~ i wrote ~

I got laid last night, except I guess it was this morning?

Some kids from my Quaker phase are in Barcelona to record an album, twins I’ve known since, I think, they were six and I was ten and who now have a soulful bluesy indie trio with another guy; they happen to have been born in France and so one of them now lives in Porto on his stupid-lucky Schengen passport, and even though I haven’t seen him in — so he told me — fifteen years — since my own high school graduation? So he told me — the prospect of getting some old school nourishment is why I stuck around Spain for an extra week… And when I rolled into their gig yesterday I fell more or less immediately prey to whatever mechanism occurs when little boys turn out to have turned into big boys, and by the way their EP is pretty easy on the ears.

After the show I followed him and the rest of the entourage back to their digs and we hung out and ate pizza and took a medium amount of recreational amphetamines and other things and went to a club that was really as good as a club could to my tired, misanthropic tastes possibly be, like all chill with music like weird reggaeton Winehouse-y covers of Nancy Sinatr-y tunes, everyone dressed in typical Barcelona evening style, which is to say, sneakers and tee shirts, six euro cover that included two drink tickets, and from the get-go Slim was like Hey I know what you’re doing and what your deal is financially as a consequence and you’re my guest tonight, really, like I might get drunk or rolling and forget to keep asking you if you want a drink, so if you do want a drink and I haven’t asked recently, just tell me you want a drink, and as the night wore on he started being like YOU’RE A WRITER DON’T ARGUE and I kept mounting my various arguments a protestations and defenses, like, The writing is not the point and I don’t like this label and It’s very private, not a thing I want to talk about and I don’t identify that way, and he just kept being like WHAT ARE YOU SAYING — NONE OF THAT HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING — YOU FUCKING WRITER — GOD — LOOK AT YOU WITH YOUR NOTEBOOK IN THE WAISTBAND OF YOUR SHORTS — THAT’S SO HOT and eventually we all left the club (at 5 am or so, kill. me.) and headed back to the collective crib and he and I showered separately and got nakedly into his bed together for some spliff smoking (YAY to la droga mejor) and talking and other forms of intercourse and he was so complimentary of my current nether regional Welcome to the Jungle steeze and it was just so much fun, and soon I had to hightail it out of there to make my next connection and he insisted on giving me cash for the cab and I went back to the master flat and finished packing while Gael made me a travel set of sandwiches on tomato-olive bread he had baked for the occasion and then motorbiked me to la estación, and now I am on a long-haul train to inferno I mean Sevilla, down the coast and inland, and I am quivering from lack of sleep and seem to have been given a ticket in the designated rowdy-shouting-spilling children car, and yet I feel only happy and stupid and keep finding myself just smiling and fetching and handing back the grape someone has dropped over the seat back into my lap or whatever.