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.

###

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

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

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

###

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

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

Santa Butano

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A • M • I • G • O • S

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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