Mad Madrid

Things women have said about me...the start of a list.

2005-06-23T03:27:00.000-07:00

June 23, 2005: "You are my pain, Phil"

From Midnight to Noon.

2005-06-12T17:13:00.000-07:00

Last night I was pacing about my bedroom, plagued by a mixture of work-related frustration and an anxiousness to go out to unwind. Outside, the bench of the nearby plaza was piled over with Morrocans. Young people crossed plaza from all directions while the Morrocans whispered "hashish, "hashish."

I paced in circles, thinking about work so much that not even the yelling South American women, car horns, uproarious laughter, or breaking bottles in the street could invade my thoughts...then came the phone call:

"Wanna come down for a quick beer?"

Phil & Iggy #2: Lord of the Ringworms

2005-06-04T07:41:00.000-07:00

Phil & Iggy #1 : Street Masturbation

2005-06-01T14:53:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Phil & Iggy stories are based in recollections of events occuring anywhere between five minutes and two years ago. Though numbered, posts of the Phil & Iggy series are not necessarily chronological, linear, or sane. Ignacio Garbayo's name has been changed to Iggy in order to protect his anonymity.
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STREET MASTURBATION

Not many of us skin-twiddling pleasure pumpers would dare to choke the oak outside of a museum restroom, automatic photo booth, or cinema. Obviously, auto-participatory lovemaking requires just the right mood; but of course, you don't have to be an arty photogenic cineast to feel the love. In fact, just the subtle glow of a computer screen and a click on the good old mute button is all you need take part in the most globally individualistic pastime on the planet. Yes, there are many reasons to celebrate monocourse, but none so enticing as to defeat my apprehension to whipping out my Jewish stallion in the middle of the street.

Call me old-fashioned.

Which is why I give so much credit to Mr. Whipper and the exciting new anarchic phallisim movement he was bringing to my neighborhood. Iggy and I were his first followers, haulted by this grass-roots publicity stunt as we came drunkly whirling aroud the corner. Stopped dead in our tracks, we locked eyes with the fondling philosopher. Ferociously congratulating himself ("You're a winner Mr. Whipper! -a brand new car!" ), finally he looked up at us. We looked back at him, he looked at his dick, we looked at his dick, he looked at us, we looked at him, he looked at his dick, we looked at his dick. Some tribal message was unfurling... a great truth...times were a changin'...freedom at last!

Mr. Whipper was rocking the vote, but Iggy and I had left our registration cards back at the Tango bar. Or where we on our way to the Tango bar? No, wait...I think we dicovered the Tango bar that night. Anyway, we weren't about to take part in this ejectorial college and got our punk asses over to the Tango bar. I mean, what a fucking N-U-T-C-A-S-E.

You know that feeling you get when all the bars are closed and you only got three Euros and some dude is jacking off in the middle of the street and blocking your way? Right, it's time to go home. I mean, there wasn't a soul in sight, but SOMEHOW Iggy and I ended up in the greatest place ever....

To be Continued

When Metrosexuals Attack

2005-05-29T06:02:00.000-07:00

Gran via at 7AM in the best bar in the world.

Marco, Bob (I have changed Justin Metz's name to "Bob" in order to protect his anonymity), and I got a good place next to one of the Chinese guys selling beer and rice out of cardboard boxes. We drank beer, ate rice, and watched the Romanian and African prostitutes compete for drunks. We even made our own drunk friends, especially girls on the way home from the the clubs, and gave our phone numbers away to a few of them. We also met an American guy from Austin, Texas who ended up getting head-butted because of Bob.

Bob, sitting atop eighteen café chairs piled high into the air, was like a raging tennis referee with his constant yelling and head whipping back and forth, looking up and down the street looking for verbal assault victims.

When you pick on everyone, you always end up picking on the wrong guy: Shiny brown shoes, skin-tight jeans, white belt, form-fitting silky shirt, shampoo commercial hair-there he was: The Metrosexual. And he wasn´t alone either, but accompanied my his cohort, Muscular Sleeveless Shirt Man, and their personal filmmaker, Drunk Camcorder Girl.

Metrosex, Sleeveless, and Cammy were strolling down the Via minding their own business when they crashed in to Justin´s boisterous blockade:

"Hey Brian! How ya doin' Brian! Hey, you're Brian? Aren't you Brian?! Hey Brian remember me?!?!!"

Bob had been using this cryptic insult for a while. Confusing to say the least, as the insulted is not at first certain if he or she is being insulted.

Metrosex knew right away that his name wasn't Brian. With Cammy filming it all and Sleeveless on back-up, Metrosex launched a vicious conter-attack. The rhetoric was violent but poetic, a show-stopping vocal montage of different tones and modulations of the word "what" :

"What? WHAT? WHHHAAAT?"

Justin knew what. Like Zeus raging down from Mount Olympus, he abandoned his throne and stood face to face with Metrosex.

"Hey Brian!"

"WhaAaAaaaaaT!?"

"Brian! Brian"

Metrosex punched brian in the face and called us British. He headbutted the Texan we had just met and cut his head open.

BRITISH?!?!!!!

I immediately jumped in. My words were piercing and fierce, "Hey man! Why you got to be so violent? My friend is drunk! Why did you hit my friend?! Just leave him alone!"

That did the trick. Even Cammy put the camera down for a second to contemplate world peace. Sleevless put his arm around Metrosex. They turned around and walked of into the distance as the sun was coming up over over Gran Via.

Justin was stunned and staring, Marco was somewhere close to me, Texas guy was holding his bleeding head. I asked the qeustion:

"Who wants rice and beer?"

We looked at the Chinese man. He was happy and smiling, surrounded by yelling drunks and cackling prostitues, waiting for us in the eye of the storm.