A Drunk Funk and Pizza Pizzaz

The sixteenth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

Jueves, 27 Enero ’05, 22.30 (Thursday, January 27, 2005, 10:30 pm)

I was in the midst of swallowing my 13th shot of the night—the seductively named “Clitoris”—when a counterproductively sobering thought occurred to me: maybe my problem isn’t that I am incapable of getting drunk; maybe I’m just a boring drunk.  The revelation depressed me more than any amount of alcohol ever could.  Here I was, entering the wee hours of Wednesday/Thursday, and despite having downed a baker’s dozen worth of chupitos over the last hour-and-a-half, I was nowhere nearer to ripping off my clothes and initiating a naked conga line on the counter than I had been at the beginning of the night.

I devised a test on the way home to ascertain my current mental and physical faculties. Unfortunately, after reciting Pi to 200 decimal places  while balancing on one foot with my eyes closed, my misgivings were confirmed: I am one goddamn boring drunk.

Don’t get me wrong. Regardless of my level of sobriety, I’m still a pretty engaging guy—handsome, brilliant, and modest to boot—but apparently those particular characteristics remain static regardless of my BAC.  You’ll garner no amusingly slurred tidbits of salacious hearsay from this unfettered fellow at two o’clock in the morning, and you can forget about enjoying lustily garbled renditions of semi-familiar pop songs over a pint of bitter. I am unlikely to ever wake up hungover, sans memory of the night before, and I’ll never have to worry about drunk dialing girls who weren’t even aware that I had their cellphone numbers in the first place.

For all these things I suppose I am ultimately grateful, and at the same time, utterly resentful.  How dare the Powers That Pee-On-Themselves deprive me of the right to do stupid ass shit under the influence of alcohol, automatically robbing me of the pleasures of recounting said stupid ass shit with a series of wry grins and helpless laughter to my stupid ass friends?!  Instead, I am relegated to an existence of vicarious anecdotia, fondly recalling the past indiscretions of my drinking companions while bitterly lamenting my own paucity of material.  I suppose that, for the greater good of my liver and my bank account, this level of tolerance is really an annoying blessing in disguise, but try telling that story to a room full of jovial drunks.  I can pretty much guarantee a collective response on par with a cross-eyed Cossack who suddenly finds himself in a impromptu bordello frequented by a pompous herd of transsexual water buffalo.  C’mon, you know the kind I mean!

In other news, it snowed like an hijo de puta last night, at least by Andalusian standards. In New England, it would barely merit the coveted “flurry” tag, but judging by the way the Granadinos reacted to the storm, you’d have thought Enrique Iglesias was in town—and that he was offering free scrotal piercings to anyone with a mullet (i.e., 68% of Granada’s male population).  Yup, those spiffy Spaniards were out in full force during the “storm,” inciting an explosive phantasmagoria of snow-related ecstasy.  Us jaded Americans watched their zany antics with poorly disguised glee, reveling in their ad hoc snowball fights, guerilla white-washings, and the occasional pause for the cause to practice their under utilized held-with-your-handwriting, using nature’s own renewable source of golden ink.  Watching their carefree cavorting and hands-free squirting, I felt like I was twenty again, like the world was my cloistered nun and I was its vow of chastity.  It was truly a night to remember.  (Again, because I couldn’t get black-out drunk if my consciousness depended on it.)

Miscellaneous Anecdote: My señora deigned to treat me to some good old-fashioned American pizza tonight, so I wandered into the kitchen to chat while she prepared la cena.  (Easy feminists — she prefers it that way.)  However, when I saw her casually toss my precious pizza into the microwave without so much as a cardboard crisping sleeve, I felt that some casually offered advice might behoove her (and me, claro).  I explained that, as a near-destitute college student, I was practically an experto in the pizza department.  I then gently suggested that she try using the oven for this particular dish.  She gave me a strange look but showed her acquiescence by opening el horno and removing approximately 43 frying pans and a cookie sheet from its interior.  Apparently, my señora doesn’t use many appliances outside of la microonda and la estufa.

Her next disconcerting act was to remove a glass pie dish from the cupboard and place my forlorn jamón y queso pizza inside.  I had to step in once again, somehow overcoming my limited kitchen-related vocabulary to explain that glass is not the ideal substance for the conduction and transference of heat with regards to cooking and crisping, and that my pizza would be much better off on the metal cookie sheet, or even placed directly on the rack.  She contested this point by arguing that she cooked everything in this one dish when she used the oven and, besides, the pizza fit perfectly inside.  I conceded the latter point but reminded her who the expert was.  At this, she threw up her hands in exasperation, I threw up my lunch in expectoration, and the old man downstairs threw out his back in commiseration. Then we all lived happily ever after.[1]

Miscellaneous Observation: Spanish calendars depict the first day of the week as Monday and the last day of the week as Sunday.  About bloody time they got something right over here.  Really, what the hell was America thinking?  Nobody does diddley-squat on Sundays.  And why would you begin your week with a day belonging to the weekend?  Seriously, who writes this stuff, and why wasn’t I consulted?  Friggin’ Americans.  First Bush, and now this.  (Okay, maybe my chronology is a little off, but you get the idea.)

[1] Actually, I just put the pizza in the oven and gloated silently to myself when it turned out perfectly.  I would have gloated out loud, but I didn’t know the Spanish colloquialism for “Ha Ha!  I told you so!”

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