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!

Uplift Inc.

Have you seen the video where the lesbian groundhog saves the muslim whale from the burning toy factory for left-handed orphans? Of course you did. You posted it on your Facebook feed, a little smile breaking across your tear-stained face, before clicking on 38 Things You Can Only Understand If You Were Born In October 1975. It's true, you thought, shaking your head. I did used to eat breakfast cereal with a cartoon character on the box. It's like they know me!
I don't want to get all bah humbug on everybody's party, but enough! As an elderly gentleman sitting on my e-porch, I'm old enough to remember when Facebook was for pictures of food, pets and babies. Maybe those were simpler times, but dammit we liked those times. They were our times. Not the times of websites whose entire business model is based on making you laugh or cry and then feel a little better about yourself.
I promise that I'm not being cynical. Tear porn click bait is. I believe we can be stirred by each other  without thirty second life-is-a-box-of-chocolates clips manufactured to capture advertising revenue. This shit is James Frey distilled for the Vine age. It's manipulative, disingenuous and fake. We are better than that. I am lucky enough to have a ton of awesome friends who do really cool stuff, and I'm way more psyched to hear about them than about any combination of firemen, dancing, school kids, hugs, animals, etc.
In 2014, let's resolve to uplift and inspire each other with what we do, not with what we copy and paste. Happy new year everybody.

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.

Questions about Prometheus

I'd been warned, but it was a cloudy day, I was hungover and curious, so I forked over the dough to finally see Prometheus. Everybody's already seen it, right? There were only 2 other people in the cinema, so now that's everybody, right? Good, cuz I have a couple of questions.
Where was the alien in the opening scene? Which planet is that supposed to be? The one that turns up later? How come? Why did he kill himself so horribly? Even if he was going to kill himself, why drink DNA mutating kool-aid and disintegrate off a waterfall?
Why show Dr Lisbeth Salander finding her space invitation in a cave when you're going to explain it again in the blatant exposition segment of the movie a quarter of an hour later, considering I'll never get those five minutes of my life back? Why is her bf such a douche?
Why didn't Ridley Scott start the movie with Michael Fassbender alone on the ship, easily the coolest (the only cool?) part of the whole thing? (Until he starts listening to Dr Salander's dreams, thus commencing the blatant exposition part of the movie, which leads to my next question: has anybody anywhere ever actually had a dream about a real conversation they had with their father as a child? Also, what happened to Dr Salander that she had a British accent as a dream baby, but a TBD accent as a real grown-up scientist? Is that a side effect of second hand Ebola?)
Why cast Guy Pearce as a hundred year old man? You could at least cast a 70 year old as a hundred year old man - was Harrison Ford busy? If you are spending a bazillion dollars on your space movie, can't you dedicate a little more of your budget to better old man make-up? Did the waterfall disintegration eat up all your extra old man make up money?
Are we sure these people are scientists? My mother worked for the Geological Survey of Canada and nobody there had a mohawk or face tattoos. If they are scientists, shouldn't they be interested in their field of study during the expedition and not only when it's a convenient plot device? Does anyone really pussy out in the middle of a space mission and get lost in a cave?
What's up with Fassbender? How did he know stuff that humanity was encountering for the first time ever? I know he read a lot on the flight over, but did he read tarot cards? How did he know?
Even in the middle of a storm, how does a (granted seemingly omniscient) robot sneak an oozing tube of black slime past quarantine?
If you are stuck in the tunnels of an alien world because of a storm, do you stick your face next to the pulsating snake emerging from the black slime that wasn't there before but is probably nothing don't worry about it? Again, are we sure these people are scientists?
Why does Fassbender want to poison Dr Douche? (Perhaps the least pressing question. I wanted to poison Dr Douche.) Does he know it will create an alien if Dr Douche gets busy with Dr Salander before he turns into a gross goo monster himself? Again, how does he know?
If you had worms in your eyeballs, wouldn't you mention it to your scientist girlfriend? (Something like Honey, I'm not feeling so hot and there are WORMS IN MY EYEBALLS! could work.) If you do decide to end it all cuz being a gross goo monster is maybe worse than being Dr Douche, wouldn't you prefer to take your helmet off in the unbreathable atmosphere than to be burned alive by a flame thrower?
A space zombie? Really?
A DIY space abortion? Really? (Is that even legal? Do Republicans legislate in space?)
Why make Guy Pearce be Charlize Theron's father? (On a more fundamental level, why string together a bunch of irrelevant cliches and pointless characters that make your movie both eye-rollingly random and eye-rollingly predictable?) (Side question: Can you damage your eyes by rolling them too much? Should I contact a lawyer? A doctor? A space abortion machine?)
If you decide to destroy a race you've created but then were in stasis for thousands of years, wouldn't you check first that the mission is still a go? Maybe things have changed a little? Like maybe your creations have invented awesome 3D space movies that are totally worth preserving? How long would it take just to make a quick call to your boss to find out? Three minutes? You've been asleep for millenniums - what's the rush?
Why run along the exact same axis as the crashing giant circular spaceship? In space no-one can hear you basic physics?
Why drag your already excessive movie out to a third and fourth anti-climax? Why set up a sequel for this steaming pile? Why end with a reminder that you once made a simpler, far superior movie when you just made one that is even worse than Alien Resurrection? Why does anyone consider Ridley Scott a good director anymore? Have they not IMDBed him recently? Were there not responsible adults present at some point in the process of putting this mess together? Did it not occur to any of them that maybe they should get a better script or just make a completely different movie? (Like for example about a president who fights the undead or a hunted super spy who it turns out was there all along while evil government agents were so busy hunting the other super spy and never mentioned this possible superer spy?)
In summary: WTF Prometheus?

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.

The Euro: a Photo Essay

"Where the hell have you been?" - you.
Actually, if you read my blog, you probably know where I was. You may have even been there with me: Tourcation 2012! It was an awesome experience that I will discuss in detail. Lots of stories and photos coming soon. But while I prepare that, let's talk about where you've been. From the newspaper reports, the answer seems to be "teetering on the brink." My trip stateside included daily readings of the eurozone crisis. I was afraid I would come back to a country with no money. I don't mean a country where nobody has any money. That's already the case. I mean a country literally without a currency. Now, I'm no economist so I won't attempt a lengthy explanation of European economic policy, the imminent exit of Greece from the common currency, the gross mismanagement of the Spanish national bank. Instead, I will use these pictures from across my street as a concise illustration of the Spanish economy:

I look forward to a peanut-based economy. I only hope nobody at Goldman Sachs is a squirrel.

It Takes a Village Idiot

Do you have turnstiles where you live? I have lived in Winnipeg, Ottawa, Paris, Montreal, New York and Barcelona, and they're in all of those cities, so I figured they were pretty ubiquitous, but perhaps, like my students who assume that every country shares an undying love for a million different types of pork products, I have misoverestimated their popularity. I say this because I go to the airport twice a week for work and every time I see somebody standing baffled in front of the turnstiles that lead to the train. These are not the confusing metro turnstiles with the ticket slot on the left. (Yay for me! I am the 15%) Just the regular, stick your ticket in and go through kind.
I witness all sorts or travel-related stupidity at the airport. Like the inability to transfer from the train to the shuttle bus. (One train, one shuttle bus. Even your mathematically challenged writer figured that one out the first time.) I think that when we travel, we often forget to pack a few of our IQ points. They're right there, next to your socks. Grab 'em.
Today at the airport, I got to see a whole different kind if stupidity: hippie stupidity. It's perhaps the least surprising kind, but one of the most entertaining/annoying brands there is! Riding in front of me on the shuttle, one free spirit, her hair wrapped in an "ethnic" cloth, turned to the black woman next to her and struck up a conversation, asking where she was from.
"Cameroon," the woman replied. At the girl's blank look she offered, "Africa."
"Oh. I have some friends from Benin."
The two countries are separated only by Nigeria, so that displayed some geographical acumen. But then she continued.
"Do you have a favorite dance?"
The middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman looked up from her cellphone, bemused.
"Dance?"
"Is there one kind of dance you like?"
"Like a tribal dance?"
"Yeah."
"Well," she said patiently. "There are a lot of tribes with different dances."
At this point the we came to a halt, and I got up and ran from the bus to avoid strangling the girl.
As I reflected on my exasperation, I realized that what bothered me most. Hippies disguising their one-worldy ignorance in childlike naivety comes with the territory. But what left me aghast was that the hippie girl was Asian. Then I considered my own prejudice: that a non-white living in Europe would have more cultural sensitivity just because of the color of her skin. Granted, this is based on the assumption of a certain experience living in another culture, but if anyone should be aware that your skin color does not solely determine that experience, it's me. I guess everyone's a little bit racist.

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.

TGIF13

Apparently, 19 million Americans won't leave the house today for fear of the date. That's a lot of superstitious people. It is not surprising then that according to a 2007 Gallup poll, about 43% of Americans believe that "God created human beings pretty much in their present form at one time within the last 10,000 years or so." Almost HALF! (Now there's information that makes me afraid to leave the house! At least in Spain, over 80% accept evolution as truth.)
Incidentally, In Spain, Tuesday the 13th is bad luck. Given the observance of the puente, the practice of linking a weekend to a Thursday or Tuesday holiday by taking the respective Friday or Monday off, I can't help but feel that the day was selected just to give the superstitiously petrified an extra-long break.
Despite being plagued by a colorful array of anxieties throughout my life, (as a child I literally lost sleep over the worry that a volcano would grow under my house and erupt. In Ottawa.) I have never been superstitious. Maybe it has to do with being told at the age of six or so, "God doesn't exist. It's just something people made up."* If my family was willing to so casually dismiss the possible existence of a divine creator, you can imagine the short shrift given to black cats, ladders and stepping on cracks.
Thank Made-up-entity! I have enough irrational fears as it is:

(a very abridged list)

• Bees. Seriously, they are the stuff of nightmares.
• Tardiness. If somebody is more than 15 minutes late, something horrible has happened to them, which I will be blamed for as they were on their way to meet me.
• That cough is cancer.
• That cold is AIDS.
• That decision was the one that irrevocably set me on a path that will lead to a short unfulfilling life followed by a long, painful and humiliating death. 

Happy paraskevidekatriaphobia, motherfuckers!

*Mixing this atheism with a healthy dose of Hebrew school and Jewish celebrations probably contributed to the aforementioned anxieties. Children do not process contradiction well.

Looking for Lesbians?

I was told that if I included the word lesbian in a post, I would get tons of hits from people going through search engines, so I've decided to check out the claim.
Did you, in fact, land on this page after googling the word lesbian? If so, welcome!
I'm curious. Are you:
A. A lonely lesbian looking for company?
B. A heterosexual male intimidated by the penis sizes on display in straight porn?
C. Other?
Unless your answer was C, and your had entered "obnoxious bloggers seeking page views" then I sadly don't have what you are looking for. However, please come back once you have found it. If romantic comedies have taught us anything (and romantic comedies have taught us everything!), it's that a chance encounter under awkward circumstances can lead to a life-long, satisfying, photogenic relationship. You just don't throw a chance like this away in this zany world. So ya'll come back now y'hear? Follow me on twitter. Follow me on instagram (noahdjgreen). Check out my app. Like my band on facebook. Visit our bandcamp or watch our video. And good luck with your search.

Must... sleep...

I am an occasional sufferer of insomnia. This week has been one of those occasions.
I suppose it should come as no surprise that someone who had an ulcer in the 2nd grade and was dubbed Woody Allen by my own mother even before the hormonal angst of puberty set in would find something as banal as sleep to be elusive.
The mind at 5am is an elastic thing. You realize, it tells me, that in the time you've spent staring at the inside of your eyeballs you could have driven (or been driven - still no license) from Barcelona to Madrid, Montreal to Toronto or New York to DC? No wonder Tyler Durden traveled around the country setting up a secret society of disenfranchised good-looking white men. Poor unhappy Jared Leto. Speaking of which, it continues, what's the deal with all the Ryan Gossling love? His acting range extends from blank to a slight smirk and Drive was a very stylish root canal. What are you missing? Lars and the Real Girl? All that movie was needed was Zooey Deschanel, who is a decent singer who makes terrible movies and worse sitcoms. Seriously, IMDB her. The Happening. That Garden-State-meets-Memento bullshit-a-thon 500 (days) of (summer). (Or however it's punctuated - annoying even to a serial abuser of the parenthesis.) And why doesn't anyone like the new Shins album? Are they tired of having their lives changed?     
Is spending all night worrying about pop culture a step up or a step down from obsessing over your own existential issues, it wonders.
Why, it implores, will you drink a beer or smoke a joint, but not take a sleeping pill?
Yet, come daylight, it retreats into its shell like a frightened turtle, leaving me to stare blankly at my computer screen while my boss angrily tells me off for not answering her calls. Calls which come at any hour and are usually about nothing important. (Correction: They are always about nothing important. We send language teachers to companies. The worst that could happen is Jordi doesn't spend a lunch hour learning about the 2nd conditional.)
Sorry, I mumble. I had insomnia.