Real World: Vegas 2.0

I’m stoked about the new Real World: Las Vegas.

It’s nice to finally have something waiting for me on my DVR when I get home from work late on Wednesday nights, but I have a request:  Can we please just skip the first episode of each new Real World series?

I don’t care about their lame submission videos.

I don’t care about where they are from or how cool they are back home.

Also, it’s painful to watch all of the foreshadowing.  As they establish everyone’s back story, we all have to fend off the urge to fast-forward through all of the “Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend” questions and all of the calls back home where the significant others try not to sound jealous when they inquire about roommates that could be a threat to their relationships.

Just get to the drinking and 6-way kissing bitches in the hot tub already.

I almost hate that they flashed forward at the end when they played the “Coming up-on this season of the Real World: Las Vegas” piece because had they not, my blog today would have proved to be prophetic.  Because one, I could somehow tell from the look in Adam’s eyes that he likes trouble.  The kind of trouble where he gets loaded and punches holes in walls and breaks coffee tables for attention. They type that scares females in the room enough to call the cops.

Nany is a slore.  It’s rare that you call a girl who’s in the midst of a 6-year relationship a slore, but I said it-and I stand by it.  She wanted to give Adam mouth-sex from the first moment she saw him.  There may not have been anything more funny in RW history than watching Nany (supposedly in a “serious” relationship) vent her obvious jealousy for the slunts Adams brought home the first couple of nights.  It won’t be long until Adam is “ears deep” in Nany.  Unfortunately, MTV already showed them kissing in the flash-forward segment, so I'm not going to look as awesome when it happens.

Dustin seems cool.  It’s fascinating to me how he knows women are so territorial that, if he kissed Heather, he would never be able to bring another female back to the house for the rest of the show…AND HE STILL DID IT.  I love it.  Heather is very “wifey,” so if a roommate was going to throw away his entire experience (that includes random “Vegas Sex” with an incalculable number of hot females in their 20’s for someone) I would say Heather was an understandable play.

Leroy reminds me of Justin Tuck and I can’t think of anything other than that.

It is so embarrassing to watch Michael talk to women.  So much so, that I may have to >> through those segments for the rest of the series.

I am intrigued by the chick from BX.  Due to the geography and population of NYC, girls from that area are used to being constantly bombarded by men left and right.  With all of the guys in the house looking to hammer different strays every night (or dating Heather) BX is going to have to do some naked hot tubbing for attention.  If not, I look for the bi-sexual angle, possibly.

All-in-all, I’m turnt up for this season.

I still miss Irulan…

You’re welcome,

-The Todd  

It's a Boy!

A good friend of mine had a new baby boy this weekend.

So, Sunday night my girlfriend and I cruised over to Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills to peep the newborn.

There ended up being two more friends visiting the happy parents at the same time we showed up.  After an hour or so of observing the baby and, for some reason, talking to him in voices nine octaves higher than any of us normally use, the conversation predictably turned to...iPhone apps.

At one point, the new mother asked if any of us had seen the phone application for bad drivers in Los Angeles.  To which I replied, "So, it's an app for women?"

One person in the room got the joke (and that's all I needed to keep going).

I went on to explain how-any phone app designed specifically for women needs to be designed to be seen through a cracked phone screen.



You're welcome,


-The Todd

Super Bowl (Thank You Facebook).

Yesterday, I watched 7 uninterrupted hours of playoff football.

It was glorious.

And, it got me thinking.

As much as I loathe people’s addictions to their phones and how it seems to be causing increased attention deficits these days, I found that I had no issue with my girlfriend using her iPhone’s Facebook application to scroll through all of the pointless status updates on her “friends” list for the 7 consecutive hours I was parked in front of my plasma (A.K.A. “Kordell”).  For once, Facebook relinquished its position as a pesky, unrelenting blitzer in my life and instead became a lead blocker for me on this football Sunday (yes, I hate that I just wrote that…and that I’m keeping it in, even though I do not have a boss insisting I do so).

There were no questions about how much more time was left in either of the games.

There was no pleading to get out of the apartment and do something active.

Nothing but 7 solid hours of NFL action being consumed by yours truly, one of the biggest football fans in the world.

WordsByTodd “likes” this.   

The conclusion of the Conference Championship games in the NFL means it’s time for the Super Bowl.

Guess what?

I hate the Super Bowl.

Probably not a total shocker (considering I hate everything), but interesting in that-I am such a fan of the NFL overall-yet care not for the culmination of its season.

Every year at this time, I have to explain to a few more people how a football fanatic like me could despise the Super Bowl.

Let me lay it out…

I refuse to watch the Super Bowl for all of the same reasons people who do not watch a single game all season long want to all-of-the-sudden throw a party and watch a football game.

1 - I hate the two weeks off before the Super Bowl to do nothing but build media hype for a game that needs none.  Right around noon on the Monday following the Conference Championship games, I am ready to stab myself in an artery with my remote due to looped playback of ESPN’s “Coor’s Light Six-Pack of Questions” where two analysts I don’t care about debate who has the coaching advantage, who has the better quarterback, who has the better kicker, and other questions whose answers in no way impact the outcome of the actual game.  If Tim Hasselbeck’s opinions impacted game outcomes I might actually care what he had to say.  But, alas, his opinions do nothing other than fill time, so instead it’s more Real Housewives for me (“Team Kyle” over here).

2 – I hate that, after two weeks of dissecting the matchup, there is still a 7-hour pregame show to do the exact same thing before kickoff.

3 – I hate the commercials breaks every 14 seconds all game long.  

4 – I hate the commercials themselves.  I hate that everyone talks about the commercials while I am trying to talk about the game.  And, I hate listening to people talk about the commercials the next day at work.

5 – I hate the Britney Spears, Nelly, Aerosmith, Beyonce Spring Break halftime mash-up and fireworks extravaganza.  If it was the Teen Choice Awards, I could understand.  But, it’s the Super Bowl, so I get angry because all I want to do is watch football, but the producers of the game seem to want to show me every else except football.

6 – I hate that at the end, someone goes to Disney World.

And so, for me, football season has come to an end.  Quietly, I have bowed out and shut it down.  Another season in the annals.  I shall not pout, because frankly, I need a break.  And, before we know it I’ll be DVR-ing collegiate spring games and NFL preseason action and breaking down those game tapes.

Have fun at your Super Bowl parties-where no one has any idea what the score is all night because no one is paying attention. And FYI, your favorite commercial will probably have a talking animal or baby in it.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Merry Freakin' Christmas

[“Merry Freakin’ Christmas” is a phrase my family and I begin to incorporate when the annual family gathering we were all naïve enough to believe would be fun inevitably changes course, hops into a hand basket and heads straight for hell.]

If you have read enough of my bitter ramblings, it should come as no surprise that I detest Christmas.

Below are just a few reasons why...

1 – Holiday commercials where everyone says the end of the message in unison (“And from all of us here at Channel 8 News, ((all together))“HAPPY HOLIDAYS!”).  Note to everyone that does this, someone in the group is ALWAYS off on their timing.  And, even if this exercise were somehow perfectly executed, it’s lame as shit anyway-and you all look stupid.

2 – Office Christmas Parties.  We just spent 40 hours a week for an entire year throwing one another under the proverbial bus during meetings and talking shit behind each other’s backs.  Why would I want to throw all of that away by working another 8-hour day alongside all of you- then going home to change clothes into something that proves I could dress nicely for work if I wanted to-and showing up to a boring “party” where we all pretend none of the backstabbing happened-and that we like each other?   We see our co-workers more than we see our families.  Forgive me for bypassing that scrumptious buffet dinner and staying home to hang out with the people I actually care for.  Enjoy the EDIBLE ARRANGEMENTS.  There are no bacteria on those things whatsoever (sarcasm)…

No one wants to go the office Christmas party.  What we want is for the company to divide up the budget for the party and disperse it equally to all of us workers as a sort of bonus.  Seriously, if it comes out to $9.84 each, we’ll take it.

3 – Company Christmas Gifts.  Nothing says “We appreciate yet another year of your hard work” like a cheap-ass coffee mug with the company’s logo on it.  Oh, thank you for noticing all of my tireless effort---and for using me as a mule to help promote your stupid company.  You shouldn’t have.  Literally.

4 – Adults Taking Pictures On Santa’s Lap.  Don’t be that guy.  It’s not funny.  It’s not cute.  What it is is a doosh move.  It looks and feels like an awkward high school kid is desperate for attention.  If you do this, I hate you (and your friends too).

5 – Mass Text Messages.  If we are not close enough of friends for you to text me a personalized Christmas wish, then do not text me at all.  If you have ever included the phrase “you and yours” in a text, then I want to flick your Adam’s apple.  Also, this year, I saw a few generic messages come through with my name at the top (making it easy to copy, paste and change the name before sending it to the next friend on the phone list).  Let it be known, I’m on to you bastards as well.

6 – Giving And Receiving Gifts.  This is where I completely lose it.  First, I have no real issue with giving gifts, other than the fact that no matter what it becomes astronomically expensive and no one I buy for needs anything anyway.  Giving can feel nice, so I tried to compromise with my family and asked them to adopt the “Pick a name, everyone buys and receives one gift” thing, but no one was having it.  So, in protest, I just shut down my end of the gift-giving entirely.  I don’t do it.  I’ve been clean for three years now.

But, the issue of receiving gifts still remains.  Yes, even though everyone knows I officially reject the idea of Christmas gifts they STILL buy me things every year.  

Receiving gifts from people is tricky.  If they are really into the gift they bought you, your reaction to the item must match the excitement they imagined you would have upon receiving said item.  This is nearly impossible to gauge and subsequently perform, so most people just fake their typical “excited” face and keep it moving.  The problem with this is, the professionals will notice that you did the same face for the previous 19 openings and their feelings will be hurt.  So, you’re forced to Meryl Streep the shit and act like you have always wanted a Steven Curtis Chapman CD, but somehow never got around to buying it for yourself.  And really, very few of us have that kind of energy, much less the acting chops.

Receiving gifts is even worse with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents that you see only a couple of times a year-and who know absolutely nothing about you.  But, the absolute worst has to be going home with a girlfriend or boyfriend for your first Christmas together.  Their family doesn’t want you to feel left out.  They feel like it would be better to buy you a gift (even though they have never met you before) so you can partake in the festivities.  Am I the only one that would prefer to just chill in the corner with no spotlight on me?  We have never met.  There is no need to spend your money on me.  You didn’t want to spend the money, and I didn’t want you to, but for some reason convention tells you I want you to, so you bought a gift I didn’t want and I had to open it in front of everyone and act like I was happy with the outcome.  Now, we’re both pissed off because you’re out $40 and I’m holding a Rush Limbaugh autobiography and a Dane Cook DVD.  What a nightmare.   

My favorite has to be when people exchange gifts and both gifts are a Starbucks gift card.  Now, you have wasted time, effort and gasoline to end up holding the exact same $15 Starbucks card you just gave away.

 

Gift giving sucks.  Can we just stop the stressful charade and enjoy the time off of work?  I have a feeling that is What Jesus Would Do. 

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 3

Still a little hazy from the night before, I woke up on day three, popped four Advil and chased them with a bottle of Evian.

My friend and I showered up and limped down to the mess hall in the hotel for provisions.

Surprisingly, the Hotel Puerto Del Sol puts on a lovely little breakfast.  Not surprising, I grabbed a glass to pour myself some jugo de naranja and got immediately reprimanded in Spanish by the lady in charge.  Apparently, you were supposed to flag senora down and ask for whatever you wanted so she could bring it to you.  Now that I think of it, it was very clearly written…on a small piece of paper…tucked behind a microwave…in a tiny appliance armoire…where no one could possibly see it (and she pointed to with that look in her eye that I was one of the dumbest people she had ever come into contact with).  So, it took me all of 11 seconds to completely piss off the only person working the hotel breakfast room. 

Sounds about right.  

Par for my life.

Rather than inconvenience another, I served myself.  As a result, I got scolded in front of several other hotel guests.  But, wouldn’t it have made me more of an A-hole if I simply sat down and assumed the one busy lady in the room was supposed to wait on me?  It’s lose-lose situations like this that make me want to stay home alone in my apartment all day and night where I have control.  

FML.

Two orange juices, two crepes, one apple, one charro, 20 grapes, and one tongue-lashing later, we hit the streets for a day of sights.  

First stop, Parque De Retiro.  This was a gorgeous public park in the middle of the city.  Lush lawns and flowers everywhere.  We chose it because I saw a picture in a guidebook that showed a small pond where you could rent little row boats to cruise around and be lazy in.  Once we found the pond, I was frozen by how idyllic the scene was.  It was so calming that we didn’t even rent a boat, just watching it was enough. I mean, of course I lobbied for 15 minutes to row around in a boat.  I even played the “I will do ALL of the rowing” card, but to no avail.  It was eventually decided for me that we, as a group, wanted to keep walking.

After the park, we needed more fuel, so we set out for food.  Somehow, there was absolutely nothing to eat at the West end of the park.  So, we mobbed through a small neighborhood looking for a restaurant.  In the distance I saw an adorable little café on the street three blocks from where we were standing (maybe my proudest moment in the first three days of the trip.  Big up to my Optometrist.).

So, we get to this cute little cafe, get a lovely table on the sidewalk, and in true “Todd” fashion there was nothing on the god damn menu that I eat.  I made my friend translate the menu for me twice and nothing I heard sounded even close to acceptable.  I explained that I was perfectly fine with leaving, but we decided to stay.  

She eventually chose an omelet-type thing that caught her eye.  

I ended up eating a coke.  

My friend’s food came out, she ate it, hated it, and began feeling sick (of course, because I suggested the place).  Seriously, people wonder why I never make any suggestions with regard to where to go, what to do, where to eat, or whatever.  This is just another in a string of 77,843 wrong restaurant suggestions I have made in my lifetime.  I am not sure why I somehow always end up looking like a jack-dick, but it inevitably happens.  This is why, I would rather someone else make the suggestion, let me agree to it, hate it, be silently miserable for the duration, and keep some sort of dignity intact.  But, no.

Still starving, we walked back to a section of the city we were more familiar with to seek out yet another chance at food.  We realized we were close to a tapas place that my friend had seen in a travel mag, so we busted up in the bitch.  After all, it couldn’t be worse than the first place.  

Except it was.

After getting the menu translated for me, I authorized three tapas dishes.  One came out looking (and smelling) like scrambled eggs were liquefied in a blender and then microwaved until they were smoldering hot.  The second was so puzzling I wrote it off entirely.  And the third was fried asparagus (which I don’t eat-and only approved because I knew my friend loved them).  If you had not figured it out already, I DID NOT EAT at this restaurant either.   That’s two in a row.  Unprecedented.  I looked like the petulant 6-year old at a fancy restaurant that only wants macaroni and cheese off the kids’ menu.  Not a good look.  So, I watched my friend choke down those nasty tapas like a scene from “Fear Factor” and we rolled out---looking for yet ANOTHER restaurant where I might find something I could actually consume.

We ended up popping into a YIPS (which, in America, would be like a Walgreens with a Denny’s inside it).  I settled on a fried chicken salad and I felt good about it.  I have no idea why, because it was, of course, a disaster.  It came out with loads of Caesar dressing on it. 

I don’t eat Caesar dressing.

But, I choked it down because I was nearing a blackout.

After some walking, three attempts at food, and making much fun of the stupid tourists on the double-decker tour buses, we decided to…jump on a double-decker tour bus.  We did this because we realized paying a few euros to be driven around in a bus would:

1 – Take a lot less effort thank walking the city

2 – Allow us to see more stuff in less time

3 - #1

4 - #1

So, we found a bus stop, bought two tickets and set out for the West side of the city where the Royal Palace resides.  Along the way, we saw some buildings, some streets and some people.

When we got to the Royal Palace, we found a Spanish man sitting outside cranking some Simon & Garfunkel on a little guitar, so I did my two-step for the entire first verse + hook and kept it moving.

Once inside the Royal Palace, we walked around from room to room discussing:

1 – How in the shit a family decides which room to hang out in when there are 3,418 to choose from

2 – How in the shit a family member finds another family member who is NOT hanging out in the designated 

“hang out” room if the telephone has not yet been invented

3– Why in the shit there are 3,418 rooms to choose from in the first place

4– Which interior design company the royal family chose to outfit the crib-and why.

About nine minutes into the tour of the palace’s interior, the smell of dust, mold and hot feet started to get to me, so we bailed.  Exiting the palace’s internal tour lands you out in the biggest freaking plaza/courtyard in the history of the world.  I am not certain of the square footage (and am obviously too lazy to wiki the information), but it felt like a patio made of four football fields of limestone, surrounded by 70-foot walls.  It’s definitely something to behold.  

 Whilst cruising the plaza, I demanded pictures.  

Underwhelmed by how I was being dwarfed by the palace in the shots we were getting, I insisted my friend shoot me up from the ground to give me size in the frame.  Not exactly a “professional” photographer, my friend did her best.   

Her “best” ended up cutting off my head and ramming the Royal steeple straight up my rectum (thanks again “C”). 

Near the end of the “red bus” tour that took us to the West side of the city, we realized there was also a “blue bus” tour that scopes the East side.  It was all included in one lump price, so we decided to suck it up and ride out.

The home stretch of the “blue bus” tour line finds you at the Santiago Bernabeau Futbol Stadium.  As my luck would have it, Christiano Ronaldo (my travel partner’s “Man-tasy”) plays for the team that calls this stadium home.  Thus, I had to listen to her explain (in excruciating detail) what she would like to do to each of his body parts.  I explained soon after that many of the things on her list are illegal in most of our United States. 

This in no way derailed her game plan.  

She quickly assured me all activities are fair game in Espana, which is apparently where the tryst would be taking place.  The lady had a point.  How could I argue this?  

So, after the tour ended we busted back to the hotel.

Siestas…

Showers…

Big, big night out on night #3.  

Maybe the top item on my friend’s “Madrid wish list” was seeing traditional Spanish Flamenco dancing.  We scooped some tickets online for the most celebrated of Madrid’s Flamenco spots and cabbed over to the West side for drinks and Flamenco.

The Flamenco spot was hot.  It was really quaint and comfy.  Dimly lit with a small, elevated stage in the corner of the establishment; it was everything I hoped it would be.  Oddly, the show didn’t start until after 11:00 PM.  We saw a few different Flamenco acts and all were very, very impressive.  Most notably, my obsession with castanets began with act #2.  I still vow that I can figure out a way to incorporate those things in a DJ routine.  Time will tell.  

The lobby of the Flamenco place was adorned with pictures of celebrities that had come to see the show over the years.  On the way out, I waited 20 minutes for someone to recognize me and snap a photo to add to the wall.  

No luck. 

So, we stumble out of the Flamenco spot around 1:15 AM and decided to walk the streets and see what was popping off.  

What happened next was like a scene out of a movie.

We turned the corner and saw an enormous festival blasting off in a big open lawn area.  

We rolled through.

When we got down to the main section of the lawn, there were food stands, drink stands, cotton candy, thousands of people and a big-ass stage with a DJ banging House music.  We grabbed drinks and assimilated.  My friend and I spent the next half hour watching Spanish men flirt with Spanish women and dissecting the differences between their courting customs and our own.  To be hoest, their tactics appeared to mirror those of America’s.  The biggest difference appeared to be deodorant.

After we figure this out, the DJ dropped “Sexy Bitch” by Guetta, and I couldn’t believe the crowd was feeling it.  How does this song still go hard in Madrid 18 months after the fact?

After Guetta, the DJ ran “Viva la Vida” and people started chanting like it was a Coldplay concert.  I was surprised to see this song also go over big.  I don’t know what I expected from the DJ and/or the crowd that night but overall I found it surprising.  Eventually, I got over my music snobbery and started banging back drinks like I was a freshman in college and Madrid was Panama City during Spring Breazy.  

Finally, at 4:00 AM the cops shut the fete down.  I was pissed.  But, I guess it was 4:00 AM after all.  We cabbed back home and slipped off to sleep (because our flights to the gorgeous island of Ibiza leave in the morning).

Stay tuned for the next episode (Ibiza was epic).

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

 

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 2

After an eventful day one, I expressed to my friend my desire for some stress relief on day two of the trip.  When my travel partner suggested hitting the Museo de Entologia, I reluctantly agreed. 

After spending 20 minutes in line trying to figure out which wing of the museum we wanted to see, and then deciding which ticket that was on the all Spanish menu, we were in.  This is probably a good time to explain to everyone that my travel partner is fluent in Spanish.  And so, every chance I get to make fun of her for being confused by the language, my mono-lingual ass takes full advantage – as if I should be talking (these are the things I do).  

Anyway, 7 minutes into our tour of the museum I was bored to tears.  I, for the life of me, will never understand why people pay money to walk around all afternoon wasting their time looking at-and attempting to discuss-a bunch of nonsensical paintings that all look alike.  Oh, another 440-year old piece where a bunch of people in robes stare at a baby (which is right next to a guy who is bleeding for some reason) while two birds (indicated by painted black Vs) look on from a distance, AMAZING!

Realizing that this trip is not all about me, I pretend to enjoy myself for the sake of the young lady I am with.   As we all do at museums, galleries, operas and other places of immense boredom, I went through that “I am going to try to act and talk as if I really give a shit about all of this so she will think I am at least somewhat sophisticated and capable of caring about something other than SportsCenter and Laffy Taffy, but really all I want to do is spoon my eyes out” inner dialog.   After the 372nd identical painting, I cave and explain that I am so bored my toe nails hurts.  Luckily, my friend shares many of my same sentiments, so I don’t end up looking like a completely uneducated, uncultured, classless moron.  Always a sport, my friend agrees to dip out and find something more interesting to do.  

We left the museum, but not before posing like tourists in front of the building for pictures.   Hers was probably for lasting memories of her trip to Madrid.  Mine was to commemorate the all-time lowest point in my life.

After walking North a few blocks from the Museum of Religious Paintings That All Look Alike and Mean Nothing to Me, we happened upon a small private garden.  From the outside, it looked very lush and beautiful.  On the inside, all of the seasonal plants and flowers were dead.  This “garden” walk ended up being 19 minutes and 3 euros I will never get back.  

If you’re scoring at home, I’m 0-2 with two walks so far on this day.

In typical female, Type-A fashion, my friend whips out her traveler’s map of crap she wants to see while in Madrid.  As my luck would have it, she finds that we are close to another museum on her wish list.  Pissed that I already blew my veto card at 10:45 a.m. at the first museum, I have no choice but to either agree to roll with (and seem excited to do so), or run the risk of really coming off as the most annoying/incompatible travel companion in history…15 hours into the trip.  Always conscious of the psychological undercurrent in every conversation, I make up some story about how this next modern art museum “really sounds like it’s more my speed.”  Secretly, I am mentally preparing for two hours of abstract paintings, stupid shit made out of glass, and oddly-shaped red chairs.  And not just that, but having to generate pompous, fake intellectual things to say about each of them.  For a moment, I wonder to myself if my dental insurance will work in Spain-as I might instead choose to go in for a cleaning and just meet my friend after.  But, as I just mentioned, I forecasted the social damage of choosing a dental visit in a foreign country over strolling through a Spanish modern art museum with a beautiful and interesting woman might cause and instead chose the oddly-shaped red chair tour.

Once inside the Reina Sofia Museum, I was pleasantly surprised.  It was a gorgeous building with somewhat reasonably interesting art inside.  Aside from the socially-outraged slideshows + light installations, I had myself a good time.  If you are ever in Madrid and someone in your party absolutely has to visit an art museum, do all you can to steer everyone to this one.  Just trust me.

At 12:30 p.m. we exit the museum and start looking for food.   Naturally, our first lunch in Spain finds us at…an Italian restaurant.  It’s empty, so we walk inside to see if they are even open.  Inside, we are greeted by two people who look surprised to see us.  My friend handles asking them if they are open for business and, after hearing they are, we (she) request a table on the sidewalk with a view of the square outside the museum.  Two Coke classics and one amazing pizza margherita later, we noticed the lunch crowd had finally arrived.  I guess the reason the restaurant staff was so surprised to see us was because we were an hour or so early for Madrid lunch time.  This is nothing new for me.  Honestly, if I had to choose one word to sum up everything in my life, it would be “premature.”  No question.

After lunch, we decided to fully-immerse ourselves in Spanish culture and walk back to the hotelly to enjoy a siesta.  It’s funny, I grew up hearing about siestas, but I just never connected the dots that Madrid was the place where they did that before I landed in town.  It wasn’t until after we left lunch and started walking around and noticed all of the businesses closed that we realized everyone was at home napping and cooling out.  At this point, we have the predictable “Why The Shit Doesn’t America Do The ‘Siesta’ Thing?”  These are the things I enjoy about traveling.  You can read and get beat over the head by teachers with stories about other cultures, but it’s not until you walk through the streets of the capital city of another country, only to find that everyone went home to take a three-hour nap, that you realize there are other philosophies on life out there that have, and continue to, prove successful.  Look, I realize that nationally we are never going to adopt siestas.  That’s why, mentally, I spent every afternoon in Madrid.  I now make sure to take three hours in the middle of my work day each day to remove my shoes, place my feet on my desk, check Facebook, YouTube funny videos, text my friends, knock back some food and watch movies on HBO.  

[SIDEBAR:  I try to keep my mouth shut when I’m in other countries, especially if that country speaks and entirely different language.  But, for some reason, throughout this trip I was overcome with the urge to explain to everyone on the streets of Madrid just how gay soccer is (not “homosexual gay,” but “Maroon 5 gay”).  Coming off a World Cup win, I am sure no one was keen to listen, so I withheld all 7,993 urges to do this.]

After a nice siesta, we shower up for dinner.

Because the Hispanic woman I am traveling with is, by any estimation, one of the top-10 most attractive people in the world, I have to dress extra fresh to be able to stand next to her when we go places (especially at night).  If my textile game isn’t tight, I get an influx of “How did he pull THAT off?,” “What is she thinking?,” and “He must have an amazing personality” looks from passersby.  Thus, I go green Zara (Spanish company) chinos, green top-siders, blue shirt and striped J. Crew tie for dinner.

It didn’t matter.  

She ended up wearing a black dress with heels and her hair all pretty, so I got “the looks” anyway.

The good news was, we had dinner outside in one of the gorgeous plazas Madrid is famous for.  For those unfamiliar with the city, they have numerous open areas in each neighborhood where you will find tables surrounded by restaurants and bars where the people come out and bring you whatever you want while you soak up the night air.  We sat outside at a table with a gorgeous view of an expensive hotel.  We also had a view of the table next to us where an apparently divorced couple was attempting to have dinner with their son.  The ex-husband showed up late, the wife kept bitching, and the bratty child was yelling non-stop.  It’s at this point that I break into my “Children should not be allowed in public until they are 12.  And even then, if they begin to misbehave in any way, strangers should be allowed to smack/choke them” speech.  Shortly after, I revealed to my friend that I fantasize about ways to slip Benadryl to all noisy children.   

On to the food…

This dinner was mostly focused on one thing:  Paella.  Apparently, it is the dish Spain is famous for.  And, since it is rice-based, I was on board.   42 minutes after ordering, the Paella finally arrives.  If you are ordering paella at a restaurant, they generally tell you ahead of time that it is going to basically take forever for it to come out because it takes a really long time to make.  Make a note of that.

After dinner, we walk the plaza and do some people watching.  I see so many men in Capri pants that I decide I need a few drinks to help me forget it, so we slide to cozy bar down the alley from the plaza.   One step into that smoke-filled spot has me longing for the fresh air and men in capris back at the plaza.  But, we ordered a drink anyway.  After ordering, we notice that the party across from us has a stroller…with a baby in it…in a bar…that’s full of cigarette smoke…at midnight.  

We stare, we judge, we get bored. 

 

Our drinks arrive.

We close out.  

Okay, we ordered a second round and then closed out.  I was on VACATION.

Walking home, we see a bar popping off across the skrizzy from our hotelly, so we bust up in the plizzy plizzy to show them how L.A. gets down.  At the bar, we are watching a fat, old, bald, white guy try to game this older, scantily-clad Spanish lady.  Predictably, the “Is she a prostitute, or are they on some sort of awkward date?” conversation follows.  We end up deciding that is must be a date because, if she were a prostitute, she would have come over to me at some point, removed my glasses and attempted to extort me.

By now, it is 2:15 a.m. and I’m Hazeyville.  

We dip (estamos muy consados). 

This was Day 2.

 

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 1.

 [I am just now getting back into the swing of life, so it’s time to blog again.

My latest Euro trip was 9 days long and I know that recapping it all would be a marathon that even my closest friends would not stick around to read, so I have decided to make it more palatable by recapping it one day at a time.]

Yes, I went to Madrid and Ibiza.  

Take your jealousy…and double it.

I flew to Spain by myself, but met up with my travel partner (who was coming from South Africa) at the Madrid airport.  From there, we jumped right into it.  

The first evening, we walked around the area immediately surrounding our hotel, familiarizing ourselves with our local shopping, dining and drinking spots.  After our initial trip around town, we headed back to the hotel around 7:00 PM to sneak in a nap before heading out for dinner.  Five hours later, it was 1:00 AM and we slept through any chance of going out to dinner.  Starved, I pleaded with my semi-comatose friend to venture out with me to find some rations.  She declined my invitation.  Thus, I was on my own.  

As I set out on foot across the Madrid night, I couldn’t help but notice how the neighborhood was still very much alive at 1:15 AM.  Scooters, pedestrians, taxis, bars, restaurants-it was like a hazy New York City.  Normally, I have an uncanny sense of direction, but the section of Madrid where we were staying was a nonsensical grid of streets and alleys-and I kept my trusty iPhone turned off-so I decided to focus my search for food in the area where we snacked earlier in the day.  I seemed to remember a pizza spot across the alley from the café where we had eaten lunch, and I figured-being a pizza spot-that it was probably open late, so I headed that way.   

As I was nearing the pizza shop, I passed a police station.  Always aware of my surroundings (and always untrusting of others), it made me feel comfortable to know I had the Policia nearby.  Feeling relaxed, I had a little swag in my step as I strolled through the warm Madrid night like I was the lovechild of Shaft and Jay-Z’s mom.  I was about 12 feet from the front door of the pizza shop when a strange woman grabbed my right arm.  The conversation that ensued changed my life.

Here it is in its entirety (not safe for children under 86):

Strange blonde woman:  “(Spanish ramblings I, even with three years of high school Spanish, am unable to translate).”

WordByTodd:  “I’m sorry.  No hablo Espanol.”

Strange blonde woman:  (grabs my left forearm with her right hand) “I speak English.  Come on, let’s go fuck.”  

WordByTodd:  “Wow.  No thank you.  Wow.”

 Strange blonde woman:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on.  25 euros.  Let’s go.”  

WordByTodd:  “Uhhh, I can’t.  I’m sorry.”

Strange blonde woman:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Why?”  

WordByTodd:  “I have a girlfriend.”

 

Strange blonde woman:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Where is she?”  

WordByTodd:  “She’s asleep.  Damn her to hell for not coming with me.  She is asleep.”

Strange blonde woman:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on.  My room is right up there (pointing just across the alley).”  

WordByTodd:  “Seriously no.  I can’t.  I’m sorry.”

Strange blonde woman:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “25 euros is too much?  Is it too much?  25 euros I do _ _ _ _job and I do an _ _.”  

 

WordByTodd:  “Oh…my…shit.  Ma’am, I am not interested.  Thank you.”

Strange blonde bitch:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “I want you to fuck me.”   

WordByTodd:  “I don’t mean to disrespect you, but there is just no way that that is going to happen.”

[At this point, she has dragged me out about 30 feet from the front of the store and into the middle of the square.]

Strange blonde bitch:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on.  Let’s go.”  

WordByTodd:  “I’m not going.  I’m sorry.”

[Whilst holding onto my left forearm with her right hand during the entire conversation, the discussion gets even more heated as she uses her left hand to TAKE MY EYEGLASSES OFF OF MY FACE AND COMMENCE BENDING THEM IN A FASHION WHERE SHE IS OBVIOUSLY THREATENING TO CRUSH THEM IF I DO NOT PAY HER 25 EUROS FOR MOUTH AND BUTT SEX.]

Dirty blonde whore:  (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on.  Let’s go fuck.” 

WordByTodd:  “I’m not going; and now I’m angry.”

[After voicing my distaste for the entire exchange, I attempt to retrieve my spectacles by reversing my grip on her right hand with my left arm that she has been holding and trying to steady her so I can reach at my glasses.  As soon as I make my move, she starts screaming like I am trying to rape her and everyone in the square stops to stare.  It’s obvious she has done this dance many times.  I let go and stop to assess.  Immediately, I think to myself how different her and my lines of work must be.  I begin to wonder, since she seems so well-rehearsed in her sales pitch, how many times threatening someone’s personal property has ended up benefitting her.]

WordByTodd:  “Look, you are either going to break my glasses or you’re not.  I’m not going to pay you 25 euros to do it.  I cannot imagine a scenario where threatening to smash someone’s personal property has put them in a mood for this type of thing.”

[It appears the dirty whore was so mesmerized by my words of wisdom that she made the mistake of letting her guard down.  When I saw this, I struck-like an orange-skinned girl from New Jersey hungry for blood and hair extensions.  I held the bitch in place with one arm and grabbed my glasses with the other.  I decided that she could scream if she wanted, and I might be going to jail for either solicitation or assault, but I wasn’t going to be the tourist that gets taken advantage of by a prostitute after being in town only 6 hours.  Rather, I decided to distract her with my wit and impose my will while she was paralyzed by my intellect and business savvy.]

WordByTodd:  (I begin to reposition my glasses atop my nose) “Please be on your way.”  

Diseased Whore:    (whilst I am fiddling with my glasses, the bitch turns her hand backwards and gives me a palm-in slap to the scrotum and says…) “Pussy.”

WordByTodd:  “(coughing…)”

--

 

Shaken, I limp into the store to buy some pizza…and they’re out (f-ck me!).  I settle on a sleeve of crackers, an apple and a bottle of water (well worth a trip out to be assaulted by a prostitute).

As I get back to the hotel, I realize I have just had the worst experience of my life and would have been better served to lie hungry in bed all night and wait for the safety of morning.  I am also wondering if I should tell my friend what happened.  Would she even believe it?  I mean, this sounds like one of those stories I sometimes make up to entertain people.

As I settle in to bed visibly shaken and licking my emotional wounds, she wakes up.  She asks if I am ok and-against my better judgment-I jump right into it.  Obviously, she is in disbelief. 

The good news?  The phrase “25 euros” becomes the first catch-phrase of the trip.

This was day one.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd