Dia de los Inocentes

16 Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked by the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth and slew all the children who were in Bethlehem and in all the region thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently inquired of the wise men.
17 Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremiah the prophet, saying,
18 "In Ramah was there a voice heard, lamentation and weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and would not be comforted, because they are no more."
Matthew 2:16-18 (21st Century King James Version)

As the story goes, the Three Wise Men stopped by King Herod’s place asking for directions to the birthplace of Jesus, the King of the Jews. King Herod, himself being the King of Judea thus the King of the Jews, understood that this put his title into jeopardy. Not quite understanding the purpose of the the Three Wise Men’s visit he asked if they knew where Jesus was, so that he could worship him (you’ll remember from the previous sentence that they had stopped by to ask him that very same question) with the intentions of killing him. One thing leads to another, the Wise Men dream of Herod’s intentions and an angel visits Joseph and Mary giving them a head’s up and a chance to flee to Egypt. Herod, one step behind the rest, proceeded with his infanticide intentions, but unable to find the infant of choice decides to just randomly go after all of the male children two years old or under. This became the Massacre of the Innocents which allegedly took place on December 28, 0000. The result of the massacre varies from 6, according to the 1910 version of The Catholic Encyclopedia, to 64,000, by an early Syrian count.

Somewhere along the way the slaughter of innocent children became cause for pranks and the tossing of water balloons and eggs on unsuspecting passers-by. The belief, to the best of my understanding, is that the slain children of Herod are often considered the first martyrs for Christ (an act which an all likelihood was underappreciated as Christ was just 3 days old and not in any condition to be receiving martyrs). So, as it stands when on December 28 a child hurls an egg in one’s direction, that child is considered innocent or without sin and is not to be scolded or reprimanded. Ultimately it has become a watered down version of April Fool's Day.
(I should clarify my use of "watered-down" to mean that it isn't as highly recognized as April Fool's Day. In fact the only celebration of it that I have seen is more in the pueblos and less in the cities).

Merry Christmas/Feliz Navidad/Bon Nadal

A Link to an Eloquent Piece on Why Jeffy is a 'bag

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Quite Possibly the Greatest Guitar Solo of All Time

c/o St. Sanders (and A. Moritz)

The Four Horsemen Are Nigh

Evidently, Chuck Norris will be solely responsibly for giving Walker, Texas Ranger style ass whoopin’s to anyone trying to cross the border into the US of A, should Mike Huckabee become President.
My thoughts, personally, I think Chuck is kind of old to be running around the Southern and Northern borders to be administering ass whoopin’s. He might need a helper…I smell a Steven Seagal advert sequel.

What’s the bit about being a lifelong hunter? Am I supposed to equate that with securing the borders or was there a topic change? …I smell an Elmer Fudd advert sequal.

Alright, I've Officially Picked My Pony in This Race

The only thing missing was for him to slam the mic to the ground and to rhetorically scream out, "CAN YOU SMELL WHAT BARACK IS COOKING??!!!"
This is a speech he gave on Saturday November 10 in Des Moines. You can feel as his passion and even rage feeds off the crowd who are going out of their damn minds with ecstatic glee.
This video is quite long (20 minutes or so) but it is well worth your time.



Taken from You Tube via Crooks and Liars

"We're not birds, we're a jugband"

Rabid otters are on the attack. Officials warn residents to avoid local jugband performances.

The above posting from Fark reminded me of this:



I don't suppose anyone knows if this was ever released on DVD.

"Por que no te callas?" or "Why won't you shut up?"

There was something refreshing about King Juan Carlos's ability to step in and take control of the situation. Chavez's mic had already been cut as he continued to interrupt Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero by slinging insults about Spain's former Prime Minister Aznar(Zapatero's political counterpoint).
The situation itself doesn't make much sense. Aznar (the former Prime Minister) lost the election in 2003 and wasn't even at the conference. I'm not sure what Chavez was trying to accomplish by even bringing his name up.

This Guy's Not Even Trying Anymore

http://www.newsfollowup.com

Washington Republican Representative Jim Dunn is brought up on sexual harrassment charges. His response was that he was "sure it was very inappropriate, because I do that kind of thing."

Kudos to you Jim Dunn for at least sparing us the bullshit rehab spin.

http://www.komotv.com/news/11042746.html

item taken from:

http://www.fark.com/

My "NFL who gives-a-shit-itus" has been potentially resolved

Under normal circumstances I could care less about the NFL. The problem is that I never really had a team to root for. Initially I tried to be a Bears fan, but that didn't work because really I just wanted them to get done playing so the Cubs could come back on. Then I went on to the Dolphins. That was a bleak tenure. For Christmas one year someone had bought me a Dan Marino Starting Lineup figure, so I assumed that I should like the Dolphins. It didn't last long. Then I went for the Broncos, but that was only in preparation for one day wanting to move to Colorado. It pretty much ended when the Broncos started winning superbowls and I realized that I didn't really give a shit.
I may have finally found a team. Hear me out on this. The only thing that I have been hearing about this season is the Colts/Patriots match-up that took place yesterday. I have been hearing about this throw down since September and I just wanted the damn thing to be over so my sportscast podcasters would talk about something else (like if the Cubs get a shortstop what are they going to do with Theriot). As the anticipation built up I really got tired of hearing about the Patriots, specifically. As the day got even closer I found myself really wanting the Colts to win, just because I was tired of hearing about the Patriots.
This morning I woke up and immediately checked the sports section hoping that the Colts had slaughtered the Patriots. They didn't, but they only lost by 4. After reading the articles I scrolled down to read the comments which were littered with Patriots lovers and Colts haters. In fact on the Fox Sports article, I couldn't find a single comment in support of the Colts. So, dammit that's where I go. I realize that I'm a Johnny-Come-Lately and am one season behind in relishing in my team's championship win, but I am here and now declaring myself a Colts fan. Somebody has to.
(yea Colts)

Barack Obama on SNL

This past summer I went to see Barack Obama speak in Iowa. It was one of the better speeches that I have seen. He was quick and to the point. There wasn't much by way of intentional pandering or speech scripted applause moments. Afterwards he took questions from the crowd. Many of the questions were designed to engage him in debate or clarification of previous statements, he handled it all rapidly and succinctly, including a response for the woman who tried to shout him down by comparing his stance on certain issues to Hillary's and then telling him that she was a better candidate.

I haven't yet decided on who I would have voted for in the upcoming caucus in January (which is moot point since I won't in Iowa to particpate this year), but each time I see and hear Barack, I like him more and more.

c/o A. Moritz

Kanye West - "Can't Tell Me Nothing"

I first saw this video with my brother in Chicago. The addition of both Zack Galifinakis and Will Oldham is within itself pure genius. Galifinakis used to have a talk show which was good, but impossible to find because they kept changing the times. Some of it is available on You Tube. Will Oldham is a singer-songwriter who performs as Will Oldham, Palace and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy.

The End of the World

Do Nihilists Cry? (Sure Al Can Mend the Hole in the Sky, but Can He Mend the Hollow in my Sigh?)

Postings have been few and far between lately. Sorry.

The Cubs lost in the first round of the playoffs to the Arizona Diamondbacks. I guess it doesn’t matter…we all knew they would.

It’s October in Spain and it is sunny and warm. Leaves don’t fall, pretty soon they won’t grow anymore either. Valencia is soon to be suffering from nearly 80% ground surface desertification. They are also building a Formula One track, I think people are more excited about that than they are concerned about the former.

I’ve been listening to Stephen Stills’s new/old album Just Roll Tape: April 26, 1968. I like it, it’s raw and stripped down. It’s just him and his acoustic guitar. The story as I understand it, he was working on a Judy Collins album and she had wrapped it up with a few hours left over on her studio rental. Stills used the rest of her time to record some of his own tracks. In 1978 the studio was being torn down and an engineer was given free reign to whatever tapes were left in the studio. He found a reels with Stills’s name on them. He salvaged them and turned them over to Gram Nash, who turned them over to Stephen Stills and convinced him to release them. Again as I understand it these are the earliest recordings of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”, “Black Queen”, “Helplessly Hoping” and “Wooden Ships”.

I’ve also been listening to Iron and Wine’s new album The Shepherd’s Dog. It’s an allegory for something, I just haven’t put it together yet.

I’ve never read The Scarlet Letter. I’m reading that now. I just finished The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter. I don’t read enough female authors. My wife also complains that I don’t listen to enough female musicians…I think she’s right.

I just signed up for lastfm.com you can check out my page at http://www.last.fm/user/InnaSenseAbroad/

Emilio came and took away all of the furniture. I’m supposed to throw away the rest. Those seem like perfectly good chairs to me, but what the hell; they’re not mine. They’re kind of wobbly, but so is the new furniture I have spent the last week putting together. I got a hot dog from Ikea, they put it together for me.

They’re going to build an Ikea in Valencia next year. People are excited about that, but not as excited as they are about the Formula One track.

By the way if you are ever in Valencia, stop by Amsterdam Records in Nuevo Centro. Buy something, keep him in business. http://www.arrakis.es/~jvitoria/Amsterdam/

Hey Frankie, thanks for the beer. http://www.myspace.com/cafeinfinito

The Bluetones play Slight Return on Later with Jools Holland

*** note the camera pulling away from ZZ Top as it pans over to The Bluetones.

ZZ Top playing Cheap Sunglasses on The Old Grey Whistle Test (1980)

Yo La Tengo is taken to Rock School by Mr. Show (1997)

www.toothpastefordinner.com

Max Roach (1924-2007)

Revolutionary jazz drummer Max Roach passed away a few weeks ago. Incidentally he died on the same date did Elvis Presely, but I don't imagine that they will be rolling out honorary candy bars in his absence. (Over the summer Reese's saw the release of a Reese's Peanut Butter and Banana Cup in honor of Elvis being dead for 30 years. Apparently Elvis was a big peanut butter and banana sandwhich fan, as to the candy bar...it wasn't a pleasant experience.)
Max Roach is known for his work with Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis and Charlie Parker.

There is an article eulogizing him in Slate by Fred Kaplan which refers to a 7 minute hi-hat solo he did on The Tonight Show when Bill Cosby was guest hosting. Here he is with bassist Tommy Potter.

Naked Hoops

Yard Fitness commerical
(c/o D. Ryan)

Trunk Monkey

The Trunk Monkey Compilation

(c/o D. Ryan)

Something about Grocery Stores (Here vs. There)

Several years ago I lived in Cambridge, England as part of a college exchange program. More than the history and culture of my surroundings, I was drawn in by the contents of the local grocery stores. I was amazed at the options of flavors available to me that I had spent 20 years unaware of. Apparently there are fruits called currant and they come in red and black. To this day I have no idea what they are, but they make for a tasty candy flavor. There was also a grapefruit flavored soda called Lilt that I enjoyed. In retrospect it tasted horrible, but at the time it was a soda flavor I had yet to experience and that was good enough for me. I live in Spain now and I am just as intrigued by the supermarkets as I was then. Having had worked in a grocery for 4 years from the age of 14 on, there is a certain familiarity and comfort to the structure and organization of a grocery store. There is also something to be said for culturally reading a country by the products on the shelves.



I drink a lot of milk, but I am particular to what kind of milk I will drink. I prefer it to be fresh and in the neighborhood of 1%-2%. In Spain fresh milk can be a chore to come by. I have so far found only two supermarkets that carry it (Consum and Carrefour). The choices available to me are 2% and whole, yet neither of these is kept on the shelves in abundance leaving me with milk every other time I go to the store. When this happens my other option is milk in a box. This is “milk” that is capable of sitting on a shelf unopened for months, quite possibly for years. It has a distinctive buttery taste and it is thinner than milk should be (skim milk, take notice). When I had first moved to Spain, before I discovered that fresh milk was available, I had quit drinking it because I couldn’t bring myself around to drinking aged, warm boxed milk. I did give it a fair chance, it was necessary for my cereal. What I would do is try to eat my cereal without ever actually letting the spoon or the milk touch the tip of my tongue. I would do all the necessary chewing and salival break down processing on the back of my tongue where I could only catch a hint of the sabor. After a while this got to be difficult and ridiculous, so I gave up cereal for toast. It was to my delight when I discovered fresh milk and was able to bring cereal back into my morning routine. This of course brought me to my next dilemma, variety.



I could easily get a different type of cereal every time I go to the grocery store and not repeat myself for a year. To walk down the cereal aisle of Hy-Vee or Cub Foods is a testament to the creative genius of man. There are chocolate and strawberry flavored cereals. There are cereals with chunks of chocolate or strawberries in them. Peanut butter, honey, apple, blueberry, cinnamon, chocolate chip cookies and yogurt all have their own cereals. From Mr. J.H. Kellogg to Mr. C. Crunch cereal has been on the cutting edge of just how far Americans are willing to go in the quest for variety. We will eat cereal that tastes like cinnamon toast. We will eat cereal that comes from invented fruit (the crunchberry). Yet, we do have our limits. For instance we will not eat orange juice flavored cereal (OJ Crunch and Orange Blossom Cereal). Nor will we eat ice-cream flavored cereal (Ice Cream Jones). In Spain, I have found is not nearly so adventurous. Variety for me there means one month I eat Special K from the white box and the next month I eat Special K from the red box.




Variety, however, may have gotten out of hand in the United States. Once upon a time flavors were familiar. My favorite as a child was always cherry and cherry was always red. In my teen years cherry was overtaken by grape in the Great Taste Bud Wars and grape was purple. The surprise victor in the end was lime, much to the chagrin of my former self for whom anything green went straight to the garbage or the dog. Color/flavor identification however seems to be a thing of the past, firmly placed in the ground by the likes of Gatorade (purple = Riptide Rush???) and other assorted sports drinks. In Spain, as I have opined before (“Lamentation of the Peanut Butter Kit Kat”, September 9, 2006), the only choice of flavors are generally lemon or orange (this includes Gatorade).




Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser goes into detail about the process of creating artificial flavors and the fact that cherry flavored anything has nothing to do with anything cherry related. Tastes and smells are all manufactured in a factory in New Jersey reminiscent of the drop off point from Being John Malkovich’s brain (I don’t remember if that is referenced in Schlosser’s book or if that was just the image that came into my head when I read it). The fact that they have limited their artificial flavor chemical intake to only those chemicals used in lemon and orange might have something to do with the fact that the life expectancy of the average Spaniard is 2.2 years greater than the average American.
I have come to terms with the simplicity of grocery shopping in Spain. What was at one time a journey has since become run-through. I will admit to boredom with certain items, but this isn’t always a bad thing. I rarely drink soda anymore. It has been replaced by soda water with a lime. This wasn’t a health conscious decision; I had simply gotten bored with Coke or Fanta and wanted something different. By the same token the colorful double stuffed Oreo cookies are no longer available to me. They have been replaced by packets of four single stuffed. Where at one time I could unconsciously gorge myself on an unlimited number of cookies and a large glass of milk has now been restricted to four and Oreos lack in interior sugary white stuff, they make up for in price. They aren’t cheap in the States, but they are expensive here. It’s easier to just forgo the cookie in general.




Opportunities abound in the American supermarket. Surrounded by choices, varieties and flavors one is required to be an active participant in the shopping experience, if only to be sure that the correct items are being placed in the cart. I am generalizing here, but there is the occasional Spanish kid who believes that he will grow up to be a soccer star. But this is few and far between compared to the current generation of “Pimp My Ride”, film my 16th birthday party, reality TV whoring American youth. I see this in my day to day interaction with Spanish high school students as I saw this a few years ago in my day-to-day interaction with American high school students. I see this when I watch Spanish television which is content to talk about the stars and less concerned about being one of them. I see this in the grocery stores where the flavors and smells remain familiar; yellow means lemon and orange means orange. There is no room for red or purple, especially if it is masking as something that it is not.




http://www.lavasurfer.com/cereal-guide.html

The Five Stages of Death (as illustrated by Giraffe from Robot Chicken)

Brief Explanation Followed by a Brief Absence

I had hoped to finish my Grocery Store bit before this week, but due to extenuating circumstances, it wasn't to be. It will be finished, but it won't be for a few weeks. I'm off to Athens for a spell and then I will return Stateside for a few months.

Something About Grocery Stores (The Prequel)

My first job was detasseling. Anyone from Iowa will know what I’m talking about. I’m not really sure what detasseling is, or it’s purpose, I think that it is essentially corn castration.. The job entails walking up and down acres of cornrows, pulling the tassel off of the corn stalk. Some people would wear gloves to avoid the cuts on the hands that the corn fibres left behind. The seasoned detasslers knew that the gloves just slowed you down. Much of the time the corn is either too high or you are moving too fast to stop and look down for the tassel. Successful detasseling relies on the feel for the tassel and then moving on.



Detasselers live in two worlds. Organized detasseling is set up through various seed corn and corn hybrid companies like Pioneer or DeKalb. The beauty of working for an organized company is that you are guaranteed a paycheck and transportation to and from the field is provided. The downside is, it’s organized and I’m not much of a team player. I prefer to not have some crew boss barking at me to go faster or shattering my already fragile ego based on corn shucking sloppiness.
Freelance detasseling is a pretty sweet gig if you have the motivation to stick with it. Freelance essentially means that you rent out an acre or so (depending on how many are involved) and you are paid based on completion. When you work or how fast you work is entirely up to you.



I was probably about 14 years old when A, M and myself freelanced an acre or so of corn. We had already calculated the amount of money we would earn from our labours and all of the band equipment that we were going to by (we had a pretty stellar band going for a while…nobody could murder a Megadeth song like we could.). I don’t know if I was aware of Ampeg Amps at this time, but if I was I was probably going to buy an Ampeg half stack or something equally tantalizing.
To top it all off the land we were to be working was outside of A´s sister´s farm about 2 and half hours from home. This of course meant that we would be staying with his sister in a big ol´ farmhouse for a few weeks. We had big plans of unsupervised rural debauchery.
What we hadn’t counted on of course was getting our asses kicked by the amount of work we had taken on, the blistering Iowa sun and the stifling Iowa humidity. What I hadn’t mentioned earlier in the organized vs. freelance debate is that if you get on a good organized crew, you would often do your detasseling from a combine-like machine where you would hang from a basket above the corn. This meant no walking. There were no machines in freelance (unless you brought your own). I think we gave it a fair go for about two days.




Day one was solid work and no talking. We got up and went to work at 4am. A’s sister had brought some lunch out for us, which we wolfed down and immediately got back to work going straight on through until the punishment of the midday sun forced us out. We walked back that first day promising to return and get a few more hours in after dinner (Iowa dinners are generally between 6 and 7 pm). It was a good idea, except for our inability to detassel while asleep. None of us was able to make it through dinner without shaking off unconsciousness. Needless to say by 7.30 we were done for.
The enthusiasm had died by the next morning. Four a.m. was a bit of a joke and we slept through until 8 or 9 when A’s sister had to physically force us out of bed. We dawdled all the way to the field secretly hoping that we had been visited by the legendary corncob fairy the night before. There was no such luck. In fact after we had gotten started, it appeared that several of the stalks had grown their tops back. We were again later greeted with a delivered homemade lunch, which we ate a little slower than the day before. Again by midday we were flushed from the fields by the thrushing of the sun. On the way home there was no talk of going back later that night. In fact there was no talking at all.
Having been disenchanted at the lack of progress from the day before, we got up at 4 am again on the third day. The lack of conversation had also carried over from the previous day. We ate our breakfast without speaking and trudged back to the field without speaking. We got to the field, and again without speaking, we got to work.
I don’t remember how it started or who exactly started it, but either M or A began running across the field against the rows taking out large numbers of cornstalks with him. He ran right by me laughing and yelling something. Shortly thereafter came the other one (M or A) depending on who the first passerby was, swearing and shouting. When I finally caught up to them A was pushing M’s face into the fertile black soil. I remember feeling nonchalant about the whole thing. As I looked around at the fallen corn stalks, it struck me as simply less corn that I would need to detassel later. Until somehow, in what can best be described as a rolling cartoonish dust cloud of fighting engulfed me and I was pulled into the kicking, swearing, poking and punching.



It was eventually broken up by the arrival of A’s mother, who was stopping be to check up on her “little farmers”. We abruptly came to our senses noticing for the first time the destruction we had caused. In our thrashing about we had managed to create our own set of crop circles amongst the backdrop of the rolling Iowa hills.
That fight, as it turned out, was going to cost us money. It was later explained to that we would have to continue detasseling the field, but we were going to be receiving far less money than we had initially been promised. This was a let down that lead to a half-assed job. The visions of a rocking home studio gave way to the reality of just simply coming out of this and not having to pay the farmer for letting us toil in his fields. In the end we did such a half-assed job that I had been told later that A’s mother, sister and sister’s husband had gone out to finish up what we couldn’t be bothered to worry about. I never saw any money.



The band had suffered as well. Because A was the band leader, (he was the drummer and we had to play at his house) he kicked M out for getting us in trouble. This ultimately was the demise of the band. It does end on a happy note as A and M reformed a new band a week or so later, but they forgot to call me and accidentally called another bass player instead. I understood, those things happened sometimes.


Stay tuned for Part 2: The Part Where I Actually Talk About Grocery Stores

By Request: He-Man Brokeback Mountain Style (and some additional Robot Chicken)

GI Joe (1st one not safe for work)

GI Joe the cartoon used to run a 30 second PSA after every episode, warning its impressionable young audience of the potential pratfalls and hazards lurking behind each corner.
These are three parodies of the aforementioned PSA's that had me giggling like a little girl.

Not Safe For Work

Courtesey of B. Finn.


The Justice Leage dubbed with a scene from Coming to America. (again probably not safe for work)

Grunge Goes Green

I wrote this piece over a year ago as a fictitious news article. At the time I had just heard about a collection of "What If" stories that had been published (I don't remember the title), I had also been reading Philip Roth who had written an historical fiction of American history if Charles Lindberg had defeated FDR for the presidency. I had decided to take a lighter approach and hit it from a music angle,which was, what if Kurt Cobain hadn't committed suicide. This was supposed to be an exercise in a literary group that I was starting with two other local Irish fellows to bring together the disjointed English writer community in Valencia (it might be a myth). Things didn't quite pan out, as often things don't. It's been written, so I suppose it should be read. There are some random characters in here for you to test your 90's rock star knowledge.
*************************************************************************************


Grunge Goes Green
March 23, 2006

Seattle (AP) --- What ever became of Grunge? Its eleven year absence could have been described as a cooling period, but as of last Monday morning at the 9:00 bell of the NYSE it became official. Grunge is dead.

Grunge was born in Seattle sometime in the late 80’s and the rest of the world was introduced on a cold January night in 1992 when life was breathed into it via a sound stage on Saturday Night Live in New York City and fittingly it was put to rest in NYC as well by the very same man, former 90’s grunge pioneer Kurt Cobain. Cobain has since gone from the mouthpiece of disenfranchised youth, thriving on the pathos that life is misery, to corporate executive by taking his image makeover company Doll Parts, Inc public. Stocks are currently being sold at $68 per share making Doll Parts, Inc (DPTI) instantly worth millions.

Doll Parts began in 1995, in the wake of Nirvana’s last and most successful album to date, the concept double album Clement of Alexandria based on the teachings of the 2nd century moralist and ethicist. Immediately after its release the band inexplicably broke up. Upon seizing all rights and property of Nirvana Cobain began his first venture with the image makeover firm by co-producing the multi-platinum 1996 art rock masterpiece Saffron, reintroducing the 70’s musical super group REO Speedwagon back to the top of the musical charts.

Former Alice In Chains lead singer Layne Staley, and current Starbucks franchise owner of 8 stores around the Seattle area and 6 stores in Billings, Montana, said that he wasn’t at all surprised by Cobain’s move into the corporate world, “Kurt has always had that sixth sense for what to hold onto and when to let it go. Having that inherent perception is the key to success when buying, selling or marketing a product. I mean look at their album Nevermind, which turned the world up on its ears and then four years later to put out something like Clement, that was no accident. He knew what he was doing. People will forever be asking about the Nirvana reunion. No matter what he does from here on out, he will always have that to fall back on.”

Interviews with former music associates, partners and fans have turned up the same lack of surprise at Cobain’s newest business venture.
“He created a sense of hope in this town that anybody could be successful as long as you were true. I came here to be inspired and I was. Look at me now I have a full time job in the center of the coolest place on Earth. I have people that work for me and I have people that respect me. Kurt created this for me and for a lot of other people.” said Gavin Rossdale, night manager of Staley’s Westlake Ave store in downtown Seattle. (Editor’s note: Rossdale has since been deported back to his home country of England for unlawfully working while on an expired visa.)

Stone Gossard, guitarist for the sole remaining successful Grunge era band Pearl Jam, “It’s not enough to have invented the wheel, you’ve got to keep reinventing it in order to survive. Had we not finally parted ways with the record companies and began selling our music exclusively at shows and online, I know that we wouldn’t have lasted as we have. Kurt has always had a sense for that; he has always been able to read the pulse of what was going on around him. Look at what he did for REO Speedwagon. There you have a band that for all intents and purposes should have been dead in the water, but now nine years after he gets his hands on them you can’t turn around without hearing their songs or seeing them in some media format.”

Krist Noveslic, former Nirvana bass player and current United States Congressman for Washington State’s 1st District. “Kurt has created a marketing economy here that easily rivals the tech and software economy. Doll Parts has given a new face to old dogs such as General Electric, Ford Motor Company and Boeing. The jobs created from Ford and GE moving their bases of operations here alone has been tremendous. This doesn’t take into consideration the boost in economy that we have received from the relocation of the Twins from Minnesota and then for the Vikings to immediately follow suit. For the last three years both World Series baseball teams have been from Seattle and last year we saw the first ever Superbowl to be played not only by two teams from the same city, but to be coincidentally hosted in that very city. The energy here has been amazing and that was Kurt, he salvaged the Twins and Vikings, he convinced the public to replace KeyArena with Berthe Knight Landes Field.”
“I frankly don’t know what the hell Grunge is, so I’m certainly not going to say that Kurt killed it. If anything he dispelled the morose image of slacker whininess that somehow got pinned on us. Who’s your slacker now? The son of a bitch is responsible for the continued success of nearly every Fortune 500 west of the Mississippi.” said Dave Grohl, former Nirvana drummer and current front man/songwriter of the multi platinum and Grammy winning band The Foo Fighters.

Spokespeople from Doll Parts, Inc have said that the continued success of the former Nirvana members outside of the band has insured that there will not be a new album or reunion anytime soon.
“Dave has been very successful with The (Foo) Fighters and Krist has launched a successful, and we hope, a long political career. Neither of them is in a position to get back together with Nirvana, nor is either one of them being accused of killing grunge. Kurt is just doing what they are doing and is moving on, he is not responsible for the death of anything.” said Doll Parts stockholder Albert Jorgenson.

Cobain’s company which had initially started out in the music business has announced plans to establish a subsidiary company within the next year that will focus solely on managing the Nirvana catalog as well as recording and producing upcoming releases by REO Speedwagon, The Strokes and Fat, Gristly Beef.

Why Jogging Is Stupid (Part 3: Jogging...and kickboxing and oreo cookies and two old guys who talk in front of my building)

So now I jog. I’m not a jogger per se. Calling myself a jogger would suggest I take it seriously. I don’t know if I take anything seriously enough that I am capable of using a verb to describe myself. In terms of jogging I can quit at any given moment and let’s be realistic, I probably will. (I am a bit of a quitter, which totally discounts my previous statement.) I jog purely for aesthetic purposes. Essentially I jog to stay pretty.

Somewhere along the way I went from the tall, lanky, deathly skinny kid to the tall, lanky kid with the beer belly. It was a style that wasn’t working for me. I had picked up a pretty steady smoking habit somewhere between humiliating myself in the sports arena and waking up in the mornings at the age of 24 and hacking like an old man. I separated myself from cigarettes (one area where I wasn’t a good quitter) by the substitution of Oreo cookies. Whenever I had a craving for a cigarette I would grab a handful of cookies. For the most part it worked, my lungs were getting so healthy that my pants stopped fitting me. I humored my new space consuming lungs for a while and bought new pants and baggy shirts. It was all breathing room for my new lungs.

When I could no longer deny the fact that I was getting fat, I joined a gym. I became a “gym guy”. I tried kickboxing classes. I remember standing around with all of these guys and their greased back ponytails. They were a crossbreed between the Dungeons and Dragons types that were into that role-playing-dragon-fighting nonsense and the hardcore ninja types that have Bruce Lee posters on their dorm room doors. I remember having to partner up for punching and kicking routines. I picked one of the little Dungeon and Dragon elf fellas. He was a little guy with greased back blonde hair, sans the ponytail. He struck me as one of those that was destined to meet his future wife in some on-line fantasy video game.

He introduced himself and seemed friendly enough. I think his name was GorgonBlaster_16, or something along those lines. Gorgon took up the punching bag mitts first in order to properly illustrate where and how the targets were to be held. I started throwing hands like a champ. I was crossing around punching my left into his right and then sending my left into his left. I was keeping him on his toes, letting him know what was going on. He smiled very politely at me throughout the whole ordeal. At one point I began to hear these horrifying wheezing noises. I began to feel sorry for the lad, I sympathized with his fearful hyper ventilation at the raw brutality that was raining down on his padded little hands. It wasn’t until tunnel vision began to set in and my legs and arms began to go wobbly, that I realized I was the one making all the damn noise. Shortly after realization set in, I did something that I’m not proud of and I’m not entirely sure it had ever been accomplished before, but I managed to KO myself. I had been the one throwing all the punches and yet somehow there I was, flat on my back. Amidst the disembodied questions floating around such as, “Dude, did you hit him?”, “What happened?”, and “I didn’t touch him he was the one doing all of the punching.” I quit kickboxing.

On my way out the door I noticed the folks jiggling about on the treadmills. They were all wearing headphones and either listening to music or watching television. I looked beyond them to the sea of stationary bicycles, where people were pedaling like mad to get nowhere in particular. Some of them were reading magazines. I’ll be damned, I could read and exercise. But, after a while my gym-phobia set in and I quit that too.

In the end I was able to keep up consistent cardio workouts, either by jogging outside or just simply walking everywhere I went, especially after moving to Spain where I don’t have a car. The other thing that seemed to have helped was that here you can’t buy Oreo Cookies in those big bags, they give you little rationed packages of four. Apparently, they saw me coming.


So, why is jogging stupid? It occurred to me one day when I went out for a run and two old men were outside my building having a conversation. I got out there in my little shorts, my t-shirt, my sneakers with the little sports socks poking out over the top and I started to run in no particular direction. When I got to my non-destination I turned around to go home. On the way home I got to the train tracks and had to wait for a passing train. I stood in one place doing that ridiculous little running in place motion that I learned from Scooby-Doo cartoons. I watched the people watching me as the train went by and I found myself wondering what they were thinking. The train was going pretty fast, so maybe they didn’t realize that I was running in place and thought that I was running smack into the train. I imagined them trying to press their faces against the windows as they passed to see if I was really stupid enough to run smack into a speeding train. I became self-conscious and I stopped running in place and just stood there watching the train go by as I deeply gulped in its exhaust desperately searching for oxygen.

After the train passed, I had become comfortable in my sedentary motion and slowly trudged across the tracks. Feeling guilty I tried to find my rhythm, but it was gone. I did sort of a run for a bit, walk for a bit thing the rest of the way home. When I finally made it back the two old men were still in their conversation. Twenty-five minutes ago they watched me come out and dash off in one direction, now they watched as I dragged myself back to the door soaking wet and gasping for air. They stopped long enough to enjoy the spectacle. I had managed to end up exactly where I had started. I didn’t really go anywhere. Essentially I just ran home, but considering I was already there I took the really long way to do it and I had witnesses to this insanity.

The Spongemonkeys - "We Like the Moon"

Part 3 of my epic trilogy will be available soon (after I get done grading all of these damn essay that I keep assigning). In the meantime enjoy this classic from The Spongemonkeys.

Why Jogging is Stupid (Part 2: Organized Sports)

I am not a team player. I’m not a team player necessarily because I’m a glory hound. I’m not a team player because more often than not, the team would rather not have me as a player. I don’t think it was part of the natural order of things for someone to be as athletically uncoordinated as I am. I can shoot a basketball with the best of them, I just can’t actually get it to go through the hoop. I’m a champion bat swinger, unless I’ve actually got to hit something and as far as catching a pop fly, I will root myself down underneath the shadow of that son of a bitch and it will bounce off my glove. The ball can be falling down on me in slow motion and I will still manage to close my glove moments before it lands. I wasn’t bad at playing football if you discount my magical fumbling techniques. Croquet pisses me off, ping pong wouldn’t be so bad if the damn ball would just stay on the table, golf is dumb regardless of how many watermills and clown heads you give me to hit through.
I was pretty good at volleyball, I had a wicked serve, but boys aren’t supposed to be good at volleyball so I had gender issues about that one. Not to mention here in Spain it is legal to volley with your feet. What in the hell is it with this country and kicking shit? The other day I was standing on the street corner reading while waiting for my bus and a group of 15 year olds came and started kicking me around back and forth between themselves. It wasn’t until I spoke up that the part of the brain that involuntary makes their legs swat anything not bolted down relaxed and they set me up right again putting me back where they had found me.
I don’t enjoy soccer. I have tried and I will continue to try for the time that I am living here. I don’t like the fact that I can turn around to ask the bartender for another beer and have missed the only interesting thing that will happen in the whole 90 minutes. Soccer is huge amongst Spaniards and I think it is even bigger in the British expat scene.

Here’s a riddle for you:
Q = What did the American say to the group of British guys at the pub?
A = He didn’t say shit because he knows fuck-all about soccer.

It’s not a very good riddle, it’s sort of a work in progress.

I do know an American who can bullshit about soccer. I’ve heard him, he can go on for a while before they find him out and beat on him for being a “wanker”. The Canadian expat scene seems to be open-minded towards soccer, but in the end it’s all about hockey. I’m okay with hockey for the reason that those bastards can take a punch. For as masculine a sport that soccer pretends they spend an awful lot of time rolling around on the field holding onto various parts of themselves. I think I’ve even see some of them cry. They then usually run to a referee who immediately reprimands the “bad player” by showing him some red and yellow construction paper. This is apparently to remind the player not only will he have to sit down from the game, but he won’t be allowed to partake in arts and crafts after the match. In hockey when someone wrongs another player, it’s going to result in an ass-whoopin. Nobody runs to the referee, he just shows up because everyone knows it’s not easy to scrub blood out of ice. The offending hockey player is then thrown in a glass encircled cage until his lust for blood has calmed and he is deemed worthy of re-entering society, but nobody cries.
The one European sport I enjoy is rugby. There’s no rolling around here. If a rugby player were to start pulling that melodramatic nonsense, the referee would run over and start kicking him too. These guys can take a hit, they’ll walk off the field with someone else’s teeth in their mouth.
Valencia has a sport that is specific to the region. It’s called pilota valenciana. This sport involves two teams of two hitting a ball against a wall. It functions similar to handball in that sense. I don’t know what the ball is made of, but it is smaller and harder. The players have to wear special gloves so as not to mangle their “thwacking hands”. The interesting thing about this sport though, is that the players appear to be safer than the audience. The players are at least armed with some sort of protective device, the spectators however, not so much. The audience is seated all along three sides of the court. They are seated along the left hand side, which is probably fairly safe, except for a few stray shots that wander off into their direction. They are also seated behind the players, this can get hairy because the ricochet or a missed ball goes firing into their lot. It’s the unmentioned third group that has me concerned. This group is sitting above the wall that the players are smacking the ball at. The two other groups of spectators are at risk of a sound thumping, but from a ball traveling at a diminished momentum (albeit still pretty damn fast). This group above the wall however, they’re looking at a direct shot from the ball at its maximum velocity. I have not attended one of these in person, so I can’t say for sure, but I’m curious to know how one ends up in these seats. Are the “flincher” seats the same price as the others? Do they have their own versions of the gloves that they bring with them to the matches like fans at a baseball game?
I believe that the root of my cynicism towards organized sports comes from the clichéd excuse of always being picked last in gym class. The teams would generally flip a coin between me and the girl that had to wear the corrective back brace. In an attempt to retain my dignity I would often try to cheer up my reluctant team members by reminding them that when I fell down I didn’t need someone else to roll me over off my back. This last attempt at dignity was generally shredded as she was coming down from her 10th rebound and I was still trying to figure out which hoop I was supposed to be running towards.

Why Jogging is Stupid (Part 1: The Gym)

I’ve started jogging again; we’ll see how long it lasts. I do this every now and then, I get on a fitness kick and pay attention to the calories I’m eating and go to bed with visions of my dancing biceps and monster abs. In reality I don’t have the patience for dancing biceps, monster abs, rock hard gluts or any of that extreme anatomy nonsense. Essentially I just want to continue my beer drinking, ice cream and pizza eating lifestyle and not have it reflect physically. In order for me to do that I have to either: join a gym, play some sort of organized sport or jog.
I joined a gym last year. This gym had a special fitness instructor that would personally design the workout plan best suited to your body type and your desired end results. The gym was air-conditioned (always a plus when exerting yourself during the Spanish summer), they had a free juice machine, free video rental, and foxy Spanish ladies working at the front desk. I was sold. I signed the dotted lines and tried to understand Miguel Angel, my personal trainer, who knowledgeable of my foreign lifestyle tried to explain things to me through a series of grunts and gestures and didn’t understand that I came from across the Atlantic and not the Middle Paleolithic. It didn’t matter, after a few demonstrations of how to plant corn, start a fire and the brief introduction to the wheel I was off and going. My workout started with a run on the treadmill. I enjoyed the treadmill, I enjoyed the fact that I could watch television and it was still considered working out. I enjoyed stepping off the treadmill and onto the sides and making it go really fast while I looked on wondering what would happen if I stepped back on it at that moment. I never did. But I did do several faceplants as my flailing arms would occasionally catch the emergency kill cord bringing everything to a confusing and starling halt. From the treadmill I would move on to my assigned workouts at each assigned machine.
Regardless of the explanation given me by my silverback instructor, he was of no use to me anymore. He had pretty Spanish receptionists to be flirting with. His job description was to give me a quick once over and apparently we were done. I can’t help but imagine that he had to have seen me over there, if not only out of the corner of his eye, snapping my tibia from my femur while trying to wrap it around the big padded dealie. I know he saw me sprawled upside down while attempting to achieve my pull up on the machine with all of the chains and ropes (whatever happened to the bar bolted to the wall, I could figure that out). At no point did he even express interest in helping. It finally took a 78 year old lady in her track suit to explain to me that I was supposed to be sitting down and facing the machine as opposed to my impressive feat of having thrown one leg over the top of the machine while having wrapped my other leg around the column of weight plates.
After a while I noticed that everyone had been given the same weight plan. I noticed this as 8 of us stood in line to use one machine while the others remained untouched. I had time to look at their training plan cards. None of these people looked anything like me, one was fat, one was old, one was already in good shape and it had dawned on me that that 78 year lady had been trailing me pretty closely as well. I was beginning to think that our trainer Miguel Angel wasn’t really giving his all to his chosen profession, especially considering that by this point he had stepped outside for a smoke with the foxy receptionist.
It didn’t take me long to remember that I don’t like gyms. This was the fourth gym that I had graced with my presence and it had all immediately come back to me as to why I had left the others. I don’t have the patience and I don’t really like gym people. By gym people I mean people who go to gyms, people who work in them and even people that walk by gyms on their way from somewhere to somewhere else. It seems harsh, but by proximity they’re gym people too. They have a discipline that I will never have and in all fairness that is reason enough for me to not like them.

May 2007 - Book Read

Books Read
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
As I Lay Dying – William Faulkner
The Chocolate War – Robert Cormier
Their Eyes Were Watching God – Zora Neale Hurston
City of Glass (part 1 of New York Trilogy) – Paul Auster
Ghosts (Part 2 of New York Trilogy) – Paul Auster
The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil – George Saunders


I went through literary burnout at the beginning of the month. I read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland which I had never read before. In all honesty I hadn’t enjoyed it as much as I thought I would. The book that I was reading also had Through the Looking Glass within the same binding. My intentions were to read both, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had started reading Looking Glass and found that I was coming up with other things to do to get away from reading it. Considering that most of my reading time is in the mornings while waiting for and riding the bus, as well as riding the buses and metro in the afternoons, my other option was to play solitaire on my cell phone. That was a good inclination that it was time to put Lewis Carroll away.


I had tried to read The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner two summers ago. I was too easily distracted by other things that were going on, so I had to set it down. I haven’t yet picked it back up, but I will eventually. Instead I went for As I Lay Dying. I liked the idea behind the novel, it is about a woman who dies in the first few chapters. She is to be buried in family plot in a different town. The progress of the story is narrated through the perspective of different characters who are carting her over to the burial plot amidst the only bridge being washed out by a flood and the inevitable rotting of the corpse. The body herself even makes an appearance or two to let us know what is going on. I didn’t do this book the justice that it needed. From what I can figure Faulkner books need to be written in. I needed to make notes to keep characters straight as well as subtle characterization clues that were thrown in. However, being a library book and riding while reading with some 20 odd screaming teenagers and toddlers didn’t serve this book in the way that it deserved. I should probably toss this one onto the re-read pile.


I am trying to catch up on my young adolescent reading. I’ll be teaching 7th grade again next year and I’ve got plans for them to do quite a bit of reading beyond the specific assigned texts. I’ve found that the best way to battle the resistance and complaints is to have prepared a handful of books to recommend. Regardless of whether I’m in Spain or the States, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series is always a safe bet, with boys especially (Nat turned me on to the series when I was in sixth grade). This book The Chocolate War did a good job of not being predictable like most other young adolescent books are. The ending of this book might be one of the more bad-ass endings I’ve read. The main character gets his ass handed to him in a fight. He is beat senseless. Yet, there is no retribution or forgiveness, the main character doesn’t fight back or win, he essentially lays there bloody and knocked out as the book ends and that’s it. Seriously, that’s bad ass.


Their Eyes Were Watching God saved me from my burnout. This was a fantastic book that I couldn’t put down. This was one of those where I found myself turning in early so that I could read it before falling asleep. The story is told through flashback as a character is telling the story of her absence upon returning to her hometown. She tells her story in three main parts that coincides with the three men in her life.


I like Paul Auster, but I’m finding that I like his later books over his earlier works. I really like Brooklyn Follies and Oracle Night. Leviathan was alright and I had a hard time staying focused on City of Glass, Ghosts was better. City of Glass and Ghosts are parts 1 and 2 of the New York Trilogy. Eventually I’ll go back and read The Locked Room (part 3), but more out of obligation to finishing the trilogy than out of interest.


The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil was another fantastic book. It is only 130 pages and I finished it in an afternoon. The narration is satirical, innocent and almost child-like. The story focuses on a fictitious nation of robots and assorted aliens who see Phil, the local bartender’s, rapid tyrannical rise to power and genocide of a neighboring nation which eventually ends in a mass smiting. I don’t suppose the story in and of itself is innocent or child-like, but that’s where the satire comes in. If that doesn't do it for you then you should at least pick it up and look at the pictures.

Indian Thriller

C/O N. Duffy

Tarta de Palomitas Dulces

http://www.geocities.com/endymion87/33936691.JPG

Cazuela preferiblemente alta. Cuchara de Madera y un vaso. Carton redando con orificio en el centro. Un vaso lleno de palomitas, un vaso de azucar, medio vaso de aceite y ralladura de limon.
Echar todos los ingredientes en una cazuela al fuego vivo tapandola con un carton al que se le hara un orificio en el centro metiendo a traves de el una cuchara de madera ya que hay que estar moviendo continuamente las palomita. (sobretodo cuando empiezan a abrirse) teniendo cuidado de que el azucar no se queme por estar todo demasiado tiempo al fuego, ya que si no sabria amargo.
Cuando las palomitas han abierto se vuelcan sobre un recipiente redondo, y se aprietan con fuerza para darles forma, actuando el azucar quemado como pegamento entre ellas.
Una vez frias, se vuelcan sobre un plato quedandose la forma del recipiente seleccionado.

Confessions of a Reformed Serial Blogger

When I had started this blog I had nothing to say. More than anything I was curious as to what I could do with it and what I would do with it. I began by posting pictures and brief synopsis of my life in Spain. However, within a few months my life here had gone from noteworthy to normal. When I had first moved here everything was worth noting and sharing with other people, as time went on these things either stopped happening to me or have since gone unnoticed. My guess is that they have been going unnoticed. In no way am I suggesting that Spain has become boring or that I have somehow figured it all out, but with time my attention has been drawn to other things. I suppose it is all a part of the acclimation process.

As I progressed with the blog I realized that as much as I had wanted to share my experiences with people, I wanted to know what was going on stateside as well. After every posting I would constantly check back to see if there were any replies. I needed to know that someone was reading what I was posting and I wanted the communication of such. I had signed up for a counter service several months back. Every week they would send me a log of how many people were checking my blog. From November to January things were rockin’. Shortly before Christmas I had gotten 100 hits in one week. I didn’t know who was checking my blog (might have only been one or two people), but I had an audience nonetheless and it was time to let my voice be heard.

But, I still had nothing to say. So I began writing less and less. I didn’t want to bore my (two-man?) fanbase with nonsense, so I decided if I couldn’t give them quality then I wouldn’t give them anything. By February the numbers had dropped down to zero hits per week. I tried to kick start it in March with my Fallas entries and I saw a bit of a boost as a result (15 hits that week). The Fallas entries provided a bit of unfulfilled disappointment on my behalf. I had been determined to somehow summarize the experience in words and pictures. I wanted to capture the feeling, the moment and the energy, but I felt as if it all fell flat.

As it stands I still have nothing to say, but now there is less pressure because you’ve all gone. I can’t say that I blame you, considering I left as well. I couldn’t be sure if anyone really cared about what books I was reading or what music I was listening to. I’ve come to realize though, that in a way I was doing it all for me. It is an interactive opportunity for my to post my writing, which all I really wanted in the first place was somewhere to hang my words. I’m not comfortable putting my stories up here, if you’ll look to your right you will find a friend of mine who does just that and he does it well. He gets the feedback that he is looking for and he has developed an audience. Maybe someday I’ll do that as well, but for now I’ll just continue putting words together as they come to me so that I can go back through the archives later and reflect on which words came to me on which dates.

Old Greg, The Funk and Bootsy Collins

c/o Brian Finn

Vader Sessions (Best of Edit)

For the last week or so I've been bouncing back here trying to think of something to post. I still can't think of anything, so enjoy this.

Sweep the Leg Johnny

Last night I watched The Karate Kid for the first time in years. At first I was just glancing at it while grading essays. After a little bit came the moment where Mr. Miyagi saves Daniel from a skeleton style ass whipping (shown in the opening of this video). I was hooked and it didn't matter that I was watching it in Spanish.
This video was directed by William Zebka (Johnny) and he gathered the original cast to reprise their character roles some 20 years later. While Johnny is trying to gather his glory days the rest of the guys are in a trailer saying their dialogue to the move. I thought it was kind of funny and should be shared.

La Crema in Plaza de la Merced March 19, 2007

This was filmed by Enrico. It's about 10 minutes long, but he captures it all in that 10 minutes. The signal of la crema is the brief fireworks display to call everyone to the falla. After the fireworks they set off the traca (string of firecrackers)the traca (with the help of strategically placed bags of kerosene) ignites the falla.
You can see the firemen spraying down the buildings and anything else nearby that is not supposed to burn.
You'll also notice the anticipation before the big pieces fall. Plummeting balls of inferno always get a big reaction here.

Mascleta - Valencia, 2007

From March 1 to March 15 the Plaza Ayuntamiento plays host to the Mascleta.
The video camera's microphone doesn't pick up the sound or the vibrations to do it proper justice, but you get the idea.
In the end you'll notice as everyone rushes the pyrotechnician to congratulate him.

Diary of an Honorary Fallero (self proclaimed) [abridged]

Part II




Sunday March 18, 2007
The one thing that can be said about Las Fallas, is that while they appear all inclusive, they’re really not. Fallas is a celebration for and by the falleros and falleras who make up fallereiens. These are groups of falleros from the same neighborhood or street that make up a sort of fallero gang. Many of the falleros are born into fallereien, but through marriages and conflicts they can split up and join with other groups. Traditionally falleros are members of the same groups as their parents, grandparents etc. These groups work all year long to get the money to pay for the Falla sculptures which can cost from 10’s of thousands of euros to 100’s of thousands of euros depending on how much money is raised. Now keep in mind they are also paying for their clothing, which for the women can cost hundreds to thousands of euros a piece. The clothing needs to be available for at least 15 days intermittently and 5 days straight, so they are looking at about 3 outfits per fallero y fallera. One way that they have discovered to making some of this money (outside assorted fundraisers, donations and as of recently corporate sponsorship) is to host verbenas or casals. These are parties hosted by each fallereien in honor of themselves and their work over the last year. Verbenas are giant street parties held outside with either a live band or a DJ. Casals are similar functions, but held within a garage or the falla base of operations (big reception type places). They make their money from these by setting up a bar and charging for drinks. Anyone and everyone is invited to the parties, but you’ll be buying your own drinks and they’re not cheap, unless you are invited.
We were invited to two verbenas in Carcaixent, one invitation from good friends in the Canovas group and the other from the St. Jaume 1er (St. James 1st). The Canovas verbena was huge and took up an entire city block. The live band of about 9 was rocking their thing pretty fierce. They played a mix of traditional Spanish and Valencian music, classic Spanish tunes from the 50’s and 60’s as well as contemporary jams. One of the four singers spoke English, so they got in some English tunes as well. The four singers, while maybe seemed like overkill, as it turned out were necessary. When one of these groups is hired to play a verbena, they are expected to perform from midnight until 4 in the morning every night from March 15 to March 19, that’s a hell of a set list and a hell of strain on a person’s voice. I’ve also been told that these guys make good money during this time (a career move I hadn’t before considered).
The party was kicking as old and young alike were partaking. The real little ones were dancing away in the hands of their mothers and fathers. The 5-12 year olds were away from the crowd blowing shit up. The early teenage girls were sulking in gender specific circles while secretly eyeballing the early teenage boys who were laughing hysterically every time one of them threw a firecracker in the vicinity of the girls. Those in the late teens to not quite retirement age were out on the dance floor (street) with drinks in hand and tearing it up. The post-retirees were either scolding their great-grandchildren for being pansies and not holding the firecracker longer before throwing it or scolding their grandchildren for being pansies and not getting that firecracker into the circle of girls and shaking things up a bit (On several occasions I have actually seen old ladies teaching young 5-10 years olds how to light and throw firecrackers…the bit about the taunting I just made up).
After the Canovas verbena we made our way to the St. Jaume verbena. This party was slightly more subdued than the other. The Canovas group had recently been awarded 1st place for their falla in the competition and was partying off their elation. The St. Jaume group didn’t seem terribly thrilled with the outcome of their falla sculpture, but they saw fit to proceed with the celebration. Where the Canovas crowd’s party was situated just off the main street, the St. Jaume verbena was tucked back a few blocks from the main plaza. Where the Canovas verbena had all ages involved, St. Jaume’s verbena was split by a Joven Casal nearby (young people’s casal…essentially an abandoned auto garage that was hosting a rave…well a Carcaixent rave anyway). The Canovas verbena had a tight live band that was giving everything they had to offer and the St. Jaume verbena had an early 30 something duo rocking out tunes on electronic drums and synthesizers (this isn’t to say that the St. Jaume wasn’t making the most of what they had available with their insistence that the well-endowed young blonde female portion of the duo, “unleash the beasts”. She never obliged, but seemed genuinely flattered by the persistent requests and did slip off her coat to prove it). By the end of the night however, St. Jaume did have one thing that Canovas did not…me. I was given a pin and named an honorary member (self-proclaimed) of the Fallareien Jaume 1er de Carcaixent. The pin says that exactly (except for the self-proclaimed bit) along the outside and on the inside is a blue sky with a gold dragon. Beneath the dragon is the shield and quiver of Carcaixent (the town’s symbol, Carcaixent literally means people of the quiver…quiver being the little pack that bow and arrow hunters would hold their arrows in…they were hunters apparently…or just fond of little packs that hold arrows in them. It was a long time ago). Surrounding the shield is fire or the “Honorary Fallero (self-proclaimed) Bad-Ass Rockin’ Flames of Hell” as I have lovingly dubbed it.




Monday March 19, 2007
Today is “La Nit de Foc” which translates from Valencian to “The Night of Fire”. Each pueblo or town usually has several fallas on display around town. On the night of March 19 starting usually between midnight and 12:30 they start burning them down (la crema) one by one in descending order of rank. It works out so that the 1st prize is the last one to burn. In order to signify which falla is burning and when, they are signaled by a 20 minute firework display. In smaller towns such as Carcaixent or Benimamet this 20 minutes gives you the time you need to start hoofing across town from falla to falla. In Benimamet where we are surrounded by Valencia, Paterna and Burjossot it is absolutely insane as I counted 9 fireworks displays going off at the same time in different parts of the night sky (Valencia being a bigger city and impossible to see them all so they do it by city sections). Each falla is made to burn and it is made to burn fast, so there are generally 20 – 30 minute intervals between each colorful explosion to where you can see giant balls of fire and smoke consuming various parts of each city to the faint or blaring (depending on where you are located) sounds of traditional Valencian anthems, until it dies down and 7-8 more fireworks displays ignite in different parts of the sky.
Benimamet’s crema will last an hour and a half or so, while Carcaixent’s will likely go until 3 in the morning. From Benimamet we don’t actually get to see the big fallas from the city burn, but we have the advantage of being up on our roof (which overlooks the horizon of Valencia to our east and the aforementioned cities on our north, west and south). There is one falla about a block behind our house. It has taken last place for the last two years (last year’s was an homage to Jules Verne and this year was an homage to the aging baby boomers). The beauty of this is that we can go down and watch it burn. When it burns down we can go up to our roof and watch everything else go simultaneously.

I have been trying to come up with how to describe Las Fallas since seeing it for the first time last year. I took loads of pictures only to be disappointed at how little they captured. The depth, the noise, the atmosphere, the colors, the smells…none of it was there. The notion of being so close to a fireworks display that you can smell the sulfur long after it’s over; The idea of being dwarfed by a night of fire and being able to see your shadow as it is snatched from roof top to roof top as the world erupts around you in celebration; None of these things can be captured with my little PowerShot digital camera. When having a few drinks with a Canadian couple on Thursday who were visiting Valencia for fallas (two of the 1,000,000) someone had asked them how they would describe this to their friends and family back home. His response was, “I’m not. I’m just going to tell them they have to see it for themselves.” I’ve been thinking a lot about that as I have been taking notes and writing all of this down. No matter how descriptive or eloquently I can try to put it, in reality I can’t. You’ll just have to be one of 1,000,000 next year and feel free to look me up, I’ve got an extra bed.