Hasta Luego España

I was originally going to put up a real post but then realized how that would have been disingenuous to reality. Because right now, in reality, I’m freaking the fuck out. After three years, it’s finally time to leave the peaceful, quiet village life of Southern Spain and head home. I remember the journey here vividly, arriving in Madrid, seeing all the beautiful women dressed in high fashion, the decadent nightclubs, the five star hotels and amazing restaurants and immediately driving far away from all of that into a tiny village filled with old people and dog shit.

  

But it is cool looking in a disaster movie kind of way.

 

 

We arrived in May of 08 and once we finally found the house we were to be staying in I was surprised in a ‘testing positive for testicular cancer’ kind of way. We’d just come from a beach house we were renting in Florida after we got lucky on a ‘real estate sale.’ When I say ‘real estate sale’ I really mean a crack farming venture that went well in that we grew a lot of crack. And then farmed it. So moving from a beach house into this, this… was not what I was expecting at all. There wasn’t even anywhere to grow my crack.

 

 It was a redone ‘ruin.’ There were walls, mostly, and a ceiling, kinda, but not much else. The windows were wooden and hundreds of years old. There were no screens and dozens of flies circled lazily in the dusty air. The floors were cement. I walked through the empty rooms, shooing flies and half expecting to find a decomposing body or a secret chamber filled with snakes and/or treasures of antiquity. The whole scene had an Indiana Jonesy feel to it. 

 

We eventually put screens in the windows, painted, and did other minor repairs and improvements. Not many, because I’m about as handy as an elderly Jewish grandmother. We managed to make it into our home and grew an inexplicable fondness for Casa de Cadiar. It did manage to keep the psychotic biker clowns out and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in. Which was important because that chick is violent. Somehow, I also acclimated myself to the rural culture as well as a weirdly awkward loner can become acclimated to anything. I grew to love it here. Surprisingly. Honestly. 

They were my hula hoop drug ring rivals. And they were serious about it.

 

I loved the way that I could walk for 5 minutes in any direction and be out of civilization. Not only would I not have to see people but I couldn’t even see evidence of the existence of humans. After a five minute walk! I loved the pristine, unsoiled air. It was there, up in those mountains, where I found myself. And also found a kickass place to manufacture ecstasy. I loved the way that nobody here asked or cared what I did for a living or what religion I was. Which is great when you’re an ex crack farmer Flying Spaghetti Monstertarian. To them, none of that mattered. They only seemed to judge people by their character. I loved the way that I could jump on a 10 Euro flight to anywhere in Europe and find buyers for my new ecstasy ring. I’d begun loading hula hoops with MDMA as a way to smuggle it by that time. I got to meet a lot of nice people and see amazing places. And there are hardly any cops, anywhere. And if you do run into one they’re usually too drunk or high to bother checking hula hoops for contraband.   

 

 Spain, and especially this small rural village, has fundamentally changed me for the better. I’m no longer materialistic. In fact, now, I could barely give a shit, I’m much more relaxed and at peace than I’ve ever been. I quit drinking and smoking (everything but opium, weed, crack, meth and the pituitary glands of my enemies… I just realized that it would have been easier just to say that I’ve quit smoking tobacco) here amongst the heaviest consumers of sin in all of Europe. Whereas I used to be fidgety, anxious, and always thinking that I had to be doing something, counting flowers on the wall or blood feud initiating, or some other nonsense, now I’m much more relaxed and happy. I would’ve never had the patience to sit through a four hour dinner with friends without stabbing somebody in the hand with a steak knife, but now I can.   

 

All that and we had the privilege of saving animals. I’m like the Mother Teresa for animals because I feel like it partially absolves my other sins, the ones against humanity. I saved kittens and cats and puppies and dogs and a goat. We are bringing two of ‘the pardoned’ back with us so they can try to make a better life for themselves by lying on our couch all day licking their junk. It’s the American Dream.

Tunado, Luca Brasi and The Puppy/Pueblo Escobar/Big Pappy

 

 

And that is going to be the toughest part about this move. Transporting all of these animals. Actually, it’s all going to be hard. I’m not a detail oriented person so traveling is hard for me to begin with. An intercontinental move with three animals may damn well kill me. If an angry and vengeful Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t first, I mean.    

 

Even after we make it out the other side of the tarmac, it’s not over. At that point we’ll be balls deep into the badlands of Florida. The last time we lived there I had to defend my homestead from roving bands of pillagers/rapists at least once a month. I used to use their hollowed out skulls, tastefully under-lit with those Chinesy lights, to frame my lawn. I went through a minor Colonel Kurtz phase that was, frankly, horrifying. Those skulls deterred everybody but the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Those people are fucking hardcore. Florida is no joke and now I’ve grown all soft and feeble minded. I just saw that there’s a dealership giving out AK-47’s with each pickup truck sold and I wonder what they’ll give me if I buy a Saturn wagon. Probably a utility knife. Maybe even a tire iron but it’ll be bendy and made in Korea. Sorry, I’m rambling so much; it’s indicative of my state of mind right now. I think I got some hula hoop in my coffee.   

 

 

Buy now and get a free confederate flag!

 

 

We rented a one bedroom apartment month to month until we can figure out where to go and what to do next. I’m hoping to be able to jump right back into crack farming but I hear that all the good drug addicts switched to meth and I can’t grow meth for shit. I tried. So I might have to actually get a real job until somebody decides to pay me for incoherent, stream of consciousness, drug-fueled ramblings. Maybe they’ll pay me in meth so I can plant some more and try again. Hopefully this time it’ll yield a successful crop. I assume meth works like potatoes.

 

I may not have internet for a week or two but when I come back I’m sure I’ll at least have something to talk about.

 

PS- You know I suck at farming.

PPS- Do any of you know if I could bring six hula hoops as one Carry On?

PPPS- Can customs dogs smell ecstasy?

PPPPS- Do government people read blogs?

PPPPPS- shit.