London, Bristol & Slide Rocks

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

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.

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

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

“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

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.

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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.

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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

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.