i first met miss spain universe,

mar’a jesos ruiz garz-n, in a topless tapas joint in madrid in january 2000.

she didnt know the place was a topless tapas establishment either, but we both took off our shirts and cozied up to the bar.

i was there with two dozen of my closest friends to see rock group tsar.

there being spain, not the topless tapas place.

mar’a asked me if i was americano

i said, si.

she asked me if i liked my tapas

i said, si.

she asked me if i liked her cunt-

then she coughed


and i said


she asked me if i knew more spanish than just yes and no and i said


she asked me what other words i knew.

i said, burrito, taco, guacamole…

she said, we dont have those things here.

i said, si.

so we simply slowdanced to the spanish guitars and i sang her a little song that i made up there on the spot.

i sang

spanish girl

in all the world

i want a spanish girl

she doesnt know

how much i weigh in pounds

she doesnt care

that im 108, 108 years oooooold

oooooh my spanish girl.

she sighed and looked at me with eyes of a girl falling madly in love

as the twinkle lights of the disco ball rained possibilities

and the lines began to form outside the duncan donuts shop across the pallazo.

she said, i know how much pounds you weigh.

i said, what about the metric system.

she said, yes, but i know.

i said, ah.

she said, si.

and i smiled.

and i tilted my head to the exito

and she said si.

and we left into the madrid night forgetting our shirts

and not giving a muchas gracias.

dot floofy + bloopy + dougie gyro

the speakerbox in the corner is dusty

strands of faded confetti wave to the breezes of the occilating fan that doesnt occilate as much as you’d think it would.

it hesitates.

it goes to the left and hangs and blows. then it slowly moves to the right and hangs and stays there for a little longer than it should. and then it comes back.

sorta like the the intellect of the voting public, except more rational.

her shoe touched mine. startled, i flinched and i knocked over my water glass against my marguerita glass and some water splashed into the salsa.

techno had replaced tango on the jukebox and in the corner someone was being sung happy birthday.

i cant believe anything that happens to me in LA but thats why you move here.

in a week this will be my anniversary of being here twenty years. time flies when your mind is getting blown and all i can say is the girls only get hotter and the situations only become more bizarre and theres nothing thats going to make me leave here ever.

not even kids.

maybe a great job. but i doubt it. nobody wants me. i dont blame em. im not like what theyre used to.

its funny how money moves you places. its funny how we allow it all to happen to us and pretend like we dont have any choice other than to follow the end of the rainbow.

shes redheaded. i hadnt dined with a redhead in years and now this is two in a row. sometimes its hard to tell if the ones who smile like you or just like to smile.

titties for days and what are you supposed to do about that?

right up there for you to look at and the question is are you supposed to look at them or not look at them.

“we’re going to look at your tits for just a minute, ok?” i ask her.

she doesnt stop smiling.


nice. no apparent marks. i check the outline on her silk blouse for a nipple ring. cant find one. decide not to look too long. look at the fullness for padding or pushup bra-ness. not like i care. not like i give a shit if a chick has a “d” or an “a” cup. but there they are.

hot plates the man says and serves us a wet burrito and a taco salad.

she kicks my foot again and this time i can tell its not an accident and as hes leaving i say, senior.

he says, yes sir.

and i say two more margueritas por favor.

and he says, of course sir, looking for a nipple ring too

without asking permission first.

blogography & roxanne had the guts to take the quiz.