First, I am trying to get everything assembled to actually get this site up and running. Have downloaded some software, will register a real domain name, etc. But I need your help, so if you have any suggestions, please email them to me: jenneraub@hotmail.com. I want to know how to do polls and have a comment section.
The Italian Painter came over on Tuesday. We were supposed to have our portrait session on Tuesday, but I was still lying in bed, lethargic and in agony. He was relieved to get away from his roommate, whose mother and brother are both in town, with the flu. So he came over, I made us some chamomile tea and toast with nutella, and then we hung out in my room, chatting while he smoked this massive joint. First of all, through the course of several jokes, I discovered that he's slept with over 100 people. This seems like rather a lot. But, he pointed out, he's 27 and has been having sex since he was 12. So that's 15 years of "practice." Still, that's a lot of different people to practice with. But he reminded me that a lot of it was sex he had when he was high on ecstasy or freebase cocaine, so he can't really remember exactly how many girls it's been. I wonder how many prostitutes are included in that figure. Will have to ask him the next time I see him. He also smokes 20 joints of hash a day, which also seems rather excessive, but I guess it's better than his 5-times-a-day freebase cocaine habit he used to have. Anyway, after joint number 2 he left to go meet his friends, and I continued my recovery. Any insight on this? 20 joints is a lot of hash, no? 100 women is a lot, right?
(And for those of you wondering, no, there's nothing romantic between me and the Italian Painter.)
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Despite the general stomach discomfort and massive welt on my scalp, I went out last night, first for dinner with Pietro (The Non-Ex-Boyfriend Italian-I-Didn't-Date-in-Barcelona) who's in town for a few days apartment-hunting and then with Angela to see "Lost in Translation," which has finally been released in Spain. Somehow the movie failed to make a tremendous effect on me, perhaps because I've been flailing in translation for over a year now, perhaps because I've become numb to the Exotic of another culture. Funny, though, and new inspiration to take a trip to Tokyo, which just looks like a massive, sprawling, chaotic metropolis, and therefore just the kind of place I would love.
Off to bank, to gym, to class.
Besos*
Off to bank, to gym, to class.
Besos*
Monday, February 23, 2004
I should temporarily rename this "We Have the Most Disasters," as this weekend has been laden with them. Friday night was mellow, went for a couple beers with Sarah-with-long-hair at a place called La Viuda Blanca. It was OK, excellent music but incredibly eccentric, eclectic scene. Aging, poorly dressed hipsters.
Saturday I spent shopping for new pants (everyone will be so pleased that they are no longer hanging off my behind anymore) and watching rugby at a pub on Calle Alcala. That evening, I had 2 Americans and the Brit over to drink some wine before heading off to a party. One of the Americanas showed up drunk and proceeded to belligerently harass the Brit and be a general pain in the ass, which prompted me to start drowning in wine as well. By the time we got to the party, which wasn't at all sans drama, this particular American gal was so drunk I remember leaving her to flirt with two tall American boys wearing striped shirts, only to find her an hour later in such a state that suggested she should take a cab home. The Brit and other American were walking her down the stairs, which she promptly fell down, and I, being a little drunk myself, and wearing high heels, and the stairs being old, wood and curved through years of use, fell down after them and have another bruise on my other hip. The next day I placed a call to this American to make sure she was alive, and found out that after she took a taxi by herself to her apartment, she couldn't find her keys so meandered to her closest metro station, Menendez Pelayo, where she curled up on the stairs for a while, only to wake up a few hours later, discover her keys in her bag, and return to her house.
As for me, I spent all day yesterday in bed, feeling generally pain in my stomach which I chalkedup to the wine drunk the night before. This morning, the raw, dull pain was still present, but I pushed onward, had my requisite egg-with-spinach-and-cheese, yogurt and orange juice. I was standing at a café at Atocha Renfe having my morning café con leche and remember rubbing my eyes thinking that I really, really didn't feel well. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with 8 Spanish people yelling things at me, being forcefed a glassful of sugared water and a doughnut. I figured out I had been unconscious for almost 5 minutes, as I remember rubbing my eyes looking at a clock across the way thinking that I was earlier than usual that morning, and when I was back up standing at the bar (momentarily, mind you, before I decided I should be sitting on the floor because I was so dizzy and weak) a good 5 minutes had elapsed.
I had to visit the on-site paramedics at the train station, following a drunken old man with a bloody nose. The entire procedure was conducted in half-Spanish, half-English. The paramedic who wrote out the report has writtten "lipotimia" all over the sheet, but no one, Spanish or English, can figure out what he tried to write for the cause of this particular episode. If you or anyone you know has any medical knowledge, I'd love to know.
So I've been sleeping all day, and trying to figure out why my stomach still has this raw, upset feeling. Yesterday I thought momentarily that I might be getting food poisoning, which may be the case. Hopefully I will recover soon.
Beso*
Saturday I spent shopping for new pants (everyone will be so pleased that they are no longer hanging off my behind anymore) and watching rugby at a pub on Calle Alcala. That evening, I had 2 Americans and the Brit over to drink some wine before heading off to a party. One of the Americanas showed up drunk and proceeded to belligerently harass the Brit and be a general pain in the ass, which prompted me to start drowning in wine as well. By the time we got to the party, which wasn't at all sans drama, this particular American gal was so drunk I remember leaving her to flirt with two tall American boys wearing striped shirts, only to find her an hour later in such a state that suggested she should take a cab home. The Brit and other American were walking her down the stairs, which she promptly fell down, and I, being a little drunk myself, and wearing high heels, and the stairs being old, wood and curved through years of use, fell down after them and have another bruise on my other hip. The next day I placed a call to this American to make sure she was alive, and found out that after she took a taxi by herself to her apartment, she couldn't find her keys so meandered to her closest metro station, Menendez Pelayo, where she curled up on the stairs for a while, only to wake up a few hours later, discover her keys in her bag, and return to her house.
As for me, I spent all day yesterday in bed, feeling generally pain in my stomach which I chalkedup to the wine drunk the night before. This morning, the raw, dull pain was still present, but I pushed onward, had my requisite egg-with-spinach-and-cheese, yogurt and orange juice. I was standing at a café at Atocha Renfe having my morning café con leche and remember rubbing my eyes thinking that I really, really didn't feel well. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with 8 Spanish people yelling things at me, being forcefed a glassful of sugared water and a doughnut. I figured out I had been unconscious for almost 5 minutes, as I remember rubbing my eyes looking at a clock across the way thinking that I was earlier than usual that morning, and when I was back up standing at the bar (momentarily, mind you, before I decided I should be sitting on the floor because I was so dizzy and weak) a good 5 minutes had elapsed.
I had to visit the on-site paramedics at the train station, following a drunken old man with a bloody nose. The entire procedure was conducted in half-Spanish, half-English. The paramedic who wrote out the report has writtten "lipotimia" all over the sheet, but no one, Spanish or English, can figure out what he tried to write for the cause of this particular episode. If you or anyone you know has any medical knowledge, I'd love to know.
So I've been sleeping all day, and trying to figure out why my stomach still has this raw, upset feeling. Yesterday I thought momentarily that I might be getting food poisoning, which may be the case. Hopefully I will recover soon.
Beso*
Friday, February 20, 2004
Anyway, I missed a class this morning. I blame this travesty on the obvious conspiracy of my friends plying me with wine and whiskey on a Thursday night. I'd gone to a tapas and wine gathering to say bon voyage to my friend John; he's leaving to go travel and teach in Thailand for a long time. The next thing I knew I was drunkenly ambling along Calle Magdalena with an Australian, a Brit, and Seattle-born-but-Los-Angeleño-at-heart dear friend Angela on our way to La Falsa Molestia to see if the hottest bartender in the entire world was working. La Falsa is run by a couple Italians and is thus populated by a group of attractive, unemployed, vaguely artistic/alternative stoner Italian boys. Faux grass covering the bar, light wooden floors, contemporary art hanging from the walls, deejay on the weekends spinning house, air imbued with the raw stench of hash, Spaniards falling out of the bathroom with cocaine on their fingers.
I ran into the Italian painter at the door. He's painting me next week, in my birthday suit. He is not the best artist ever, but I have seen his work, and enjoy his use of colors. I dutifully informed him that after mentioning upcoming appointment to my fellow American beauties, he now has several more nubile volunteers. Las Americans: Libre y Gratis. I said hello to some of his Italian friends, who all thanked me for the wildest, most orgiastic bash I’ve thrown in a long time: Un Beso Es Solo Un Beso. It was a big make-out fest. I was too busy sliding across the floor on my hip and playing hostess to get in on any of the action, which is a good thing, I suppose, because I don’t have a cold now. Girls kissing boys, boys kissing girls, boys kissing boys, girls kissing boys, cousins kissing cousins. Joder. I mentioned this to the Italian painter over a café con leche at Delic, this ‘40s-Havana café, and he says, “Oh, I had sex with my cousin and with my aunt!”
Me: “You are an artist!”
Of course, it turns out it was his 3rd-cousin-removed-by-marriage and the 19-year-old bride of his 70-year-old great uncle. So the drama, alas, wasn’t as dramatic.
Thankfully the academy has been very understanding of my error, although it must never, ever, ever happen again. I’m off to meet the Brit for a coffee, so I can blame my irresponsibility on him, and then having some wine. I have no plans for the weekend, but the last time I said that on a Friday, I ended up having just the craziest weekend. So we shall see.
I ran into the Italian painter at the door. He's painting me next week, in my birthday suit. He is not the best artist ever, but I have seen his work, and enjoy his use of colors. I dutifully informed him that after mentioning upcoming appointment to my fellow American beauties, he now has several more nubile volunteers. Las Americans: Libre y Gratis. I said hello to some of his Italian friends, who all thanked me for the wildest, most orgiastic bash I’ve thrown in a long time: Un Beso Es Solo Un Beso. It was a big make-out fest. I was too busy sliding across the floor on my hip and playing hostess to get in on any of the action, which is a good thing, I suppose, because I don’t have a cold now. Girls kissing boys, boys kissing girls, boys kissing boys, girls kissing boys, cousins kissing cousins. Joder. I mentioned this to the Italian painter over a café con leche at Delic, this ‘40s-Havana café, and he says, “Oh, I had sex with my cousin and with my aunt!”
Me: “You are an artist!”
Of course, it turns out it was his 3rd-cousin-removed-by-marriage and the 19-year-old bride of his 70-year-old great uncle. So the drama, alas, wasn’t as dramatic.
Thankfully the academy has been very understanding of my error, although it must never, ever, ever happen again. I’m off to meet the Brit for a coffee, so I can blame my irresponsibility on him, and then having some wine. I have no plans for the weekend, but the last time I said that on a Friday, I ended up having just the craziest weekend. So we shall see.
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