Where's Paul McPherson?

A Common Problem

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 15 May 2012 11:26:00 +0000

Let's say you just covered your tattoo of the FC Barcelona logo with a dazzling combination of a sea turtle, telescope, ship's helm, and anchor.

Now your nautical friends think you're the man... but you've begun to notice that your fellow Barca-crazed brethren are starting to look down on you.

Dammit.

What are you going to do? You can't cover-up a cover-up, plus everyone knows it's impossible to transform a sea turtle into a Barca crest. And even if you could, your sailor posse would be disgusted by the act of tattoo treason.

So you sit there racking your brain trying to find a solution to win back your Barca friends while still appeasing the sailors.

Then finally it hits you. You'll invite them all over to your house where you will have accidentally left piles of seashells across your floor.

Once they've all arrived, you'll begin the well-rehearsed act.

"Oh how terribly embarrassing! It appears I've left these piles of seashells all over my floor!

Thankfully I have this Carlos Puyol dustpan to clean this mess up.

Dear God! There appears to be too much beach debris for one dust pan! Good thing I also have a Piqué and Sergio dustpan ."

Problem solved.

Barca To Sea Turtles

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Thu, 10 May 2012 11:17:00 +0000

"Man, I'm getting kinda tired of this FC Barca tattoo on my forearm."

"Have you thought about covering it up?"

"Yeah, but I'm worried I'll never find a place that has experience converting a Barca crest into a cartoonish sea turtle, telescope, anchor, and ship's helm?"

"Actually... I think I know just the spot."

Baller Banana

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:48:00 +0000

I had a vivid dream last night that I was hanging out with Kanye West and Shawn and Blue Ivy Carter.

I think all three of them would be proud of my recent acquisition of a 123.95€ stuffed banana. It's also anthropomorphic, son!

Yes, today was the day where Sarah and I finally accrued enough stickers (120 euros worth) from our most favorite French supermarket to earn a produce-themed peluche -- stuffed animal -- which was then marked down from its retail of 9.95€ to 3.95€.

In an effort to stay humble and not forget my roots, my prized plush platano sits atop an old newspaper, in-flight magazine, and a weird Frisbee.

Killing It

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 08 May 2012 14:33:00 +0000

Not Peter

Even when I didn’t have all the time in the world, I really enjoyed putting waaayyy too much thought into a wall post on my friend's Facebook profile.

Recently I spent more time than I’m willing to admit on 30-word gems on the walls of two of my friends.

As is normally the case, the 400+ likes I felt I deserved never came. My friends probably thought the posts were rather dumb and no more than two people read the damn thing.

But you know who did hit the almighty thumbs up on both brilliantly-written posts? Peter. The same Peter I have not seen since high school. The same Peter who after high school – and probably starting in high school – developed a drug addiction, overcame it, got sober, and is now an MMA fighter (all according to his Facebook updates).

Which means that my Facebook wall prose is highly regarded by former a drug-addict-turned-MMA-fighter, the only demographic I ever wanted to impress.

Scrill Adventures

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Mon, 07 May 2012 10:44:00 +0000

This entire post is adapted from an e-mail I wrote to some friends. If you're a potential employer (and/or just somebody who doesn't like marijuana) reading this, please take this as fictional writing.

Our marijuana plant was looking good but had some peculiar brown spots on a few leaves. So I did what any concerned parent would do: take pictures of her and bring my camera to the grow shop to talk to Dr. Greenthumb (thankfully, the experience was not as intense as the Cypress Hill video). He said it needed more nutrients, but he also told us that even with the nutrients she would not be ready to harvest for another two months.

Sarah and I were heartbroken because in a month, we would be leaving Barcelona and our dearest Sprout (that's our plant's name) to travel around Spain for six weeks. This meant that Sprout won't be ready by the time we have to leave -- and when we plan on hiding Sprout in a big park where she'll most likely die we've been told.

Upon receiving that terrible news, I made the next logical step and looked further into becoming a member of Barcelona's Cannabis Social Clubs. I actually didn't know that Cannabis Clubs were legal in Barcelona until a few days earlier, but soon after I was on my mission. I figured if I become a card-carrying member I'd have all the advantages of Amsterdam without the shitty winter weather and higher cost of living.

So once again I went to the grow shop doctor to seek advice. He quickly rattled off the locations of the two closest associations.

The nearest one was a 8 minute walk from my apartment and sat on a tiny dead-end street that would be rather sketchy if it weren't for the fact that every street here is beautiful. He didn't know the exact address, but told me I'd be able to find it by scent and loud music.

Twenty feet down the dead-end street, I saw a guy smoking a massive joint and figured he knew where the shop was. However, it turned out that he was just a dude smoking a massive joint who had no idea where the shop was. He offered me a few hits, and walked me to a tiny window that lead into the back of a Argentine empanada shop (tasty empies by the way). The mysterious voice from this dark window told us the shop was right behind us.

I rang the bell of a door that looked no different than any other graffiti-covered door on the street, but no one answered. As I took a step back I realized the graffiti actually revealed a giant mural of a girl smoking a joint. I rang once more. Again no answer.

On to the next one.

This shop had an exact address, making it much easier to find. I followed two guys through a set of security doors into a highly organized and proper waiting room. I took a number and sat down while trying to sneak my eyes past the velvet curtain to see the smoking room.

As my I focused my attention ahead to a "doctor's office," I thought about what ailment I was going to make up and how I would say it in Castilian. Then I took a pamphlet to read up on the club and also daydream about getting a Club ID which would allow me to 1. legally buy marijuana and 2. be able to put my ID # and name down on the betting board to guess the final of the next day's Classico Barca-Madrid match.

Before I wasted more of my time, I decided to ask the receptionist if I would be able to get an ID card without a Spanish residency card. She asked me if I had a referral. I told her I did not. She replied that I needed a referral and until I had one, I would not be welcome in the club.

She even went as far as taking back the pamphlet to protect her secret society.

There I was kicked to the curb. Not allowed in just because I wasn't one of them. I felt just like an African-American in pre-Civil Rights Movement America... provided that African-American had access to every other imaginable right, except the right to purchase marijuana from a legal dispensary.

+++
Follow up: Three weeks after writing this e-mail, I'm happy to report that with the help of some Performance-Enhancing-Nutrients, Sprout bore her fruit and everyone lived happily ever after.

The Valentino Achak Deng of Lobsters

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:05:00 +0000

I’ve been reading Dave Eggers’ What is The What, the book that chronicles the hardships suffered by former Sudanese Lost Boy Valentine Achak Deng.

During Sudan’s second civil war, the 8-year-old Deng was displaced from his home in Marial Bai and began walking through the desert to Ethiopia. After enduring unimaginable levels of suffering he arrives in Ethopia only to find it worse than Sudan. Soon after he’s forced (by the gunfire of Ethiopian rebels) to flea to a refugee camp in Kenya.

Throughout his entire journey Deng's primary goal is to return to Marial Bai, where he hope his family is still alive. While on his trek he hitches a ride in the back of a cargo truck. At first he’s unsure of the bizarre surface he’s standing on inside the truck until he realizes that he’s stepping on a decomposed head and is surrounded by the corpses of tens of dead refugees.

Today while shopping for dinner at the Santa Caterina Market I saw a lobster walking on top of countless pounds of gutted fish and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to buy that lobster and safely ship him to Marial Bai.

Comida Chronicles Part IV

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 09:59:00 +0000

Even more reviews of restaurants that my five friends reading this blog will most likely never eat at.

Mosquito
Barrio: La Ribera
Address: Carrer de Carders, 46
Price Range: Fairly Cheap
The duck. The motherfucking duck. Whoooooweeee. The most flavorful crispy skin ever (actual fact, not hyperbole). Yet somehow the meat is melts in your mouth. This is the kind of succulent duck that Poppy was afraid of.

The dumplings are also ridiculous. A small selection of good draft beers and a massive collection of bottled beer.

The only downside is that it made me think of Joe Shanghai’s for the first time in three months and then I got homesick for NYC. But if you’ve never been to Joe Shanghai’s, your life sucks a little more than mine, and you’ll enjoy Mosquito slightly more than me.

Moritz Brewery
Barrio: Sant Antoni
Address: Ronda de Sant Antoni
Price Range: Fairly cheap
This place is silly. The staff wears terribly weird outfits that appear to be taken from a gamesmaker in Panem (topical reference!!!). The entire establishment would fit right in at Desert Ridge (Scottsdale reference!!!) as it’s massive even by Arizona standards and by BCN standards it borders on the size of VY Canis Majoris (red hypergiant reference!!!).

L’Antic Bocoi del Gòtic

Barrio: El Gotico

Address: Baixada Viladecols, 3

Price Range: Reasonable

This is my fancy place. It's a traditional Catalan restaurant built inside walls from the Roman Empire. Their salmon-and-guacamole salad caused me to reconsider my entire existence on Earth. Their coques (Catalan square pizza thing) are also delicious and they have an apple tartin dessert that completes the whole meal.

On top of all that the the husband-and-wife that own and run the place are incredibly nice and even though I've been there just a few times, they always remember my name. All stupid jokes and exaggerations aside, this is the best place I've eaten at in Barcelona.

Bo de B

Barrio: El Gotico

Address: Baixada Viladecols, 3

Price Range: Super cheap

This place serves up massive tasty sandwiches for 3 euros and change. It also serves up the paradox that is how even though sometimes the language barrier frustrates me, I still hate hearing English. Then I get upset at myself for getting upset with study-abroad kids who frequent this place. Then I lose my mind a bit more. Then I bite into their sandwich and all is well again.

Walking Stoplight y Mas

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 07:02:00 +0000

These putas...

These photos doesn't have three traffic-sign dressed girls, but I still like them.

Atrapada

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 18:29:00 +0000

I never wanted to be one of those assholes who blogs about their shitty dates. This is why I decided to avoid shitty dates and the temptation to write about by getting engaged to the only person I ever seriously dated.

That being said, here is the tale of my crappy“date” with an unemployed truck driver/drug addict.

Technically, and thankfully, I haven't been going on real dates, but rather a series of blind meet-ups with Spanish-speakers under the guise of trying to improve my Spanish (which actually needs a lot of work) while I desperately try to make any a friend.

Oddly enough, for every one response from a guy, I’ve received 10 messages from girls my age. In my current bizarro world, I always hope these girls will have a cool boyfriend who is just like me. But I don't think writing "guys only" in my Loquo posting sends the right message. I also believe it might be too frank to write: "Looking for a dude who enjoys smoking, eating their weight in patatas bravas, and having a serious discussion about Dani Alves' neck beard."

Yet my bevy of intercambios has taught me many Spanish words and introduced me to some cool people. Once I got over my heartbreak, I quickly learned that Pilar is super nice and full of interesting stories. I met a Peruvian who learned to drive in Rome and as a result of which, had to take driving courses in Barcelona to learn how to drive like a civilized human being. I went to a fancy cafe with a woman who was so attractive that it made me uncomfortable and I went to another cafe with another girl who wasn't quite as mind-bogglingly pretty. Tragically neither of these girls had cool boyfriends.

But my luck of exchanging languagues with kind, normal folk ran out with a man named Luis, who let me know he was bat-shit crazy from the moment he yelled at me for being three minutes late.

As the Catalan native walked me to some shitty café – the equivalent of me taking a visitor in New York to the Red Lobster on 42nd Street – he stopped dead in his tracks. Before I could ask what was going on, he bolted 15 feet away to snatch up a dropped pack of cigarettes. Then he returned, entirely too satisfied and offered me a smoke from his new-found pack, which I politely declined.

Once we sat down, he seamlessly transitioned from the fact that he used to be a truck driver to, naturally, his movie idea.

He introduced me to the main characters: Armando who owns a semi truck, and Lucas, who owns a caged tiger. The he told me that Armando was an “Ass guy,” before I could teach him that “Ass guy” means something different then his intended meaning that Armando was a bad person.

Then the found-cigarette bliss vanished from his face as he turned stone-cold solemn as he explained that Armando murdered the mother of two kids, even worse one of the kids was autistic.

Fast forward through 20 bizarre minutes of my life and the orphaned kids are trapped in a boarded up shack with the tiger, because Ass Guy Armando stole Lucas' tiger trailer and freed the tiger in the shack.

Throughout the entire story, Luis would burst up laughing over nothing at all. Better yet any time he’d teach me a Spanish word, he call himself the “best teacher in the world” or “sensei” or "maestro." Forty five minutes into our painfully long session, I theorized hat Luis' lunacy might have something to do with the fact that his pinky fingernail was a half inch longer than rest of his nails.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not, as I made up an excuse why I had to leave asap, my master sensei taught me the term “se piro,” which more or less means to sneak out.

And just before I was able to get the fuck away from Luis, he confessed that this was not actually a movie he made up, but instead a film he saw on TV last night.

The Most Gangsta Shit I've Ever Done In My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:36:00 +0000

There I stood in the Dalí museum looking at "Basket of Bread," an oil painting that, yes, depicts a basket of bread. Just below the painting sits a glass display case holding a gold-coated sculpture of the same heal of bread that's in the painting. And in my pocket were four slices of a baguette that I had stolen from lunch in anticipation of the fact that I might be hungry again soon.

It seemed to make perfect sense. I'd never executed a reverse art heist in my life. However, earlier in the week, I had pulled a reverse dine-and-dash, where I paid for a mozzarella-and-caprese salad that never made its way to our table. I like to believe that the phantom caprese subliminally inspired me.

I gave it a bit more thought, consulted my friends/accomplices, then suspiciously checked my surroundings before placing my pocket bread atop the glass case.

"Got 'em!" I softly said out loud before I strolled away feeling as smooth as Danny Ocean, but really snickering to myself like a fucking idiot.

Then I had Sarah become the Thierry Guetta to my Space Invader and document my work.

The coup de grâce of my stunt occurred when a docent proceeded to lecture about the "Basket of Bread" with my lunchtime addition in place.

The only question I now have to ask myself is whether or not I should update my résumé to include: "Collaborated with Salvador Dalí."

Comida Chronicles Part III: The Punch Card Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 16:44:00 +0000

And so it continues... more restaurant reviews that barely review the food.

Montana
Barrio: El Born
Address: Carrer de Comerç, 4
Price: €10.90 for the menu del dia

This place is 1/3 art gallery, 1/6 streetwear shop, 1/6 graffiti accessory shop, 1/6 restaurant, 1/6 cafe. The restaurant only does lunch, but their menu del dia is pretty, pretty damn good. Almost every restaurant in BCN offers up a menu del dia, which gives you a three-course meal (plus bread!) and the drink of your choice for €8 - €12. It should also be noted that only real bastards up-charge you for an alcoholic beverage.

They offered up some traditional Catalan dishes that I knew were traditional Catalan dishes because the waiter told me really slow in Spanish. Sarah and I had some ground cabbage, a nice mushroom soup, some onion dish, and some meat thing I kinda can’t remember. The desserts were strangely not Catalan but instead a terrible attempt at cheesecake and a decent scoop of icecream with Oreo crumb sprinkles.

Montana is also the first and only place I've been to that's gave me a frequent flier punch card, meaning that 16th menu del dia is going to taste oh-so good.

Carrefour
This is not a restaurant but it's the grocery story that supplies me with the vast majority of my food, so I’m putting in on this list. It was Carrefour that first introduced me to el mundo of tortillas de patatas (like potato latkes on crack) and for that I’m forever grateful.

They also sell discount beer which is all sorts of gangster. I actually have not seen the 40s in real life, but they sell discount cans of store-brand brew for 23 cents a pop.

The closest Carrefour to me is the one directly on Las Ramblas, which means it’s some times over ran by tourists, but most those motherfuckers don’t know about the bottom floor or the secret check-out lanes in the back of the shop. Except for today when I had to wait a good five minutes because apparently motherfuckers do know about the secret registers.

I recently became a Carrefour socio card holder, which means I get no further discounts or promotions but for every €8 I spend I get a sticker and if I collect 15 stickers, and then pay an additional €3.95, I get the right to buy a 10-inch stuffed toy piece of produce.

So really the only advantage of the card is access to what is a €123.95 toy broccoli. Currently I'm at 8 stickers and you better believe that once I get 15, I’m getting that plush broccoli, because that my friends will be a status symbol.

The Sad, The Bad, Some Pics

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 14:54:00 +0000

The Good (or maybe Sad)
For all of last week, whenever I was not working out on the beach (this is something I actually do) or lounging around the house (which in a ratio of getting fit, occurs 9000:1 times as much), I wore the same blueish-grey J. Crew pocket tee. This is one of the perks of having no friends or anyone you see on a regular basis.

On Friday I realized the only stain I'd acquired was a coffee and/or chocolate icecream blotch that was neatly hidden on the inside lip of the shirt's chest pocket. Although it was an accident, I felt personally responsible for this ideally located stain and I declared it my proudest achievement of the week.

The Bad
I posted language-exchange flyers around the University of Barcelona's language school hoping I could meet someone who could help me better my Spanish, potentially become my friend, and give me a reason to not wear the same shirt for six days straight. I only received one response from a person named Pilar.

At 11am on Saturday morning, I stood outside the Santa Maria del Mar excited to meet, what I assumed/hoped would be a cool 20-something guy who would instantly become my Barcelona BFF. Then our blind-language-exchange date became blind no more when a woman walked up to me and said, "Justin?"

The grey-haired woman who wore weird checkered pants and a silly jacket that in the States would only be worn by a 60-year-old Jewish woman, said, "Hi, I'm Pilar."

I one fell swoop I was crushed and thought to myself, "I'm a fucking idiot." Pilar is a girl's name through and through. It's not even a Jaime, Alex, or Kelly. It's more like a Jessica. And a Jessica is never a dude.

Some Pictures
I've taken a few photos from my balcony looking down on the restaurant below. As always, the idea in my head looks a lot cooler than the end result, but here they are:

Comida Chronicles: Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 16:33:00 +0000

After a 29M delay, Comida Chronicles is back. Without a vengeance.

The Dog Is Hot
Barrio: El Raval
Address: Carrer de Joaquin Costa, 47
Price Range: Pretty cheap, around 3.50 a dog

Yeah I wrote about this place before. Yeah the hot dogs are amazing. Yeah, I still find myself thinking about their TDIH's 10 sauces you can throw on any dog. Yeah, just like in the rest of the Spain their Coca-Cola tastes better than it does in the United States*.

The sole downside to TDIH is that the only available seating is a stack of neon-hue-spray-painted wooden cubes – which only seat two and aren’t that comfortable. But they sure do look cool as shit!

On the opposing wall of the neon cubes, is a staircase leading to a small, open mezzanine that hangs above the counter. The back of the always-empty mezzanine level is lined with what appears to be a glass office that’s always shielded by closed blinds. With hopes of discovering a secret hot-dog utopia lined with pillows, I asked if it was possible ascend into said mezzanine, but the TDIH employee, snickered and said no.

So I can only assume that behind the blinds is the same thing that is atop every nightclub in every movie ever: a cache of assault rifles, piles of cocaine, and lots of strippers feeding stacks of money into those cool counting machines. All of which makes sense as to why I was not allowed up there.

*I’ve been told this is because the soda here doesn’t contain high fructose corn syrup as it does in the States, where the government subsidizes the corn industry, which over-produces corn. This results in high fructose corn syrup being used in Coca-Cola, which apparently diminishes the taste.

I should probably fact check that or at least look at the Coca-Cola can sitting 5 inches from me as I type this. But that Coca-Cola can is mysteriously written in German and I don’t feel like fact checking. Plus the person who told me that once lived in the United States for 8 months, so he has to know what he’s talking about.

Oviso/ Can Nabo
Barrio: Gótico
Address: Carrer d'Arai, 5 / Carrer Nou de Sant Francesc, 25
Price: Cheap

I grouped them together because their ran by the same company that operates four spots in town, two of them being bars (one boasts itself as BCN’s official “after-skate”). I’ve only been to their food-serving-non-k-grinding spots, Oviso and Can Nabo.

If you were high and wanted a place with good, cheap food and a spot where you could forever stare at oddly-painted walls, I’d recommend Oviso. Their burger is not the best in the world, but it’s big, damn good, and it’s only €5. Their pizza is also spooktacular, while their crepes were the only thing I’ve had that I didn’t like. But if you do somehow fuck up and accidentally get the crepes just focus on the massive peacock paintings that cover the wall and you'll be at least mildly happy.

Be warned that Oviso is cash only and they only accept one form of currency. This may seem like common sense, but I once brought some weird relatives there, who tried to pay the bill with €30 and 8USD. This was before I reminded them that just like the rest of the first world, this European restaurant will only take it’s home country’s currency and we’d have to hit an ATM like a normal human being.

I’ve only been to Can Nabo once, but their braised rabbit was really good. Also their menu del dia is available at night and is only €6, which means Sarah and I each had a three-course-dinner with drinks for €12. I just broke that down in case you were unable to multiple 6 by 2, the trick was the “3” in three-course meal was not actually part of the equation. You’re welcome.

Also, if you’re a drug/hot dog kingpin reading this from the secret lair inside The Dog Is Hot and you want to make sure the feds or rival drug/hot dog dealers are not in a Barnawood restaurant before you try it out yourself. Well fear not because their site has a live video stream from the inside of each restaurant.

29M

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 09:19:00 +0000

I apologize to all five of you who were eagerly awaiting a restaurant review post, but I was on strike with the rest of the country -- and I was out taking pictures of all the destruction.

While 90% of the protesters were peaceful in their marches against labor reform, the other 10% brought the senseless ruckus.

You can view all my pictures from 29M (which stands for 29th of March) here and I've run a few of my favorites below.

According to the mayor 300 of these trash containers were burned.

I liked taking photos of BCN's traffic control signs pointing out the obvious, "Center city traffic is restricted because of protests", as in the photo below.

The same goes for this picture.

This one reminds me of the paintball-mode cheat code for Nintendo 64's Goldeneye 007.

Anarchists. Ruthless enough to destroy your bank. Kind enough to carefully not desecrate the picture of the girl with Down Syndrome.
These guys (the anarchists, not people with Down Syndrome) were dedicated though, as I was a few miles away from downtown and every single street-side ATM was destroyed.

This photo came out nicely. I couldn't understand 90% of the protesters chants, so Sarah gets the quote of the day with, "I don't like this. I've only seen civic unrest in the first version of The Sims."

If you're wondering if I made up for missing out on Tucson's '97 and '01 basketball-related riots by wearing my Cats shorts yesterday. Don't worry I beared down.

I also got to check off "being in a riot" from my bucket list. I was careful to not get directly in the center of the action, but even getting near it was a bit scary as the riot police in BCN don't use pepper spray but instead disperse crowds by driving their tank-style trucks full speed at crowds. A tactic which results in crowds of running in every which direction at any given moment. Somehow the police only arrested 41 people, which seems awful low in my mind.

Any shop that foolishly tried to stay open during the strike was met with a crowd of protesters who would scream and throw shit at the shop until it closed down. In some cases patrons were essentially trapped in cafes. Other shops would stay open with their gate down, only letting in customers one at a time.

Throughout the day I referred to the city as Summer Streets, a reference to NYC's Summer Streets, which is Park Avenue is closed to traffic and only open to pedestrians and cyclists. BCN's 29M Streets closed almost the entire downtown to traffic, allowing Sarah and I to roll through the entire downtown on streets that are normally heavily congested.

....
If you want to lose more faith in humanity, you can watch a video of BCN's main train station being ransacked. The video also features one brave train station worker regaining his footing after being sprayed down, only to be knocked out right afterward....Here's the local paper's photo gallery. Check the rest of my photos.

Comida Chronicals Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 15:22:00 +0000

I’m going to start writing up all the restaurants I’ve been to over my first three months in Barcelona. Furthermore I’m going to set the bar way too high with my first entry, which I doubt I’ll be able to top.

Pizzas L'Avia
Barrio: El Raval
Address: Carrer La Cera 33
Price Range: Insanely Cheap

Like most my love affairs, this one was spawned by cheap empanadas, a mountain of which are piled inside the front window to L'Avia to allure passersby like a cute puppy that’s loaded with juicy ground beef and shaped like a half moon. OK, so maybe it’s not that similar to a puppy.

And like any relationship, L’Avia and I have had our ups and downs, such as when they unexpectedly raised their prices from €1.20 to €1.30 per empanada. I decided to let this sly as Mario was the first to introduce me to crema Catalana, which is the exact same as Crème brûlée, so I figure I owed him one.

In addition to said empanadas, the fun is in trying to figure each other out. And with the shop’s owner, Mario, there is a lot to figure out.

Mario’s a portly, bald-headed old Uruguayan who is always there, an impressive feat, since it’s one of the few spot in BCN that’s seems to never close. It's open until 1 am or later six days a week for lunch and dinner with no siestas. It wasn’t until my third visit that I noticed the collection of books sitting on top of the glass cooler showcasing what appears to be every kind of Latin food known to man.

The books were all written by Mario Mariano Pérez Ruiz. For a moment I wondered if the same man who bakes 12 different kinds of empanadas and cracks jokes at everyone who walks in his restaurant could also be the author of books dissecting the Voynich Manuscript, Pythagoras, Free Mason Society, as well as a collection of short stories he collected while the Barcelona metro system. Then I poked inside one of his book’s jackets to find a picture of the same bald-headed, bespectacled man that stood behind the counter.

I was not really sure where to go from here, except obviously to Google, which first revealed that although he has a complex understanding of any and all conspiracies related to the pyramid on the back of American dollar bill, his web design skills – or ability to find someone to design his website – are not quite on the same level.

Secondly I found an interview with Mario, which would be an extremely dense read in English and has proved even more challenging to read in Spanish.

I’ve roughly translated excerpts to understand he’s initiated into the Freemasony and… well I’ll just let this speak for itself.

Miquel: But that is remote viewing ...
Mario: Yes. The above time remote viewing is the geometric figure. And there is another association secret in the U.S. that uses this method to travel in time and space. To leave the body ... prove to be true are asked to bring a little order there. And if there are cases.
Miguel: Yeah of course ....
Mario: No documentation but if there are cases. When Noriega, before entering his house, did astral travel to see what's there. He described that conformed to what is found when they entered.

Again I’m not sure I’d be able to fully grasp all this if it was written in perfect English. I obviously have so many questions, mainly where he finds time to write these novels while he works 100 hours a week.

Additionally I found a Spanish-written blog that echoed my experience with L’Avia to a T. At the end of his post he writes:

Releo todo esto. Temo por mi vida. Me siento rodeado. Lamentablemente, debo regresar por otro alfajor más. Puede ser una trampa, lo sé, pero no tengo otra opción. Iré mañana. Recen por mí.

I reread all this (in reference the aforementioned interview). I fear for my life. I am surrounded. Unfortunately, I must return for another sweet dessert. It can be a trap, I know, but I have no choice. I'll go tomorrow. Pray for me.

Sure I miss my Lower East Side empanadas, which came with a side of Boricua slang, but it turns out conspiracy intellect complements the savory pastries just as well. Plus L'Avia sells bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon or champagne for €4.50. I really can’t afford not to eat here.

London, Bristol & Slide Rocks

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 11:27:00 +0000

Some times you want go to a place where everybody knows your name. Other times you’ll settle for a place where two people know your name.

The latter is exactly why I went to England, the only place in Europe where someone actually knows me (aside from the person I'm engaged to). Also, the whole wanting-to-see-England-at-some-point-in-my-life thing motivated the trip.

In an effort to not forget where I came from, I used an American invention called the airplane to get from Barcelona to London. Then I took a grip of public transit to get from London Gatwick to my friend Carl’s apartment at 2:30 am.

In addition to knowing my name, Carl is a super nice person, who gave me a lot of sight-seeing advice despite the fact that he had to be up and ready for work at 6 am. Once I got up, I hit the first-time-in-the-city staples of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. Both got an "ehh" from me, but that might just because I'm from a land where Big Bens generally suck.

Then I walked into what I thought was Tate Modern, but really was Tate Britain. The highlight was a massive concave mirror that flipped everything backward (or in mirror-talk would it be an “un-mirror image?”) and upside down. It’s true what they say about funhouse mirrors being much better in Britain.

After a heavy-ass porkchop meal paired with a local chocolate milk, I headed to the Imperial War Museum. The museum featured a walk-through trench warfare exhibit, which was fun. They also had a room that shook so you could feel what it was like to be in a bunker during a German blitzkrieg attack. The old adage about NFL Blitz ’99 being more fun than a simulated blitzkrieg attack also rings true.

I then bounced to Camden, which I felt was just like NYC’s St. Mark’s Place, except it was 20 times St. Mark's size and lacked a pair of 2 Bros. It did have a shitty pizza stand that sold me some deliciously mediocre garlic bread, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

I spent the next day in Carl’s neighborhood of Haggerston, home to Haggerston Park, which is home to Hackney City Farm, which is home to some interesting livestock. After observing the collection of sows and goats, I watched a little kid chase after a hen, which was even more adorable than it sounds.

Before exiting the farm, I picked up a pair of Hackney City Farm mugs for Carl as a thanks-for-giving-me-a-roof-to-sleep-under/house-warming gift, and I picked up a HCF t-shirt for myself. If you find yourself wondering if this is the same Hackney London that is the hometown of Idris Elba who played Stringer Bell on the The Wire, well you’d be correct. You’d also be right in thinking that the street cred of the mugs and shirt has sky-rocketed (on the streed cred index that exists in my head) since I learned they can be loosely associated with Stringer Bell.

After leaving the farm, I sat on a bench and watched 7-year-olds play soccer. Their coach made the entire trip to London worth it as he stood in midfield instructing the kids while chain smoking. I really wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t have my camera on me. I also realized it’s probably best not to take a picture of a group of 7-year-old boys you have no relation to.

Post park, Carl and his girlfriend walked me along a canal which recently turned up actress’ torso. Fortunately I was able to concentrate on the innocent little kids chasing hens and not lose my faith in world where brother mutilate their siblings before dumping them in canals. That is until those innocent little kids grow up to be Stringer Bell.

After a quick bout of canal mourning we loaded up on a silly amount of delicious food from a farmer’s market and enjoyed the spoils of our foodie tour with a picnic in the park. Carl and I then tossed a frisbee back and forth and talked about great TV shows. I then had some epiphany about how I can hang out with friends in England and talk about TV or sit on my mom's couch and talk about TV. The epiphany is still only 25% thought out.

That night I bounced to Bristol, to meet up with my former roommate in Buenos Aires, Tom, who's actually a Scot who lives in England. On Tom’s Wikipedia page that exists solely in my head, he’s listed as the only one of my friend’s that I’ve seen on three continents.

If you’ve ever spent a lot of time at an office job reading New York Times 36 Hours in ____, and fantasized about traveling to a non-major city that doesn’t have a whole lot to do but has some pretty things to look at, well Bristol would be a good place to start your travels.

It’s also true that you don’t really get Massive Attack or Portishead until you’ve been to Bristol. Even if your only familiarity with both groups comes from Wiki-ing Bristol and realizing both groups are from Bristol. The same goes for Banksy. And to a lesser extent suspension bridges over gorges.

Tom lives in the neighborhood of Stokescroft, which is famous for the Tesco riots, which occurred when the chain grocery store opened in the uber-indie neighborhood. Please enjoy these photos from the riot. There is also a massive mural encouraging everyone to boycott the Tesco, because, hey, 93% of everyone is doing it…

As a long-time advocate of chain grocery stores, I visited the Tesco. However I later atoned by having a meal at Cafe Kino, a vegan restaurant co-op where the workers volunteer their time. I still don’t get it. And the food was pretty much sucked. If you’re in Stokescroft, I’d recommend sticking to the six-pack of cinnamon-raisin bagels from Tesco, it’s a much better bang for your buck.

Bristol claims to be the most bike-friendly town in England. And it was, except that I had difficulty going against 25 years of instincts that tell me to look out for cars coming from the right side of the road. I really could have used that mirror from London that flips everything around, but I somehow managed to survive without it.

Biking along Bristol’s docks is very pretty, as is having a pint on the Grain Barge while the sun sets.

I also cycled along the Bristol-to-Bath bikepath, which aside from rhyming nicely, is a very easy 14-mile ride connecting the two towns. Bath is famous for its Roman bath, which was better than I thought it would be despite the fact that you cannot actually bathe in the bath. The rest of Bath is rather lame and filled with tourist-trap shit geared toward 60-year-old women.

Somehow I lived 20+ years in Arizona, yet never went to Slide Rock. Yet within 24 hours of being in Bristol, I hit up their slide rock, which isn’t quite as pretty as Sedona’s, but it does have the suspension bridge backdrop.

This is my first encounter with slide art.

This is some bullshit Greenway in London that doesn't have a 64th St. or Fry's.

This is a photo of a photo of a man eating eel. I ate eel in London, but not like that.

I like that they board up housing project windows with faces.

A pretty dock in Bristol.

Sandwiches.

Roman Bath in Bath.

Wow. What an exquisite early Banksy piece.

An Illuminating Interview

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 18:45:00 +0000

Here's my Gelf Magazine interview with professional funny person Mark Sam Rosenthal. Mark Sam's a Comedy Central writer, who also makes plays that look good from the short YouTube highlights I've seen.

The concept behind his most recent play I Light Up My Life is brilliant. Despite having starred in a Travelocity commercial (which only ran in the UK, and recently was declared the 44th gayest ad ever) and acted in a porno, Mark Sam still hadn't quite "made it big" (in the "become a mega-celebrity" way, not in reference to his porn career. Aaayyoo). So Mark Sam decided to create his own glowing preemptive celebrity autobiography and then adapt the novel -- one that only exists in his head -- into a play that would further glorify his life.

I didn't know about his play when I lived in NYC, which is unfortunate. Especially my last theater experience left a bad taste in my mouth as when I went to see Killing John Grisham, it was actually really good, despite my general disdain for theater. The terrible part is that Killing John Grisham was written by a kid my age, which of course made me resent him and hate myself for not having accomplished what he had. Even worse, I wrote KJG's creator, who is Sarah's friend, a very complimentary Facebook message. The bastard never wrote me back. All that to say I wish my last NYC play could have been Mark Sam's and not the other guy's... and I'm still bitter.

Tangent aside, Mark Sam is really nice, not just because he wrote me back... well mainly because he wrote me back and made for a entertaining interview. Additionally the article also let me work in one of my favorite shitty-and-vaguely homophobic jokes, which I got to use in that beautiful window that was right after New York legalized gay marriage and before I got engaged. A time when I could tell Sarah that I never wanted to get married because "that shit is for homos." Let the record show that I'm all for homosexuals and I hope they one day have the same amount, if not more, rights than heterosexuals -- I was just very fond of my own joke, thus proving why I should leave all humor to professional comedians.

For Cambridge & K.R.I.T.

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 14:59:00 +0000

I know absolutely nothing about the rapper Big K.R.I.T., except that my friend Cambridge Steve really, really likes him; and that K.R.I.T.’s Wikipedia page is underwhelming by a rapper’s standards.

I'm not sure Steve still reads my blog because 1) it’s hard to follow a site that sporadically updates every two years, and 2) Steve goes to med school at Penn. So I imagine my infrequent gibberish takes a backseat to the more pressing issues of exams and listening to K.R.I.T.’s bevy of mixtapes.

However, if Steve or Big K.R.I.T. are reading this, I want you both to know that I’m thinking of you as I snack on these surprisingly buttery Krititas.

I’m also thinking about assembling a coffee table book composed of the silliest entries on rappers’ Wikipedia pages. But I’m more focused on figuring out where my next bottle of Krititas will come from.

Boring Baloncesto

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 06:12:00 +0000

Because up-to-the-second sports updates are for suckers, here is a recount from a meaningless game I went to 40 days ago. Yes, Ricky Rubio used to play for this team, he doesn't any more, but his picture is still better than anything I shot from the game.

Upon walking into the Palau Blaugrana, a badly dated stadium that sits in the shadows of the gigantic football stadium Camp Nou, you get the feeling that even though the basketball club, and every sport under the FCB umbrella, share the mantra "Mes Que Un Club;" really they're all a bit more "Menos Que Un Club" in comparison to the one that counts Leo Messi as its star.

But I'm a basketball fan first and living on a tight budget as well, so it made sense to see a basketball game, before I dove into the madness of FC Barcelona soccer/fútbol/futbol. This is despite the fact that the biggest star currently on the FCB basketball roster is Juan Carlos Navarro. The man spent just one year in the NBA playing for the Memphis Grizzlies in 2008, where he averaged 10.9 points and some other boring stats. But more importantly it was there that he played under Marc Iavaroni, whose son once jammed out in high school guitar sessions with my friend Sep. Boom! Five degrees of separation.

Unfortunately I wouldn’t get to see Juan Carlos as he was sitting the game out because the Liga-leading FCB were playing the league's shittiest team, UCAM Murcia (as of today they're 17th in the 18-team league).

I bought the cheapest ticket figuring I'd be able to upgrade my seat once I got in, but the Catalans are crafty I tell ya, and I was sat in a section that was separated by a 20-foot jump from the rest of the stadium. My seat was directly next to Sang Culé, one of two crazed fan sections loaded with flags, drums, and people who gave much more of a shit about the game than everyone else in the stadium.

The game itself was wildly boring. UCAM Murcia kept it close for the first five minutes before FCB’s B-squad began blowing them out. The only player on FCB who was fun to watch was CJ Wallace, not Biggie’s kid, but rather an anglo-looking dude who went to Princeton. He was the only American on the team, and appropriately enough, he was the only one to be wearing a silly arm sleeve. The only other thing of note for the game was that FCB’s roster includes Boniface N’Dong, which I guess is kinda funny.

FCB lead by 40+ for most of the game. I tried talking to this guy next to me about the team and basketball in Barcelona. The guy was more concerned with telling me about the time his 14-year-old son made six consecutive threes for his high school. And honestly that tale was much more exciting than anything we saw on the court that night.

Circ Training

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 16:03:00 +0000

“Are you a professional circus performer?” asked the receptionist of La Central del Circ.

“No,” I responded, just before I died a little bit inside.

I never thought I wanted to be a circus performer, but that was until I discovered Barcelona’s circus performer training center tucked in El Parc del Forum. It was there that my eyes were opened to a world where people swing from giant hula hoops suspended 30 feet in the air, or dangle themselves from giant ropes over foam pits that I thought only existed in Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory.

I grabbed every brochure available at La Central, then made a resolve (that I’ll probably not keep) to one day try out the guest pass that the kind receptionist told me was available to circus pros as well as mortals.

I left the building astounded and terribly frustrated that I was not a part of this not-so secret society. Everyone there was so happy. It’s the only part of Barcelona where nobody locks their bikes because circus performers don’t steal from one another and it would be stupid to try to steal a member's bike because you can’t escape from somebody on stilts.

I began venting my frustration toward Sarah, who wears the oversized-inseam pants that are popular here. I resorted back to middle-school derogatory terms and called her a poser for dressing like the hippie performers despite her inability to balance herself on one arm.

Then I channeled my anger into a massive hamster wheel that sits just outside La Central. More so than the shitty education, I’m upset that the US school system didn’t provide every school with a human-sized hamster wheel.

But wait El Parc del Forum tiene mas!!! I’m yet to visit the park on a weekend or in season, but every time I go, I'm blown away.

It has a ridiculously big urban obstacle course.

A faux-halfpipe that stretches for a mile.

That really impressive solar panel pictured in the top of this post.

A zipline that pulls wakeboarders. If I don't become a circus performer (something that has 100% chance of happening), I'd be happy to be the guy who sits on the water all day, listening to rap music, while controlling the zipline. His job seemed really nice.

An overpriced ride that involves rolling down a hill in an inflatable ball.

My friend here told me the whole park was built for an art installation that featured a four-story-tall robot, but Google and Wikipedia can’t back this claim up (however there is good stuff in here). I’m also a little weary because if Spain ever got their hands on Robosaurus technology, I’m pretty sure it would have been a big story in the States.

Donkeys, Dancing & Hot Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 15:47:00 +0000

I haven't a clue how someone could ever throw out such a lovable-looking stuffed donkey. But at least they gave it a nice final resting place.

###

If you enjoy The Hora, but feel it is an elitist dance meant only for those privileged enough to have access to chairs... well then, you'll love La Sardana. Catalunya's regional dance involves all the fun of circular formations made by holding hands, but with far more limited movement, and none of that chair bullshit.

My first interaction with the exotic dance began when I noticed a band of 10 wind instruments set up in a plaza. Actually, I don't quite remember if there were exactly 10 wind instruments, but Wikipedia tells me that's the norm, so let's roll with it. Just as the music began 20 senior citizens plopped their jackets and purses in a pile and joined hands to begin La Sardana. Just so it's clear, when I say "20 senior citizens," I mean old people, not 20 men with the last name "Citizen."

Soon after the music began, Dave Chappelle's an-instrument-for-every-race theory promptly went into effect. Upon hearing the sound of exactly 10 wind instruments, Catalans crept from every corner to join hands and shuffle their feet about. The highlight was a cane-toting old lady who stood just outside the group doing the dance by herself. When their was a momentary break in the song, she threw her cane in the middle and joined in. We all wept tears of joy.

###

I finally ate at The Dog Is Hot today. This has been something I have been meaning to do for two months now, but all my previous efforts to eat there were foiled by the powerful force known as "Fuck it, I'll just eat a pb&j sandwich and save some money."

I got the Texas Dog (barbacoa, cebolla frita, queso fundido, y bacon) and the Sampa Dog (pure de patatas, maiz, cebolla frita, queso fundido, y patatas paja). Sarah got a chili dog, which is shown on the right. Both were exceptionally good.

Santa Butano

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 09:18:00 +0000

I half-wrote this blog three weeks ago. But now I'm running it now to create some Lost-style tangled timeline. Enjoy.

Sarah and I recently moved from our El Raval digs to a two-bedroom apartment in El Borne. We were quite excited to move from our studio in Raval to a spacious spot in the more upscale barrio of Borne, but we neglected to acknowledge the fact that we were moving into an place with no central heat.

We got instantly screwed when a Siberian cold front slapped us in the face with blistering cold for our first two weeks in the new spot. I quickly learned the life lesson that while an extra bedroom is good for 1) storing empty suitcases 2) hammering out ~60 pushups and ~100 crunches when I want to get ripped but don't feel comfortable getting ripped in front of Sarah (this is an event that occurs once every two weeks, because any more would be overkill), the said bedroom won't keep you warm at night. Or during the day. Or any time.

The house came with a butane-tank powered space heater, which would have been nice if our subletters didn't leave us with an empty tank. My reaction was to buy a couple of shitty, small electronic space heaters instead of investing in one large one. This didn't turn out to be my smartest move ever, but the heaters worked. Sort of.

Finally after days of carrying space heaters from room to room and wearing no less than four layers at any given time, we got more butane... and that's where this story gets mind-bogglingly awesome, at least in my humble opinion.

Getting butane in Spain is not the easiest feet. Well actually it is. But before I get to why it is and istn't, let me rewind one month into a mythical time when I was living in El Raval. Every day while sitting at home, either being sick, having the same existential crisis I could/would be having at an office desk, and/or generally enjoying myself and actually realizing how great Barcelona is, I'd hear an inaudible chant. The scream came at all hours of the day. At first I thought it was futbol related, then I thought it might be mosque-y.

Finally one day I was outside and I heard the chant, I immediately stopped an old lady and asked her what this mysterious chanting dude was saying.

She told me he was selling butane and yelling "Betano" because he couldn't pronounce "Butano." Mystery solved. This felt especially great because when you have no job and next to no purpose in life, you got to take the small victories when you can. Deciphering the chant... Solid. Spending the entire day to run an errand that I would've achieved during my lunch break at work... Fuck yeah. The time I found a 1-euro coin on the ground. I'm really killing it!

Yet during my time in Raval, the daily chants of "Betano" meant nothing to me, since I had central heating and didn't own a hot air balloon.

Before we got our current apartment and before the deep freeze of 2012, the subletter explained that I'd be needing to get Butano to power the stove, hot water heater, and space heater. It was a fairly simple process, listen for Sr. Butano, call him up the apartment, don't by any means let him in the apartment, give him a cup of water (if you're feeling kind), and give him 20 euros.

Yet somehow we could never track down Sr. Butano. Days would pass and we'd never hear him. Or we'd hear the loud clinking -- in Borne, the Butano guys have evolved past chanting, to banging a wrench against the dull-orange steel tanks -- and I'd jump onto our terrace only to not be able to see the guy.

Finally on one faithful day, the stars aligned in the same beautiful way those four carbon atoms align with 10 hydrogen atoms, and Sr. Butano was on my block the same time I was home. I heard the loud clanking, quickly leapt for the balcony, and contacted him from six floors up. The last time I was this giddy was just before I bit into my final Chic-Fil-A sandwich in the States.

Within moments of buzzing him in, the featherweight guy had ascended six flights of steep steps to arrive at my door. I still have no fucking clue how he got up so quickly while carrying an insanely heavy steel tank.

As instructed I had a glass of water waiting for him. He gave me the tank. I handed him the empty one and a 20€ bill. It was like some kind of reverse Santa where instead of coming down the chimney, this magical man came up 96 steps.

Maybe it was because the deep freeze altered our brains, but this was one of the greatest experiences of our short Spanish trip. I was amazed he drank the water and everything worked exactly as our subletter said it would. Sarah was amazed we'd have heat. The whole process was entirely too much fun. Sarah asked if we could buy butano every day. If only we could.

Now we have an underwhelming butane space heater that works about the same as the electric space heaters, except now I get to worry about what continuously inhaling butane fumes is doing to my brain. All I can do is pray that never corrects the out of control saratonin levels that Sr. Butano induced.

A • M • I • G • O • S

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 10:31:00 +0000

Sarah and I have no friends. At least none that live in the same country as us. We'd like to have friends because we only talk to each other and it's gotten to the point where I often have conversations with inanimate objects around the apartment. This isn't so bad because some times I practice my Spanish with the washing machine, but it's still far from ideal.

Besides our supremely high standards for any form of an acquaintance, our lack of friends comes from me being an introvert and the language barrier constantly foiling Sarah's outgoingness. Also the fact that we stay in most nights and watch The Wire doesn't help. I've been to two MeetUp.com meet-ups in hopes of making a friend, but both the events kinda sucked in my humble opinion.

I've made a semi-friend in the form of a local art gallery owner who's originally from California. He's a really, really nice guy, but he's got two kids, a real life, and is almost twice my age , which means he probably doesn't have the time or interest to sit around and breakdown every lyric of Murs' 3:16 The 9th Edition.

But Sarah and I almost have a friend in Kia, who we met two weeks ago at a grow shop, which is of course the best place to meet new friends. She's Italian, but speaks fluent English, so we can communicate easily. After Sarah and her talked for a while, the two exchanged numbers, which meant we might actually see her again.

The following Monday Sarah texted her to invite her over for dinner. Then we anxiously waited... and waited for a response, getting to relive all the pre-relationship fun of intensely over thinking a text message.

Finally she responded and said she couldn't do dinner, but she'd come over afterward. Perhaps we were too forward with the dinner invite. Maybe she wasn't ready for a full-on dinner date. Either way we were ecstatic that she at least wanted to hang out with us, so we played it cool by waiting a good 20 minutes before texting her back.

Then she out-cooled us, by not texting back until 9:30 that night to let us know she was on her way. I'm not sure how else to break down the fascinating facts I learned about Kia, than by jotting down a "Top 7 Interesting Things About Kia List."

7. She says "Mama Mia!" a lot. I didn't think real-life Italians, let alone ones that weren't fat old ladies, actually said "Mama Mia!"

6. She spent good part of the night telling us about some Avatar-style Italians who live in trees and fight the government.

5. She couldn't do dinner because she was fasting for Shiva, a Hindu holiday that apparently forbids eating.

4. She grew up in Turin, Italy but has since lived in Copenhagen, Berlin, and various parts of Spain. Her primary factor in determining where she lives is the country's laws concerning marijuana.

3. She chain smokes weed, hash, or hash-and-weed joints. I've met people who smoke all of the aforementioned drugs, but I've never met anyone who immediately lights another joint after smoking her fourth in 30 minutes.

2. In a manner that can only be related to the way magician pulls a 20-foot-long tissue out of his pocket, Kia sat down, then began to pull at least 10 different bags of pot, hash, and pre-rolled joints from various parts of her bra.

1. She has not gone to school since she was 16. Now at the age of 26, she's going back to school for the first time. What kind of school you ask? A music production/DJ academy in Ibiza.

Sarah and I still are not sure if Kia actually wants to be our friend or just our drug dealer, but either way we're going to keep buying grams off her 5 euro at a time until she stops hanging out with us.

USA! USA! USA!

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 15:35:00 +0000

Any American who has ever lived outside of the United States will tell you the best part of being abroad is gaining access to whole new collection of shitty, geo-targeted advertisements.

While ads for super-compact cars and local cellular service providers don't particularly move me, this one made me want to blast some Lee Greenwood and hang the Stars and Stripes from my terrace's railing*.

Granted, I'm a 1-year veteran of the advertising industry, so I can appreciate the ad that much more than the common man. However, I think we all can enjoy its subtle way of saying, "Get the fuck over to the USA (and do it legally too, so we can charge you accordingly). Or else we will topple your pawn-ass country!" Plus what better selling points are there than the promise of "Freedom, liberty and justice for all."

---

*Catalans don't hang much from their window railings except for laundry, but every day I fight the urge to take what I learned from NYC's Dominican/Puerto Rican population and drape my homeland's flag outside my apartment. There really is no better way to let everyone know that while I love Barcelona, I come from the land of DMX, Larry David, and other awesome human beings.

Because I'm American I dream big (and because I work 2 hours a week, I have a lot of time to dream), so once I can get more of my friends to move over here, I plan on using Brooklyn's Hewes Street model (see below) to really let the masses know what's up. That being said, I will do the right thing and follow the official ratio of 8 foreign flags for every 1 domestic flag, because I wouldn't want to offend anyone. And I'm not a dick.

Unlimited Sitting

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Adler) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 13:28:00 +0000

I spent four days in Amsterdam where I was blown away by their progressive way of life. But what impressed me most was how they found a way to recycle the lime green couches used in cricKet wireless' early-2000s commercials.