No Bull (just housing, Sox, and the lighter side of prejudice)

So I´m not ready to talk about the bulls yet, so I´ll just talk about bullshit.

Rumor has it that I´m living in the same room next year that I lived in this year. I think this is some kind of ruse since I can´t imagine Schnocone being stupid enough to pit us right next to Otto again. He would at least have picked a room with a buffer zone, but we shall see. If indeed, he was this dumb, I have a warning for him...last night I watched Goodfellas again, and I´ve been taking notes, namely on Joe Pesci. That´s right, I´ve been paying extra special attention to him, and if you´re not careful, you´re gonna get it...Billy Batts style. Or Spider style. Or Morrie style. Or even Joe Pesci as Tommie DeVito style. All I have to say is keep your eye out for me offering you free Dior dresses in a shady little sidestreet storefront. Still, I don´t think these are really adequate punishments. I think I´m gonna have to rent Casino and start studying the pen-to-the-neck maneuver, or the head-in-a-vice hold, or the bury-your-ass-alive-in-an-Indiana-cornfield coup de grâce (by the way, you should be extra afraid since I´m able to put the carrots on the a´s here with my keyboard, making it all the more menacing).

That brings me to my next point- How bout the feds cracking down on the Chicago Outfit, apparently they´ve caught most of the guys responsible for the hijinx on which Casino is based. Good for them.

In other Chicago news, the White Sox have the best record in baseball, and the best start in the team´s history. Of course, the media, even in Chicago, is ever so ready to shit on it all as being a fluke. That´s their right, but there´s no way there would be all these derogatory articles if the Cubs were in first. Yeah, they´re winning ugly, but they´re winning. Am I wrong or did those other Sox win the World Series last year by playing ugly. Fine, let America ignore their accomplishment, I don´t care. Then at least I won´t have to deal with all those hangers-on crowding the Cell (Comiskey) when I return and not having to worry about yuppy cell-phones interrupting my game like you have at Fenway or Wrigley. Damn, I´m really angry, but you don´t talk bad about perhaps the only sports team I care about like that.

OHOHOHOH GET THIS!!! I almost forgot this, but Brian and Schnocone will LOVE to hear this. I was talking up the Sox (white, the only way to have sox) at a bar in Madrid on Saturday talking about how great they are, to which Dan switched the conversation to the other Sox, a team I really couldn´t care less about. And he was like "oh, what if they meet in the playoffs." And I replied "yeah that would be great, not having to put up with that Red Sox bullshit and being able to be really confrontational and belligerent." I don´t know if he didn´t hear me or what, but he had the audacity to say, "Yeah, I don´t know who I would root for." At which point I screamed at him, and should have demanded immediate access to the season tickets Tony´s law firm receives. Why take that little brat if he´d even consider supporting the Red Sox over the White Sox. He tried to weasel out of it by saying that the Railcats were the team he really cared about, which I said was true, but still a totally ridiculous excuse for the blasphemy. Honestly, Schnocone, Brian...can you believe it? What is that? His dad gets season tickets and he´s switched allegiances to the Red Sox after having only spent 3 years there. I´m sorry, but baseball allegiances should be set from birth. This is just simply not done. That´s right, I´m addressing all you matriculees who think just because you go to Harvard you can forget about your hometown team. Honestly, to think! At least our friend Matt was also a White Sox fan, go figure, and we tag-teamed and berated him for his blasphemy. God, that really made me mad, and I don´t know why.

So anyways, there´s a lot of racism in Spain, and it can be really awful when you´re on the butt end of it like my Ecuadorean maid who has to put up with racist bosses and getting acused of stealing. She´s honestly a nice person with a life story that really would make any American bow down and kiss the dirt in thanks of having all the opportunities we have.

But in other news, there are some really funny sides to this horrible prejudice and lack of sympathy for the other, like on Saturday, for Señor Basso Profundo´s birthday we had paella and caba, or champagne and just loved it. He was getting all these great birthday wishes by the telephone, and at one point I heard Señora talking on the phone about how great it was, just me, her, Basso, and the three dwarves, at which point I asked who in the hell were the three dwarves. She didn´t understand and I explained and she said, "Oh, We´re the three dwarves. I said we just had the best meal and enjoyed it like three little dwarves." I got it and immediately started cracking up, to which she explained the point which I had already got, namely that, "You know, they´re dwarves...they really enjoy things. When they enjoy them, they enjoy them a lot." I could not stop laughing. I wanted to say, "They´re just short, not mentally deficient," but I was laughing way too loud.

The other day, she was on the phone, upset that she had to drive to the airport to pick up her son-in-law´s cousin who was stranded and hadn´t eaten and had slept on a bench for like three days. Apparently there was something she wasn´t happy about, and as she was relating some story over the phone, she said, "That´s a lie. That´s a Chinese tale." The other American and I nearly did a spit take, and my eyes began to water at how ridiculously funny racism can be sometimes. The best, and maybe worst, part, though, was that it wasn´t even a joke. The señora started laughing too, but it was mainly in response to the sensitivity of Americans who hadn´t been exposed to such racism before. I suppose it´s no worse than the term "Indian giving," but it just struck me as so wrong I couldn´t help but bust up.

That´s all. I swear eventually I´ll write about the bulls.

Summer in Mallorca or just plain Anglobitch?

So I had my interview today for the job in Mallorca. It went well, and I think I got the job, but now I'm much less enthused than I was before.

Problem 1: She made it more than explicit that they live in the country and there's really nothing to do there. It won't be the Mallorca that you think of, she said to me. She said it's extremely beautiful but there aren't really any places to hang out.

My spin: I think she wants to dissuade party animals which is understandable. There must be at least ONE cafe or bar where I can meet locals. It might suck because I might not meet Teddy's friends who live in Mallorca and I may be all alone with no friends, but I assume there will be at least SOMEONE my age to hang out with, and if there aren't a lot of people, then they'll be desperate and won't be annoyed by my Spanish.

Problem 2: Although I'm supposed to spend 2-3 hours a day speaking intensively with the 10 year old, she wants me to speak English to everyone in the family, except the maid of course, as she put it.

My spin: I don't really have one. This kind of sucks because based on the interview, the rest of the family doesn't speak or understand English very well, which means I'll be talking really slowly and listening to very slow sentences. If I can make some friends in the village, I'll be ok, if not, I'm gonna be pissed.

The upswing. I only work 2 hours a day, and I make almost 30 dollars a day, profit, without paying for food or housing or whatever. That's amazing. Also, I'll have books to read and DVDs to watch. I'll watch Spanish TV, and maybe because they're rich they'll have satellite Spanish tv which will help my language level. Also, their house is on the beach and they have a boat, so I'll have all that too. I may actually get a real tan, not a farmer's tan. I'll make more money than I'd probably make working part-time in the states working part-time, except of course if I worked at the restaurant, but no one will be in the area, so I'd be lonely and bored there, too. Plus, with all this boredom, I'll have a huge huge huge amount of time to write, and that would just be amazing. All in all, I'm going a week from Friday to see if I click with the kid. I think it's in the bag, but who knows. She seemed surprised that I was interested in the position, which is definitely a bad thing, but I think she may not have known how to respond in English.

Stay tuned, I swear I'll talk about Bullfights and other dead animals next. I swear...unless something interesting happens.

Housing Benediction

Oops, I promised no more Pope posts and I'm holding to that, despite the title of this being somewhat referential.

Housing Day is coming like a freight train and Schnocone and I only have a 50% chance of getting two singles and a common room. If, by chance, we get stuck with a bullshit room, I'm immediately blaming Schnocone for totally killing my years of good housing karma with his semester as dictator of B-24, including royally pissing off Otto and harassing the housing tutor into maintaining his tyrannical grip of the fiefdom. So be prepared for the wrath of Bacchus should we get shit on in this coming lottery.

So in this blog, I'm attempting to clear the air of all bad spirits, calling for a jubilee, a cleansing of past wrongs, penitence for the sins of my roommate, and absolution for any noise disturbances I may have made in H-11 or B-24 through party noises or guitar discourteousness, and also asking for forgiveness for any wrongs Schnocone DEFINITELY has made in his time alone in the room. I ask the better angels of Lily Piper's swift right hand to pick our number out of the thermos of destiny with one swift motion, placing us in the room to be desired, vanquishing our foes and putting us up into duumvirate that will truly rock the gartered socks of the all-too-staid reputation of Adams House.

Seriously, Schnocone, if we get a bad room, it is in every way your fault. IN EVERY WAY. I've never had a bad room and I don't intend to start now. Your head's on the chopping block, get ready for the ax to fall.

I have an interview today for a tutoring position in Mallorca which means I'd be living in luxury, on an island, summering (as they say in New England), PAID ($15/hr for 2-4 hours a day), until August 15. Whose life am I living, exactly? Oh right, chickens, not hatched, blah.

Coming Soon on Bacchus Americanus: Bullfights, Bullfights, Bullfights, and other dead animals in Spain.

Strange Occurrences

So two days ago I thought I had a pain in my mouth and thought it was just a sore. At night it was really bugging me so I looked in the mirror, and damn if I didn´t have a whitehead on the bottom side of my tongue. My TONGUE! I don´t know if you realize this, but it´s not so easy to squeeze a zit on your tongue, and it´s way more painful and sensitive than other areas. Plus, when you do it, the pus doesn´t just squirt out like other zits, it kind of comes out like a piece of cloth, and it doesn´t detach, so I had to grab a hold of it and pull really hard. I thought I was going to rip part of my tongue off it was so weird. and then it started bleeding and I kept thinking oh shit, because I´ve had stuff bleed in my mouth and with all the moisture it just doesn´t clot that well. Well last night, I decided to check on my lovely little carbuncle again, and the whitehead was even bigger, and the process of extraction all the more gruesome.

Dear readers, I figured after all that pope-ranting spleen-venting you deserved a lovely little nugget like this to remind you that this isn´t a political blog and never will be. That said, I´m really excited right now about Benedict out of pure morbid fascination. It´s like watching a trainwreck in slow motion, or an episode of Maury. You know it´s depraved and sick, but you just can´t stop watching. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Oh the humanity and the like.

Also, on Spanish NETWORK television last night, on a panel talk show (that´s pretty bizarre and mainly people shouting at each other and ganging up on the token priest with a token drag queen because that´s how Spanish shows are) last night there was a topless man giving a sensual massage to a naked woman on top of the round table of discussion. That´s something you never see on Meet the Press. Could you imagine Rick Santorum giving a buck naked Hillary Clinton a sensual massage as Tim Russert, Condi Rice, and William F. Buckley look on.

By the way, I just called Russia and the music that the company had for when they put you on hold was total Good Humor Ice Cream Man music. But that´s Russia, that´s crazy. Over and out.

The Final Word on Benedict XVI

This is the final entry on the new pope.

First, I forgot one of my favorite Spanish reactions.
--"Well, at least he´s old and will hopefully die soon and someone else can be pope."

Also, I thought I may have been overreacting about Nazi-German connotation, but I wasn´t. This guy was a Nazi, a full-fledged member of Hitler Youth. If the pope is supposed to be politically antagonistic and speak truth to powerful nations, it´s hard to believe anyone who was in Hitler Youth doing this.

And a Springer final thought. This guy hates the modern world, much like John Paul II did. In his homily starting the conclave he said that we´ve careened from community and family life to reckless individualism to egotism and that the world has seen a change from communism to liberalism to hedonism. He of course left out the worst of twentieth century ideologies...fascism, but I guess he just has too much love left in his old heart for der fuhrer. I think that the Catholic Church is just too set on turning the clock back to better times. What were the better times exactly? The glory days of the Church? The Inquisition? The Dark Ages? The raging against change in Early Modern and Contemporary Eras? The Roman Empire? I think they want it to be just like when Jesus was alive...those were the days...except they weren´t because they fucking killed Jesus and all his apostles and they sluttified the wholesome image of Magdalene, and women had no rights, minority had no rights. What are they trying to return us to? An age of female subservience seems to be their number one agenda, and that´s no beans.

The Spanish Reaction--More Pope Liveblogging

So sitting in my Spanish office at work, we´ve been watching things unfold, and the response in España has not been good. It doesn´t help that Germany is a kind of EU bully, but that´s not even really that big of a deal. They just really hate this reactionary conservatism. Here are some choice snippets, translated for your enjoyment.

Fuuuuuuuck. Fuuuuuuuck.
Oh, look at that bastard. (literally mountain goat, but anyone who´s heard cabrón knows what this really means)
What a dwarf. (This is literal, I think it´s the equivalent of retard.)
Here we go, back to the Inquisition. (And they would know...they´re Spanish.)
It´s like the Dark Ages again.

So that´s about it. I haven´t heard one word of praise yet. They´re really on the ball here. I´m waiting for my señora, the hardcore conservative to come home. If she disapproves then we´re really in deep shit.

¡JODER! ¡Que mala suerte!

Translation: Fuck! What bad luck!

Welcome to the 19th Century. Benedict XVI? What a boring choice, for a pope and a name. Could it be more predictable? I guess this means that the Cardinals picked the Dean of the College of Cardinals. What imagination. I remain convinced that I actually won the election, but because I wasn´t there and the winner was in charge of the elections, what could I do. Now I know what Al Gore feels like. Ratzinger is like Bush, Katherine Harris, and the Supreme Court of the 2000 election all rolled into one, and I´m currently petitioning the Holy See for a recount. We´ll see how far that gets.

Another note. Ratzinger´s German. German. I´ll say it again...German. I tend to have the same opinion as my brother...the Germans just haven´t paid enough for the bullshit they put the world through in the first half of the 20th century. Especially the Holocaust. I´ve met Germans in the airport, and they were honestly some of the nicest people I´ve ever met in Europe and I truly adored them...but that doesn´t mean I want a German as the pope. Oy vey. I can slowly feel my secular Judaism building settlements on my secular Catholicism and spiritually agnostic part.

Habemus Papam

We have a pope. I´m sure glad I didn´t buy that ticket to Rome since this conclave was quicker than a shotgun wedding. I love that right now we´re in the moment after the white smoke but before the announcement that´s why I´m pounding this out right quick to proclaim that my intuition tells me that I´m the new pope. So pleace, bow down before pope Hilarius II. Kiss the ring, sit back, and relax a reign of peace and good times. I´d like to thank the cardinals for really reaching outside of their own to pick a true outsider candidate. I won´t let you boys down. I´d like to thank all those little people, and Schnocone for running a clean campaign against me. It was a hardfought battle, but in the end I was just the better candidate. What can I say? So now I´m signing off with a wave of the holy fingers before I´m dethroned by righteous zealots.

Happy Birthday Retold

So I'm guessing people want to hear a little about my 21st Birthday. I suppose for America it would have been a pretty great occasion, but here it was a little longer than usual, but still nothing extraordinary.

The Vesper:
The night before my birthday a ton of my friends went to a sangria bar in Sol where they have really cheap pitchers. The problem is we just got pitchers of sangria, so we ended up drinking way too much sweet wine and the sugar and wine combination is a little deadly, making you nauseous after about a pitcher and a half or so. We basically just stayed there the whole night and walked home at two or so because the metro stops at 1:30. Not much to report except that Dan and I created this great toast that basically is just us clinking our glasses five times and with each clink saying "FIVE, TEN, FIFTEEN, TWENTY, TWENTY!" So first the remaining 20 year olds (all three or so of us) did this toast. After the clock struck midnight, we excluded all 20 year olds so that the 21 year olds could partake in the new toast "FIVE, TEN, FIFTEEN, TWENTY, AND ONE!"

The Big Day:
Because I showed up an hour and forty five minutes late on Tuesday to my job I had to be on time on Thursday, according to my boss. This was difficult. The sugar and sulfates had done their job and I was sufficiently sick, without puking. It actually wasn't that bad, but I did have a headache all morning, a sensation of weakness, and mild waves of nausea. This was all heightened by the fact that the elevator in my office building didn't work. So in order to get into my office I had to climb up to the seventh floor through stairs. THEN, my job was to make copies on the 4th floor all day, so I spent half the day climbing and descending stairs. Imagine my hell.

The Big Night:
First, the big group of friends met and went to the Cave Bar (I don't know it's name in Spanish, no it's not El Bar de la Cueva) where the specialty is alcohol mixed with milk and cinnamon. I'm poor, though, so I opted for the ginormous cups of beer. I think I shared the Grande, knowing that I'd never be able to finish the Enorme or Gigante. After this we went to a karaoke place which the Guia del Ocio said was the best karaoke bar for amateur fools. WRONG. They really treated us like shit the whole night. It wasn't so bad, but at first they just gave me a candle to blow out, what the hell is that about. Not even a piece of cake. Later they brought around cake and shots, but whatever. Unfortunately, the playlist was horrible. The artist selection was fine, but the songs they had were just awful. How can you have Neil Diamond but no Sweet Caroline? They had a few Neil songs that I'd never heard of, so I picked the only one I knew...America. I nailed it, I must say. But as Hueylikes to say, doing a really great rendition of America is like hitting a home run with a corked aluminum bat. The thing about karaoke though is that you don't want to do songs that you only kinda know. You really have to know them inside out, and they must be within your range because if you're going to make a slob out of yourself, you might as well have a prayer of hitting the notes...something that didn't quite happen on my second song which was a result of me not having heard the song in years and the fact that the verses don't really have that much instrumentation so you can't find the note even if you remember how the song goes. Whatever. I won't tell you the song because I don't want you to even have any idea of what it might have sounded like. Afterwards, we went to a disco where our friend works, but she wasn't there so we would've had to pay cover, something which I believe is undemocratic, especially when it's 4:30 am and people are already on their way out. So instead we went next door for chocolate con churros. Good as always, and I made my way home at 6:30, not bad for Madrid standards, watched an episode of Seinfeld, and passed out.

The Calm Before the Storm

Pues, here I am. I finished my business presentation and I feel very much like a herramiento, the Spanish word for "tool."

Tonight we're going out for sangria and tomorrow we're going out for botellon and karaoke and maybe some disco, we'll see. I have to take it easy, though, b/c I'm working tomorrow and was just told that I have to be on time. Shit, no more 2 hour late days for me.

In other news, I'm really relishing all this trashy celebrity gossip. I've always been a whore for bad publicity, but I here are some my favorite highlights.

1) The Royal Wedding. On Spanish TV I saw them interviewing Britons on vacation who basically said in British, "She will "never" be queen." Which translates into course American vernacular as, "That ho done Di wrong, and I'll be damned if that bitchy ass'll sit on MY throne which I pay for with MY tax dollars...sheeeeeeet." I don't know why, but I think the fact that no one gives a damn about it makes me ever so much more interested...like the fact that Windsor Castle didn't have a license to have a wedding, so they had to get hitched at the local town hall where the American version of Bobby Jo and Billy Bob were looking for a justice of the peace right quick so that their baby who's due in two weeks won't be bastardized. Which brings me to....

2)The Britney Pregnancy: Oh, nothing makes me more giggly than the thought of America's whitetrash sweetheart impregnated with hillbilly seed. HA! All this talk of children, where does one turn to next...

3) Cardinal Law officiating at one of the pope's funeral masses. Is there no shame in the Catholic church? Apparently not. I guess it's kind of a good thing so that people around the world can see that the Vatican still doesn't get it. Before Law was hiding...at least now we know that he hasn't lost any power, he's just been taken out of the feeding frenzy so that he can be safe in Rome. Where's Joseph Welch when you need him? Have you no sense of decency, Curia? At long last, have you no sense of decency? Child molestation has no part in humor which leads me to why I've pretty much been neglecting...

4)The Michael Trial: I can't really follow this one online because there's just SOOO much to read. Maybe if I had American trash tv it would be easier, but it's really an overflow of ridiculous information that I just get numbed by it and move on to more pressing issues like...

5) Damn, that was such a good segue and now I don't really have anything to talk about. Oh, how about Arthur Finkelstein's Big Fat Gay Wedding? That's pretty grotesque. I think there's a special place in hell for a gay man who makes propaganda for Jesse Helms. I'll have to ask Dante about that one.

Wow, I feel like I should turn this place into a gossip rag. You know you want it. In other news, there's not much going on at Harvard from what I hear which is upsetting, except that they've nixed SENIOR HOUSE, the hope of me and three good friends for housing next year that would have really torn up the social scene. Oh well, I guess we'll have to think up Plan B. Wait, there is no plan B, there never is. How are we going to find a place to throw our parties??? Oh well, tutors get ready for another year of noise.

Fun with the Spanish Language

Two of my favorite Spanish words:

caballero-the general term for gentleman, but literally it's horseman. hilarious.
gelipolla-generally used for asshole or other insult, but has a literal meaning geli-meaning jelly and polla meaning dick, so next time you see someone you hate, do like i do and call him a jellydick.

In other news, I actually have homework this week which sucks. I have to give a presentation on my film distribution company and my job there which is basically playing spider solitaire all day, and I have to dress up and prepare handouts. This is what it's like to go to business school. It's not for another two days and I already feel like a massive tool.

My birthday is coming and with it a deluge of excess. Which reminds me of my ALL-TIME FAVORITE HISTORICAL QUOTE. "Apres moi, le deluge." from Louis XV. I just love that horrible carelessness about the future. I suppose it could just as easily be said by the president or some other big oil Texan. The best part about Louis XV, however, is that he was basically saying, "Fuck my son, I'm gonna party." For my birthday, I think I'm going to translate it into "Apres mon celebration, le deluge." That's probably horribly broken, but I don't speak French, so I'll just say, "After my birthday, the deluge."

In the last week, not much has happened, I went out a few times, had a grand old time, walked some, etc.

More about Turkey--Our last day in the hostal, B. Huey and I decided to take showers before we left at noon, but the cleaning lady decided to come before checkout. She didn't understand English, so it basically escalated into all of us shouting at each other in foreign tongues and pointing to our watches menacingly. Finally, we said screw this, we're just going to take our showers. So I get in and am adjusting the water and lathering when the puta turns on some faucet with the express purpose of halting the hot water. I whip the towel off its rack, causing my watch to fall and bust its crystal, and I turn off the faucet. She yells at me and I yell at her and I go back into the shower and finish. I get out of the shower and she yells a little more so I yell a little more and point at my watch as she points at hers. Of course now my watch is broken, so I almost start shouting at her for being mostly responsible for my careless towel handling skills which resulted in the knocking off of my watch, but alas, I didn't because I was too busy just yelling at her. B. Huey goes to the front desk to complain about this horrible annoyance and everything gets straightened out. I hope and believe the dear old bard Hoosier Lush is currently composing a poem entitled "Turkish Slut" to add to her work in progress, "Collected Slut Poems."

I squat therefore I am and why the Vatican can shove it.

After seeing Beulah's entry on a sinus douche I've decided to post a potentially disgusting entry as well.

My last two days in Turkey we were put up in the same hostel as before in Istanbul, but this time in a different building that didn't have a western toilet...you know, the kind where you sit down. Instead they have what is basically a porcelain surface with a hole in the ground...very sparse indeed. I initially refused to use it, but also wanting to make the most assimilating into the native culture and not wanting to go outside to use the bathroom, I succeeded in squatting. However, I didn't follow custom and merely splash myself with a nearby tap (like a primitive bidet). Instead I did the unthinkable and actually flushed toilet paper in Turkey. What a badboy. There's a picture of the Turkish toilet here as well as instructions on how to use it.

In other news, I couldn't be happier to be back in Madrid, a city which I continue to forge lasting bonds with. It's hard to explain how much I love it here.

Also, I talked to Mater today and she told me about a hilarious wedding shower for my Prima. It actually made me miss home a little bit and the craziness of my familia hispana, especially the Tias. The crowning moment might have been my aunt's mother in law calling her a slut at her granddaughter's wedding shower and then denying it to her husband who happens to be a minister.

ALSO--They've set the date for the Papal elections on the worst possible starting day, a Monday. That means that at the earliest time I could get there they would have already had three days of elections and 12 votes, one of which will certainly produce a new pope, so it looks like god has thwarted me again...I guess he didn't want me upsetting the more serious pilgrims with my general joviality. So I guess this means I should probably head out to Florence to see Wubulu.

The Pilgrimage Has Gained Momentum!

Resquiescat in pace.

A champıon of human rıghts has passed and the world mourns. Catholıcs pray and awaıt theır new leader to be announced wıthın the comıng month and yours truly wıll be there to document ıt all for your supreme enjoyment. Unfortunately worldly tıes prevent me from goıng to pay my respects for the deceased but I wıll try to be there for the smoke watchıng should the conclave conclude on a Frıday Saturday Sunday or Monday. I awaıt announcements concernıng the schedule of the very busy weeks ahead ın the catholıc world. If you pray...pray for a lıberal...I thınk the last thıng the Church needs ıs someone to squelch meanıngful dıalogue on pressıng ıssues. The http://nytimes.com has a really great obıtuary ın the edıtorıal sectıon that really encapsulates my mıxed feelıngs about thıs passıng hıstorıc papacy and ıts consequences ın the world ın endıng Communısm ın Europe and promotıng human rıghts despıte some obvıous anachronıstısms to whıch ıt clung. Whatever you thınk, gay marriage and contraceptıon are not the great evıls of our tıme.


PS--A thought that didn't occur to me to include in the preceding entry on the baths. As I lay on the table being rubbed down by the swarthy Turk all I could think of was amending the old Victorian advice for women on their bridal beds--"Close your eyes and think of Ataturk!"

The Agony and the Ecstasy--or--So does thıs make me a masochıst?

Yesterday Baby Huey and I went to the Turkısh bath. As we entered we were gıven a towel a key and a pıece of cloth. The towel would serve ıts normal purpose...the key would be used to lock away our valuables ın a stall...and the cloth would be used to cover our other valuables...thanks folks Im here all nıght. After undressıng and gettıng ınto our loıncloths we passed through an ıntermedıary room and ınto the bath. We sat down on the marble benches and shvıtzed for about fıfteen mınutes before the swarthy Turk of lore entered and asked us ıf we wanted the works. At least we thınk thats what he asked us. We nodded and saıd the word 'englısh' wıth upward ınflectıon ındıcatıng a questıon. There was no purpose to thıs questıon other than to know whether or not we were Amerıcans and deserved a really deep massage. A few mınutes later he entered ın hıs loıncloth wıth a bıg pan of soapy water and a pıllowcase whıch he used to create huge amounts of suds.

Fırst Baby Huey was up. He lay prostrate on the marble slab ın the mıddle of the room whıle we both trıed to suppress gıggles as the Turk massaged and soaped hıs body. Next was my turn. It dıd not begın well. Fırst he managed to dırect all the suds dırectly ınto my ear whıch I thınk he apologızed for but Im not sure sınce he spoke no Englısh. To correct thıs he dumped a bucket of water on my face to wash away the soap. Then he went to work...havıng very lıttle regard for borders of the loıncloth ın order to make sure that he got to just about every part of my body except the unmentıonables. In the mıddle of ıt I got a toe cramp of the varıety only Schnocone can apprecıate. I trıed to straıghten ıt out and make ıt go away wıthout hım notıcıng so as not to draw attentıon to ıt causıng hım to thınk that he should massage ıt and only make ıt worse. I also dıdnt want hım do be ınsulted that my full attentıon wasnt devoted to hıs work but rather to my paın. Somehow I managed to survıve thıs lıttle trouble wıthout crackıng up. I turned over and he massaged some more pushıng my stomach ınto my lıver and whatnot. A good tıme was had by all.

After thıs he motıoned to Huey who dısappeared wıth hım ınto another sıderoom of the maın bath out of vıew of me. The sounds that came out of that room! The scrapıng and the scratchıng and the nervous laughter drowned by sloshıng water and more scrapıng. I was scared to say the least...but I dared not peak and ıncur the wrath of the Turk. Huey reentered the room red as a lobster...physıcally exhausted pronouncıng the experıence as 'pleasure and paın'. I entered the chamber.

I got splashed by some buckets of water before the Turk donned a mıt made out of Scotch-gard green pads used ın Amerıca only for scrubbıng pots and pans. In Turkey ıts used to scrub the skın of humans. He went to work and I trıed agaın not to laugh. It was much easıer thıs tıme as I was sımultaneously tryıng not to cry. The two sıdes balanced each other out and I began to really enjoy myself. The thıng about the Turkısh bath ıs that when youre beıng scrubbed your body ısnt really your own anymore. It pretty much belongs to the other person...and he would pıck up and bend and scrape arms and legs to hıs own desıre. Durıng the legs-scrubbıng sectıon that Brıllo pad had a few encounters wıth parts of the body you dont really want comıng ınto contact wıth steel wool...but ıt ended up beıng ok...ı thınk (plus I exaggerate so fear not).

As he fınıshed my legs and doused me wıth a few more buckets of water I rose to get up only to be fırmly put back ınto place...the Turk wasnt done...he was just warmıng up for the vırtuoso part of the performance whıch ıncluded the actual scrubbıng of the face wıth the mıtt. Thıs I was not expectıng and ıt was all I could do to keep from laughıng. I got doused ın the face wıth a bucket of water and opened my eyes expectıng ıt to be over. It wasnt.

He was pılıng suds on top of my head whıch couldnt help but get ınto my eyes and he began scrubbıng me agaın and dousıng me wıth water repeatedly. The funnıest part about thıs beıng that you cant breathe through your nose durıng thıs process so you breath through your mouth whıch fılls wıth water and you have to constantly spıt ın the Turks general dırectıon. Fınally after much more washıng the bath came to an end.

I returned to the maın chamber where Huey and I traded storıes lıke two old war vets and shvıtzed for another half hour or so. We both came to the conclusıon that we actually lıked the experıence. No waıt...we LOVED ıt. I cant explaın how somethıng that should cause fear and paın actually became a great experıence that we wont be able to have over and over agaın ın Amerıca. We wanted to go agaın today but thought we mıght get dırty looks for goıng two days ın a row...plus ıts a lıttle expensıve and we can always go ın Istanbul and sınce ıt ıs the holy day ıf we ınadvertantly splash Muslıms ın the bathıng rıtual theyll have to start all over agaın to get the ınfıdel dırt off of them.

After the shvıtz we went ınto the ıntermedıary room and toweled off dıscardıng our loıncloths ın a plastıc bucket...how exotıc...and returnıng to our stalls and changıng. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon and ıf you ever fınd yourself ın Turkey you absolutely MUST go to a bath. If you dont we cannot be frıends. It wıll create a breach ın our shared vıews of the world and our bonds wıll rupture and you wıll fade ınto a memory. Plus...shared traumatıc events only create stronger frıendshıps...how else can you explaın how much fun ıt ıs to talk about growıng up Catholıc wıth complete strangers at partıes. Wıth that ın mınd...peace to the Pope who ıs dyıng and can only mean one thıng...look out College of Cardınals--BACCHUS IS COMING TO ROME!!!