fin de semana (part 1)

Ah but its a sad reminder
When your organ grinder has to come to you for the rent
And all you’ve got to give him
Is the use of your side-show tent

Yes and that’s all that remains of the years
Spent doing to rounds
And it never rains around here
Well it just comes pouring down
- Dire Straits


It’s 1 AM. Don’t seem to be able to sleep when the sun’s not out. Makes no sense. Hardly slept last night and here I am – wide awake. This fucking bed is so short I don’t really fit. ME! I’m 5’8. I don’t know what that is in meters! It’s raining, which it never seems to do here in the winter. Anyway, here are the tales of gore and crapulence from the weekend:

Saturday Morning’s All Right for Fighting

We found a great bar – Cuban place. Great music, mojitos, etc. Some of the gals were with us for a while. Then it was just the Martian and I. We walked out the bar at 5 AM. We were on Gran Via when this Joker comes running up to the Martian. The guy starts kicking at his feet and says “David Beckham, yeah!”

“Mind your wallet,” the Martian yells. I had already thought of it. Sure enough, the guy tried to grab the Martians wallet out of his front pocket. “Hey you fucker!” he yelled, and the guy ran off like he had set him on fire. “You fucking pussy!” he screamed and chased him down a cobblestone alley. It was the funniest thing I’ve even seen. The Martian’s no street fighter, but he had this guy scared shitless.

We concluded that the cops must know them and because we caused a ruckus and were onto them, they ran.

We were searching for another place to go til the Metro reopened at 6 or 7 (I forget which) and we wisely decided to call it a night. We started to walk towards a good street to get a cab for each of us when some moron runs up to me and pulls the same shit. “David Beckham!” and starts kicking my feet. At the same time, he tries to reach inside my front pocket. Now, I don’t like either my wallet or my balls being grabbed, and without thinking, slammed him in the solar plexus with a right. He buckled over and I kept walking. He was twice my size, but the solar plexus treats us all the same. Then the Martian chased this guy down an alley. This one was not cobblestone but the end result was the same. The guy fucked off.

Once again, it’s easy to see why Spain hasn’t done squat since the 16th century. They are a bunch of pussies. The Martian was like, “For fuck’s sake. If you’re going to mug me, hit me over the head! None of this pussy shit.”

The Time of the Season

Saturday afternoon was gorgeous. I went and saw a great flat in the Chueca section of Madrid. It’s the gay section with tremendous bars and shops, and it’s a great flat. Don’t know if they’ll pick me though, as they want the person to commit to a long period of time. Anyway, the Martian’s room is down there. He called me and we got lunch. Then we took the Metro down to Vicente Calderon Stadium where Atletico Madrid plays, the working class team of Madrid, as opposed to Real Madrid, which has a huge payroll and lately, underachieves. I found a guy with season tickets and we got 70 Euro seats for 40 E. We were 20 rows from the pitch at the center half line. Incredible. Atletico tied Racing Santander 1 – 1. And it was cold! But I met my man Pedro and now have a hook up for season tickets!

News Flash: While I fill you in on the past weekend: we committed to a great flat tonight. Huge by Spanish standards. It’s Stuart, a 20 year old rugby playing Irishman (and a great lad), Kristen (a sweet gal from Orange County, CA) and myself (El Dude). Should be a wild ride. Views of the mountains, a deck to barbecue on, and big rooms. Viva la Madrilenos!