August 5, 2004 1:00 am - Out, Out, Damn Spot!
Here are my special-edition patriotic American Flag Shorts that I wear in my Monday night shows.
Just in case you're wondering, I haven't the faintest idea why they're photographed next to a bottle of Windex-type fluid. I certainly don't treat my fine washables so harshly! I use a gentle, Woolite-type substance. Anyway...
Here they were, soaking in the bathtub, when a Spanish friend spotted them and said in a dramatic tone of voice (coated in a thick Iberian accent to boot): "You cahn try all you want . . . but you will never wash away the sins of your country!"
August 4, 2004 2:05 am - Good & Bad
Well, after 3 months, you know it would eventually happen . . . a list comparing Spain with America. Comparisons are fun!
Things that are better in Barcelona than in America:
Milk - It just tastes better. Skim tastes like 2%. 2% tastes like whole milk. Whole milk is delicious but undigestible. I only use whole milk in my coffee, which gives me the runs anyway, so it all works out nicely.
Bread - A bakery on practically every block. Fresh baguettes are everywhere you look, like boob jobs on Melrose.
Beaches - Ohhh, the beaches. They're heavenly! All up and down the coast, they're clean, calm, and nude. Well, not all of them. "Nude" beaches are just what you'd think: all nude. Families, old people, children -- all can be seen frequenting nude beaches. "Regular" beaches include toplessness. If you take off your bottom as well, then you're nude, and then you have to go down a few hundred yards to the nude beach to be with your own kind. Rules are rules.
Old People - The old people scene here is much better because, as I wrote about earlier on this page, unlike in America, there are old people. And that's a good thing.
Signs and architecture with obvious penises in it - It's everywhere. It's so obvious. And it's no big deal! Photos coming soon. Tee hee!
Racism - The racism here is much better than in the United States. Namely because it's far more blatant and untainted by political correctness than it is in America. Lacking the sophisticated coding that's common in today's well-off suburban enclaves, racist dialogue in the Catalan capitol has a quaint naiveté and an old-fashioned, nostalgic charm that will delight history buffs. Every time I hear hate-filled invective about "the moors" "the gypsies" ("the blacks" are only referred to in worried tones -- and, since there aren't that many, usually in the singular -- as in, "that Black man might take my wallet"), I'm taken back to the days when my ancestors (the dirty, money-grubbing Jews) were gently expelled from the Iberian peninsula to enjoy new opportunities on the frontiers of the Ottoman Empire. In fact, one time I asked a friend what a certain racist acquaintance would have to say about the Jews. "Probably nothing, because there are no Jews left. No one here thinks about the Jews anymore." Frankly, I felt a bit miffed. No one likes to be just, like, totally blown off.
Things that are worse in Barcelona than in America:
Graffiti - The jury is in, and I've determined that the graffiti here is lame, lame, lame. Plus, the government seems to do nothing to get rid of it.
At first I thought it was kind of cute (see May 26th)...but now, except for the excellent "George Bush, Monkey" I'm just annoyed. Mostly by the sheer obviousness of it. How many times can you see "Domestic violence is fucked up" or "Rich people are bad" or "The Church is a whore" without feeling the urge to spray-paint the words, "Like, duhhhh!" over everything. I guess I should feel happy that people actually care, but instead I feel, "Bitch, please . . . and did you have to write that silly piece of obviousness on a perfectly good cathedral?"
Pizza - Spanish pizza is just a crime. The abominations that pass for "pizza" here should infuriate Sicilians both in the mother country and the diaspora. In fact, I sometimes fantasize about wise guys drifting over here from Sicily, in rowboats, and threatening to crack a few skulls. (I know Lear jets are more their style, but it's fun to think of them in rowboats -- after all, they're just on the other side of the Mediterranean.) Just to make it clear to the locals that they should not call this stuff "pizza." Call it anything else. But do not call it pizza. Capiche?
I'm talking wieners on pizza. I'm talking shrimp and tuna. TUNA, for chrissakes!??! I'm talking green olives, long red pimientos, cocktail onions -- hey, this shit belongs in a martini, not on a pizza! And always, the wrong cheese. How do you get the cheese wrong? Well, they do.
Note: Truthfully, I wasn't quite sure whether to classify the racism here as "better" or "worse" than in America. I ended up choosing the former because I believe in staying positive.
Julio 9, 2004 1:51 am - A Night of Theatre!
Monday's show at the Llantiol was super fun. The lovely little cabaret space has an upright piano, but it's nowhere near the stage -- it's actually behind the audience, between the audience space and the bar. But it's a charming, antique-looking, beat-up old piano. When I first saw the space I asked them if the piano could be moved to the stage. "No," they said apologetically. "It's just for decoration." True enough, it was pretty, and it hadn't been tuned since 1470...but it still made a fine sound. I always prefer to play on real pianos than electric keyboards, so it seemed a shame. But I hooked up my keyboard and played the shows that way. But I had an idea.
So last night before the show, I put a microphone inside the piano (first removing about 80 colored glass bottles from the top of the piano, in order to get inside it). Also, for the first time, I was able to use one of those radio headset mics that MadonnaTM and BritneyTM always wear in their shows. It was exciting being able to move freely! I could move my head while singing, get up and walk around and talk, dance...it was great!
Then at the end of the show, for the encore, I walked through the audience and sat down at the upright piano. The audience turned around in the chairs. I was right there with them, the perspective was turned on its head...exciting! Then the drummer, playing from the stage, and me, playing on the opposite side of the theater from him, played Led Zeppelin's "What Is and What Should Never Be," ending it with a huge medley that incorporated The Who, Sly & the Family Stone, the Sex Pistols, Loverboy, and Dee-lite, among others. They dug it, as did I, 'cause it's fun. There's nothing as fun as playing a great classic rock song...and incorporating "Mr. Roboto" into it.
After the show, a couple of us got in the car of a friend who was driving us home. But he got confused immediately with the streets, 'cause in the neighborhood where the theater is, the streets are literally at least 600 years old. Very narrow, labyrinthine, walled in on all sides by huge stone tenements from the 1200s, and tourists, drug dealers, bicyclists, dogs, Islamic gangs stabbing each other with broken bottles -- you name it -- everything happening right in the middle of them. So my friend leaves the theater, drives to the end of the street, and takes a left. After 5 seconds, he realizes it's a one-way street and he's going the wrong way. Right then we see a cop standing on the street, trying to deal with the throngs of people, who frowns at us and waves us to the side of the road. Hostia! says my friend -- an Spanish interjection that I love. It means something like "Christ!" or "Shit!", but literally means "The Communion Wafer". So my friend rolls down the window and begins by saying "Buenas noches" to the cop, who says, "What's the matter with you, don't you know how to drive? You're driving the wrong way on a one-way street." The cop's tone is not nice or diplomatic at all.
"Ahhh, officer, I am so sorry!" my friend says. "I don't know this neighborhood well and the streets are very confusing. I'm very sorry, I didn't know." I see that he's making little praying motions at the cop.
"Are you from Barcelona?" the cop says, peering inside the car at me, who tonight looks like Mozart if he were a transvestite crack whore. "Yes, I am," my friend says. "We just came from the theater. Our friend here just finished her show...she's from America and I'm trying to get her home."
The cop says, stone-faced, "Well, I'm sorry, but..." We all brace for something baaad. "I cannot permit you to continue driving the wrong way on this street."
That's it? Not, "I'm gonna have to write you a ticket," or "Give me your passport, honey" or "You're all gonna have to get out of the car so I can do a thorough cavity search on every one of you before you spend the evening in our 14th-century jail." Nope. Nothing but, "I'm sorry. I cannot allow you continue to break the law in the most obvious way. After all, it'll make me look bad in front of these gypsy heroin dealers."
"Ah, si, si, si," said my driver friend, smiling ear to ear. "I'll turn around right now," he said, as if he and the cop were striking an important land deal from which both parties and all of their descendants would benefit immensely. "Buenas noches," he said again to the cop. "Buenas noches," said the cop, and waved goodbye, looking instantly annoyed all over again at the sea of drug dealers, street punks, and murderers he'd be stuck with for the next several hours.
Julio 4, 2004 3:39 am - Exciting Pill Story!
Are you ready? So I've been sick for the last week with a deep cough that keeps getting worse. It's way down in my lungs & feels like a bronchial infection, right? I complain about it to a friend today and he's like, "Hey dummy, why don't you go to the pharmacy and get antibiotics?" I'm like, "I don't have a doctor." "You don't need one," he says. "You can go to the pharmacy and ask for antidepressants, antipsychotic medication, codeine, anything -- and they'll give it to you." "Without a prescription?" "Sure," he says.
So I go to the pharmacy & tell the woman, "I need antibiotics," describing my whole problem to her. She asks if I have a fever. I say no, not anymore. "Then you need an expectorant, not antibiotics," she says, and starts toward the back to get them. "No, I need antibiotics. I'm pretty sure I have an infection," I say. "You need to see a doctor before getting antibiotics," she says, and walks away. Fuck! I think. That's just what I thought would happen. Then the woman comes back...with a box of 18 amoxicilin. "If it doesn't get better, you need to go to a doctor," she repeats. I nod happily, digging all my bills out of my pocket to pay for what is expensive medicine back in the States. I figure the price must be even higher over here. You know, to pay for the convenience factor and all that.
"Two fifty seven," she says.
"What?" I say.
"Two fifty seven."
"Uh...you know I'm buying antibiotics, right?"
"Yeah," she says, looking past me at the long line of people waiting. "Two fifty seven please." I give her 3 euros and try hard not to start singing and dancing until I'm outside.
I still can't believe it. $2.57 for 18 amoxicilin!!! Someone's getting ripped off somewhere. And for once it's not me. Yippee! Crossing the busy thoroughfare, I hear horrible techno-screech music and see a crowd standing around a stage in a plaza. An asshole wearing a wetsuit is stomping around onstage wearing a red clown nose. He has long, spiraly blond hair. "Comedy" hair. The crowd cheers. The music is beating unbearably. The asshole does 30 seconds of awkward movements, at the end of which I realize is a "funny dance". Then, with much ceremony, he picks up a long tube, dawdles & dinks around with it like a magician would...and blows confetti onto the crowd. That's it. Confetti. They go crazy. The asshole jumps up and down for a while, inspiring a new wave of cheering. Then he puts a white rabbit puppet on one hand, holds it up over his head, and talks to it. The crowd guffaws...Now the asshole is lighting firecrackers. "POP, POP, POP-POP-POP-POP!" I walk away. A perfectly lovely day and this guy's turned the place into Bagdad. But today it's okay, 'cause I just paid $2.57 for amoxicilin.
Julio 2, 2004 2:40 am - Qué coñazo. ..
Qué coñazo. Me caí con gripe el domingo pasado y tenía que cancelar el show del lunes en el Llantiol. Joder. Pero ahora estoy mas or menos mejor y sí, habrá un show el siguiente lunes! Y será un show de putamadre, con mas sorpresas, te lo juro. Mi castellano es horrible. A veces más horrible que otras. Mi única meta es, al fin, poder hablar el idioma como una niña severamente retrasada. Y escribir como un preso encarcelado por la mayoría de su vida, como consequencia de crecer en un pueblito pobre con poca educación y los malos tratos de su padre borracho. ¿Es demasiado que esperar? Voy a alternar entre inglés y español, ¿te apatece? Bueno.
I've decided it's best for all parties involved, including myself, to do half in English, half in Spanish. Here I'm learning many interesting things about food. For example, you go to the fruit-and-vegetable store, called the frutería, and there are like 4 different kinds of tomatoes. So if you just ask for "tomatoes"-- and yes, at some places, you have to ask, 'cause they wait on you like you're at Bullock's or one of the other finer department stores in the 1940s. And if you don't (like I didn't at first 'cause I didn't know the custom) then they think you're being a real asshole. Anyway, when I asked for "tomatoes", the lady went to the box of green ones. Turns out those were the "regular" tomatoes, and what I wanted, the nice, ripe red ones, were "mature tomatoes" - tomates maduros. Ohhhh! And then among the mature tomatoes are the nice ripe red ones, the nicer redder ones, and then the super-slut unbelievably red ones that make you think you're on acid and even whisper to you as you walk by, "Hey babe, just chill; everything's cool, no worries...hey, what're you doing tonight?" These tomatoes of course cost the most, but shit, are they worth it!
Today I rehearsed at a new studio, adjacent to a women's prison. The drummer I was working with told me , "Once a year, there's a party for the prison-ladies, and the bands that are rehearsing that day, when they're done, just bring their equipment over to the jail and play for them." How fucking cool is that? "Yeah, y'know, we're partying over here at the prison. Just come on over and bring yer shit, door's always open." Another example of how, to my New York-L.A. eyes, things here sometimes seem hilariously mellow. As we left the rehearsal space, I was sad for the jailbird ladies, certain that they would have dug our weird new covers of "Gimme Shelter" and "Beat It!"
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