Lord Humungus Goes Fishing

Free from your past, Free of your future, too

I was half dead from sickness, sitting in the cathedral. The orchestra was setting up, but I couldn’t see them from behind everyone’s head. I could hear the voices of the singers, but the acoustics of the church made it hard to pinpoint their locations. Without warning, they started to play Requiem, and it was like someone punched me in the stomach.  I lost it.  My head started spinning, and my chest clenched up.  I started breathing really quickly, in short gasps of air.  The faces of all the saints on the ceiling looked at me with disdain, like I shouldn’t have been there.  Maybe I shouldn’t have.  Peter’s scornful glare was the worst.  The operatic singing and sorrowful strings finally started to relax me, and my panic soon subsided.  It was close, though.  Me vs. God.

The moral of the story is that was really good cold medicine.

She’s says we’ll wake up tomorrow in the parking lot of Rainbow

Spanish Graffiti, pt.1 -

Punk no está muerto.

Strange Observations of Spain, pt.1:

The trendy hairstyle of the moment with the hipster kids is the mullet. Yes, the mullet. Or simply a nice rat-tail hanging down. It’s quite disturbing. There’ll be a pack of youths hanging out on the corner or in front of a bar, and it looks like wrestling event from the late ’80s is taking place. Qué triste…

Oh, I have to sneak my camera into the grocery stores here. It’s crazy. Nothing else here has made me feel as displaced as el supermercado.

Lord Humungus Goes To The Beach

For Gerrod. Oh, there will be more. There will be more.

She was a damn good dancer, but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend

That’s the last time I play tourist.

Speaking of tourists, let me share with you this line from Naked Lunch: “Americans love to travel, but then only want to find other Americans and talk about how hard it is to find a decent burger.” Or something along those lines.

I remembered it, and had it verified after meeting two pairs of American tourists yesterday in front of the cathedral (not pictured). They were from somewhere in Wisconsin and Memphis. The wives complained about the food, and the husbands complained about the cost (which is a bit high but, like anywhere else, you just have to search to find the cheap stuff). They all had eaten at one of the three (seriously?!) local McDonald’s (and I haven’t even seen one yet). They told me I was crazy for moving here and wished me luck. Thanks, I guess.

There’s always dudes talking shit in the bars, There’s always chicks throwing up in my car

This is the actual way to get to my flat (photos in natural progression of proximity):

The plaza from the last post is to the left of this.

My street. It’s in Catalan here, but in Castellano (Spanish) it’s Plaza Ripoll.

That’s my clothes hanging on the left.

Here’s my strange triangle room, from all three corners. Tiny, huh?

From my window:

There was a band playing in my head, and I felt like getting high

Some pictures from my last night in the States:

Daniel’s classy self

Morrie is the greatest bartender ever. I forced him to do shots with me, for some reason. Sorry, Morrie.

At the Cat, which is why I probably had the hangover. Good times, though. Thanks again to everyone who came out to wish me goodbye.

Alright, I have the first pictures from Spain. This is in the plaza right by my house, la Plaza de la Font:

Your own hall of fame, It’s closed on weekdays

Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve had a hangover, let alone one as bad as I had Wednesday morning. The worst part is I think I did it to myself.

Got to Spain fine. The first day was 32 hours for me, from waking up drunk in Indianapolis to laying my head down on the bed at my new apartment in Tarragona. My school is great. The teacher that I’m working with, Ana, is very nice. She walked me all around yesterday trying to get me the flat. She’s about 7 months pregnant, so I felt really bad. But she kept saying, “No, estoy bien.” when I told her she didn’t need to do this with me. I certainly appreciated it, though.

Walked about 12 miles the first day. Probably lost at least 12 pounds. Maybe not with all the atrophy acquired on the 14 hours of travel.

But what a difference a few days can make. I went from jobless in the Midwest to teaching English on the coast of Spain, living in a small flat with two French girls. A lot can happen in 48 hours.

Sorry, no pictures yet (but I did fix the old ones). They will be coming, because this city is absolutely beautiful.

Sell the house. Sell the car. Sell the kids. Find someone else. Forget it. I’m never coming back. Forget it.

Better start the goodbyes. How about the pets?

Goodbye, Alvy, you neurotic (but highly lovable) dog of old.

Goodbye, Trinity (seen here posing as jungle dog). Let nothing but good come your smelly way.

Goodbye, Ranma, the biggest jerk of a cat I’ve ever met. I’ll miss you least.

Goodbye, Andouille Sausage (more affectionately known as Dewey), the sweetest cat to ever live.

Feeling like a hundred bucks, exchanging good lucks face-to-face

So 28 days and one kidney stone later, my visa has come. This time next week, I’ll be in Spain.