Write in the Kisser

The second installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas. (If you missed the first one, check out the entry just prior to this one and then come on back now, ya hear?)

10 Enero (January) 2005, 9:10 p.m. Spanish Time (as such until otherwise noted)

Compared to the streets of Granada, the layout of de Gaulle now seems borderline sane. Seriously, the city looks like it was designed by M.C. Escher during a coughing fit. While he was tripping on LSD. And suffering from a severe case of explosive diarrhea. Every third street is one-way and rarely wider across than your average sumo wrestler. The street signs—rather than being located on the streets themselves—are affixed to the corners of buildings instead. This in itself isn’t a problem, except that half of them didn’t even appear on the map we’d been given. Complementing the many labeled-but-not-mapped streets are various unlabeled alleyways, which our student guide, Justin, gleefully led us through during our “Welcome to the City” tour, promising that they would shave at least 10 minutes off our travel time wherever we went. He didn’t seem to care that those extra 10 minutes wouldn’t do me much good if I ended up in Africa and had to eat my own feces to survive.¹

Actually, I don’t really mind the walking all that much; at the very least it should prove beneficial to my health, seeing as how I am a self-acknowledged fatty at heart.² Speaking of which, food continues to be an adventure, though I’ve suffered no irreparable damage as of yet. When I woke up this morning, my señora had three pieces of toast and a steaming mug of cocoa—Cola Cao, to be precise—waiting for me, along with these wicked sweet wafer/cookie/cracker/heroin things, which I proceeded to dunk in said cocoa. For dinner I had a home-fried chicken sandwich topped with tomato and lettuce, the latter of which I ate by itself and the former of which I tastefully set aside, explaining how “allergic” I am to them. (I get the feeling that my allergies will be undergoing quite a revival this semester.)

Communicating with my señora remains hit or miss. I can usually figure out the gist of what she’s saying to me by tuning into a few key words, and questions are easy to pick out thanks to her rising inflection when she asks them. However, I don’t always pick up on the actual content of the question, so my default answer is usually a clueless—though enthusiastic—“¡Sí sí!.” This works fine when she asks me if I’ve always wanted to study in España or if she wants me to say  an English language synonym for “ocean” out loud, but backfires when she asks if I’m a big fan of scheise porn.³

Moving on, I should also mention that I finally figured out how to hook into the unsecured wireless connection. I only get the tail end of it, but that’s good enough to check my e-mail, search the web ever so slowly and, yes, the lowest of the low, sign on to AIM (but only for a few minutes at a time, I swear!). Hey, I figure if Spain didn’t want me to have wireless internet, it wouldn’t have put me in the only apartment close enough to a hub to pick up its signal. Qué será será.

While we’re not on the subject, allow me to now regale you with two insightful social observations and/or massively unfair cultural generalizations: 1) Contrary to popular belief, the mullet never really went out of style; it simply immigrated to Granada, where I assure you it is flourishing in great and varied numbers. 2) Americans make pizza. Granadinos make “pizza.” That is to say, it has most of the same key components, but it doesn’t quite cut the mustard (which, incidentally, I wouldn’t put it past them to use as a topping, either). One interesting note about the ristorante de Pizza we patronized today is the fact that it served a free appetizer course of melted cheese and bread sticks prior to the actual pizza course. This struck me as somewhat redundant, although if you are the type who prefers not to defecate on a regular basis, by all means drop me a line and I will direct you to this fine establishment.

[Present-day editorial: Perhaps that last sardonic remark was somewhat unfair, considering how many times I've eaten cheesy bread as a precursor to eating pizza. Then again, Spanish people are weird, so screw it.]

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1. Not that I don’t anyway. But at least this time there’d be a reason for it.
2. Though not in body, if I’m being obnoxious. In addition to my father’s not insubstantial schnoz and unfortunate sense of humor, I also inherited his high metabolism…and maybe his heart condition if I play my tapas right.
3. HA! Three poop jokes in three paragraphs. Top that Faulkner!

In the Spring of 2005, I spent four months in the fiercely awesome bosom of Granada, Spain. Hoping to one day pen a bestselling memoir about my time there, I did my best to keep a journal describing the various events and adventures I bore witness to and, occasionally, even initiated. Though it gradually dawned on me that no publisher and his or her right mind would buy the rights to a book written by an ordinary student spending an ordinary junior semester abroad (no matter how hilarious or insightful said book turned out), I never gave up my dream that, somehow, someday, I too would be able to bore large groups of people with stories having nothing to do with them. Thanks to this weg and a recent literary drought, that opportunity has finally arrived.

As such, it is with great Pride and Prejudice that I present to you, my wrathful readers, the first installment from my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

January 9, 2005, 6:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time – Mom said it was silly of me to walk around with my sunglasses on my shirt since I wouldn’t actually need them till we reached Paris the next day. I disagreed. Not only did it look cool and automatically identify me as someone to reckon with, I had no other place to put them.

It took me less than eight hours from the time we left Boston to lose them. I set them down in a bathroom at de Gaulle,¹ remembered them approximately 90 seconds after rejoining my friends, and found them gone despite my hasty return to the scene of the crime.

Speaking of de Gaulle, my first impression upon setting foot within was that it smelled like a woodchuck’s asshole. And not in a good way. I’m assuming it has nothing to with the frequent bathing habits of French citizens, however.² Fortunately, the smell soon dissipated and I was able to see the airport for what it really was: a moronically gargantuan exercise in confusion. One feature that I was particularly smitten with was the presence of various designated smoking areas located throughout the terminal. I thought it ingenious how the French kept the smoke from bothering the other passengers by erecting a few small glass partitions around the perimeters of the area. As we all know, in France, smoke is incapable of going around corners or rising higher than eight feet into the air.

1:40 p.m., Paris Time – I finally get to see the Eiffel Tower. From 4000 feet. It is not impressive. I am unimpressed. It makes little impression on me.

8:20 p.m., Spain Time – Although I have been awake for more than 26 hours straight, for one brief shining moment, I felt more alive than at any time in the last couple of time units when my computer picked up a powerful wireless network within range of my new bedroom in my señora’s apartment. Alas, that sweetest of electronic ambrosia was snatched from my grasp moments later as the signal proved too elusive a quarry to capture alive.

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1. A.k.a. Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. (Us world weary travelers need only use the middle two words of it’s full name, thus proving just how weary of the world we are.)
2. That’s a little socio-politcal commentary for all you espousers of “Freedom Fries” out there.

MY 1974 CADILLAC ELDORADO CONVERTIBLE
IS NOT HELPING ME PICK UP WOMEN

***

“Hey baby, whaddaya say? You wanna go for a ride in my 1974 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible? Yeah, you heard me: Convertible. All things to all people doll face, so what do you want her to be for you?”

“Yeah, well same to YOU. Geeze, do you pick your nose with that finger?! ”

***

“Excuse miss, sorry to interrupt your daily constitutional, but I wanted to put you on notice that I couldn’t help but notice you noticin’ the four-way power seats I’ve got goin’ on in here.”

“Well, no, they’re not literally going on, of course—all those years sitting out in the rain without a top has pretty much rusted them in their tracks—but that doesn’t mean we can’t get a four way of our own going, right? That’s right, pick up your cell phone, call two of your friends…”

“Oh haha, very funny. I know for a fact that 9-1-1 isn’t a real area code. ”

***

“Why yes, that is a power antenna, and believe you me, it’s not the only thing in this car that goes up when you turn it on! Say, why are you fumbling around in your purse like that? Do you nee—aww shit lady, that stings like a mother! ”

***

“To answer your unspoken question—oops, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to startle you; I can buy you a new Choco Taco if you want. Anyway, as I was saying, to answer your unspoken question: 500 CUBIC INCHES. I’ll let you figure out if that’s my engine or my penis we’re talking about.”

***

“I know. I can’t believe they had automatic climate control back then either!”

“Well, no, the fan belt’s busted or something, but you can imagine it, right? Besides, I’m pretty sure we can control our own climate around here. And judging by that skirt, I’d say right now the forecast reads HOT and MOIS—“

“Ow! Son of a…How many rings are you wearing?! ”

***

“Yes, of course I realize it’s raining.”

“Yes, of course the top is capable of going up. You forget: this baby’s got power everything! ”

“Well, maybe I was hoping she would inspire you to follow her lead, you know? I mean, that tank top looks a little uncomfortable. Why not go ahead and take—“

“Ok, sheesh, I’ll put it up; we gotta pull over though… Okay, so if I just…”

[Runnhhhugh… rrrreeeeaaahhhhnnn…]

“No, it’s not supposed to make that noise. Just grab the pirate flag under your seat, would you? Okay, great, now wedge the shaft under the switch I was just pushin’ in the middle of the dashboard while I climb in the back here…oomph… I’m just gotta help it along a little, see? …Aww, shit, the frame’s caught on the liner again. JESUS, STOP PRESSING THE DAMN SWITCH!?!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you were about to tear it! Look, do me a favor and go around to the passenger side so you can stick your hand behind that metal scissor joint next to the window. That way, when it starts going up again…”

“Hey! I don’t think you’re allowed to just start walking along the highway like that! C’mon, get back in the car, okay? I was only kiddin’ about the hand thing. Besides, look, the top’s almost up! And if I shove this towel in the space between the windshield and the roof, we’ll barely get any water in here at all! C’mon, I promise you can hardly smell the exhaust fumes coming through the hole in the firewall anymore! …God damnit.”

Sometimes I feel bad for people with crappy birthstones. If you’re lucky, you get diamond (April), emerald (May), ruby (July), or sapphire (September)—the four most precious gems in the world, in terms of rarity and jewelry-related value. Some people would also add pearl (June) to this list, given its monetary value and cultural significance. Personally, I don’t understand the appeal of spherical pieces of chalk that have festered in some slimy gob’s ass for years on end, but to each her own.

Of course, miss out on the Big 5, and you’re stuck showing off various bits of driveway gravel like amethyst (February), aquamarine (March), and peridot (wtf?—I mean, August). Now I’m sure these are fine, noble rocks, each possessed of a plethora of respectable, useful qualities, but seriously: peridot? Shit, I think I came across some peridot when I was cleaning out my ears this morning. How do you think the dude with the August-born girlfriend fares after he falls for the old “get her something with her birthstone in it” birthday present suggestion?

“Happy birthday honey! Go ahead, open it!” [Hands her a brushed velvet container with gold hinges.]

“Oh Roger, you shouldn’t have! What is it? Diamonds? Emeralds? Rubies?” [Opens box slowly with trembling fingers.]

“No, even better—it’s your birthstone!!!”

[Face falls as lid snaps open.] “My…my birthstone? But Roger, my birthstone is peridot.”

“I know! Isn’t it special!” [Receives slap in face as girlfriend runs crying from room.] “But, but…the clerk said…I mean, you were born in…” [Still talking to himself three days later when men in white suits come to take him away.]

END SCENE

The bottom line is, just as the greeting card industry has invented Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Secretary’s Day, Severe Body Odor Day, etc., to suck up the disposal income of thoughtless idiots too lazy to come up with three lines of insipid clichés on their own, Jewelers of America and other such historically and geographically blood-soaked organizations have arbitrarily compiled a list of precious and “semiprecious”¹ geologia so that forgetful husbands and guilty boyfriends are able to make seemingly considerate—though actually meaningless—gift purchases at the last minute to adorn the necks, ears, wrists, fingers, and (God willing) nipples of their metamorphic-obsessed significant others.

Doesn’t anybody realize that “gem” is just another word for “shiny rock”??? What are we, raccoons? These are rocks, people—inorganic objects you find in other rocks. They may not grow on trees, but trees are certainly growing on them. Can anyone rationally explain why we find the random by-products of naturally occurring, millennia long processes so damn fascinating? And why are they so valuable? Do you honestly think that if you lined up four identically cut pieces of glass, crystal, cubic zirconia, and diamond, respectively, that more than 1 out of 10 women could actually tell them apart? And for those who merely wear jewelry to highlight their own physical appearance, why not stick with costume jewelry? It’s not like you run the risk of walking into a restaurant and being denounced for wearing fake rubies, because nobody really knows what the hell the differences are! If you ask me (and by coming to this site, you have) artificial gemstones created in a lab should be more valuable than ones pulled out of the ground and faceted to within an inch of their lives. After all, these synthetic creations are the intentional product of human ingenuity and a painstaking application of the scientific process, not Mother Nature’s bastard love children.

Oh, FYI, if you’re waiting for me to set the example implied by this polemic by boycotting the purchase of birthstone-based artifacts, may I direct you to my girlfriend’s hand, ears, and/or neck, where you are almost certain to find at least one piece of jewelry adorned with garnet (January) at any given time, bestowed on her by her utterly whipped—but still verbally defiant—wegger boyfriend.

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1. How the hell can something be “semiprecious” anyway? Either you’re precious or you’re not, right? Maybe it’s just me (and it frequently is), but calling a stone semiprecious almost seems akin to saying you had half an orgasm.

A portly man in Portland, Maine
Once asked for me for my name.
“I’m Inbred Fred,” I duly said,
Then asked him for the same.

“I’m Clayton Hennessey from Dayton, Tennessee,”
He informed me with a grin.
“Don’t ask where I’m going—there’s no way of knowing.
“I can’t even say where I’ve been.”

“Well, howdy there Mister,” I gushed like a blister.
“I surely am glad to have met ya.
“But my family is waiting so I must be skating,
“Though I promise I’ll never forget ya.”

“Now hold on there Freddy,” he barked in his teddy—
The lingerie stretched ‘round his gut.
“I may not be dressed yet, but I must protest at
“An exit that comes so abrupt.”

“Sir, I assure you,” I assured him, and more. “You
“Must not take offense at my leaving.
“It’s just that my calendar’s strained like a colander—
“I’m tied up from morning till evening!”

“Now calm yourself, son,” he soothed as I spun
On my heel toward my original destination.
“I’ll stop all this prattle and let you skedaddle
“If you’ll clarify one implication.”

“I’ll do what I can sir,” I promised in answer
To the man-whore’s intriguing request.
So unwrapping a cheddar stick, he cried, “Tell me, Frederick,”
“Why your name is so oddly expressed!”

I blushed at his question but planned my confession,
Then squeaked with a high-pitched inflection:
“Well, when granny’s your mother and daddy’s your brother,
“It’s a pretty straightforward selection!”

Clayton seemed shocked by my statement, just rocked
To the point where he started to sweat.
But then shaking it off, he gave a slight cough
And said something I’ll never forget.

“Since I was a youth, I have known but one truth,
“Which I embrace despite those who would damn me.
“So to quote the good vicar: Try to keep it in your knickers—
“And if you can’t, try to keep it in the family! ”