Carmen has decided that Italians' furtive obsession with waffer cookies is not without merit. Last night was spent in what Italians appear to perceive an American sports bar to be. One of the walls boasted a 3:2 scale Troy Aikman mid-release. Others had USC, Missouri, Wisconsin micro-flags for each school's respective football team. There was an excellent special on 16 fl oz beers that were unfortunately Heineken, which, to Carmen, tastes like urine left out in the sun for too long. Really a great deal though. Some tracks on the playlist: "Pretty Fly for a White Guy," "Just Like A Pill" by PINK! There wasn't a single Italian in the bar, outside of the bartender, who spent almost the entire night mid-booth Facebooking and snatching peoples' glasses during bathroom breaks.
Clubs in Italy are much the same. Awfully loud, awfully awful music. Dance partners trying to pelvically impale one another. Stroboscopic lighting. Guidos. The modern concept of "dancing" is a horrifying thing to Carmen. Whenever he sees drunkies vertically dry-humping he tends to imagine how the act would look in quaint, rationally normal place. Imagine a hundred sweaty, glossy-eyed people grinding one another in a bed & breakfast or on the surface of the moon. Carmen only tangoes.
Both locales offered up really exquisite bathroom choices though. In the bar, the bathroom was 25x2 and the toilet ran constantly and had a pull-string flusher. Much to Carmen's delight the club had the sought-after piss hole in the ground. No toilet, just a hole, filled with pee-pee. There are porcelain footpads so you don't step in the fallout.
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