There is a rotten apple on my dashboard.

The bite marks are browning like tanned leather and

It’s making my car smell like the inside of a trash can.

The apple doesn’t scream at me to do anything with it.

The apple is content on my dashboard.

My nose is not content with the apple.

But to pick it up would mean sticky fingers

And sticky fingers mean inevitable lint

And lint reminds me I need to do laundry.

An apple is like a dryer sheet is like a promise.

Do this live this way be healthy like me smell good.

People like pristine people. Crisp people.

But when you reach the core you may bite a seed.

Or it’s rotten in places you thought it was fresh

and it has that taste like shoe leather

Tanning shoe leather and dashboard polish in your mouth.

I don’t lick my dashboard.

The stem has always perplexed me.

After all, we never see the chain of production

unless we’re farmers or kids on a field trip to the orchard.

So stems seem superfluous; this isn’t a living thing, is it?

It rots because it once breathed it once lived

A life complete separate from ours

Ours which takes nourishment without gratitude.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost our stems

If people remember that we’re alive.

Our lives all so separate, so rotten.

I think I once hung like an apple on a tree

With dangling friends ripening around me.

My skin looks like tanned leather and

Is polished like a dashboard.

I am not a crisp person.

****

Spelunking in Hades draws inspiration from a muse-less wasteland

Spelunking in Hades delivers another hellicious album of ceaseless techno, with enough flourishes to rival the flamboyance of Erasure in his most Village-People-proud moments.  The Sirens Boarded my Ship…That’s What She Said proves to be as immature and convoluted as its title.  Perhaps the San Francisco based quintet could have created a better musical product if it had been muses and not sirens that had boarded their ship.  Sloshy drums and Nintendo bleeps and blips back up the narration of the Homeric adventures of young homosexual Uliss Sees—a bastardization of the name and warrior status of Ulysses paralleling the bastardization of the Odyssey subplots that provide the stretched basis for the lyrical content.

Heavy on the lyrics for a techno album, each song molds an interconnected piece for the overall depiction of Uliss Sees, a gay man beckoned on a strange journey by a mysterious yet gentle oracle.  Songs bearing titles like “Unchained Circe” fail to fill the Olympic sized shoes shaped by their anticipatory titles, as the vague journey that Uliss Sees embarks upon appears more like an endless night at a rainbow speckled San Francisco club than anything with a realizable destination.  Whether this is a symptom of the techno element or the hypothetical goal of Spelunking in Hades to only appeal to a tiny demographic of gay men, one may not be quite sure.

Glow-faded echoes of synthesizers meet the crooning restless tenor voice of Matt Harlan as he elicits accessible melodies, creating cavernous depth to the overall sound.  But trying to find meaning in the volume of tones is somewhat like dropping a penny in a well to determine the length of the abyss—you can hear that dull plunk at the bottom, but it doesn’t mean you will have any more insight into the measure of the fall.  And that is exactly the feeling that one gets as the last seconds of sound from the album wave into nothingness.  Uliss Sees neither fails nor succeeds in his trek, but rather embodies the listlessness of a peripatetic “Troubadour.”  If his journey reaches its completion in a techno album marred with meaninglessness, yet still dance-able, then perhaps Uliss Sees has succeeded.

One of my friends is from Indonesia. A corn-fed Iowa boy, a Christian missionary, wished to speak to him about the country and culture and receptiveness to missionaries. Corn-fed is headed there in June to spread that Good News. So Indonesian and Corn-fed were meeting through mutual friends and lucky me got to tag along for some noodles and veggies.

I usually become weary around Christians, despite that my Lutheran great-grandfather beget my Lutheran grandfather who beget my Lutheran father who beget Lutheran-turned-agnostic me. My weariness stems from actual negative experiences. I’ve met in my time some people who call themselves Christians yet do not behave in a Christ-like manner. I’m not Christian, so I CAN judge and not leave it to God (heh heh). But JUDGING is the “trespass” I most regularly experience, in application to me.

Some “Christians,” if I reveal my orientation, (sexual, not oriental), will quickly condemn me. I’ve found there is three reactions to gay-me: #1: “No big, Jesus loves ya and loves that ya love who ya love. Peace, Love, and Jesus” (These are my favorite kinds to meet). #2: “Well, that’s fine. I hate the sin, not the sinner” (which is obnoxious in it’s implication that I house sin, but not as bad as…) #3 “That’s an ingenious hedonist way to book yourself a ticket on the Hell train, destination ETERNAL DAMNATION!” (Although these people tend to not be educated enough to use words like hedonist).

Plus über-Christians and I tend to have limited things in common anyway, so it leads to awkward, halty conversation. a less weary-ing thing than damnation, but still uncomfortable nonetheless. Unless, UNLESS we get to talk about religion in a calm, adult, open-minded way, then we can chat. Or Chiefs football.

Well, Corn-fed turned out to be one of those calm, adult, open-minded people. Nice guy. My orientation didn’t come up (it’s easy to avoid when I want to, hid it 18 years from myself), and we had a lovely conversation in which he explained his basic views and reasons for going to Indonesia to spread Jesus’ love. I think his logic is flawed, in that I don’t believe that Christianity is the end-all-be-all of religions and that people NEED it to survive, and even he addressed that. Once I explained the basic idea behind what I believe, that religions acknowledge the same higher power in a way that makes sense within their cultural context (progressive revelation pretty much), he validated this possibility. It’s not what the Bible says, but sure.

“However,” he said gently. “If Christianity IS the only correct way to heaven, I need to help people get there.”

…I let this idea marinade in it’s sweet sauce a bit. I get it. It’s altruistic. It’s simple. It’s beautiful in it’s desire to help humanity. He truly desires to immerse himself in Indonesian culture and earn the trust of the people, to then spread the word.

Once I got IT, I then realized the judgment I feared from him, in case I accidentally revealed that I like tacos and not burritos, (innies not outies, V not D, vag salad not Johnsonvilles, etc.) is similar to judgment he probably faces all the time. Despite living in a very Christian country, non-Christians will judge Christians and sometimes verbally harass them as much as sometimes I get verbally harassed for being gay. I didn’t verbally judge him, but as soon as I saw him saunter up in his cowboy boots and Wranglers held up with a braided belt and shiny belt buckle, I thought “close-minded Christian hick.” He could have looked at me in my high tops, men’s basketball shorts, and Lady Gaga shirt and thought “liberal dyke.” (His judgment would have been spot-on, but not the point.)

We cordially shook hands and cordially conversed and then cordially said our goodbyes. He was a Christian, and arguably a hick, but he definitely wasn’t close minded. And he was a Christian with a good cause! Unlike the Mormon church that threatened to excommunicate members who didn’t donate their income level appropriate amount of money to lobby Prop 8. I know, gross right? He just wanted to bring people to bask in the light that he’s found. Give people a way to what he perceives is a better life, an eternal life.

Shouldn’t we all want to better the lives of those around us, and around the world? Isn’t that, like, the duty of decent humans? Leave a smile where the used to be a frown?

….

I still think a lot of Christians are nutters. That’s another story entirely. But this guy was a nutter with an open mind and a genuine heart. What more can you ask for?

I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m home, per se, but I’m back.

The long absence from this blog may be accounted for by 1) Enjoying my last monthish before I left Spain, 2) The semi-grieving process I went through upon return from Spain, and 3) Way too busy watching Spain with the World Cup to blog.

That being said, I’m taking the sheets off my furniture, dusting off my old life. I’m speaking all English and only English. But I look forward to another chapter in my life in which the primary language is something else.

When I was little, I played with Minnie Mouse stuffed animals and pretended to be Mickey. I’d throw on the suit jacket with tails that Santa brought me at age 5, flip the tales out, sit down at the piano, and proceed to tickle the ivories in hopes of tickling the fancies of Minnie Mouse.

As an adult, I feel this urge to be a provider: get a good job, with good pay, to provide for whomever I discover is my other half. I want to holler “Honey, I’m home!” when I park my eco-friendly hybrid in the garage. I can’t fulfill this image yet, as I have yet to graduate college, find my other half, or get a real job. But it is in the sketched drafts of my future.

Those actions demonstrate traits typically attributed to men, in the strictly defined gender space that society gives those with dangly genitalia.

However, I’ve always considered myself a woman– never had the desire to change my sex by surgery or hormone means. It’s just by default I have inverted parts down there.

Beyond that, I’m me… and my sex/gender/equipment doesn’t matter to me.

But that’s not how the world sees it.

Last night, I went out in Vigo with some friends and we were waiting to unite our group with another group in a central, well-lit area of town. It was me, Very Short Spanish Girl #1 (VSSG1), Very Short Spanish Girl #2 (VSSG2), and my Short Puerto Rican (SPR) roommate. A group of young, harmless Spanish rascals came up and talked to us; one of the boys was overly friendly and bothersome, but they got bored of our unresponsiveness and left. Then a drunk, late 30 something, unshowered, heavier, swaggering man came up and put his arms around VSSG1 and SPR and pulled them too close to him for anyone’s comfort.

I immediately jumped in his face, poked him forcefully in the chest and commanded “Vete. Vete. Dejalas. Dejalas ahora.” (Go, leave them alone right now.)

The 3 Spanish speaking women around me started yelling at me to stop, but they were just white noise to me. The creeper and I got into a yelling match in English cuss words (he’d figured out my accent, I can’t help it) as the 3 Spanish girls pulled me away from him.

VSSG2 scolded me. “It’s people like you that cause wars,” she said.

I apologized for my slightly belligerent behavior, but said my only intention was to protect them.

SPR reminded me that it is dangerous to mess with men like that, what if he’d done something to me and I couldn’t defend myself?

VSSG1 said that if you just ignore them, they get bored and go away. It’s safer that way.

I felt like a disobedient dog with it’s tail tucked between its legs. Then I reflected.

So… I’m a woman. I’m just supposed to allow creepy men take advantage of that fact? If I had been a large muscular dude in that same situation, would my defense have been seen as noble instead of impetuous? What if I had done what the other girls later recommended, and just ignored him? Would he have left eventually? Or would he have done more than just drape his thick greasy arms around my small friends?

My instinct was to protect my friends. Better me than them. I probably had enough adrenaline to defend myself if I had needed, but I certainly wouldn’t gamble on it. I also couldn’t linguistically defend myself, given the language barriers. The only reason he could curse in English is because America penetrates the world with entertainment, and he picked up on the bad words because he was a bad man.

The end result was no harm done in this case.

There are countries in this world where women are worse than disrespected– mutilated and mistreated like trash, which is far far worse than a creepy drunk guy. But even in societies considered developed and forward-thinking, we obviously have a far way to go towards equality.

I’m not going to stand down and let men think it’s ok to disrespect women.

French Friend: Hailing from the southern region of France, her family owns a tourist business and they all delight in escargot. Her Spanish sounds as French as mine does English, but there’s nothing a few drinks and plenty of shared humility can’t ease, including communication.

Moroccan Dude and his Hungarian Lover: Strange things happen when you pass a night alone in Madrid’s Chueca district. You may end up not so alone. I met these people as they were walking down the street holding hands and smiling. They invited me to come along with them to various clubs. From what I learned about them from observation, they frequent the gay district finding floozy bisexuals to satiate His and Hers appetites. Moroccan Dude got offended, thinking that my sudden fatigue and desire to return to my hostel stemmed from my recently acquired knowledge of his Arab origin (when actually it stemmed from my non-ignorance about what they envisioned for the end of our night). Then followed an intense discussion about American-Arab relations, in which I assured him I did not think that everyone with a hint of brown in their skin is a terrorist. In fact, I told him, a man I consider my brother is an Indonesian ex-Muslim. Hungarian Lover spoke less Spanish than me, and no English, and spent the night randomly hugging me. Or picking me up. Or picking up other random people she’d just met. She even squeezed one girl with a fresh tattoo who then loudly chastised her to my amusement.

Intriguing Española: A Buddhist ex-stripper, with eyes that spread from gold to green and share the sharp intensity of her tongue. Too witty for my slow Spanish understanding, her frustrated sighs are accompanied with rapid outbursts of “Me cuesta mucho hacer bromas contigo!” (Roughly, it’s a pain in the ass to joke around with you.) But for some reason, she’s taken a liking to me and endures my painful Spanish in exchange for my good company. Though I think she prefers when I sing than when I speak.

Drinking Buddy/Gamela (Twin): We agree that the good things in life are a whiskey and coke in one hand and a woman in the other. She promises to take me to all the crazy Spanish festivals when I come back next summer, including one where they throw live goats off of churches, and then eat them. Takes “Sacrificial Lamb” to a whole new level. She admits that sometimes Spaniards live like tribal people. DB takes pity on me because America does not turn a blind eye on drinking in the street, has fattening gastronomy, and is a huge proponent of globalization. She tells me I must move to Spain to live my “perfect life.”

Xavz, aka Galician Nationalist: He looks so harmless at first. Bloodshot eyes that give away his favorite passtime, goofy nose with gaping nostrils that he picks during lectures….he’s not harmless. My professor who has retaught me everything I thought I knew about economics, including that capitalism is essentially evil and America will fall soon. He refuses to speak in Castellano (Spanish) and will only speak in Galego, the regional language here, and may be behind some of the separatist graffiti all over Vigo.

My link to American Counter-culture: This man finds himself in as many strangely mis-happed adventures as I do. We discuss Anarchy. We discuss Communism. We discuss Miles Davis and bebop and Madvillian and hip hop and gender roles. Then we discuss how much we want to stay in Spain. Then we shrug, pick up our guitars, and jam it all away.

Metalera: A Metal enthusiast (specifically Death Metal), this tender-hearted by spiny-exteriored friend of mine randomly breaks out into air guitar solos. But Death Metal solos aren’t typically melodic, but rather roaring. She does a very accurate impression.

A new Desert Islander: I have a mental list of people I’d take with me to a desert island and be able to tolerate for long periods of isolated time. The list is only about 5 people long. But I unexpectedly met a new best friend here, whose passion about issues leads to 20 minute rants in the car all the way down the mountain from university. The world really isn’t a just place.

It’s strange how in many of the people I’ve met, I see people I already know. That’s all for now, more later. It’s time for a siesta.

Chicken tits and turtle orgasms caused a lot of noise-making and general debauchery in my apartment this weekend.

For weeks now, I’d promised a group of Spanish friends that I would cook barbecue chicken for them. As a Kansas City native, I take much pride in the various sauces that have glazed my meats over the years. One time in the Haze of Weekends Past I misspoke and called chicken breasts “tetas de pollo” instead of “pechugas de pollo” (chicken tits instead of breasts). Hence how I earned my nickname, Tetas de Pollo. There’s one to make the mother proud!

Saturday night, four wild Spanish women showed up at my apartment promptly at 10:20 (they said they’d arrive at 10, 20 minutes late is very early for Spaniards…). They came bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh:  an assortment of whiskey, wine, and beer to accompany the chicken tits I was cooking.

The dinner started with an inordinate lack of conversation from these fluid conversationalists– only forks clanking plates, and sounds of “mmm.” Finally, one woman broke the silence with an exclamation of “Que rico!” How rich! Followed by all of them interjecting about how delicious the barbecue was. I puffed out my chest and smiled proudly.

After dinner and cleanup, we focused more on the whiskey, wine, and beer. They called more friends, I called more friends, and soon my living/dining room was filled with loud Spanish women, an American dude, and a quiet Mexican woman. You can imagine the cacophony.

We left my apartment at about 2:30 and spent the rest of the night scampering about town.

The following night, my roommates cooked succulent enchiladas and we had “family dinner” as we call it (served at midnight, as goes Spain). We’re a pretty boisterous group, with equally boisterous and loud laughs. These increased exponentially when one of my roommates pulled up this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyMAyMNE6vY of a turtle orgasming.

Pretty soon, our doorbell buzzed. We froze with wide eyes, as our doorbell is both an alarming sound and we weren’t expecting anyone. Travel Buddy graciously went to answer the door and received a barrage of scolds from our old neighbor from below, yelling that he couldn’t sleep tonight or the night before.

We all tried to quiet down, but when you enjoy each others’ company with such vigor, this is very difficult.

Maybe next time I’ll just invite Angry Old Spaniard up for chicken tits. Win him over with some KC barbecue.

A scruffy and dirty Galician farmer rolled down the other side of the road on a splendidly green (accented with yellow) John Deere tractor.

Tractors and Amish buggies are everyday sights in Kirksville, Missouri, but on the streets of Vigo– the largest and most commercial city in Galicia, mind you–not so much.

I felt my stomach tug… “Tengo mariña” (I’m homesick) combined with the confounding emotion of  “Oh shit, I only have a month and a half left here” feeling, mixed in with the bus swaying up the mountain, and my head was spinning.

Soon, I will be driving down the roads in Kirksville and see tractors a plenty, but there will be no separatist graffiti to be seen.

Whether it’s a strong, top-fermented Weizenbock or a pale Helles, drank in a bier garten or restaurant, the German consumption of beer plays a role in both the country’s history and modern culture. A purity law instated in the late 1400s called the Reinheitsgebot (German Beer Purity Law) regulated that the only ingredients allowed in German beer were barley, hops, and water. As a precondition for German unification in 1871, the Bavarians, who wrote the Rienheitsgebot originally, insisted on the application of the law throughout Germany.  Though this law has since been lifted, beers brewed today in accordance to traditional beer laws are treated with special consideration. Breweries can be found throughout Germany with as much frequency as carbonation bubbles in the beers, though Bavaria claims the most breweries and greatest array of beer.

Bratwurst, like beer, varies by region in Germany. Regional varieties change in size, texture, taste, and preparation. The oldest known type of bratwurst in Germany is the Thuringer Rostbratwurst, spicy in taste and generally served with mustard and bread. I tasted at least four different types of bratwurst, including Currywurst— a strange infusion of Indian cuisine with German. The Currywurst is a brat served covered in a sweet curry sauce and sprinkled with curry powder, resulting in a delightful tangy bite.

I almost missed my plane out of Munich, having spent most of my weekend with eyes glazed by the joys of beer and bratwurst. After I returned once more to the vineyard-filled country of Spain, my taste buds directed me to the imported beer section of the grocery store. The same great flavor of German beer can be experienced in a bottle, but nothing beats clanking a mass full of ale and an enthusiastic “Prost!”