Last Requests

Drawings by Dzsud

I want a NY deli sub with everything on it and some hard-boiled eggs crammed in there as some sort of joke, and in my left hand, a half-eaten track-baton of a Dill pickle, with a good amount of that pickle’s juice on the front of my shirt. I want a 72oz. Big Gulp with a melon-sized ice ball. I want a 4-foot beef jerky rope or lasso. I want to fill a Jacuzzi with cash register display candy and a swimming pool with Snapple. I want to listen to the Leche Desnatada Pascual song as many times as I am forced to listen to Operación Triunfo recordings. I want to watch SportsCenter--5 or 6 times a day. I want to see extremely gelled hair ridiculed and/or abused. I want to flick the ears of the owner but getting random objects to stick in the mess without his knowledge would also be acceptable. I want to never hear a moped again. Ever. I want to see a truck that doesn’t have a flat front on it. I want to see a real pickup with a beefy 8 cylinder, gas-funneling engine, not one of the sorry cross-between-an-El-Camino-and-a-minivan Eurotruck excuses that couldn’t tow a Radio Flyer laden with little kids' dolls.

I want subtitles with lots of funny attempts at translating American slang such as “The Dude” (El Nota). Dubbing takes away more feeling than condoms. I want to get a huge slushy and the biggest bag of popcorn and see a Big Name Movie, in English, on the first night it's shown to the world in theaters. I want a 99 cent 40 of Bud. I want to get home and get some real t-shirts–-not ones that say random English words like “Base Ball American People”, but normal, cotton t-shirts, because, as you may know, mine have had pit stains permanently baked into the underarms. I want to go down to the supermarket and buy a stick of Old Spice Pure Sport High Endurance deodorant and antiperspirant and walk around in the desert for three days with a water cooler on a hand cart and drink it all but never sweat. I want to place my stick of Spanish deodorant in direct sunlight and watch it melt in a matter of minutes. I want to know what’s up with the half-size shopping carts. I want Michael Jackson to come clean about what all those “sleepovers” at the Neverland ranch are all about.

I want to be able to explain to the barber what I want him to do so I don’t end up with some pastillero p.o.s. on my head. I want to go to a peppermint pole barbershop that cuts only Jim Thorpe crew cuts and has never gelled a single spike. I want to pull into a highway rest stop with four fast-food chains and zero hanging ham legs. I want bagels. I want my teachers to actually spark the slightest bit of interest in their students instead of just letting them go the entire semester without learning a thing. I want to be the coolest guy at the beach by wearing a huge pair of Jams trunks instead of a banana hammock. I want to go to the beach and not think I’m at an acorn museum. I want to be able to flip up skirts using 2nd gear, like that guy in the commercial. I want boobs in American advertising. I want T.W. to answer our response to her email concerning her “really nice ones.”

I want to put in Boston's Boston and blow my eardrums out. I want a sign at all stoplights that says “No Sneaky Moped Business on Red,” or, I want a Ferrari idling at every cross-street, ready to mash the gas and flatten any moped that runs the light. I want to understand everything that everyone says, and if I can’t, for them not to stare like I'm a servant deflowering their only daughter. I want to be able to turn the radio to an oldies station…then one of five classic rock stations…then rap…then jazz…not Beth…then Beth…then Beth…then the “Knight Rider” theme mixed with David Hasselhoff’s vocal reaction to Mesopotamian torture devices. I want to publicly declare that porros rolled with tobacco and a few coffee grinds of hash don’t get you high. I want to let you know that most of that shit is smuggled into Spain up a dirty asshole.

I want to know how many girls will be going on a new underwear shopping spree at Victoria’s Secret when they get home. I want Spanish girls to know that they’re not hiding the line of their spinnaker-sized, probably polka-dotted Grannypanties. I want to walk out in a bathrobe and get the paper and read it over bacon and eggs. I want to inject Ben and Jerry’s into my veins as soon as I step off the plane. I want FUNK. I want to go to a baseball game with a backpack full of Cracker Jacks and eat fifteen hot dogs. I want to consume Wendy’s Late-Night Drive Thru in front of the Late Show. I want to play cards with spades, clubs, diamonds and hearts, because I want to play “Go Fish” without asking my opponent if they have any warty ham-legs. I want an air horn to use anytime I get caught behind the arm-linked old lady brigade blocking a narrow sidewalk and crop dusting it with mothball perfume.

I want Spain to admit that rapping in English is a lot more interesting and complex than in Spanish because all of our words don’t end in vowels and our verbs don’t all have the same endings and conjugations. I want to try to import Operación Triunfo and watch producers laugh me out of town. I want to bring a schwarma place, preferably Kebab King, to my college and mint money. I want one of those things that does the whatchamacalit. I want to hit Capri pants with a flamethrower when I see them on guys. I want to tell all the Senegalese that if they went to the U.S. they could get a job ten times better in a city, without any English and not be treated like shit by the entire population. I want a slap bracelet and a Koosh ball. I want someone to let me know when it’s time to make the donuts.

I want to go over the rules of nude beach etiquette: 1) no blatant looking over as you walk by, and 2) no laughing. I want to state, for the record, that it’s hard to follow the second rule but easy to follow the first one when you walk past a seventy year-old couple smearing sun block on each others wrinkly (and hairy?!) asses. I want to see you not laugh when you run into Poppa Hard-On making out with Mrs. H-O. I want to hang out with a janitor. I want to make another random janitor reference – janitor. I want to tell you that there are six (6) janitor references in this post. I want to go back to living in a country where most of the population puts in a siesta-free honest day’s labor. I want to note that the amount of second-hand smoke consumed daily by the average Spanish citizen is equal to smoking three gas-station cigars inside a locked steamer trunk.

I want fishnets and fuck-me boots to spell out the same things as they do at home. I want people to write to our email address and/or write big checks to us. I want big, rough American dogs, not these little dropkick puddlemakers. I want the Mets to win the World Series. I want the curses to carry some weight, which may require addressing the universal and thoughtless use of the word coño. I want to be cursed at in NY…in English, that is. I want to be free from stinky, grandfather clock-sized elevators. I want to ask lots of people I talk to in the CLM what their name is, but I fear it’s too late for that. I want to remember how the hell long division is done. I want commercial breaks to be three minutes instead of twenty. I want that bracelet-selling dude to leave me alone. I want Taberna del Irlandés to open back up. I want to remind you that my grandpa had a stack of gold so big they built a bank around it.

I want to give the nightly c/Elvira or cathedral steps crowd a big tent, take the show on the road and charge admission. I want a commemorative plaque with my name on it affixed to the back chair in all my classrooms. I want DVD rental at home to be 75 cents like it is here. I want to yank off rat tails and tug on thongs when I see them. I want to give a big shout-out to Luis, the old guy at Jade, who rocks harder on a nightly basis than most of you motherfuckers once a year on your birthdays. I want to explain to Spanish girls that it’s not cool to call and hang up at 10am on a Saturday. I want to let you in on the secret that a full Chinese dinner costs as much as one drink in a club. I want to learn about petty theft with the gypsies before I leave. I want a beach ball… a big one. I want somebody to please, please explain to me how to properly make Cola-Cao. I want toppings on my ice cream.

I want to know if Dollar Fever bourbon exists at home (possibly marketed as Euro Fever) and if Old Virginia bourbon has ever been sold or consumed in Virginia. I want to know what’s so damn interesting about an Anglican face walking down the street and why you have to fucking stare at me. I want to know who’s been flushing the toilet and running the sinks while I’m trying to take a shower. I want to know if a ferretería sells ferrets. I want you to know that writing this represents the pinnacle of my weekly stresses. I want to restate my formal position on ho’s: I can mack three of ‘em at the same time. I want to find out what’s inside all of those ZARA bags. I want you to try getting a suspected hernia looked at in Spanish. I want my taxis yellow. I want Spanish guys to teach me how a lady ought to be treated. Pet that culo.

I want to have a fifth-story balcony at home so I can still throw peanuts, sangria fruit, and pennies at cars. I want reiterate that reading is the devil. I want to erase from my memory Real Madrid getting beat up like a bunch of nerds by Juventus. I want you to know that after a shower I towel off my mancandy as if I’m polishing a Porsche. I want to give a final shout-out to José at Taberna, the staff of Kebab King, the guy who runs Hafez tetería, the ancient clientele of the Snooker, the cocaine vacuum known as Galaxia Fotocópias, Chema, Ben for what he did with his Bar Mitzfah money, and janitors around the world. I want you to know that I've just received a phone call from Washington stating that it is, in fact, time to make the donuts.


(Did you find that last janitor reference?)

Just Do It

Drawings by artlicker

Why does Spain consistently win the award for Europe’s Worst Hairdos? Is it a creative backlash on the part of the barbers who were forced to sculpt generic Francocuts for most of their careers? Does the populace have large shares of stock in hair gel companies? Is there a gigantic bad-haircut-drawing magnet hidden under the center of Madrid, designed and installed by the evil Dr. Pepe Pelargo after his scalp and mane were burned off in an acid-toilet swirlie somewhere above calle Elvira by a rival hair growth specialist?

With haircuts this bad around, there’s no time to waste considering where they came from. Get yourself acquainted with some of Spain’s most notorious hairstyles – and tips to help you flaunt one yourself. What better way to jump into Spanish culture than by jumping into the club of people with really bad haircuts (and we don’t mean Granada Diez). If we make fun of your hairdo, please, don’t get offended. Just laugh at the other bozo haircuts. And then get yourself a new one.

I. The c/Elvira-style “Frankly, hombre, I don’t give a damn.”



The Hairy Brainsucker (Brillopaderus Clingerus) – “Dude, like, you’ve got something sucking your will to live through your head, man.” This particular piece of head garbage is what happens when you go in for a crew cut only to have a living, breathing tangle of hair jump out of the barber’s dustpan and leech onto the newly shaved back of your head. The mind control immediately sets in, as you become convinced that your head will help you fit in with your Bohemian friends as you collectively smoke ass-hash porros and lie around with your dirty dogs.

Shaggy Mohawk (Badassednus Flacidus) – The equation is simple: Mohawk = Punk. It needs to be tall and pointy, and if possible, an obnoxious color. These floppy, will-less Mohawks lack sufficient gel for true Mohawk aggressiveness, and in doing so, are a disgrace to Mohawks everywhere. If any self-respecting, Mohawk rocking, safety pin-in-ear stabbing sickboy from New York, SoCal, or Jacksonville, Florida caught a glimpse of this sacrilege, the Shaggy Mohawk would be hoisted airborne by his black dirt-tights faster than you can say “Solo un centimo, por favor” and force fed all three of his essential-floppy-Mohawk-accessory juggling pins.

Factory Dreds (Rastus Corruptus) – This is an offense grave enough that even Bob Marley would get violent in protest if he were around. Factory Dreds are all over Spain – but how do they do it? Walk in off the street with normal hair, walk out of the salon with dreds the length of the hair you wore in. It’s just that simple. Maybe they use juice wrung out of nasty-ass, nappy authentic c/Elvira dreds to congeal normal hair into dred hair in a matter of minutes. Maybe the spirit of Reggae has been captured and enslaved to turn hair straight into dreds, cutting out the entire intermediary ostracization and putrification process. Maybe Marley sold his soul to the devil before he died. Regardless, you can see these perfect “rastas” everywhere, including the most bastardized place for them of all, the winner’s podium on Operación Triunfo. That’s right, cute little Beth is the number one spokesperson for this hairstyle that goes directly against the flow of the universe. I’m going to go stick a shotgun in my mouth.

II. Is Your Brain Fucking Up Your Hair Or Your Hair Fucking Up Your Brain?

Prince Wetspikes the Terrible (Frostius Tipcrownus) – Do you imagine yourself pulling up to Granada Diez on a brand-new Neos moped, bouncing off the seat full of energy with that hot arte teacher, high-fiving all your pastillero comrades, and sliding past two, then three, then four bouncers with ease? The first step to making this glory a reality is the right hairdo – a terrible circle of gel-smeared spikes forming a crown on your melon, with nothing above or below the awful ring but closely buzzed hair. For extra oomf, try gem encrusting with frosted silver tips or hideously highlighted golden points. This added color lets everybody know that no one knows bad hair better than you. Nadie.

Cool Braveheart Battle Scene Where Everybody Lifts Up Those Pointy Spears At the Same Time Head (Levitatum Spikae) – This guy must have some serious scalp problems, because his hair seems awfully anxious to escape. Maybe he inhaled too many gel and hairspray fumes in line at McDonald's and, intoxicated, was driven to create his masterpiece. Turning his head to the side while sleeping must unleash some kind of Shredder attack on his pillow. And he must have been hated in kindergarten when it was time to play telephone. Would you risk an eye just to whisper “poop” (the message passed on by Maggie McGinter) into his ear?

III. My Hair Will Never Dry



Grease Curl Waterfall (Greasepowerus Capitalistus) – Nobody can take a big, curly Afro seriously at the negotiating table. If your hair normally yearns for maximum silliness but your job demands maximum killerness, have no fear – you can intimidate your business adversaries and broadcast your position of power with the Grease Curl Waterfall. All you have to do is clench the hair gel bottle (pointing down) between your chin and upper chest, cup both hands together under the top, use your neck muscles to apply pressure, and squirt until your palms overflow with the stuff. From there, you can let the bottle fall, empty, to the floor as you raise the gel reservoir to your head and run your hands straight back from the top of your forehead to the back of your hair’s lowest point, below your ears. This initial slick can be performed while looking your mirror image in the eye and saying any sort of inspirational, ass-kicking, personal strength-building statement, such as, “I am awesome, and no gilipolla can fucking stop me.” Follow up the gel application with a few good combs - again, straight and down to the base of the neck, dragging all of your hair’s curling energy into a foamy, frothy curl-splashdown. Make sure the waterfall formation occurs after your undershirt is on but before donning your buttondown shirt and jacket. You don’t want excess dripping gel making your suit-jacket look like you just backed up into the wall in the Camborio men’s bathroom. The gel runoff will need a few minutes to soak into your t-shirt anyway, hardening it into a convenient, posture-enhancing back support.

Go Grease Mullet (Mulletus Imitatum) – Don’t have the balls to cut your hair into a friendly, full-fledged mullet? That’s ok, just be ready to spend a fortune on hair gel or Over-The-Top-arm-wrestling-champion-strength styling mud. Simply apply (by the kilo) large amounts of goop to the regions above your ears, matting it down to accentuate the more flamboyant regions of your scalp. Be extra careful not to get any on the bangs (they must be Poofy). Save plenty of gel for the very back, because you've really gotta work for this one. We suggest lubing up both hands with your slop of choice, grabbing two long chunks of hair with each hand and pulling in an outward swooping motion. Re-grab the chunks and repeat until the desired mullet caliber is achieved. As in any physical activity, visualization will improve your performance – so feel free to imagine running your fingers through the hair of your favorite inmate, New York Mets catcher, 70’s porn star, or of course, janitor.

U Down With Hacer P. P.? (Dia de la Cruz in Granada)

Photo by aroablog

The first order of business was to make sure I would be holding the biggest drink in the land. The silly woman behind the counter instinctively went for the little cups when I said, “Vasos.” Not today, my friend—I’m only here because you have HUMONGOUS bucket-cups, perfect for this rare occasion when an entire city pisses on itself and calls it a religious holiday. Walking out of the store with sun beating down on my face and nostrils making the most of the last twenty minutes of non-urine-scented air, I silently challenged Las Cruces to Bring It On. Then I yanked out a few eyelashes because I realized I had just referenced a bad cheerleader movie.

I'd heard that Plaza Universidad was a good daytime hangout, so I headed there first--and was not surprised that all of the Spanish guys had really, really tiny things. For the first time in history, (or more likely, since last year’s festivities,) the Spanish women didn’t mind! I’m talking about those pansy-ass Pilycrim shotglasses filled with pansy-ass Pilycrim sweetwine, of course. A lot of the people even had the gall to wear Pilycrim bandannas, which kicked off a game of “Spot the Lightweight from a Mile Away”.

It was under a drink tent in the same plaza that I first saw the “Spanish Kegstand”—one dude riding another dude’s shoulders, mouth wide open and head tipped back in an attempt to chug from a porrón as his buddy’s back breaks, but really only managing to stain the front of his t-shirt magenta and wine shampoo the lower guy’s hair. Payback comes when the duo switches places and the previously soaked team member skips the chugging part and goes straight to the pouring-wine-in-the-hair part. Noted: With reverence and purpose, one of these kegstanders wore only a thong.

Along with BAC's, the festival had raised the rate of female belly baring. Unfortunately, this led to the subsequent observation that a high percentage of Spanish women naturally grow gorilla–caliber treasure trails. Then again, disposable razors are pretty expensive. This being a party of excess on all fronts, though, I’d be damned if I was going to let a little excess hair stop me. After talking to and consorting with two or three fine young ladies, I understood that this fiesta represented a “3-night-only” poon-a-thon clearance sale. (And if you listened closely enough, you could hear thighs shouting ‘Come on down!’) If you didn’t capitalize, well…nothing sucks for you.

Toward the beginning of the day, I wasn’t really hip to the whole public urination thing. When I couldn’t find a discrete place to go, I decided to try the “Soy yo” approach. I buzzed the buttons of an apartment building saying, “Soy yo,” until some sucker of a tenant opened the door and gave me direct access to a multi-story urinal. I got privacy and the chance to watch my piss cascade down the stairs like a yellow waterfall instead of settling for the boring yellow river or pond that just soaks your shoes in the street. I did see some amateur indoor-piss-breaks as well, like inside the BBVA ATM chamber when I was waiting in line to get cash. I never got that cash.

Pissing and hitting the ATM simultaneously is ballsy, but there’s plenty that ranks higher on the Lowered Urination Inhibitions Scale. I witnessed a dude head straight to the top of the list later that night while dancing in Plaza Isabela la Católica to that “¡Salta! ¡Salta conmigo!” song (a composition more closely related to Simon Says than to House of Pain). Well, this guy salta’ed right up onto the statue, then right up onto the throne, sat down, and gave Columbus a golden shower. He wasn’t even the first to do it. Isabela had been drinking--and releasing--40’s up there all night. And you thought los Reyes Católicos didn’t know how to party.

Figuring it was time I got some culture in me instead of out, I found a tent for dancing “Sevillanas.” Looking out over the dance floor and seeing the sea of twirling wrists was like watching a bunch of male interior decorators commenting on the ceiling motifs of the Alhambra. I didn’t stick around very long, but made sure not to leave before I cashed in on another “3-night-only” special – the chance to dance scandalously close with a 70-year old woman.

Getting away from the dancing was a serious pain in the ass. Excuse me—getting anywhere was a serious pain in the ass (and the empty bottles made me think I’d just entered the log rolling competition of the ESPN Great Outdoors Championship). I felt better after seeing the cars trying to get through the crowds having as much luck as Roseanne trying to slip into an old pair of jeans. There were people pissing on the driver, the hood, the backseat, into the gas tank, stealing stuff out of the back, pissing on whatever they stole, helping the driver’s lack of wiper fluid with healthy portions of steamy piss, selling cups of piss to the driver, trying to trade water ice for piss ice, etc.

Yes, everyone needed ice. When girls wouldn’t stop asking me for ice cubes, I threw away all my cheesy pick up lines, headed into the nearest store and bought a big bag of the cold stuff. I got 49 numbers with 50 cubes. And for the 50th? Shhhh. I later met girls by carrying around an equally big bag of potato chips. I had fun playing the power card and squeezing the bag (crushing its contents) around their hands when they reached in (which, in retrospect, is only a notch or two above cutting a hole in the bottom of the popcorn bag at the movies, putting it “on your lap,” and sharing).

After squandering my chip supply on greasing female palms, the sight of guys everywhere chowing down on big greasy sausages got me thinking that one of those sausage sandwiches might taste pretty good. The guy selling them handed it over with the bun around his finger and the sausage still on the grill. I didn’t notice the difference for a second, and we apologized to each other (he for presenting it, I for biting his finger). Even though this guy was The Sausage Man, standing behind a huge grill filled exclusively with Sausage, I refrained from making any of the obvious sausage-penis jokes in his presence, as he seemed the type of character who is hired every so often to beat a man to death with a bag of broken glass.

Eating the (actual) sausage sandwich up there in Plaza Nueva, I relaxed to two broadcasts of “YMCA” in a span of 20 minutes (complete with a healthy dose of top-of-dumpster dancing). When the Superman theme song came on, I knew it was time to hit the road. Somehow, I remembered how to get to my apartment. And inside, I found my roommate summarizing the weekend by having sex with some girl on our kitchen counter. I decided to cancel my ritual drunken leaning-on-the-counter bowl of Corn Flakes. Forever. After an avalanche of inebriated text-messaging, I got a few hours of sleep before jumping at the sound of a Zamboni driven full-tilt through a pyramid of bottles stacked in front of a stained-glass window. It was clean-up time for all the street janitors, and the size of my hangover (and hopefully, yours) rivaled the size of the job outside.

Why Are You Studying Spanish?

Photo by whatabiggame

-I'm learning how to pick up the Spanish chicas. So far, I've only been kicked in the nuts three times and assaulted by five Spanish boyfriends! Sorry, gotta go...there goes another pair of tight pants. Que culo! --Leonard T., Western Theological Seminary

-My Daddy said he'd buy me a couple of hotels in Marbella as a graduation present if I learned at least 50 Spanish words during my five months in Spain! --Lauren B., Colgate University

-Spanish or no Spanish, I just can't wait to eat up all of Seville! That city is soooo cute! --Ellie P., Ole Miss

-To hunt down, interrogate, torture and kill Spanish-speaking rebels down 'round Colombia way. --Luke N., United States Marine Corps

-My goal is to become a master of Spanish slang, because slang is tu puta madre! -Brian P., University of Vermont

-I heard my Career Services counselor saying something about International Business. That uses Spanish, right? --Lizzie G., University of Southern California

-I'll be piloting Cessnas between the Dominican Republic and Miami. Need anything? --William S., University of Miami

-I'm going to make a lot of money--in Spanish. --Bradford J., University of Texas, Austin

-Someone's gotta take over the family Tijuana Prostitution Ring. --Jesse T., San Diego Polytechnic

-Who's studying Spanish? --Terry V., University of Colorado, Boulder

What Type of Guiri Are You?

Photo by abre/tus/ojos

From rapper lookalikes to farmers’ daughters, study abroad prides itself on bringing together people from around the world. Here in Spain, the mix is so diverse that you are guaranteed to have a small number of people who want your body as well as a faction eagerly seeking an opportunity to strangle you with a guitar string. Please take the time to read and learn about your fellow students – and maybe notice where you fit in. Also, make sure you point out to your friends exactly which heading they fall under, then run away as fast as possible.

The Happy Tongue: Happy Tongues have spent weeks, months, or years perfecting their language skills and accent in other Spanish-speaking countries and attend class for the express purpose of showing this off. Often asking obvious-answer questions or answering rhetorical ones, they can also be found flaunting their skills by sending all-Spanish emails to friends and family who don’t speak a word of Spanish. Outside of class, the Happy Tongue will pretend they don’t understand English, repeating “Cómo?” until you translate your question into their “dominant language” or beat them into submission with a leg of jamón serrano.

The Enlightened Intellectual: Also known as The Argument Man, this student is quick to compare everything he or she is told to American or British university teachings of “how the world should be.” Whenever they get a whiff of religious or sexual inequality, the Enlightened Intellectual will shoot up a hand (as if the professor just asked who's read any Kierkergard) and proceed to show the professor how wrong he/she/the class/Spain/Spanish culture is on the matter. Unfortunately, this student has spent too much time thinking about how smart they are to realize that other cultures exist that might, every now and then, have different views and ideals than those of their own.

The Town Crier: This student goes into a Mariah Carey-style nervous breakdown, buckets of tears and all, anytime that she (it’s always a she) gets confused or overwhelmed with the day’s material. Come on now – it’s just Spanish, and you’re not going to be tested (hard) on it.

Fiesta to Siesta: Somebody stayed out a little too late last night… These students are known to fall asleep in class, drool on themselves, snore, and sometimes even wake themselves up with the volume of their own snoring. Don’t be too rough on this breed – they’re probably getting more out of the city than you are. This student most often possesses Way Backer genes, seeking out the seat farthest from the professor’s mouth to saw saliva-covered siesta logs.

It Was Funny the First Time: Usually sitting in the back third of the classroom, this student assumes the responsibility of loudly repeating the same mediocre joke an average of 4.362 times until he either gets the “Is this mic still on?” standup-comic-bomb silence or the teacher vomits into the trashcan. Just one laugh is all he needs to think his clever remark is good enough to repeat, so please try to contain your initial confidence-inspiring chortle.

Just Blew It: Usually sniffling throughout the class, this student will make two or three trips to the bathroom per class to “blow their nose.” More like another line–-their idea of nose blowing isn’t forcing air out, but rather in, along with a pinch of uncut Colombian candy. It’s obvious every one of these snow shovelers has a Darryl Strawberry-sized coke habit. Be sure to remember their faces and get in touch around finals time if and when an all-night study session is in order.

Walkin’ the Tightrope: “Heyyyy………man.” You’re friends with this person, you see them around all the time, you both always say hi to each other, but neither of you knows each other’s name. How much longer can the charade hold up? Nobody knows for sure, but sooner or later your cover will be blown. Cut the bullshit and find out what their name is today. In this space there should be an inspirational sentence about honesty, but we lie too often to write one. Now that’s honest.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: Usually, you see this student sitting quietly in class, looking like they don’t want to be there. Just another shy, socially aloof outcast? Not the case–-when the sun sets and the free drink coupons start getting cashed in, this formerly-comatose student performs an on-the-bar-dancing, bra-throwing, tongue-into-throat-thrusting, slipping-and-falling, reputation-sacrificing ritual. Witnessing the progression of their night is like being on the scene of a gruesome carnival accident--first, the Ferris wheel is chugging along, nice and calm. Then, all of a sudden, the bolts break lose and the wheel, full of mothers and screaming children, rolls down a hill and crashes into the Catholic Hospital’s food tent, killing everyone involved. Sometimes, this breed will even wear aviator sunglasses or cowboy hats as they embarrass themselves. It’s fun for all involved.

The Veterans: These students are quick to tell every student, teacher, janitor, and domestic animal they meet that they were here last semester. They will begin every story with “last semester,” ostracizing themselves bit by bit with references to last semester’s kids, last semester’s classes, relationships with last semester’s professors that give this student exemption from the normal attendance policy, last semester’s failed courses, and last semester’s higher level of overall coolness.

Hey, Hollywood: These students fall into a number of different sub-categories, however they all find a way to shine through cell phone use/abuse. Maybe they’ll leave their ringer on and get a call, or maybe they’ll just allow the phone to vibrate the frame of their desk a few times. Maybe they’ll follow up the missed call with an obvious leaving-class-to-call-back “bathroom break,” or maybe they’ll just settle for an in-class beep-beep-beepin’-away text message. Sometimes their phone will start ringing but they’ll just let it keep going and laugh and/or act embarrassed, as if that will help you get back to concentrating on the masterpiece being doodled in your notebook’s margins. We’ll spill a secret–-these in-class calls are the result of complex, intra-clique pre-class planning between “friends” to help each other sculpt their popular image. Only slightly less annoying is the chorus of turning-the-phone-back-on sounds that comes with the end of afternoon classes.

Come On, Guys…Cancer’s Cool: These students can be seen furiously chugging down cigarettes between classes as if they were just given twenty-four minutes to live. The break area clambakes quite well, and if it weren’t for the generosity of this breed of student, non-smokers would be forced to waste hundreds of dollars each year on Ashtray™ by Calvin Klein.

Super Foreign Kid: This student comes from a RiDicULoUs foreign country that you’ve never heard of and boasts a RiDicULoUs Spanish accent. If Americans have patatas en la boca, and British Spanish sounds so stilted it makes the Americans laugh, this student’s accent can be described resembling a punch-drunk boxer singing doo-wop underwater with a mouth full of cream cheese.

The Swedes: It’s incredible. The Swedes are always beautiful, always loaded, always partying ‘til dawn, and always can speak fluent English–-and usually are a lot better at Spanish than you are, too. Maybe it’s because if they were at home right now, they’d be wearing four sweaters and a down jacket. Maybe it’s something in the Swedish Meatballs they were raised on. Maybe they’re on a mission from their government to replace the penis pump reputation with something positive. Nobody knows for sure, but damn these Swedes can kick it.

Those Sarcastic Assholes Who Write “Cheap Chupitos”: These two despicable human beings need to be dragged into the center of Plaza Nueva and suffocated with sacks of pennies. They demonstrate outrageous disregard for the negative impact their “publication” has on the already-shithoused reputation of foreign students. In the words of one hater, “It’s a hegemonic argument,” meaning (maybe) that it’s entirely our fault American and British students have a bad name. That being said, you can now go back to pissing on hotel couches, harassing bartenders in English, and throwing used condoms onto your neighbors' balconies.

Not At All What It Themes

Photo by Rufus Gefangenen

Almost every night of the week, a massive lie gets pulled over the city of Granada. No, I’m not referring to the city’s well-known lies, such as “guiris’ tapas contain the same percentage of hairs and spit as local’s tapas,” “dubbing is superior to subtitles,” and “Arab Baths are clean and foot-fungus free.” Actually, the lie to which I refer is in your face more often than oily Spanish PDA. What is it? The lie that “Discoteca theme nights actually have something to do with their theme.” Let’s take these “themes” to trial, beginning with the first heavily advertised scam:

Mystic: “Chill-Out Tuesdays”: If your definition of “chilling out” includes hearing four Backstreet Boys songs in a row, you might find this night’s theme somewhat accurate. No one comes here to chill, but rather to pound the €1 beers in a desperate attempt to make the music bearable. It’s an effective business strategy on Mystic’s part – if they started playing some different (possibly good) music, people might stop double-fisting until their pocket full of Euro-coins runs out and start dancing instead. However you choose to spend your time here, you inevitably will be forced to leave when 10-15 people of undeterminable nationality come in and bring the authentic scent of the Detroit Pistons’ locker room (circa 1977) to the dance floor. And that shit’s not chilling anybody out.

Verdict: GUILTY. Sentence: Win the Once, move out of the partying-inside-a-gym-sock location, build an amphitheatre in Garcia Lorca park and hire The Wailers to play every Tuesday night, with Toots and the Maytalls as the opening act. Give free Rasta hats with fake dreds out the back to everyone that shows up and let the crowd get higher than a Jamaican satellite. Now that’s chilling out.

Granada Diez: “Soul Kitchen” Wednesdays – Not even a spontaneous Stevie Wonder vs. Ray Charles Dueling Pianos Soul Showdown could save Granada Diez at this point. The club is suffering from a soul-drought the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the 1988 Salt Lake City Star Trek Convention and alcohol-free post party. Someone really needs to uncork a vial of Marvin Gaye’s blood, sweat and tears in the middle of the dance floor and splash it around, possibly raising the soul-o-meter above 0%. In seven visits, I have heard a song by James Brown – the Godfather of Soul – a total of one time. When it came on, I was so excited I almost swallowed my tongue. However, when it was cut off 2/3 of the way through by a Justin Timberlake earache bomb, I felt like the recipient of a Mr. T atomic wedgie.

In the same period of time responsible for the inexcusable James Brown ratio, I have heard Jenny From the Block 47 times. That’s about 3 hours and 31 minutes of JFTB. The New England Journal of Medicine has recently reported that one can only take 3 hours and 15 minutes of JFTB in a two-month period without suffering permanent psychological damage (side effects include paying to see Ben Affleck movies and/or thinking he's a good actor, being fooled into not being fooled by the rocks that she’s got, scrapping plans to burn Block-playing club to the ground, etc.) If you’d like, please send us an email - I’m confident that we have grounds for a class-action lawsuit.

Other soulless offenses include the look of confusion and bewilderment on the DJ’s face when I asked him if he had any George Clinton/Parliament-Funkadelic, mixing songs together with the smoothness of Ted Turner trying to do the Moonwalk, and the absolute lack of anyone looking remotely similar to the souled-out woman on the free-entry ticket.

Verdict: GUILTY. Sentence: Fire the DJ’s immediately. Buy a James Brown Box Set, some Best of Motown CD’s, and maybe hire that band from “Animal House” to shake things up for an hour or two every Wednesday night. Also, get some Soul Food to go with the Soul Kitchen front. Big dripping buckets of fried chicken should be placed at the corner of every bar, and every hour, on the hour, 35 to 45 pounds of collard greens should be dumped from the ceiling onto the dancefloor.

Camborio: “Thursdays are …‘Divalicious’”: I kind of understand what terms such as Bootylicious, Chocolicious, Trumpalicious, and delicious are getting at, but Divalicious is more ambiguous than the long-term health effects of jamon serrano. Again, Camborio follows the trend of deception by throwing a party that seems to have nothing to do with Divas beyond the word “Divalicious” being printed on the promotion ticket (useful for €1 off your second drink or making 75 porro filters). Based on previous personal experience, the name of this night could be changed to “Get a copa glass smashed over your head by a jealous, suspicious, and insecure Spanish novio while you’re waiting for the girl you're dancing with to come back from the bathroom.”

Judging by the hostile interior atmosphere and the notoriously thuggish walk home, Camborio should start handing out promotional switchblades and mace cans instead of flyers loaded with English words. It’s not too surprising that this is a place you can get roughed up in, but what else would you expect from a club that hosts gypsy-run cockfighting and scorpion-vs.-rodent matches on Monday and Tuesday nights?

Potentially dangerous? Yes. Divalicious? No. Verdict: GUILTY. Sentence: Choose one of the following for immediate revision of all marketing materials:
“Wade through urine in the terrace bathrooms-alicious” Thursdays
“Walk yourself into sobriety on the way to the club-alicious” Thursdays
“Get mugged while walking home with your random hook-up-alicious” Thursdays
“Get shit on by bats for the authentic cave-party experience-alicious” Thursdays

Like American girls’ asses in the eyes of old Spanish men, Monday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night’s themes are up for grabs. It won’t be long, though, until every night has a name:

* An offer has recently been accepted by Monday night’s PR department for “Puke In Your Mouth, Gringo” Mondays at the Chupiteria

* Friday is currently the object of a bidding war between “Too Many Greaseballs in the Club to Have Any Fun” Fridays at Granada Diez, “Take Jade and Fiesta.com For All Their Worth with a Fistful of Free Drink Coupons Then Jet” Fridays and “Kick Over a Moped Because Thursday Night Was More Fun” Fridays. Trying to get into the ring as well is newcomer “Put Yourself in a Position to Execute the Saturday Morning Excursion Bus Vomit” Fridays.

* Traditionally-neutral Saturday has recently been accepting suggestions and may even sign a sponsorship contract with one of the following slogans before the end of the month: “Get the Fuck Out of Granada in a Rented Alfa-Romeo” Saturdays, “Put On Them Tight Jeans To Try To Meet Spaniards – Get Shut Down – Vow To Never Wear Them Tight Jeans Again” Saturdays, “Cover Your Mouth, Nose, and Cheeks with Schwarma Sauce” Saturdays and “Puke in the Isabela la Catolica Fountain Then Take Four Steps to the Right and Use That Water to Wash Out Your Mouth” Saturdays.

* Sunday, also know as The Big Holy, refuses to officially take money from a sponsor but has been known to quietly accept compensation in other forms, such as free bottles of Anis or dates with American girls. Sunday is currently considering adopting “If You Don’t Watch Fútbol You Have a Small Pecker” Sundays, “Sleep Until At Least Seven P.M.” Sundays, “Get Some Beers, Go to a Movie, Fall Asleep in the Movie” Sundays or “Laugh About How Homework is a Joke” Sundays.

Against all odds, a nugget of straight-talkin' truth has recently appeared in the wake of theme-night deception. Now you can hear every song you’ll hear in the club before you even get to the club! You’ll never hang out with another Spaniard again! All of this and over-priced drinks can be yours through The Dolce Vita Official Pre-Party Cram-As-Many-Americans-As-Possible-Into-A-Tiny-Ass-Bar Coattails Scheme.

If you ask me, though, an Official Pre-Party involves a word starting with B and ending with N. Come on, Einstein. You know where we’re going with this one…hope you get it figured out before Thursday.

Mo' Dinero, Mo' Problems

Photo by Victoriano

Finding a Spaniard without an Once ticket in their pocket is as difficult as actually winning the Once. The daily Once lottery is what happens when an entire country decides to deny its collective gambling addiction for a few decades. At this point, you could drop Las Vegas, prostitutes and all, into the center of Castilla y León and it would go broke from neglect in a matter of weeks. Why? Because nothing compares to the nightly roller coaster of emotion brought on by having a shot at MC Hammer-style spending capability but inevitably losing bigger than the Milwaukee Brewers.

Due to its unshakable machismo complex-cum-male insecurity problem, Spain is always trying to go Bigger and Better--hence the weekly National Lottery. At times, its ever-bloated jackpot has swelled to the lets-get-serious sum of €2 billion. I don’t know about you, but I chose to come to Spain so I could win this pot and live like a trust-fund baby. Considering that life here is less demanding than preparing for a second grade spelling bee, my stress has recently been due to deciding how I will spend my impending fortune.

* I would buy every discoteca-frequenting Granada resident their own personal pair of Jenny From the Blockmuffs. These specially designed earmuffs will block the one song that is more repetitive than the Puerta Real traffic cop’s whistle. Maybe when the D.J.s see their whole audience with these fuzzy beauts, they’ll cut the song from their current repertoire of Jenny From the Block, Hijas de Sangre, Jenny From the Block, Eminem, Jenny From the Block, Jenny From the Block… They'd also come in handy in any bar, Corte Inglés, supermarket or anywhere else with a radio. Obviously something must be done because keeping that song out of your head is almost as hard as using your sixth sense to avoid landmines while walking down Recogidas and texting. [Ok, Jenny From the Block must be old and over by now, please comment if you know what song is currently on the throne.]

* I would subsidize the prices of cell phones, allowing visiting students to purchase any phone they want for the flat price of €5. This would eliminate the previously unavoidable silliness of every person having the exact same Alcatel My-First-Cellie-piece-of-shit-toddlerphone.

* I would pay the owners of 50 SmartCars, selected at random, €500,000 each. I would pay the city of Granada €1,974,000,000 to let me hold a SmartCar demolition derby in the bullring. At the last moment, I will enter the bullring as well, driving either a 1965 Cadillac Coupe de Ville or a 1970 Buick 455, depending on which model can be acquired most easily. The rest of the money would be used to fix the thousands of scratches in the paint job of my car.

* As revenge for every person who has ever had to scrape the sole of their shoe on a curb or frantically find a puddle to dip it in, I would capture every wild horse in northern Spain, feed them Taco Bell burritos for a week, and let them loose in the center of Granada via helicopter drop. One day prior to Operation Brown Beauty I would provide heavy rubber galoshes for all non-dog owners and maybe pairs for dog owners who actually clean up after their animal.

* First, I buy a large chunk of moped-muffler stock. Next, I contract with Lockheed-Martin to develop a set of persianas that actually block noise and install them on every window in the Granada. Knowing that their late-night revving can no longer wake anyone up , moped drivers will buy mufflers en masse, accepting that the sacrifice of their eardrums has become devoid of benefits. The profits will then be used for production of hearing aids.

* I would turn the Alhambra into a huge shopping mall and the Generalife into an even-huger parking lot, filled with Big American Cars. I will bring in Abercrombie, Banana Republic, Sunglass Hut, bad ambient music, and an alcoholic fake-beard Santa who grudgingly lets kids sit on his spiky lap for the big Christmas run-up (which will start one week earlier each year). There will be a Big American greased-up food court with every fast-food chain represented. Naturally, there will also be a Big American Bathroom, and its plumbing will empty directly into the Rio Genil. If this idea appeals to you, go home, and then to Hell.

* I would sit on the corner of Pedro Antonio and Recogidas in a folding lawn chair every night for one month. When cars with unnecessary spoilers and neon stickers pull up to the light, attempting to blast music through buzzing speakers, I will walk in front of the car and write out a check for €20,000 right on the hood. I will hand this check to the driver along with a Crutchfield Professional Car Stereo mail-order catalog. If you’re going to pretend to be from New Jersey, I’d at least like to see it done right. Of course, with the unspent money I will purchase a gold-plated Escalade with an extra V8 in the trunk. This engine will be dedicated to powering the 76-speaker stereo, engineered to blast Seat Ibizas and other cocktail peanuts off the road with malodorous waves of deep, dirty bass.

* I would hire the Astrodome grounds crew to put down a temporary layer of turf on the sidewalk every time it rains so that I don’t slip on the wet marble tiles and eat it in front of my friends.

* I would hire the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders to sunbathe on the migraine-for-your-eyes cranes every day, making the sight of construction somewhat bearable.

* I would pay the living actors in the top ten greatest Hollywood movies of all time to re-film their roles with a translated Spanish script. Even if the accents are terrible, Spaniards will no longer have to suffer the Kung-fu movie effect.

* I would change every elevator and address in the city to make the first floor the first floor.

* I would create my own Operación Triunfo to be broadcast in the same 10pm to 1am Monday night time slot on an adjacent channel. The contestants will have to write their own songs and wear Carnaval masks so the voting can’t be decided by the female audience’s crushes. The final episode will be that much more exciting because the host will give a Scoobydoo unmasking of the winner.

* I would pay every restaurant to add to their menus a simple thumb’s up or thumb’s down next to each item, depending on whether it will digest without incident.

* I would make a hundred clones of the big cuddly Once-ticket-selling “Esta noche!” lady and place them on every major street corner. Isn’t that lady cool?

* I would bring honor back to the sport of fútbol by offering an end-of-season €25,000,000 bonus to every player in la liga. It will be clearly stated that the bonus will be withdrawn if, at any point during the season, you fall down like a pansy and lie on the ground pouting like your older brother just stabbed a pencil through your favorite My Little Pony.

There’s no wrong way to spend your Once winnings, but if you win it before I do, please consider the muffs. We gotta have them muffs.

Spanish Hand Dryers

Photo by Dave77459

Let’s mathematically break down a normal trip to los aseos:

(doing your biznass + washing your hands) x 2 = time wasted trying to use the hand dryer

Have you ever wondered why these hand dryers seem to be powered by almost-dead AAA batteries? In the hand-drying department, you have a choice between saving paper and saving power. By trying to save on both, Spain leaves us to explore other hand-drying alternatives:

The Toilet Paper Mummy Man – Use the toilet paper that just breaks apart and sticks all over your still-wet hands, leaving you looking like an extra that just stumbled off the set of Foreign Exchange Mummy II.

The Piss Pal – Wipe the water all over your pants, leading people to wonder why you even bothered making a trip if you were just going to open the floodgates before you got your zipper down. Your stains will make you the model used to illustrate hacer pipi when it comes up in your language and culture class.

Mr. Moist Mitts – Leave your hands totally soaked. Seeing that no one likes a soggy handshake, your greeting options are reduced to the chem-nerd nervous wave (to be used with a nasally “Hey Guys…” and a brief, uncontrolled snort), the high-school quarterback chin-thrust (used with ‘Supdude), the ski lift attendant two-finger salute, the Shooter McGavin Shootahhhh!, or the dos besos – even when they are totally out of place (i.e. dude on dude, student on professor, student on janitor, professor on janitor, janitor on janitor, etc.)

Germpalm von Stinkfinger – Don’t wash your hands at all. You might think you're sly, but all the girls on their 24/7 bathroom line just saw you ignore the sinks. And ladies, please keep in mind that your sinkzone isn’t that private either.

The Excursion Bus Vomit

Photo by J A C H O

It’s 7 am. As you exit the discoteca of your choice with your head hung low, the only thing on your mind is how you’re going to make it through that group-organized excursion bus ride that starts at 9. And how you’re not getting any ass tonight. But back to the bus ride-–with the vision-doubling, memory-hijacking, bladder-bursting, lengua-fluentizing quantity of alcoholic beverages you’ve crammed into your liver over the past 11 hours, you've put yourself in a position to have your reputation stripped down and spit out like the pit of a bad Spanish olive.

Thinking of the Spanish translation for, “I’m about to puke all over this bus if you don’t turn on the air conditioning,” only worsened your situation. For your efforts, the sadistic bastard of a bus driver has rewarded you with his trademark 30-second-blast of air that feels like you’re having an unsavory encounter with a chorizo-breathed close-talker. “Thanks for nothing, asshole, but my palms and forehead are still covered in that clammy, alcohol-based sweat that makes me feel like I’ve just slapped the pasty ass of my senior citizen tennis doubles partner in the locker room after a hot match. Not that I’ve ever done that…”

Your one-word answers to avoid conversation have not slowed Mr. GilbertGottfriedVoice’s efforts to convince you that he is cool, a feat he obviously never accomplished in the past two windows of opportunity – the first few weeks of both high school and college. You switch seats, only to end up listening to the wannabe-badass recap of Mr. Tellyoueverythinghedranklastnight’s night. Frustrated, you lean back in your seat, accidentally positioning your mouth where it is force-fed a new, 30-second chorizo-blast as soon as you close your eyes. The air situation is about as painful as the bitchboy behind you working the “sensitive guy” angle inviting some girl to join his flamenco class.

You bust out your iPod, only to find the battery dead. The girl across the aisle hands over her pink mini, which looks promising. Unfortunately, it only includes a bunch of help-you-pull-the-trigger-albums, including Big Willie Style, the soundtrack from Grease!, Hootie, and even a little Weird Al. The remainder of the collection is made up of I-love-my-big-sister! Sorority mushmixes with chunkblowing hits such as The Macarena, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and Waterfalls. It appears you’re not going to be able to drown out the five or six inbreds in the back of the bus who are singing along to Red, Red, Wine played on portable shit-box speakers turned up to ten.

Does this situation sound somewhat familiar? Here are a few tips on how to make it through the ride without getting your reputation trampled by the raging, angry bull of shame known as the excursion bus vomit.

-Don’t even try talking or watching that Spanish movie. It’s hard enough understanding it when you’re not trying to keep down a cocktail party at the same time.

-In this position, only a fool would try to broaden his or her knowledge of Spanish history by listening to the tour guide the program just picked up from Valium Addicts Anonymous. Sure, that Fifteenth-century mosque is cool, but a public spew in front of your peers would divert their attention from the façade of the building to your beautiful new modern art creation quicker than a breast-baring TV commercial. Wouldn’t you rather respond, “I don’t know” to a question about the monument than respond, “Didn’t you just see me perder mi almuerzo” to an inquiry into what the hell just happened?

-Internally repeating some sort of inspirational mantra such as, “I am a road-hardened traveler,” “These curvy roads are all in the head,” “Can’t lose the booze,” or, “Don’t puke, asshole,” will slightly increase your odds of success.

-Always remember that accidentally paying attention to any one of the chunk-catalysts around you for too long will trigger an avalanche of stomach-emptying thoughts and feelings.

Evaluating your tolerance by your college’s bastardized definition of “A Big Night Out” may lead you to think you have an iron stomach – Spain will prove you don’t. However, following these directions can get you to your destination puke-stain free. Any minor slipup, though, and you’ll find yourself hands-on-knees in a cloud of dust kicked up by the panicked bus driver trying to save his upholstered seats, puking in the unforgiving Andalucian sun, as 40 or so students climb over each other to crowd the windows and laugh and point at you burping and gagging over a technicolor paella del estómago. We would also advise you not to follow the example of Mr. Tellyoueverythinghedranklastnight and try to drink away your sickness all day, hide it from group’s directors, down chupitos at rest stops, piss into bottles on the bus, buy overpriced wine as you skip The Big Attraction of the City and eventually get carried off the bus by the program director like a (fill in the blank):

-Sleeping baby

-7th grader who has broken into his parent’s liquor cabinet for the first time

-Chihuahua that had its water bowl filled with tequila

-Girl on diet pills who drank too much punch

-Computer repairman who tried to take on Tyson

-21-year-old birthday boy who has actually waited until age 21 to start drinking

Like working the sidewalk with a fire hose in the middle of the night, controlling the excursion bus vomit requires professional know-how. If you can relate to anything written above, you are a full-blown alcoholic. Congratulations. For further reference, please see When to Chug Water, The Rest Stop Boot and Rally and How to Silently Vomit Into an Empty Liter of Alhambra. If you’ve never walked the tightrope before, we suggest that you immediately buy a city bus pass, take your pansy-ass down to the Chupiteria, and start practicing.

La Chupiteria

Photo by Bridget Anne

The Chupiteria. Maybe you love it, maybe you hate it, and maybe you don’t know what I’m talking about. Well, if you think you haven’t been there, you have – you just don’t remember it. It's about the same size as the trailer on an 18-wheeler and just as American. That is, if you excuse the fact that Carlos the bartender has it all fixed up in cowboy and Indian décor. Obviously, this is a man that never played cowboys and Indians as a kid. You gotta pick a side, and it’s one or the other, amigo.

Cultural inaccuracies aside, this place still spreads its tentacles across Granada every night, drawing American students out of apartments near and far who are looking to get the best alcohol/price ratio in the city (el botellon still trumps all, but let’s assume for now that you couldn’t find any plastic cups) Admit it – you’re here to get Fucked Up, and there’s no reason to put your euro-coin towards anything except #’s 9, 58, 75, and to impress even the most iron-livered alcoholic, 62.

As you descend into incoherence, you will inevitably start forgetting some things…please and thank you’s, the time, who you are, etc. Here is a list of do’s and don’ts you can keep on hand for those nights that you just have to get another pink ticket…and remember, you’re not an American until you get your picture on the wall…

DON’T expect tapas or to practice (or hear) any Spanish.

DO order a Heineken to drink between shots.

DON'T come up with a clever little nickname to call Carlos such as chief, reman, featherhead, squanto,sittingbird, longchaps, saddlebags, hogtie, or cowboy.

DO make new friends with the ‘Scusemebuddy Approach. Saying “‘Scusemebuddy” as you elbow a compatriot out of his or her spot at the bar will allow you to 1) automatically make a new buddy simply by referring to a stranger as “buddy” and 2) allow you to immediately take your new buddy’s spot because a buddy’s gotta respect it when his buddy’s saying ‘scuseme.

DON’T be the girl who shouts out “I love this song!” when Easy-E’s “Gimme That Nut” comes on – unless sharing this info is part of your strategy for that particular night.

DO trick girls into thinking that cognac is a fruity flavoring.

DON’T keep all the tickets when you buy a round of shots.

DO lie to people that it’s your birthday (Shouting “Itzamaberthdahay!!” helps.)

DON’T hesitate if you find out the girl (or guy?) you’ve brought home from a random bar is wearing the Chupiteria thong. It’s not really that much of a health risk…

DO let me know if you manage to steal the peace pipe.

DON’T waste your money ordering shots brightly colored shots.

DO walk to Camborio wearing your 17-ticket Greg "The Shahk" Norman golf hat over a 12-ticket pirate dewrag, 60-ticket Run-DMC-cut sweatshirt over a 35-ticket camiseta, rocking a 10-ticket Snotcloth/Mungrag/Bandana tied around one knee, and swinging your 6-ticket keychain.

DON'T go at all if you have an excursion bus trip the next day.

DO take a handful of Origami-paper napkins into the bathroom if you are planning on wiping anything.

DON'T get excited until you know the gender of the ass brushing against your pelvis. (Experienced most often in during high traffic in the ass-to-pelvis brush-chute between the bar and the wall.)

DO botellon before and after.

DON'T ask Carlos about the student who died going for the Chupiteria Moped (7000 tickets, prize no longer available.)

DO try to get to the bottom of the "Heinekin-only" mystery.

DON'T brag to your friends about how many Quick Fucks you had. It's an overused joke, it's not funny, and it's a relatively weak shot.

DO hang out ‘till you black out.

The Chupiteria: 69 c/Pedro Antonio de Alarcon, Granada

El Moped

Mopeds – they’re as common as dog shit on Spanish sidewalks and just as annoying. Haven’t noticed them yet? Stop reading for a second and listen for the Urkel laugh crossbred with the overbid signal on The Price Is Right – if you can’t hear it within ten seconds, I’ll gel my hair Eurostyle forever. Obviously, no one has told these people that riding a moped is almost as cool as riding the 25 cent motorized horse outside the supermarket, while a bunch of kids wait in line. No matter how many neon colored sport-bike stickers or bad-boy-flames you put on that thing, the 15 horsepower engine isn’t going to make you go any faster buddy. The decals won’t make that Moped Wheelie you just did any sweeter either. Yes, that’s right, the Moped Wheelie. At least one viewing of this is guaranteed before you leave Spain. I witnessed my first in Granada, right near that statue of Isabella helping Columbus up after he had just tied his shoe. As the daredevil passed, I wanted to tell him that steering the airborne wheel side to side was not adding to the intimidation factor, and maybe let him know about the stopped car he was about to hit. Seriously, hombre, the only way you’ll be able to impress me on that thing is to jump it over a line of parked Powerwheels.

Next we come to the not-so-badass police moped. Choices of private citizens are one thing, but if I were a tax-paying Spaniard, I would be very uneasy knowing that if I got robbed I would have to hear a cop tell me, “Hold on, I’ll be right there… let me just jump on my Police Moped…” This public safety hazard most likely exists because of an acute shortage of poorly dubbed re-runs of CHiPs, and at this point, can only be fixed by devoting an entire TV channel to this Californian export. I can almost guarantee lifeguards on the Costa del Sol have long since traded in their rowboats for bright yellow jet skis and those long, red float things with the rope tied to them that Mitch and his Baywatch pals have. Give the Guardia Civil one week of CHIP’s episodes and they will inevitably ditch their weed-whacker engines with wheels for chromed-out highway patrol bikes and “Hey, Big Boy” aviator sunglasses.

Mopeds can even be blamed for phenomena outside the realm of two-wheeled transportation. The SmartCar, for example, is rumored to be the illegitimate child of a drunken one-night stand between a Vespa and a 1987 Seat Ibiza. However, if it turns out that the competing rumor is true – a 1969 Boss Mustang coughed the SmartCar into a napkin while choking on paella at the beach in Malaga – the mopeds will be able to save some face.

Although it appears that moped drivers are just too cheap for cars and not cool enough for dirtbikes, their preferred mode of public embarrassment does have a few benefits. Seeing that these drivers are more Charlie’s Angels than Hell’s Angels, you’d think that they would have difficulty in the chica department. Unfortunately, you’d be more wrong than brand-new Air Jordans on the doorstep of Granada Diez. The exhaust of these puttputt engines is an aggressive aphrodisiac, only detectable by the nostrils of hot Spanish women with vacuum-sealed ass-pants. They will claw over one another to straddle the back of the machine and hug the driver, no matter how greasy he is. However, every now and then, the equation gets out of whack – 2 dudes on a moped. Nuff said.