmed literally saying "Fuck them" about those most effected by recent budget cuts. (read: the poor.) These people put Blagojevich to shame. And let's talk about the plastic surgery. So much plastic surgery. The Mayor of Marbella was arrested at her home, with bags of money in her freezer, while recovering from plastic surgery. There are more duck lips and fake tits in parliament than at the AVN awards.

This is the PP (ie pro-Madrid) candidate vying to lead Catalunya. How many levels of artifice are there when you photoshop over the collagen lips to try to make her seem more human? (Two. There are two levels. Surgery and Photoshop. I should also get the Nobel Prize for counting.)
Anyway, it seems as if the ruling party will not achieve an absolute majority and thus nothing will change. At least it's provided a few weeks of distraction from skyrocketing unemployment and crumbling currency.
Well, I'm off to see Bat for Lashes tonight, so tomorrow I will bring you something of substance. (Zing, politics! Zing!)

A Bad Neighbourhood and a Knife

My job is to help ensure the dominance of English across the planet. Every time I show up in an office or home, I'm committing a manager or child to the path of Western-led globalisation. Yesterday, I added cultural hegemony to linguistic hegemony when I cycled out to a government-assisted language school to teach the savages about Halloween. 

It's not a widely celebrated holiday here. Children dress up in February for Carnaval, and there's no set day for a massive candy giveaway. My first Halloween here, I turned heads and stopped conversations dead in their tracks as I walked through the streets painted blue with a Frankenstein bolt through my head. 

It's becoming more known now. Some stores decorate their windows in black and orange with skeletons and such. The kids I teach have learned about it at school. But this is not enough. While the local custom dictates that the 31st be dedicated to roasting chestnuts and eating little cakes, I took it upon myself (for a fee) to explain to a bunch of adults what the day was really about.

I cycled across the river at the edge of the city and into Badalona. The name sounds like a joke; some bizarro-world evil Barcelona where everybody has a goatee. That might not be far off, as I cycled past concrete fields of dilapidated apartment towers with graffiti on their walls. I arrived at the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas where my friend teaches and had hooked me up with this Halloween-themed workshop.

A group of about 40 people assembled in the small conference room. I taught them a little about the history of the holiday, history which I myself had only learned in preparation for the workshop. I can now add it to my ever expanding bank of trivia that makes me really fun to talk to at parties. Did you know that 2 billion dollars are spent on candy every year in the US? Wait, come back. 

This was followed by a pumpkin carving workshop. I hadn't actually done it in years, so I spent the last few of my kids classes practicing. I would show up at the unsuspecting students' home with a pumpkin and  knife, and proceed to make a mess of the kitchen as I hacked away at the hapless vegetable and roasted the seeds. The parents were game and the kids were thrilled, and thus I was ready for yesterday's main event. 

It went well, as it's not actually that difficult, and the students finished with their own jack-o-lanterns. 

The artists and their creations

My final jack-o-lantern

I repeated the whole process for a second group before cycling home to don make-up and blood, and head to a party in the city.

Long Weekend!

There was an impressive storm in Barcelona last night. As I watched the lightning flash through my window, I remembered that David Blaine did that thing in New York this week. You know, with the electricity. He stood in a something something a million volts (watts?) something days. Google it. Does anybody even care about this guy? I was going to say anymore, but did anybody ever care? I mean, he was kind of cool when he wandered around the streets doing card tricks, but his daredevil shit? He sat somewhere once for a while, he stood somewhere once for a bit. Has the whole profession really devolved from the insane spectacle of Evel Knievel to the winner of Celebrity Survivor: Boringest Challenge? (Survivor jokes in 2012. #current #relevant #keepingupwiththekids)
It's a long weekend here. Tomorrow is national Spanish day. Living in a secessionist region dampens the festivities somewhat, as does the general state of the country. The Red Cross held an annual drive yesterday that in past years has gone to help Haiti, but this year is being channeled to the 2 million citizens here with no income. Being sat next to the third-world earthquake-ravaged orphans is not helping anybody's mood. But whatever, man. Day off! I'll be out of town, hoping to sneak in another beach day before winter (or the Spanish equivalent thereof) arrives.
Great news for Les Fat Jones. I can't tell you yet, but some awesomeness in the near future was confirmed today. Watch this space.

Robbed!

I saw Los Campesinos in concert last night. I've been a fan since Hold On Now, Youngster... and had never seen them despite multiple appearances in Barcelona. I like Gareth Campesino's songwriting, and left the show ready to pontificate discuss the performance. Then, at 1:30 in the morning, I got a call from my roommate.
"We've been robbed!"
I returned home to find this:

 

I'm not the neatest person in the world, but this is excessive even for me. This was a gift left by some visitors earlier in the evening, who also generously gifted us relief from owning computers. They made off with three of them, one belonging to each roommate. (Thanks Elise for the loan!) Considering the two Macs that got taken along with my shitty little laptop, I got off easiest. 

Two cops who looked like teenage girls were on the scene last night, filling out the first report. They concluded that the door had indeed been forced and advised us to go to the station to make a formal deposition. As it was after 2am by this point, we waited until this morning.

Bright and early we headed to the station and after a short wait, were escorted into a back room by a remarkably tall, square-jawed officer. He helpfully recorded our story and printed off a report for us to take to the insurance company.

"What usually happens in cases like these?" my roommate asked.

While maintaining an air of professional positivity, the cop explained to us that while there were different avenues of investigation, it was unlikely that anything would turn up soon, if at all.

"But you never know," he offered. "Maybe a neighbour saw something, like a Moroccan guy with a tattoo."

 Well, here's hoping that our neighbours' xenophobia matches that of the police force, and all dangerous looking foreigners (except this guy) have been duly noted and recorded. Our stuff should be back in no time!

 

NDGU!!!

  

Never don't give up! You know who gets it? Linkin Park gets it. (Is this one of their tattoos? I bet it is!) Nu Metal's Nsync just released a new album. In 2012. And have a song in a vampire movie. Also in 2012. CULTURAL RELEVANCE. Their teenage fans (did they have any other kind?) could almost have teenagers of their own now. Some of them probably do. Named Linkin, I'm sure.

I am taking this inspirational slogan to heart and reuniting once again with my 90's rap-rock band apologizing for my laziness in blogging this past week. I'm sorry. Something something lack of inspiration excuse. But no more. ABNDGU!  (Always be never don't giving up. Duh!)

I did some cool stuff. I saw St Vincent in concert on Wednesday. Live, Annie Clark is a guitar goddess who stalks the stage with zombie swagger. She doesn't just crowd surf. She crowd WALKS.

She really doubled down on the eccentric and the rock. It's a look that suits her well. No "Marry Me" or "Paris is Burning After All." The only song she played off her first album was the weird one. I was standing next to her biggest fan. He probably tells you shortly after meeting you how he's St Vincent's biggest fan. He was wearing a backpack, and inside he certainly had a revised and updated list of questions to ask her because how often is she in the same city and what if he had a chance to speak to her, it would be foolish not to have his revised and updated list of questions on hand. He sang and interpretive danced along to every number. But far from being obnoxious, his unabashed joy was charming. On the other side, I had two knuckleheads who were aggressively frustrated that the crowd was not reacting in a way they deemed proper. I understand the disappointment that indie rock crowds tend to just stand there at shows, but "Year of the Tiger" really isn't a mosh song guys.

Annie Clark is a talented musician with a great voice, a unique perspective and a kick ass live show, so it was a bit disappointing to see her met with cries of guapa from some fans. (Guess which ones.) I realize cultural relativity all, but I see your cultural relativity and raise you one gender sensitivity. That being said, if you ever want to yell gorgeous at me, feel free. I'm happy just being a pretty face.

Then, last weekend, I saw a nineties band I was glad to see live.

Portishead! They played for two nights at Barcelona's own Spain-centric Epcot Center called Poble Espanyol. A strange relic of a tourist attraction, it's main square of fake olde tyme buildings did provide the show with a certain ambiance.

The opening bands were mostly a bust. MF Doom did his best late eighties style hip hop show. Unfortunately, hip hop acts in the late eighties sang along to their album for twenty minutes then walked off stage in a huff. Keep it real, Villain. The band Thought Forms played music I can only describe as the soundtrack to being buried alive. There is plenty of music I hate, but they were a band I didn't understand. Watching them really rock out to atonal drones and pedal effects in monotonous ten minutes intervals was weird, then funny, then annoying.

From their album of the Roseland show, I suspected Portishead would be good in concert and they did not disappoint. Beth Gibbon's voice is more powerful on stage then I would have guessed, and her awkward grateful demeanor was an endearing contrast to the downer-fest that is their music.

Meanwhile at the beach...

Sant Joan! Where everybody gets drunk, throws firecrackers at each other and hangs out on the beach till they are cleared out by bulldozers.

In more NEVER DON"T GIVE UP news, Les Fat Jones' first out of town concert next Saturday has been cancelled. When your band is a hobby, sometimes people's lives and commitments (non professional musicians have these things) get in the way. I guess my life and commitment to the beach will have to carry me through these trying times.

NDGU 4 EVER!!!

The Week in Photos

I didn't go to Sonar, Barcelona's annual electronic music festival, this weekend. But judging by the teachers that called in sick this morning (yup) or staggered into the office, semi-coherent, clutching beer-soaked euros (really!) it was a great party.
The weekend saw Greece, like a battered spouse still unwilling to leave its abuser, reluctantly agree to keep the Euro and all the pain and suffering that entails. The markets reacted by mostly ignoring it, with the currency gaining nothing in value and Spain still being punished for what is already being called a failed bailout. (The check isn't even in the mail yet and already nobody thinks it was a good idea.)

Sant Joan, the annual let's-blow-shit-up holiday is around the corner, so firecracker stands are appearing throughout the city. Given the current economic and political climate, it might be time to stock up on explosives.
Humor can be found in anything. Racism, the Holocaust and rape, for example, are horrific things, but I am sure there are some good jokes based on all of them. I don't know any, and will not even try to come up with examples. As the Jerry Sandusky trial continues, the Yahoo comment section, one of the most depressing reads in the world, is full of terrible attempts at laughing at child abuse. The average Yahoo commenter can probably not even count as high as their stunted IQ, so you can imagine the cringe-inducing attempts at hilarity that litter the boards. But sometimes, the universe does the work for you:

This was an actual flyer I saw stuck to a wall.
Translation: I need children and babies from 0 to 10 years old. TV, Film, Fashion, Internet. The internet is the highway. Photo DVD session. A unique project in Europe. Commercial actors, extras and models. Call for free.
Clear a cell in space jail. We're gonna need it.
Finally:

Kickin' in the Front Seat

Hey everybody, it's Friday! How was your week? Mine was uneventful. Maybe you thought that lightness of this week's blog output was due to a busy schedule so marvelous that it didn't leave me time to humblebrag about it here. Sadly, this is not the case. No festivals or tours to report on. No outrages to bitch about except the usual ones. The usual ones do involve daily news about the country falling apart, the latest being that Spain is officially going to ask Europe for a bailout. Yay! Now we can join the likes of Greece and Ireland as third world nations of white people. It's strange, cuz to the naked eye, nothing seems different. Despite staggering unemployment, crashing consumption and a currency that may not make it through the summer, there is no palpable sense of doom or dread. The terraces are still full, and nothing is burning yet. (The occasional protest met with wild overreaction by the authorities does pop up, but really, that's nothing new. If you put six Catalans together anywhere, someone's going to be carrying a sign decrying something. That's the nature of the beast.) I guess it's because nobody really knows what's going to happen or what it will mean. It's probably going to be bad, but this is a country where people still have memories of a brutal civil war and an oppressive dictatorship. Add to that the fact that Catalonia defines itself in part by its historic victimhood, and you get a pissed-off wait-and-see attitude. Also, there's this to distract us:

Ok, maybe one small humblebrag

Happy weekend everybody.

We Need to Talk About K

How many Ks is too many Ks? Two is fine when making delicious donuts, even if the correct spelling is with C. (Why opt for such a controversial spelling? That will be investigated at another time. Possibly another place. I'm not making any promises here.) Three Ks is definitely too many. I'm pretty sure we can all agree on that one. I'm not into calling people with different opinions names (fucking moron isn't a name, right?) but if you're cool with three Ks, you are probably racist. But what if you have more than three? Like, what if you have twelve Ks? Is that ok? Twelve is a multiple of three, so maybe it's one K too many, or one too few. I mean it's a shame that a bunch of murderous rednecks went and ruined a perfectly good letter, but you can't change the past. Don't cry over spilled milk, stiff upper lip and all that. Agglomerations of Ks are just not cool. No offense, K. If it had been the Pu Plux Plan, well, then P would have had to bear that historical shame, but P got lucky. You didn't, K. You can go stand in the corner next to the number 13 and think about how life ain't fair. But, my poor put upon letter, you can take comfort in the fact that countries which suffered through a murderous civil war, a murderous inquisition and several murderous crusades but not murderous rednecks have no such issues with you. They will put you on beer coasters in the bar across the street to advertise motorcycle repair workshops. Finally, you are reaching your potential, K. Enjoy.

You however, minstrel bookends, are never not offensive.

Spring is Coming

There are certain markers in the city that show the progress of time throughout the year. The change in temperature and the length of days are obvious ones. A more subtle one is the nationality and type of tourist. The low season extends from the second week of January to the third week of January. After that, the influx of visitors begins anew, gradually picking up steam. First come the perpetually vacationing French, then the Italians. Soon they are followed by British who arrive to turn a glowing pink in the unfamiliar sun and get drunk by 5. Summer brings crowds of Americans.
This year, with work, Les Fat Jones and 2 Skinnee J's, I was too busy to really pay attention, and was caught by surprise when the streets were suddenly hot and crowded. As I cycle to work, I now need to bring a change of shirt. By the time I reach my destination, the one I wear on my bike looks like I fell into a swimming pool. (Too sexy? Too sexy!)
And this weekend brings a particular brand of tourist: the hipster festival-goer.

Yellow wristbands abound as people from around the continent flock to Barcelona to see Primavera Sound, a Pitchfork and Vice approved musical extravaganza.
Meanwhile, the country continues to fall apart. Sales are down, unemployment is up and the banks are in serious trouble, as is the currency they stock. Said visitors were greeted at the airport today by a literal mess.

The cleaning staff is on strike, not only refusing to clean, but actively dumping trash throughout the terminals.

Black Lips

At least there is some awesome fiddling going on as the place burns.

Homage to Catalonia

Barcelona has had some bad weeks. The end of summer in 1714 wasn't so great. The middle of March in 1938 kinda sucked. Still nothing compares to the trauma the city has suffered in the last few days. Barcelona Football Club's loss to the hated Real Madrid on Saturday effectively cost them the Spanish Liga title, and their defeat at the hands feet of Chelsea last night knocked them out of the Champion's League playoffs.
To make matters worse, Real Madrid is in position to win both. To put the teams' rivalry in American terms, it could compare to the New York Jets and New England Patriots if:
a. The king of the Pats had repeatedly bombed Manhattan and banned Brooklyn accents.
b. The Jets were actually capable of winning anything.
It also takes away one of the city's favorite excuses to riot. (victory = rioting; loss = blaming the referees and quietly going home)
Considering the recorded baby booms that have occurred in the city nine months after major victories, I expect to see the streets littered with the corpses of despondent supporters over the next few days.
My hearts goes out to both the players, who only have their international pop star girlfriends to console them as they weep into their piles of money, and to the fans, who rose to the occasion by singing a lot while wearing blue and red. Better luck next year.