The recent skatespots we have been hitting, were Fondo, a place with natural white pyramids or Parallel, with flat manual stages surrounded with metal edges that grind beyond belief.

     On one of the plentiful sunny days, we hightailed it to an area off the purple line, and found a popular spot seen in many skateboard videos. If I were to describe as food, it would be an enormous headhigh rectangle sandwich, next to a slanted wedge of cheese. So the idea was to launch tricks into the slant, and ride away with an insane amount of momentum. Excitedly Mike was getting comfortable with his trick and my camera was out documenting the aeronautics, when unexpectedly things went a bit haywire.

     On one attempt, during his highspeed angled rideaway, his toe caught, twisting his body into a foreign direction, all while simultaneously stepping back onto the already tattered skateboard. Hurling his body into the air, he simulated a child jumping butt first into a pool, only sadly for Mike, the landing was hard concrete and not water. With hopes to salvage this mishap and subject to normal instinct, Mike placed below him as many arms as God allowed, to take most of the major impact, before the rest of his body followed. He knew it was like a man without a parachute, and that you can guarantee casualties.

     Mike's poor little wrist didn't survive the spill, unlike his meatier stronger counterpart, the Ass. Treated and wrapped, he thinks he was diagnosed with a broken wrist, but since the doctor could only speak Spanish, for all he knows he could die of a fatal tumor tomorrow.

Porchsitting ///

     I had met Ruby in her hometown of San Diego a couple months ago, which informed me she had been attending school here for a couple years now. So, rarely if their was a night we went out, she would show us the local bars, or sometimes we would meet her at the skate bar El Monolo. On our first outing we attempted to be "smarter then our normal selves" as we optioned to avoid the high prices at the bar, and left the house already quite intoxicated. Assuming that we were operating under the usual US time schedule (bars closing at 2:00am), we arrive at the ASR imitating Monolo bar, greeted by many familiar faces we had seen earlier in the week.

     I was still outside scraping doggy doo from my soles, and feeling overly skilled at this task, since it was the umpteenth time I had soiled them. I pondered if I could lie about surprisingly forcing my foot into dung, as if it were from an elephant that had recently been overeating. With a sigh, I gazed down realizing my case was against me, because I had the white, now brownish shoes proving my guilt, plus a stench so overwhelming, flies began to linger. Problem is that Spain is much like a field if land mines, you can try your hardest to avoid them, but inevitably your leg will eventually be blown to bits. I swear, you'd wonder if the Spanish ever heard of the Pooper-Scooper?

     Finally making it inside the cramped bar, Ruby joins us shortly and questions our physical state and my stench, asking if we were ready to head to the second bar. "Second Bar, but its almost 2:00am" I shout with a more then slight slur. But apparently these damn Spaniards commonly start the party and drinking at 2:00 o'clock, usually ending at 5:00am or even later, meaning we were in very early with the fiesta.

     Marty always mentions that he gets the feeling as if he is annoying people, especially when he is under the influence, and I believe tonight this was true. On our walk to the second club called City Hall, there was a phrase we repeated from the movie Old School, "Always watching, always judging, look at the baby, look at the baby". Now why we were saying this who knows, but at the time it seemed funnier then all hell. Belligerently this was yelled at the top of our stupid tourist American lungs, until Mike and Marty�s heads were set to spin, forcing them to take a cab home at about 3:30 or so. Ruby and myself (trying to fit in like a local and not wanting to end the party early) decided to wait until the Metro started at 5:00 saving ourselves some dinero on the cab fare.

     At about 5:30, on the green line directed toward home, I had a forehead slapping realization that I had made the mistake and loaned the house keys to my irresponsible roommates, who have their own set, but oddly never bring them. Ironically the outside security gates that block out vagrants and drunkards like me, was unlocked and allowed me to enter freely. As if I was playing a game of Dungeons and Dragons, I was through one of the two obstacles blocking me from completely destroying my pillow with my face. Now step two was to get into the apartment, which seemed simple enough, at the delirious time I was riding up the sketchy elevator.

     But after banging on door for an entire half-hour to a borderline fist bleed, I thought differently and knew I had reached my all time low. It's past 6 o'clock and sleeping on the porcupine floor mat seemed illogically more comfortable then the alternative ice-cold marble, frozen from the open skylight above. Intelligently I advanced to methodically doing 30-minute naps in-between my cries for help, swift pounds to the door and mental kicks to my head. Now a foremost expert on this subject, let me inform you that banging on the door for half an hour increments, doesn't wake anyone up as much as you would think.

     I knew it was about 8 o'clock, because it was bright enough to check the sun for the time, I made another knocking presentation, when dungeon master Hags opens the door, somewhat surprised.
"Did I wake you?" I pass not caring or waiting for her answer.
"No, I am getting up for work" she replies probably wondering, if I was going to bed, who was running hell?

     I had lost the game and the alcohol had won, dragging my popsicle feet to my sleeping bag blanketed foam mattress, questioning if I had the energy to kick the hell out of my roommates or not. Fortunately for them I decided against it, mostly because I was scared that with my luck I would break my toe or Mikes other wrist.

     Waking up at a dusky 5:30pm, I found my efforts to avoid the clich� saying "Too much fiesta, not enough ciesta" didn't pan out, but tomorrow is another day, and I am on vacation, aren't I?