The Old Monkey's Nest

'Dam it all!

2010-07-19T02:30:00.000-07:00

The knotting feelings of leaving Paris didn’t stir until the customs agents were yelling at me. I was minding my business on a seat near the train’s door, nodding off sometime before reaching Brussels, when The Heiress of Death herself jabbed me in the shoulder with a telescoping baton. (It looked like something MegaMan would use to fill in for Buddy Rich, and it found a nerve at the end of my right clavicle. I’ll sue, bitch.) She wore her hair short and draped herself in a long shirt; an otherwise alluring tomboy get-up if not paired with her draconian grimace. A second look proved that she had all the peripheries of Dog the Bounty Hunter, sans mullet. I thought I was getting shorthand mugged by this woman until two guys sidled behind her. One of the henchmen presented his garish orange Douanes armband while the other held a badge in a rubber glove clad hand.

“Present your ticket and identification, jeune homme,” she said with a steely glare. Her voice was actually extremely gentle and lovely, a fine Parisian accent completely uncomplimentary of the callous donkeywitch from which it resonated. For the purposes of painting a cleaner picture, however, go ahead and imagine her voice like a butch Eva Braun.

“Vutt was the purpose of your trip to France,” she asked while giving my passport a once-over. I replied that I am a student, and going to Amsterdam for a college program.

“Passport photographs should not be smiling.” She pushed the open page close to my face, as if I had never seen the picture before. One of the lackeys pointed at my bike and smirked. Though fully aware of the train company’s strict stipulations, I was unable to find a bag to envelop my bike for the trip. They are unbelievably harsh with rules about luggage—too many liability claims of stolen or damaged bike parts, perhaps—and I did not want to leave my easyrider on the quay just because it wasn’t in a bag. So, facing desperate consequences at 8:00 a.m. this morning, I stitched together a bike carrier out of trash bags, vinyl sheets, one and half rolls of Scotch tape, and a clothes hanger. I’d love to say that I MacGyvered a Louis V. out of nothing, but this glorified trash heap looked awful.

“Is ziss your cycle?” mein frau asked in dulcet tones. I offered a sheepish laugh and affirmed ownership. They took turns cracking jokes. I worried that they would throw my bike offboard, and so I stammered in French, “Of course it’s not pretty, but it is a bag. It works, eh?” I think that I impressed one or both of the dudes, but the woman didn’t care. “It is easier if you speak in English.”

They asked me to open my two bags to prove that I wasn’t smuggling rocket launchers (or so their tone would suggest), which is an unenviable process when your bullet train rocks back and forth every other second and you’re keeping a queue of people waiting for the bathroom. Ten now-unfolded shirts and ten now-unballed pairs of socks later, they smiled, said their thanks and trod to the next car. The woman turned at the door, pointed in the direction of my bike and coldly said, “you will be fined at the next station” before turning on her heel. I farted in her general direction.

That murderess in a boy’s dress unnerved me slightly. Besides the obvious Judge Judy/’BlackWater bin Laden hunter’ comparisons, this was the first time I realized that I might have been wrong about French people. Other than a quick jaunt over to Monet’s property in Giverny, this is the first time in two months that I’ve been out of Paris. The city, I’ve been told time and time again, is full of assholes and Gastons. I figured that my disarming smile and my ability to turn the simplest French sentence into a tongue-twister got through Parisians’ shells: Ninety-nine percent of them were earnest and gregarious. Only as I headed out of town by train did I run into parents yelling at kids, guys who push and shove to get through a crowd, and the baggage Gestapo. Maybe the warnings were wrong. Maybe we silly American tourists are projecting our unkind tendencies onto the Parisians, who deal with millions of us every time a kid graduates from high school or daddy gets a raise. Food for thought…

Anyways, unless you’re Christopher Nolan, there is little good in starting a story at the end, so allow me to zip back to the beginning of July.

(Zip.)

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July broke through with a heat wave. I was done with class and wanted to splash into midday Parisian life, but the best I could do was skip from air-conditioned room to air-conditioned room. The balmy air was oppressive. Paris is situated in a basin and, like any metropolis, the mix of asphalt, summer sun, humidity and sprawling crowds turned every shadowforsaken street into a furnace. I snuck into a community pool one afternoon, but the boiling mass of little kids and old people (easily 90% of the pool’s occupants) made me anxious about their urinary fortitude. The noodles were more pee-soaked than Uncle Jerry’s mattress.

My saving graces during these hot days were my fan, The Hideout, and the World Cup. The only thing I immediately missed when I left my apartment this morning was that tower fan. I practically spooned with it on warm nights, and it coddled me for most of the daytime when I happened to be home.

The Hideout was my dingy, cheap bar in the Bastille area. They played way too much Sean Paul for anyone's taste, further confirming my argument that Sean Paul is the world's favorite fake Jamaican since Sebastian the crab. It was a total dump of a dive bar, but the tenders were extremely friendly (if not flirtatious) and the prices were gorgeously cheap. A cold one on a hot day is always sweet music to my ears.

The Cup, on the other hand, was more of a tragic affair. As multiple analysts remarked on ESPN, my World Cup predictions did not quite pan out. If you’ll indulge me, I would like to justify some of my picks:

- Kudos to Spain. They won ugly, but they won. And Andrés Iniesta looks like a balding toddler.

- I stand by my prediction that Brazil should have won their game against the Dutch. In fact, I am sorry for writing that the Dutch team "sold me" with their jolly play. The bonita boys in blue played better than the Dutch. They also played like men, whereas the Dutch flopped and wailed more egregiously than any other team in the knock-out rounds. It’s like they took crying lessons from Chris Crocker after the round robin. Brazil lost because the Dutch players got into their heads in the second half by forcing foul calls. The ref was not doing a good job of capping the nonsense and Brazil started playing with anger and haste instead of their normal style. Additionally, replace Felipe Melo with any player off the bench (own goal, then a red card), and the game turns out differently. Then again, hire a ref with some cojones to tell the Dutch players to stop flopping, and the game turns out much muuuuuch differently. The Dutch supporters should feel slight twinges of luck, joy, and shame for getting to the finals, even though they suffered a pretty heavy loss to La Roja.

- Germany’s last two games share the distinction of being the best games of the later rounds, in my opinion. The Germans are obviously not pleased just to settle for 3^rd place after seeing how well they played against everyone not born in Serbia, but had some breaks gone the other way in their semifinal against Spain I believe the Germans are celebrating with the trophy. Solid stuff from both sides in both games nevertheless, with a lot of intrigue throughout.

- I’ve had the Kiss of Death with my picks in every sport for a couple years now. Henceforth, I will only root for cheerleaders.

The last week of the World Cup was only made sweeter because my sister wandered into town with one of her best friends from Stanford. Maddie and Annemarie do not speak a lick of French, nor do their senses of direction behoove them on most days, but they did Paris well. I was happy that they were willing to put up with my unseemly, I-live-alone-so-fuck-it tendencies, even giving me the courtesy of a laugh at times. We walked and rode all over the city, seeing about as much as three kids can in a week's span. Unfortunately, they contracted some food poisoning in Morocco and brought all of the accompanying excretory unpleasantries North with them.

Nothing their feeble GI tracts could produce, though, could match the awesome force of nature I devotedly dubbed The Tattoo. One bright morning about three and a half weeks ago, something stirred inside my soul. (By “soul,” I mean poop chute.) I took my talents to Porcelain Beach, and then without giving it a second thought, I flushed. Some hours later, I returned to pee. Even before I fully opened the can, I stared into a bulbous hazelnut giant like it were the eyes of Jehovah. The leviathan skid mark that I had created held intact through that first flush. If you think of the bowl as a Cartesian map, this would have been the Indian subcontinent with Australia floating a few miles offshore. I had to laugh. Being a man of wisdom and well-adjusted social fabric, I endeavored to wipe the world clean of this gentle giant with a hearty stream of urine. Like the Spartans at Thermopylae, she held. Every day, multiple times a day, I would flush the toilet with impunity. I did not realize how attached I would become to this mudsteak.

You see, men from every culture around the world naturally have both an appreciation and an affinity of massive duchies. This should not come as a secret, nor should it disgust. Everyone poops, as the book eponymously states, and far be it from me to badmouth the fruits of a necessary bodily function. One does not deign to tell the lore of historic toilet boas; I cherish the opportunity.

I warned Maddie and Annemarie of The Tattoo when they arrived at the apartment for the first time. They scoffed and uttered their doubts. The next peeps I heard out of them dripped with reverence. Even in a dilapidated state—she was two weeks old by then, and, sadly, beginning to show her age—the scat scar astonished.

I worried that the 200% percent increase in toilet use (with a 15% margin of error established for courtesy flushes) would be the demise of The Tattoo. It had been with me when no one else was around. I could count on it; even if the sun didn’t rise in the east, The Tattoo would persist. More than anything else, it was gratifying to know that I could create something lasting. I felt like a broken pencil all my life, struggling just to make an erasable mark in this world. I don’t have any kids yet, so this was the first part of my being which took its own form. A Hershey horcrux, if you will.

As I finished packing my belongings into bags this morning, I frequently looked in the direction of the toilet. I knew this day would have to come eventually, but the sting of unavoidable death always finds virgin tissue. Without vigil nor joy, I scrubbed The Tattoo. I lit a candle and left it on the seat, then poured a somber libation of Sam’s leftover cheap scotch into the bowl—she would have liked that.

And with those blue feelings serving as the capstone of a long sojourn, I left Paris.

All is well in Amsterdam, though, and I am happy to move on to the next adventure. My classmates were exhausted from the long travel day and so I wandered alone for a while, thinking my familiar soliloquy in an unfamiliar place. I think that I will really enjoy this experience in Amsterdam. So far I’ve noticed that people speak softly, smell funky, and keep funny looking dogs. Spruce the place up with a few Chipotlés and I just might move here.

As always, be brilliant,

Johnny

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Kickass music: "Magic Touch" by Golden Silvers. I caught these guys' show on my last night in Paris. They're a poor-man's Fleet Foxes, and I think the lead singer might be deaf in one ear, but this song was still pretty friggin' sweet. Enjoy.

Kickass internet video:

#1: http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1IGFbf/www.wimp.com/chinagymnastics/

#2: http://www.vbs.tv/nl-nl/watch/the-vice-guide-to-travel/the-vice-guide-to-liberia

Both of these videos are jaw-dropping. Don't skip them. Just don't.

Wold Cup Predux

2010-07-01T07:55:00.000-07:00

Americans are in Day Five of our World Cup hangover, i.e. the afterglow of such fleeting fanaticism, when we're allowed to not give a shit about soccer again. For most of us, it was a good trip. I would even call it a great trip: it had the excitement, gut-wrenching moments, drama, and sex appeal of a Bachelor finale condensed into four games (plus a little overtime for gravy). But all that is over now. The Americans lost to the Ghanians--ranked #4 on Rick Steves' latest "Places Not To Take A First Date" list, by the way--and with that loss our collective, beer-aided dream is over. For those football-baseball-basketball purists, it's time to come out of the bomb shelters.

But what has two thumbs and still loves all the World Cup action? This guy!

(Author's note: Imagine me pointing to myself with both thumbs up. The joke kinda depends on it.)

As promised, I will now present the World Cup Predux. I use the term "predux" loosely here, and only because it sounds better than "duringdux." Please excuse me ignobly taking grammatical liberties; 'twon't happen often. Anyways, back to business. I have watched every minute of every game up to this point, taking notes and tenderly kneading the underbelly of this tournament's metaphysical being. I know each player better than his mother. One should thus be confident that every prediction I make will be on the dot. You're not paying a buck-fifty for a bucket of bullshit with this Predux--it's all gold, baby.

Before jumping in, here are some stipulations:

As previously mentioned, I am a swami and therefore everything I say here shall come to pass.
Because of aforementioned foresight, I hope that you'll think of me when all your bets come to a very lucrative success. I appreciate tips. (... And take none of the blame. It's your fault if the bet loses. Gambling is a cancer, anyways.)
The format of this Predux will break down all the quarterfinal games, then go into detail of each team. After each team's nuances are broken down to dust, I will get into predictions for the rest of the tourney.
Big-ups to the U.S. team for playing their hearts out. We should have played a lot better against Ghana, yes, but we made it look sexy.
Big-downs to the French team. My one hope was that they would play well enough for the bartenders to be happier and the women to be more... convivial. Instead they crapped the bed and we had to see Ron Artest's separated-at-birth twin throw up on the sideline.

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Netherlands v. Brazil

In what should be the best game of the quarters, it took a second glass of wine to foresee the winning team clearly. The two teams play very similar styles and both showcase top-shelf talent at every position. Unfortunately for the Dutch, the Brazilians flat-out do it better. Unfortunately for the Brazilians, conversely, Netherlanders seem like the team of destiny right now. Must be all the Hollandaise sauce and THC coursing through their veins. The Dutch have been outplayed a couple times now, yet keep trucking along and garnering wins. Brazil would be remiss to bring anything less than their A-game against a team with playmakers such as the Netherlands' side, especially when the Orangefolk have that indescribable knack.

Brazil:

It's inane to try to pick the "X-factor player" for Brazil. They're like G-Unit in vintage pre-Fitty-and-Game-Beefin' form. They have all the big boppers. Shut down Kaká and Fabiano, and you still have to contend with every other gal'darn player on their squad. They are loaded (as always) and playing well at every position.

The incredible skill on this team is what makes Brazil the scariest team to face every game. The waterboy would be captain for D.C. United. It's like kids in Brazil got that old blue and yellow sweater from "The Jersey" and knitted copies. Shit's almost unfair.

Brazil's problem seems to stem from bad karma. They're definitely beatable, but inexplicably so. My guess is that the soccer gods are pissed because they didn't offer a spot to Ronaldinho on the team. He's still their most marketable player right now, and it is almost a tearjerker to see him in those "Write the Future" Nike World Cup commercials. Put him on the sideline for the knockout rounds, guys. Give him a vuvuzela and a bag of 'shrooms and let him rally the troops. In fact, I would pay good money to devote a 4"x4" square in the bottom-right corner of the TV just to show a loop of Ronaldinho eating cereal or dancing La Bamba, or anything. He's too goofy not to keep around.

Netherlands:

Is it just me, or does this team look like a bunch of high school teachers? Arjen Robben's the nerdy one of the bunch. He's the cult-hero Calc teacher who lets the kids wearing "Palindromes are Rasemordnilap!" t-shirts eat lunch in his room while making model dodecahedrons. Dirk Kuyt instructs woodwinds for the marching band and sells cigarettes to sophomores at lunch to help pay for gas money; no explication necessary. Aaaaand Mark van Bommel is the asshole janitor. It all fits. Go ahead and pick up this pilot, ABC Family.

My favorite part about this team is how jolly they are whenever they play well. At the ref's halftime whistle of their first game, the midfielders huddled together to give congratulations for their good play even though they were tied 0-0 with Denmark. It looked like a circlejerk but it had the purposeful feeling of a bris. (By the way, the Olde English translation for a bris is: 'Pomp and Circumcise.') The Dutch sold me with that little moment. They won that game 2-0 and have won every game since.

Prediction:

Too bad the Brazilians are not the Danish. The two sides will battle and both will rattle some close chances off the woodwork, but Kaká is due for a goal and will put in a beauty from 30 meters out. Look for a double from Kaká, or at least a goal and an assist, since he is going up against De Jong. De Jong is one of Netherlands' finest and a mainstay in the middle for the Dutch, but he will not want to play defensively on the wing against Kaká all game. He'll get tired, he'll get caught too far forward a few times, and the man with the shitty name will punish.

Brazil 2 - Netherlands 0

Uruguay v. Ghana

I really don't like this game. Really, really, reallyreallyreally do not like it. Uruguay is a small-market team without anyone really likable. They have a solid midfield, good defense, and two top-flight attacking forwards in Suarèz and Forlan, but they are most annoying team to watch in these quarterfinal contests. If Ghanian defenders even look at them wrong, the Uruguayans will flop on the ball, force a foul call from the refs, and then play a short free kick to continue possession. It's like watching chess, only if the pawns cried like bitches and the bishops crept forward in between turns. The only two redeeming qualities of the Uruguayan squad is that Diego Forlan just might be the bastard son of MIHS science teacher Lawrence Bencivengo, and that they have the opportunity to make Ghana look silly.

On the flip side, I don't want to see Ghana play another stinking minute. I don't want to talk about Ghana for another stinking paragraph. Uruguay will have a loud supporter in me, and let's just hope and pray that they don't catch ghanarrhea like we did.

Prediction:

Ghana will not be able to ride the African crowd for two games in a row. They will crap out and play too defensively, and the Uruguayans will blast them with scoring chance after scoring chance once play opens up. Ghana is playing with house money right now--having gotten to the quarterfinals probably meets or exceeds their pre-tournament goals--and so they will start to fray at the edges when Uruguay pressures with their superior midfielders and forwards.

Uruguay 3 - Ghana 1

Argentina v. Germany

I don't know if you've heard about this octopus named Paul over in the States, but Europeans adore the sucker. He was born in southern England but was sent over to Germany as a pup (what do you call a baby octopus? I hereby propose that we call them 'ursulas'). A few years back, someone had the bright idea to let the octopus predict German wins and losses. So far in the World Cup, he's been 100% correct. A couple years ago, it picked 80% of the games correctly in the Euro 2008 tournament. In other words, dude has gotten 8/9 games predicted. Has Germany never heard of ESPN Streak for the Cash?

While the story seems sensational on the surface, I smell horseshit. The German caretakers put crab treats in boxes marked with either the German flag, the opponent's flag, or a blank (for a draw). The octopus almost always chooses the German flag's box, and the German soccer team wins most of the time, which is why the octopus looks so brilliant. My guess is that the trainers put the biggest, most delicious looking crab in the German box every time. That, or we're going to see another cult come out of Bavaria soon.

I was really disappointed when I finally heard this sage octopus's name is Paul. I heard about the clairvoyant cephalopod and figured it would get a name like Octrodamus or Magnificius the Magic Mollusk... but no. It's Paul. That is like learning that Dr. Doom's first name was Verne.

Argentina:

Though the defensive line is very dodgy, the Argentine team is fearsome. We all know Messi and what he is capable of doing on the pitch, but it is up to the rest of his team to capitalize on the chances and space he creates. So far, Tévez and Higuain have flourished by playing off of the little guy. Gonzalo Higuain is more fluid and finessé, whereas Carlos Tévez is a white handed facepaint away from looking like a very merry Uruk-Hai/Geico Caveman hybrid.

As a team, Argentina has not really been tested yet. They swept their games in a relatively easy group stage and then (albeit controversially) whipped Mexico 3-1 in the second round. They play their best when they can surge through the midfield up to the forwards. This strategy is two-fold: it keeps the ball forward around their best playmaker (Messi), and keeps the ball as far away as possible from their crappy D. So far, the offense has been dominating enough to keep their defense out of hot water. They have only given up two goals in four games, but both goals showed just how "wet kleenex"-ish their back line can be.

Germany:

The 11-man Reich usually eats up teams like Argentina. The middies and forwards of Argentina will want to dribble and pass around their opponents' defenses the whole game, and limit any counterattack by running around willy-nilly on defense. Germany doesn't care about that. Germany will stop an Argentine attack in a heartbeat, then methodically march upfield to bitchslap the Argentines just for trying to score. Loud faces in the crowd will say, "But Argentina beat Germany earlier this year, in Munich!" Make that person shut their gargoylian face. First of all, Diego Maradona, Argentina's manager, did not even pick the two starting central defenders from that victory in Munich for the World Cup because he thought they were too old. Secondly, friendlies don't matter. They're like that sex-ed game from 8th grade where one person gives the rest of class HIV, and one dipshit always keeps the "You gave me AIDS you jerk! LOLz!" joke going for the rest of the week. Right now, Argentine fans are that dipshit. As far as friendlies go, as long as your team plays all-right, a win is just sugar for your fans.

So how does Germany operate? Think of Germany as an aircraft carrier trying to get into enemy waters: they will push forward slowly but surely and release the big guns when given the opportunity. Their defense will claw and fight until the ball is controllable. By way of example, the U.S.'s defense was happy just to kick the ball past the out-of-bounds line. The German defense will either put the ball on their midfielder's laces or clear the ball so hard into the 45th row that it kills the other country's token diplomat. Once their midfielders have the ball, they can pinpoint their forwards. Once their forwards have the ball, it's a goal. Germany's the only team in the tournament that can take fewer total shots and shots on goal against a team like England but still win 4-1.

So who are those big guns? A pair of Polish émigrés, Miroslav Klose and Lukas Podolski have been two of the most lethal scorers in German history. The star of this tournament, though, is nine days younger than me. (Sonofabitch!!) Thomas Müller has three goals and three assists so far, and is in a battle with Spanish doucheblaster David Villa for the Golden Boot. They might not have the flair of Brazil, Spain nor Argentina, but Germany can score with the likes of anyone.

Prediction:

As my tone has suggested, I'm picturing big things for Germany. The knock on them in the lead-up to the World Cup was that they would be crippled without Michael Ballack in the center of the midfield. Truth is, they haven't really missed him. Müller has been on a warpath, Podolski turned the heat up, and other stars in the midfield like Mesut Özul and Bastian Schweinsteiger (unofficial leader of the Aryan race, btw...) have been studs. They are young and scrappy but supremely talented and playing in a much better system than Maradona's controlled chaos.

My crystal ball is telling me that Argentina will get knocked on its ass with an early goal by Klose. Argentina hasn't been down in a game yet, and I predict that they won't be able to get their momentum back on track enough to claw back. Germany will smell blood and put the game out of reach by the time Messi and crew figure out the ironnutted German defense.

Germany 3 - Argentina 1

Paraguay v. Spain

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Prediction:

I am not quite up to snuff with my World Cup history, but this has to be one of the most lopsided quarterfinals in history. Beginning with the "what in the hell?" loss to Switzerland in its first game, Spain has never clicked on all cylinders and nevertheless they have yet to be seriously challenged since. They are very, very good. Paraguay, on the other hand, are scraping tooth and nail to get any sign of life from their offense. They are a crappy team that beat a crappy Japanese team on PKs to get here. The reign of the Cholo in this World Cup is no mas.

The Spanish side should feel like a bunch of sailors coming into port, popping Viagra like Skittles. They have struggled in this tournament against defensive teams like Paraguay, but the Spaniards will be able to besiege the Paraguayan team in the attacking third and rain down fire and brimstone like someone sinned something awful. Shots aplenty for David Villa and Fernando Torres, who will each net two goals.

(Unrelated point (as if any of these asides are ever related): Fernando Torres has to supplant Christiano Ronaldo as the sexiest male soccer player out there, right? Were I a woman of promiscuous thoughts, I would think Torres is much prettier. He doesn't have the repertoire of Ronaldo on the pitch, certainly, but he's still a top-10 player nowadays when he is fit and playing up to his ceiling. I guess the kicker is that Torres rides a motorcycle while Ronaldo rides a sybian.

While we're on the subject of sexy athletes, I have a stirring question. What ever happened to Sexy Russian Tennis Player Mania? Furthermore, where are any of our sexy lady athletes? The last one I can remember jumping on the scene was Maria Sharapova, or was it Jennie Finch? I don't want to live in a world where girlies can salivate over my favorite athletes while I'm forced to trawl for supermodels and Hollywood starlets. Come back, Anna Kornikova! Where's an Enrique music video when we need it most?! WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?!?!)

*Ahem*... as I was saying,

Spain 4 - Paraguay 0

Semi-finals

Brazil 2 - Uruguay 0

Brazil will never lose a game to a team from the Western Hemisphere unless the Argentines sneak up on them or the Mexicans pull a Tonya Harding. This will not be a cakewalk--no World Cup semifinal should ever be--but it's certainly a less interesting game than the other semifinal. This bodes well for the Brazilians, as fatigue really starts to take effect around this point of the tournament. Brazil will finish their game handily and then rest assured that Germany and Spain will beat the piss out of each other.

Germany 1 - Spain 1 (Germany wins 6-5 on PKs)

As I may or may not have mentioned, Germany and Spain will beat the piss out of each other. The styles in this game are essentially anti-parallel. Whatever one team executes well, the other is good at preventing. Spain will dominate possession, but waste more chances. Meanwhile, Germany will chase the ball a lot more but strike much more efficiently in the offense and counterattacks.

I have the tingly feeling that David Villa gets hurt this game; something weird, like a dislocated labium. Andres Iniesta should step up and get them their goal to tie the game late, after Müller gets a pretty header in the 61st minute for the first goal of the match. Every citizen in both countries will drink heavily once this goes to PKs. My intuition tells me that the Germans drink harder after losses (the other definition of penalty shots), and that bodes well for the Deutsch team. The soccer gods enjoy blackouts; they inspire mirth. Cesc Fabregas misses the 6th PK wide left and its curtains for the Iberians.

Finals

Brazil 2 - Germany 1

A team from the Northern Hemisphere has never won a World Cup played in the Southern Hemisphere. I think South Africa '10 might only be the third such occurence, but... still counts for something! I think Germany finally get outclassed and out-hustled this game. Too fatigued and beaten up (and with one or two key suspensions from yellow card accumulation), Germany simply won't have enough left in the tank.

Consequently, get used to seeing bedsheets with "GOD IS BRAZILIAN" scribbled in spraypaint and pictures of Robinho and Kaká with their shirts off. Nike is going to run wild with it. The population of newborns in Sao Paulo alone will triple around next Easter. I envisage Thomas Müller winning the Golden Boot despite the loss, then promising that World Cup 2014 will be Germany's to lose, and then he'll get horribly injured in a freak croquet/sextape accident and never get back to playing form. Need I remind everyone that he's nine days younger than me and yet infinitely more successful? God is not always so benevolent, Thomas.

These are the words of a swami. Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

And as always, be brilliant,

Johnny O.

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Kickass music: If you're reading this blog consistently, or if you've read down to the bottom of this post, chances are you have already heard of the band Winston Wolff. The band started back when I was a sophomore in high school, when a good chunk of my friends decided they'd start playing together. Tom Eddy, Ari Wes, Daniel Gronfein and the Brothers Marowitz, with infrequent but lovely accompaniments by Kaela Kahn, are the best musicians I know who will let me eat out of their fridges. That alone should merit a plug of this size.

Although they picked the name Winston Wolff instead of my suggestion, Pencil-Thin Erections, I feel as if a little homage is due. I can't put their songs on my blog, so go for the link above if you want to take a gander at their sonic portfolio.

Nevertheless, let's keep the boys in mind. There probably isn't anything quite so annoying as someone nagging you about learning and performing their favorite song day after day. Too bad that's never stopped me before. So here, publicly addressed, are my suggestions for songs they could cover.

"Midnight Rider" - The Allman Brothers Band

"Come and Go Blues" - The Allman Brothers Band

"For No One" - The Beatles... would work well after "Red Book Box" with a mellowing transition, in my humble opinion

"The Mighty Quinn" - Manfred Mann, with Forrest on a mean jazz flute

"You Ain't Going Nowhere" - The Byrds... five-part harmony, c'mon guys!

"Shoot 'Em Up" - Bone Thugs 'N Harmony

"The Wind" - Cat Stevens

"Couldn't Get it Right" - Climax Blues Band

"Franklin's Tower" - Grateful Dead

"Box of Rain" - Grateful Dead

"Richard Cory" - Simon & Garfunkel

Kickass internet video:

(made you poop!)

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; all for naught if not for all of us

2010-06-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

I saw my soulmate today. She stood across from me at an intersection, holding back a laugh as a homeless guy peed on the corner of a hedgerow to her left. Wearing a white summer dress as bright and effortless as her smile, she stood like Venus in a half shell. She kept a chic bag over one shoulder; a daisy and a magazine peeked out like they were curious.

Were I a more polite man, I probably would not have stared at her so intently, especially after our eyes met. I was enrapt. The pisser had zipped up and walked away, but that same knowing smile returned. She looked like the type of girl men used to wage wars over. I could've sworn she liked to say silly things, like "Lord knows I'm not a spiritual girl." Her earrings were a little tacky -- who still wears jade? -- but no one's perfect. She started to walk towards me and like an idiot I stood in place. It wasn't like my feet were stuck in concrete, but rather I enjoyed the image of her lightly stepping towards me, as if in a dream. We kept looking at each other for a few seconds as she came closer. I saw that she had a book in her bag, too; something thick. I just wanted to sit there for a while and figure her out (so long as pants weren't involved, naturally). She started to say something to me and my throat leapt to say the first word, but my mind and body were blank.

"C'est verte," she said. It took me another half of a second to realize that she meant that the light had gone green. I tried to say thanks but I sounded like Porky Pig's French cousin. After a nod and an inefficacious blush, I started to cross the street and completely cut off a biker. I turned back to see this girl laughing lightly again, this time at me. Most likely because my game resembled McLovin's.

Just then, a guy came up from the mouth of the subway and wrapped her up in a from-the-back hug, kissed her on the cheek, and shot me a warning glare. This guy sucked. His hair was chopped like Helen Keller and Freddy Krueger got experimental on it. He dressed like a homeless guy who was going into his first job interview in six years. The freshly lit cigarette between two of his fingers belched some ash onto the bodice of her dress. I bet he always ruined the pool parties by standing on the diving board, peeing into the deep end. He was the type who says in earnest, "Can we skip the sex and get right to the hours of sobbing?"

That's how it always goes, I guess. Girls hoping for love lament liking the bad guys while living life looking for the next good facebook status update. In the meantime, the romantics wait in the reins. You girls are tough to figure out -- too much of what is said these days is a house made of tangled sticks and stones. That dream girl's boyfriend probably isn't even half bad. I'm just being shitty.

__________________________________

Switching gears completely, I have heard some very intriguing bits of news about space science recently. Might be worth relaying; might not. (The old rule comes into play here: if it's too boring, find the old bottle of Jäger and then gimme a call.)

First of all, it turns out the world is playing galactic Russian Roulette. There is enough debris in the solar system for the Earth to consider itself pretty damn lucky that it's not pounded more often than Alexis Texas. As far as the foreseeable future goes, the larger Near Earth Objects (NEOs) will never come close enough to Earth to really pose a problem. Basically, there's two ways to picture the situation: 1) we're standing next to the ropes of a Double Dutch game and waiting for the right moment to jump in -- or 2) we're James Bond fettered to a table as a laser beam inches towards our collective ballsack. For right now, we're fairly certain that any projectile that makes it all the way to the Earth's surface will be small enough to only decimate a small city at worst. If the laws of Karma factor in, and if "when it rains, it pours" logic holds true, that unfortunate city is probably already a shithole. (Here's looking at you, Pullman.)

There is, however, one pretty large hitch. These meteors and comets are so small compared to the other celestial bodies in the neighborhood, and the glimpses that astrodudes get of these bullets are so brief, there is a margin of error. By way of example, there is a meteor or comet (I forget which exactly. Sue me.) which scientists believe will pass by the Earth on April 13, 2029. For those of you wondering: yes, of course, it's a Friday. The problem here is that the eggheads who found this rock only saw it as it was giving Saturn a drive-by reacharound. If their calculations are off by .0001th of a degree in the wrong direction... gulp.

In other news, the Mayans were kindasortamaybe correct. On December 21, 2012, the Earth will align with the Sun and the center of our galaxy. That's about where the ball should have stopped rolling. The world is not going to tumble into the black hole at the center of our galaxy just because we're lining up with the Sun -- the syzygy happens every year. It's called a solstice, numbnuts! The Mayans didn't even predict that the world would actually end. Their calendar is cyclical and they predicted that the 2500-year age would complete its revolution then. Greeks did the same thing. The nihilistic theory of December 21, 2012, was started by some sensationalist in the 20th century who got boners for Star Trek novellas and made model volcanos in his mom's basement until he was 37. (Disclaimer: this does not, I repeat NOT, mean that I will refuse the opportunity to throw a kegger for said event. It might be the end of the world, after all.)

Three Russians, an Italian, a Frenchman, and a Chinese man have begun their 520-day long isolation experiment to replicate a mission to Mars. They are locked in a (looney) bin somewhere in Russia, doing fake experiments and going through the motions of a real Martian mission. They can hang out with each other and infrequently get some internet connection to shoot e-mails and download True Blood torrents. Everything in the experiment is supposed to be legit except for the absence of weightlessness. Me, I can't wait for the sitcom spin-off and/or sex tape(s).

It looks like there's some primordial goop on one of Saturn's moons that might have some life in it. I give it three weeks before the revering cult goes public.

If you haven't yet subscribed to NASA's Picture of the Day, go for it.

That's all I got for now. The U.S. plays Algeria in a matter of about fourteen hours. I'm predicting a low-stress 2-1 win for the good guys. I also predict that the English team will lose the game by forfeiture because the whole squad gave each other chlamydia. Bank on that!

As always, be brilliant,

Johnnycakes

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Kickass music: Just formed a new mancrush on this guy named Mark Charles Heidinger out of Kentucky (by way of D.C.). He has a voice like Bob Dylan if Bob Dylan wasn't perpetually too high to sing. In fact, I see a lot of Tom Eddy in this guy. That is intended as both a mutual compliment and an indirect-yet-still-shameless plug for Winston Wolff.

Heidinger sings with his "kindred spirit" named Rose, who has a wonderfully buttery voice but inexcusably looks like every preschool teacher I've ever had.

A Mighty Leviathan of Old from Pierre Dejon on Vimeo.

Vandaveer - Woolgathering from LaundroMatinee on Vimeo.

Vandaveer - Fistful of Swoon from Grandcrew on Vimeo.

Kickass internet video:

1/12 of a "Rent" Song

2010-06-19T04:33:00.000-07:00

I told myself that I would write a little reflection piece once the one-month mark rolled around. I wasn't really sure what angle to take with the post back then, and I'm still not really sure how to sum it all up now. I'm kind of just typing whatever words come to mind without ever hitting the backspace button -- a fun little exercise for those budding blogheads out there.

It would be fun to do a Top 10 list, but that seems so cliché. The problem is that I'm tickling the keys without typing anything substantive right now. Writer's block is a bitch like that. I'll go make some lunch, watch the start of the Netherlands-Japan game, and mull over what to say. Be back in 20.

______________________________________

Well it seems that my creativity has failed me. I can't even come up with ten "Top" things to talk about, so I'll just go for anything that comes to mind and see how far it goes. If it lacks the verve of my previous posts, drink some Jäger and get back to me.

(And on an unrelated note, I am currently eating a lunch consisting of a sausage-with-garlic-with-onions-with-peppers-with-mushrooms-with-herbs-with-chevre omelette, a baguette with camembert, leftovers from last night's Vietnamese curried beef, and it's all washed down with some apple juice. My GI tract already loathes me. The subsequent farts will be nothing short of a medical marvel. I mean that I might actually produce a new form of matter from this meal -- whatever is beyond plasma.)

Further ado be damnèd, here are some things I've learned in the first month:

1) French dudes smell terribly

The women get the bad rap for letting squirrels hibernate in their armpits, but the dudes reek. Older men are the usual culprits; creating a delightful mix of old people smell and their personal take on B.O. It is not the spicy and sour stink of, say, a Mumbai whorehouse, nor does it have the ripe musk of an Istanbul meat market. The back of the fridge, where that summer squash and ham casserole has sat neglected for six weeks; that's the smell. We've come to expect Paris--home of Coco Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent--to embrace modern hygienic standards. But rather it's a carefully cultivated odor, as if they plan their outfits around the stink. Wow, I smell like a badger's asshole this morning, one of them might think over his morning café. Do I put on deodorant? Nah, I'll wear my cardigan.

Riding the subway on a warm afternoon is always a gamble for this reason. It seems as if all the locals are used to the smell (and there are many more smells to contend with, as I will go into later) but the other foreigners and I are left defenseless against the olfactory onslaught. After going into one of these war zones, I literally beg to snort lines of pollen just so my allergy-induced tidal wave of snot will plug everything up.

2) French popular culture takes everything from America, circa 2007

It's stunning how little the French have come up with on their own. In pretty much every club, bar, bistro or trendy restaurant, French proprietors pump out American tunes from a couple years ago, at least. If it's not Lady Gaga, Sean Paul, Ricky Martin, Justin "Littlebabybitch" Beiber, Shaggy, U2, Green Day, or Drü Hill, then it's a French person covering one of their tunes. The saddest part is, that list I just put up is fairly exhaustive--there isn't much else. It's like Sarkozy put into the municipal code a law that states every joint must play "Now That's What I Call Music 17" on repeat at least four nights a week.

Some notable artists that never made it over the Atlantic: any rapper not involved with Ludacris or the Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, T-Pain (praise the Lord), or Daniel Gronfein.

The television shows are just as plagiarized. Glee is just starting to make noise over here. CSI: Miami and the original CSI are both huuuuuge. People crave Criminal Minds like dope fiends; must be Joe Montagna's awe-inspiring skills. That new Jennifer Love Hewitt, "I am hot and I see ghosts!" show is France's weekly fix. They even have a knock-off Wheel of Fortune, except they only put hot co-eds and chillest bros on air. Brilliant.

3) French advertisements are ridiculously oversexualized

I'm not sure if this has made it over to the States, but the French sell a periphery product for iPods that is (not kidding) a vibrator. The ads are on MTV's Euro station and a channel devoted to pub entertainment. Its slogan is "Love your music? Let it love you back." Plug it into your iPod's headphone jack, make sure the batteries are charged, and the device buzzes along with whatever song you're listening to. Girls over here openly regard this product like it's the Second Coming of Christ.

Frankly, I'm surprised no one thought of this sooner. If you're a gal looking for a subtle, on-the-bus-ride-home orgasm, I'd recommend Joni Mitchell or Cat Stevens. If you had a tough week and just want to relax in bed on a cozy Saturday morning while having multiples, go for Simon & Garfunkel or Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. If you're trying to replace a boyfriend? My Morning Jacket or Arcade Fire. And if you intend to pulverize your genitalia? '80s speed metal.

In the metro stations and on streetside billboards, it is not uncommon to see bare plump breasts or 99.4% naked men. Kiddie cartoons frequently show pin-up models and the men who lust after them. There's even an ad that has been running during the World Cup which shows a younger girl--no make-up, jean jacket, braces, the works--getting dropped off at school by her grandma. As the girl goes to put her phone in her bag, a condom falls out. The grandma picks it up, smiles, says something along the lines of "They weren't this color when I was your age!" Then the grandma puts the condom in her breast pocket as the granddaughter reaches for it. They share a laugh and the girl goes to class... only in Paris.

4) I have a nemesis

There's a girl in my French class who always manages to give me crap for whatever I say. Whether it's rolled eyes or a "Yeah? Well I could (fill in the blank) better!" she always manages to grind my gears. I am not the only one who gets the treatment, considering how she has managed to piss of some other kids in the class.

On Friday, as a thirty-something year old Polish guy in our class was doing a presentation on Bikram Yoga, she was spewing "Whatevers" and "That's not actually trues" like BP hired her. I asked her to be quiet and let the guy have his time (carefully hiding my genuine interest for yoga). She came back with, "Well it's annoying to hear someone explain these things when I know I could do it better, you know?" That's the worst part: she couldn't do it better. She has some sort of projection issue where she always believes she is a rung above the rest at whatever she thinks she can do. She slings derision while being incorrect most of the time. This girl isn't smart. She just graduated from Podunk U and is trying to be a dental assistant or something.

She has more shit for brain than a blumpkin. We're nemeses.

(At least until Tuesday, when she heads back to the U.S.)

5) Paris has some of the nicest homeless dudes around

I see them picking up trash and giving each other flowers all the time. One day in my first week here, I saw one stand on a metal bench with a guitar in front of a crowd of other homeless men, and he played a Bob Dylan song.

Must be the cheap wine.

6) It's still too soon to make Zinedine Zidane headbutt jokes

I played a pick-up soccer game with some high school kids and scored a goal. Some kid said something that I didn't really understand, probably a congratulations or a kind remark, and I went up and pretended to headbutt him. No one laughed. I explained that I was kidding and that I only meant to pay homage to Big Daddy Zizou. They understood the joke; they just didn't find it funny. I probably shouldn't do that any more.

7) French women are more beautiful than Americans

I'm not saying that they're necessarily more attractive or sexier. (Put away the voodoo dolls, female readers.) I will say with confidence, though, that the average Parisian is naturally more pretty than the average New Yorker or Seattlite. They wear less make-up, keep their natural hair color, and wouldn't dare to put on a wonder bra or fake lashes. As a result, they have great skin, confident demeanors, age gracefully and have a certain je ne sais quoi, but they're still plagued by some definite ennui streaks. I have made very little progress in my campaign to marry a French lady while I'm here, but I have certainly run into some timeless beauties in the crowd.

8) Smelly places in Paris are more smelly than smelly places in other smelly cities

Like I said earlier, it's almost a cultivated stink to which everyone has acclimated. The urine stench is the worst, probably because of all the friendly homeless dudes with their cheap wine. There are some corners in my neighborhood which should be flagged off by haz-mat crews on a warm day. You can taste it if there's no breeze.

I remember smelling some similar stink zones in Berlin last summer (I even blogged about it, here), but the ones in Paris are worse. Fortunately for this, my allergies over here have been hellish. I miss 75% of the smells around here and I couldn't be happier for it.

9) Food and drink over here is not better than in the States

Sure, they got us beat on pastries and frogs' legs. I'm willing to give them that. I haven't had a good piece of fruit in weeks, though. And the meats are all mealy and expensive. Even their wines and cheeses aren't all that and a bag of potato chips. (I must say it is nice to legally buy wine, though.)

I think the U.S. has the best food in the world and I would be hard pressed to be convinced otherwise. Our country is bigger, more diverse, and more agriculturally capable than the competition. And we're all fat, which has to count for something.

Alas, I am stuck at #9 with nothing left in the tank. I'm going to lie down and hold my stomach for a few hours, praying silently between farts. Keep me in your thoughts.

As always, be brilliant,

John O.

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Kickass music: Iron & Wine put out an EP with Calexico a while ago called In the Reins that somehow evaded my sensors. Great CD. I reserve my highest recommendations for albums of this quality.

"He Lays in the Reins" -- feat. some weird Josh Groban wannabe about halfway through

"Dead Man's Will"

"Burn That Broken Bed"

"16, Maybe Less"

Kickass internet video:

The Cup

2010-06-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

Wull shit. After a less-than-stellar tie result against a weak Slovenian side, in a game that required two ugly goals to come back and a phantom foul (or a DWB call, in my opinion) that called back a pretty score and effectively seized a draw from the arms of victory, the U.S. boys kinda underwhelmed everyone.

I went to an Irish-themed bar called The Hideout for the game after class. The bartender and I were the only ones who spoke English in the joint for a while, and so I ended up hanging out with a group of guys from the Ivory Coast. They were lovely gents, really, but they left me to pick up the last round of beers. Cheap bastards. This is Africa, I guess.

After that, I ran into an Englishman from Cambridge and a Texan from Dallas. The Englishman and I got along fine, but the Texan, Nick, was a little bit... weird. He said that he was a francophile and that he'd spent about eight years in France and Switzerland, yet he spoke almost no French. Then he said that he was a producer of films, like the recent one called "Lebanon," yet he had never heard of Dennis Hopper nor did he give a passing thought to the actor's death. The guy is either a pathological liar or a brilliant idiot.

But to start a blog with the immediate news after not updating y’all for well over a week would be criminal. That being so, let’s head back to the first American game in the World Cup.

(Cue the dream sequence music from Wayne’s World.)

And just like that, the Sam Barnes extravaganza came to an abrupt end. The week was fun, if not painfully so (in the mornings). Word on the block is that we woke up too late to get Sam to the airport on time Wednesday and, consequently, he missed his flight. I suppose that serves as an apt cross-microcosm of our week-long romp in Paris. Riot punch is just the gift that keeps on givin’.

So what happened in the past week?

The World Cup sticks out. People here certainly are not as die-hard as I expected in regards to the tournament. Yeah, every bar fills up and people hoot and holler for their boys, but not with the zeal I’ve come to expect. I went to a fun English bar in Paris with Sammy called The Bombardier for the U.S.-England game last Friday, and the place was splitting at the seams with fop-haired, sub-par-dentistry Britons. There were six Americans, maybe. I thought that I would be lambasted by insults, beaten up at halftime, and showered with beer if Donovan or Dempsey ever put one (God willing) into the back of the net. They turned out to be tame as lambs. They only had their guile before the game, singing a few songs when the mood struck.

(Here’s how uncreative our ancestral brothers in Jolly Ol’ England are… their favorite song to chant in unison goes to the tune of the old presidential candidate's march -- I forget the name but you might pick up the tune -- and the lyrics are as follows. Feel free to sing along:

Verse I:

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland, Eng-aLAND, Eng-alaaa-aaaand,

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland-LAND, oh, Eng-alaaand!

Verse II:

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland, Eng-aLAND, Eng-alaaa-aaaand,

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland-LAND, oh, Eng-alaaand!

Chorus:

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland, Eng-aLAND, Eng-alaaa-aaaand,

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland-LAND, oh, Eng-alaaand!

Bridge:

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland, Eng-aLAND, Eng-alaaa-aaaand,

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland-LAND, oh,

BEAT THE AMERICANS (sung by the two or three most hilarious bastards around)

Chorus:

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland, Eng-aLAND, Eng-alaaa-aaaand,

England, Eng-aland, Eng-alaaaand,

Eng-aland-LAND, oh, Eng-alaaand!

Thank you for your time.)

But once the game got going, no one flexed nuts and called out the Americans for our obvious ineptitude on the pitch. I would have put me in the ground if I were the English fans—their visceral passion for English football blinds them. They were mum almost the whole game, only perking up for another couple rounds of their go-to song (see above) after Gerrard netted the early goal. Really though, nothing special from them. It was like the whole horde of English fans were watching the Westminster Dog Show instead of the inaugural World Cup game versus the Dirtbag Yanks.

I was one of the loudest guys in the bar (thanks, riot juice). The Gerrard goal was certainly deflating, but we bounced back and I got the opportunity to shoot off some jokes. I got an old guy laughing—who looked way too much like Gary Busey for me not to mention it—when I pointed out that God made sure the only thing separating man from the animals is Wayne Rooney. Then, when Robert Green forgot to put his purse down before making a routine save, and Dempsey’s feeble shot when in the goal… despondence from the masses. People would have been less disappointed if they had just heard Queen Elizabeth II was a tranny. Guys made faces like they were looking at vaginal teeth. I wanted to taste their tears.

We ended up with the tie and life went back to normal in a snap. Some people stayed at the bar and chatted over ales, but most took to the streets to head somewhere else or buy some cigarettes. I made nice with the old guy and we talked about hiking. No crew of hooligans came looking for my head. They were, dare I say it, jovial. I was a deer in the wolves’ den and they basically invited me to stay for tea.

I don’t like that. I do not like to hear the excuse that everyone in the world, especially the Britons, takes soccer more seriously than the Americans. It’s just not true. The ratio of fans to non-fans in Europe is irrefutably better than in the States, but their passion is not heads and shoulders above our own. The French treat soccer games as an excuse to drink and kvetch about the shitty state of all things Europe. Since their team is struggling, no one really gets up for the games. They just drink harder and yell more apathetically into empty glasses. It’s like I’m living the 2008 Husky football season all over again.

The only team that has really impressed me is Brazil. Argentina has looked good, too, but against toothless teams with no real hope to win. So say what you will about Brazil’s underwhelming result against the DPRK this other night, but I’ll be damned if they don’t win the Cup. Bank on it. Wager your house. Offer up a firstborn. They will win and they will win convincingly.

My vow doesn’t come without some support, of course: Brazil was playing against the (un)Democratic (not really the)People’s (in no way a)Republic of Korea. Do you think any other team is going to play half as defensively or hard as the North Koreans? Really, now. What happens when a team loses? They go home. What happens if a team loses badly? They embarrass the leadership. What happens when you throw Kim “I Could Publicly Shit on the Steps of the UN and No One Would Be Surprised” Jong-il into the mix?

North Koreans will never go down without fighting because… well… I’m not really too sure how to finish that thought. Teams usually start slow in this tournament, yet Brazil was crisp in most places at most times. Expect them to crush every other team they face, solely because they’re probably better at every position than every other team. Dial up your bookie. (And don’t break my thumbs when this accidental jinx knocks them out in the quarterfinals.)

_______________________________

On a completely different note, someone said something weird to me last night. I was sitting in the local Vietnamese joint, minding my manners and reading a book belonging to the proprietor’s son, when a French woman looked over and benignly said, “You’re too old to be reading that.”

First of all, old ladies can’t be wildin’ on me ‘n shit, so I gave her the crazy eyes. But then I stopped, paused in reflexive thought for a moment, and reprocessed her curt insult into something meaningful.

Maybe I am too old for the kiddie stuff. Lest we forget that I possess a reading level in French comparable to a five year old, that must be not quite enough. It is dumb for the American culture to make second languages a luxury (or worse) when the rest of the world goes out of its way to learn at least English for one of their tongues. Sitting on our hands makes them numb, I guess.

This goes further. Transplant me to a Vietnamese joing in Seattle, reading the same book in English, and I would be just as happy. I was constructed and raised to enjoy those simple things more than the next guy, and I’ve always taken a bit of pride in my ability to find humor and amusement in the little things, but that might not be the best plan of attack. I’m twenty years old now and having weekly quarter-life crises. I used to think that life was about making a shaving cream beard and singing Pavarotti in the bathroom mirror, but now life is banging on the door and telling me to shit or get of the pot. I’m not saying that I want to change myself, but I’m living in my fourth decade now and starting to realize that all the youth and vim that older folks preach about missing are two of the things they don’t like to see.

I left the restaurant with my soup in a take away bowl, Sriracha in hand in a little plastic cuplette, thinking about life. It wasn’t quite an epiphany that was swimming around in my head, but I knew right away that there was something bloggable in there. Sometimes you just know, ya know? I stopped at the corner for a car to pass, looked up at the setting sun behind an alder tree, and waited for some kind of sign that I was headed the right direction. I’m still down there in a lot of ways.

As always, be brilliant,

Johnny O.

____________________________

Kickass music: "Fluorescent Adolescent" by Arctic Monkeys

Kickass internet video: I saw this video at halftime of the Germany-Serbia game. The French mind is a scary place...

Here's how the Americans do:

COFFEE TIME from CHRIS LAGARCE on Vimeo.

All that being said, cutest thing ever...

Partly Cloudy from Dan Graham on Vimeo.

(oops...)

2010-06-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

I forgot to post videos last time!

My bad, my bad. You can stop burning my portrait with cigarettes now, mom.

Kickass music: Here are a few videos of Local Natives. Great band out of LA. Not exactly a cutting-edge selection by yours truly since they have been around for a little while... but these guys deserve the Old Monkey bump. (Yes, you may use that as a sexual euphemism.)

And just for kicks...

Radiohead from Thomas Moreau on Vimeo.

Seasick Steve - A Take Away Show - Part 1 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

Kickass internet video:

EepyBird's Sticky Note experiment from Eepybird on Vimeo.

The Loud Bird

2010-06-08T00:59:00.000-07:00

It's a bright day in Paris. Sammy Barnes, the pagan god of cuteness, will grace this city of lights with his presence for the next week. We did a petite tour of a few sites yesterday after his flight from Athens got in, grabbing some pints along the way and catching up. I missed seeing the guy.

I'm worried, though, that I won't be the best host. You see, living alone for a while is systemic with letting your social and hygienic acumen sag. All my little quirks will have to go back into their cupboards: no more naked omelet-cooking bonanzas; no more pooping with the bathroom door open for increased ventilation (necessary on some days); no more practicing French out loud at night and swearing indiscriminately at every error; no more elaborate plots to kill petulant neighborhood animals; and, g'all darnit, no more push-ups in front of the full-length mirror while blasting Tina Turner's "Simply the Best."

Sam got to know the horror that is a magpie nest this morning. I was planning on talking about magpies in a later blog post--to give the satankitty rant a chance to settle down in order to keep PETA off my tail--but my hatred for them has come to a head. I didn't hear the magpies until about a week ago. They flitted around my courtyard garden, perching every so often on the lower branches of a lonely deciduous tree. I thought they were cute. Even their calls at this time were sweet, little flalluvavavas that can only be described as sounding like a Daft Punk sample of a Dave Brubek riff. I didn't know that they were maintaining a nest, and a few days ago the chick hatched. Say it with me now: F-U-C-K the baby magpies.

The chick woke me up at sunrise three days in a row. Such a diabolical creature has never tread on God's green Earth. It sounds like a mix of Alvin the chipmunk and Gruntilda, or a death metal EP played at 6x speed. Even the local crow got pissed off, which is where the story gets interesting.

The crow and the magpies used to hang out. When the daddy magpie would get back to the courtyard from a day's work of pooping on cars and stealing bread, the crow would toss it a cold one and caw something trite, like "Hey, at least there's only one Tuesday a week" or "I tell ya, Mort. We're going to be something, someday." Everything changed when the baby came.

Things first got really tense after the eggling hatched. The drama in the apartment's garden was palpable. It was good TV, basically. (Remember: I live alone.) The magpies, usually mobile and energetic, stayed in the tree. If anything got close to the tree, thought about the tree, or mentioned trees in passing conversation within a three block radius, the magpies would shout. And their distress call is fuck-ing loathsome. Almost as bad as the baby's cry. Almost. Thankfully, the crow made moves. He bobbed and weaved for a couple days, trying to get to the nest. I was rooting him on like he was wearing a Sonics jersey. Then the morning two days ago, as I ate my muesli and thought about putting on underwear, the crow got to the nest and dragged out a piteously ugly, small magpie chick by the neck. He snapped its neck mid-flight as I compulsively pulled off an A+ rendition of the 'Tiger Woods Fist Pump' with spoon in hand.

Sure, call me an asshole. But my week peaked when I saw that helpless baby bird die. Imagine Christmas day and fireworks on 4th of July rolled into one moment. One must realize that there must be casualties in war. (The war, in this case, was waged on my naptime.) The magpies have since become more tame. Perhaps they have been shocked into silence by the crow's callous execution/infanticide. I will never know what is going on inside their pea-sized, godless brains right now; frankly, I don't care. They lost me at caw.

The magpies still shout in the morning, but their vocals are a dwindling vestige of their former strength. In fact, I haven't heard one peep out of them today. The silence is sublime. I asked Sam if he heard the magpies this morning. He says back to me, "Oh, you mean the Smoke Monster from Lost? Yeah, heard it." I would describe it more colorfully: a deaf puma having passionate sex with a kookaburra who has nasal congestion issues. I suppose that "Smoke Monster" a neater way to describe their calls. I used to wake up every morning to the Smoke Monster.

So, back to the story at hand. We have seen a lot of good sites around Paris, mostly on bikes. Biking around Paris is difficult work but Sam seems up to the challenge. We put in about 20 miles today, and walked a few more. My gooch is in screaming pain right now from the bike seats (which must have been designed by a sadistic, paraplegic eunuch); not sure how Sam is holding up. We're going to drink some riot punch and cheer on our U.S. boys in South Africa come this Saturday. I will report back Sunday. Until then, spay or neuter your pets.

As always, be brilliant,

John O.

PS thank you to Maddie, Kip, Bryce, Amy, Daddy O, Emily and everyone else who has shown a little love for the blog. Major pats on the back. I miss y'all and I'm glad that we can connect through my rambles. Keep in touch and keep looking for updates... and bare-knuckle fight anyone who says otherwise.

Bad Romance, and Midgets on Fire

2010-06-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

It was a Pyrrhic victory, teaching the apartment building's bastard cat to come to my window for food. I threw him little morsels of that morning's eggs or bits of sausage every once in a while for the first week. The cat is grossly unkempt and looks like it might be diseased, but I thought it was cute how I had a pet that I only had to feed once a day, like a tamagotchi with mites.

The cat started coming by and meowing for food more often in the second week, sometimes even when I was making dinner. He learned my habits, exploiting my lack of cojones to tell anything with four legs and fur to fuck off and starve. Now, when I wake up and draw the shades, the cat starts meowing. When I get home and start dinner, he meows louder because he's pissed off that I didn't prepare his afternoon tea. Every day, at least once a day, the cat comes by and meows. The whole gig was cute for a while, but now I despise this aberration of nature -- I've literally been nursing the unholy lovechild of the Balroc and Garfield. Feed something for a few days, someone should have warned, and it gets more clingy than my first wife.

I think this cat is the antichrist. It is meowing with a certain rhythm now, and somehow the noise penetrates my closed window. The tune sounds like Rasputin's darkest incantation and it's only growing louder. I'm looking around my apartment from my desk chair and all I see are potential weapons. I would throw things at it -- where are the damned knives?! -- but the neighbors would automatically blame me for killing Gérard the super's tabby. They know that this is my fault for feeding the satankitty. My only hope is for the Pakistani guy next door to justify every stereotype and whip out his camel rifle.

But, seeing as I'm begrudgingly awake, I figure I might as well shoot off a blog. It's been a while, and I dun' seen't some shit in Paris in the past week. At this point, I hate cats more than anyone has hated any animal, ever. (More than this guy.) Keep an eye out for interspersed hatespeech for the entire feline race.

Do molotov cocktails leave too much evidence? Just note: Cats deserve it.

__________________________________

I don't want to stay up too long, so I will just talk about Tuesday night. As the title suggests, some weird stuff went down. (Note: if you saw that title and immediately peed a little bit on your own leg, I have done my job.)

A good mile or so away from my house is a quaint little anglophone pub. I was biking around after dinner, looking for things to look at, when I came across Le Celtique. There's nothing too special about the joint, but it serves some Irish and English ales and usually hosts a decent amount of Redcoat patrons. I pulled up a stool, watched some rugby, drank a pint, and met a 23 year old Dubliner by the name of Craig. Since our forefathers hailed from the same area of Ireland (Tipperary), Craig was the nicest sonuvagun in the room. He had deep pockets and an outstanding appreciation for the American accent; we got along just fine.

A few Jameson's later, Craig wanted to check out a new scene. He said that he'd heard about a really cool bar down the street, towards the Latin Quarter. I went along with the idea, partly because I was supposed to meet a classmate in the Latin Quarter at 10:00 and partly because I'm not so rude as to refuse free drinks.

(Satankitty is now attempting to throw up and meowing between dry heaves. On a related note, "International Kick Your Cat in the Head Day" is hereby to be celebrated annually on June 4th.)

We make it to the bar, Alcazar, to find that it's a veritable cougar den. The average clientele there are 40-45 year old women with collagen-bombarded lips, over-tanned skin, and short, tacky dresses. It felt like I was in a preview of "Sex and the City 8: Charlotte Comes Out." Craig never missed a beat. The bartender asked him what he wanted in French and Craig shouts back, "Yeah, yeah. I don't understand you. I'll take two whiskeys and a cocktail for the ravishing woman on my left." I looked over to see a cougar eyeing Craig like Oprah stalks taco carts.

(My fellow Fijis would agree that she had a full PeteyFace going. No doubt about that.)

So, just like that, Craig has the vultures circling us. We talked about whether or not homeless people and gypsies are an alien species who lay eggs (intelligent stuff, obviously), before being interrupted by a couple older women and a tag-along dude in Armani Exchange sunglasses with a matching shirt. Intent on getting into some weird shit, Craig bought one more round of shots and left. I stayed and talked to the woman to our left for a few minutes, practicing my French. She started using some unrepeatable, that's-only-in-some-dictionaries verbs after a couple minutes. A hard rock cover of "Bad Romance" came on, I saw that the universe was telling me something, so I took one last shot and hit the road.

________________________________

The Latin Quarter in Paris is crawling with bars and tourist traps. It's a lively crowd every night, and one can usually find a few compatriots in every bar. But when your Jameson's has snuck up on you and you start accidentally telling people you're Vietnamese in French with an American accent, people leave you the Hell alone. Such is life.

(Speaking of, an Asian man is yelling at the satankitty now. I've never heard a person speak French in such a comically thick Asian accent. Close your eyes and try to imagine what I'm hearing right now. Anyways, it's going on 2:05 a.m. and the ol' bruiser is still meowing his head off. I genuinely hope this cat gets an aneurism.)

The one lively party I found was out on the street. You'll sometimes see these spontaneous spill-out street parties in Paris, kind of like the post-election party on Capitol Hill. Here is how it works: Every once in a while, a bar will get too crowded or have to shut down because of the time, and that leaves people with three options: 1) go to another bar; 2) find a taxi or metro and head home; or 3) find a ghetto blaster boom box, set up a keg out on the street, and have a dance party. The third option is the rarest but also the most sought-after. I would have passed right by the fracas and found my classmate, but I saw a homeless woman doing a Whooty dance and couldn't pass up the opportunity. Sorry for partyin', Paris.

Once Sean Paul's "Temperature" came on and everyone got fired up (*sigh*), a murmur swept through the crowd and a big circle started to form. I couldn't really see was going on, so I dance-nudged my way to the front and expected to see some guy who got shanked. Instead, it was twin midgets and a gypsy clearing everyone out. The two midgets did this weird little hula-hoop dance before one of them started walking around with a bucket, shouting something in French too quickly for me to pick up. I couldn't figure out why, but the crowd cheered and threw money in the bucket every time the midget said something and lifted up the hula-hoop in one hand. Then I saw the other midget getting into a sequined Evel Knievel-esque suit. Finally, lo and behold, they doused the hoops in kerosene, set them up on racks to form a tube, and lit them on fire.

It turns out the midgets were taking wagers. They would add another hula-hoop for every 20 euros (or so) tossed into the bucket, and, not surprisingly, they made a load of money--I'm talking Fat Joe money. And the best part was, Midget #1 was pimping out Midget #2 (visibly pissed that his buddy kept upping the stakes at this point) to jump through seven or eight flaming hoops. I was in tears.

A feeble, blatantly inebriated drum roll started amongst the crowd. Without any other pomp or pageantry, the midget yelled "BANSAI" and took three steps before hurling himself into the ring of fire. To his credit: little dude had hops. His upper body successfully made it through all of the hoops, but he kicked up his legs too late and absolutely nailed his knee on the sixth or seventh hoop. Like a well-oiled machine, the gypsy wet-ragged his burning leg, the midgets raised their fists in triumph, and the crowd went back to dancing and drinking before the cops arrived.

I was speechless then and I am mostly speechless to this day. That being so, all I can say is ... only in Paris.

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music: A Take Away Show w/ Jamie Lidell... the performance was filmed in my neighborhood on my second day in Paris.

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Kickass internet video: Shark Surfer (a.k.a. the man with the heaviest balls in the world)

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La France

2010-05-25T23:27:00.000-07:00

There are some things to note before I delve into my tales of ol' Paris. First and foremost, I'm on drugs. There's some kind of tree out there, all green and leafy and shit, and its pollen is pummeling my sinuses. I took a French allergy medication, and, well... gonk. I think I know why they make meth out of this stuff. Combined with the late night, I am quite drowsy. I only mention this because you might see an error in grammar or spelling, or you might see a 16,000 letter block of Fs and Ks (note: it will be hard to miss) because I fell asleep with my schnoz on the keyboard. Either case is certainly in play.

The second thing you should know is that I'm happy over here. I'm sure my ramblings and rants will eventually lead me to gripe about how much more fun I would be having in Seattle, but I do not regret coming over here at all. If I am able to woo just one sweetheart using French when I get back to Seattle, then all debts will be repaid in full.

Lastly, and I recognize that the anticipation for all my Paris stories must be boiling up to the brim by now, you should know that I will be poor for the next 24 years because of my three months in Europe. Holy hell, I will be poor. Keep that in mind when I don't pay for a round of beers or I rip apart your couch hunting for nickels.

On to the show...

_______________________________

Getting there...

The inevitable problem with an eastward afternoon flight over the Atlantic is the sun. Before flying to Paris, I had a quick layover in Salt Lake City--a mountain town famous for guys in white shirts and ties, and its laid-back "I've only seen black people on TV!" lifestyle. We took off around 5:00, local time. Naturally, I was wide awake as the sky went pitch dark about three hours later. The whole plane shut down. Some lucky people popped sleep-aid pills and turned in for the night. The South African woman next to me chased hers with red wine. "Turn your light off! Have some respect," she barked, her crankiness already getting the better of her. I explained that I was not tired, and that I would try to read quietly and not disturb her while she slept. "Don't be a shit. Just turn the light off and go to sleep!" she replied. What she didn't mention was that she took etiquette classes from Mussolini.

I sat in the dark for a long time. Nothing remarkable happened, no one stirred, all the babies were quietly sleeping for a couple hours (Hell froze, I checked), and I sat. This was a trial in itself because Delta's fucking chairs are so cramped. I was on the aisle but ceded leg room because the beluga sitting in front of me needed her chair fully reclined. I literally had to straddle my knees on either side of her chair--in effect, I was droppin' down and gettin' my eagle on for 1/3 of a day. I don't know how strippers do it.

About three and a half hours after leaving the sun behind, we started picking up glints of light to our front. The flight crew turned on the lights and started playing "Bride Wars" with Mia Thermopolous and Penny Lane.

(Side note: I've never met the person who picks the in-flight movies, but I have no doubt that he/she must be a raging, dyed-in-the-wool feminist. The three movies shown on the SLC-Paris flight were "Leap Year," "Bride Wars," and, ahem, "Dear John." I was waiting for the flight attendants to hand out complementary diaphragms and travel-sized douche kits.)

Keeping track of Salt Lake City time, sunrise started at about 10:45 p.m. for the locals. All the Ambien-addled passengers were awakened by the sun and the stewardesses, pissed as hornets for not getting their prescribed eight hours of naptime. The beluga and my South African sweetiepie were especially fun to be around--they would have been ideal extras in a "28 Days Later" threequel. Every baby woke up, too, and the familiar hick-hick-waaaaaa crying and screaming routine started as soon as Channing Tatum's mug came on screen. Funny enough, fifteen year olds do the same thing.

When I picked up my bag at Charles de Gaulle airport, I just wanted to get some food and crash. My apartment rentor's wife, Monique, picked me up and we took the metro to my humble 2nd story abode. We chatted for a little while, got falafel at the Lebanese restaurant next door with her husband, Brian, and then I went to sleep. That night, the twin bed felt like a cloud.

______________________________________

My 'hood...

You would never go to my neighborhood if you were just visiting Paris. There's no museums, no marble or iron icons deserving a point and shoot. That is the way I wanted it. I want to be in the middle of the shit, experiencing what the city is instead of what the city hopes to sell. I do not like mucking around in tourist areas. Instead, I try smoothly assimilate into the city's body. No one really appreciates the importance of cities' underbellies. Pretty soon, as in the next couple years (if not already), the trend of urbanization will win; more people will live in metropolises than in rural settings worldwide. Mexico City is ten times bigger today than it was in 1940. Mumbai is the densest metropolis in the world, and over half of its 21 million denizens live in slums. Paris is doing much better than those two, but evidence of urbanization's effect is everywhere.

My street is full of émigrés. There are Lebanese, Chinese, Senegalese, Italian, Vietnamese and Moroccan restaurants and shops in one 300 meter stretch of road alone. Oddly enough, this is very helpful for my campaign to learn French. You hear all the time that Parisians are assholes. This is not exactly the case. Parisians are simply sick of non-Parisians masquerading as locals. The city has become such an international hub, and Parisians are expected to cater to so many pasty tourists and dark immigrants, that everyone is just kind of fed up. This being so, my attempts to speak French with the Frenchies are often ignored. I can't blame them. I'd roll my eyes and curse someone's god, too, if an American boy with a shit-eating grin came up and said, "Excusez-moi, parlez-vous français? Et voudriez-vous parler avec moi? Je suis un étudiant Américain! Woo-hoo, you-ess-ayyyy!"

That is why the Vietnamese woman and I discuss the weather. Marcel, the tattooed and pierced baker, likes to talk football and basketball and Britney Spears ("un cul magnificent"). The Lebanese restauranteurs tell me about favorite recipes. Old ladies are also easy to corner for a conversation. I'm not sure if this is because they're too feeble to run away or if they genuinely like talking to a twenty year old with a kindergartner's vocabulary, but it works. Giviènne is my favorite. I think her father was an American G.I., because she says her dad grew up in the States and spent most of his time on the other side of the Atlantic. We talk over cafés in the morning. She jokes that I am like a gypsy beggar for fleeting conversations, and I joke that she probably has osteoporosis, and then we brawl in the alley.

_____________________________________

The people...

The French have a funny word: ennui. In America, we take it to mean "boredom," but it goes so much further over here. Ennui is a wasting desperation, an inescapable vexation that eats at your psyche and your soul. The root of ennui is dissatisfaction and the absence of the joie de vivre, and it is fucking everywhere. The women flash ennui much more often than the brethren. It's become chic to be unpleased, which only compounds the "French people don't have anuses" reputation. Women light up a cigarette and ignore the world, fraught with ennui, because that park just isn't pretty enough or that guy smiles a little too much. And French guys dig it for some reason.

It seems like the only time people are genuinely cheery over here is when they have some lover within an arm's reach. Contrary to what the last paragraph implies, that happens a lot. Puppy love is what Paris is known for and puppy love is what you'll see. PDA is borderline chauvinistic, like there is a tacit contest amongst the men to see who can tweak their partner's nipples in public more. Parisians hook up like Jew Camp '99 (I've heard the stories). My next-door neighbors are a newly married couple, and they bang like firecrackers. I'm all for passion, but not when it sounds like two apes singing. Paper-thin walls, assholes!

I don't know if I will be able to find a decent girl out here. Ideally, I would bag the unfailingly elegant daughter of a successful restauranteur who speaks English, teaches French, is in to six-week flings, shaves liberally, and lives passionately. Vegas has my odds at 1,000,000-1 ("So you're saying there's a chance?!") for that belle and I to mingle, mostly because if she's out there then some guy with a shitty mustache already put a ring on it. That's always been my problem: my girlfriends always have boyfriends. (Although for two of them, you could call it a babysitting commitment.)

Truth be told, I am a little lonely over here. It is a lot like going to college for the first time, but in France... without a roommate... without classes... without a meal plan... nine hours farther ahead in the day than 99% of the people I know. I'd be lying if I said that it was not a struggle. Yesterday was the first day since diapers that I did not speak a word of English to someone face-to-face. No one ever thinks about what the social butterfly does in a wind storm.

________________________________

What's to come...

I am already starting to notice that my French aptitude is improving pretty quickly. There's something to be said about this immersion thing; I'm picking up phrases and confidence like osmosis. Whether that means I'll be worthy to speak to a French person my own age one day remains to be seen, but I can certainly talk the pants off of my French teachers from high school. (That means exactly what it sounds like.)

I hope that the less-than-idyllic start to this excursion turns to gold, like how the shitty intro song to "The Wire" gives way to brilliance. I'm not sure if I will be able to afford trips to Prague or Valencia unless the Euro keeps tanking--but God bless the Greeks for their efforts, by the way--so I will have to make do with entertaining myself in Paris for the long haul.

I'm not complaining... it is Paris, after all.

As always, be brilliant,

Johnny O.

______________________________________

Kickass music: So there's a back-story to this installment. I had been planning for the past month and a half to go to the Glastonbury Festival in Pilton, England. Tickets sold out in just over an hour last October (note: they sell something like 250,000 tickets and give thousands more to outlets like radio stations and record labels) and prices were extremely high. I found a guy in Paris on Craigslist and we arranged a good deal for one weekend pass. I called the guy up a few days ago and asked to meet him. He hung up on me. I called him back and wanted to know what was going on. In kind of an embarrassed tone, he says, "I am sorry, monsieur, but I got a better offer for the tickets." I tried to call him out on the legal parameters of a Craigslist arrangement, but he put an "O.B.O" stamp on his posting. So, here I am, shit outta luck.

Here's a video of "Wake Up" by Arcade Fire, a perennial favorite at Glastonbury. Check out the crowd. Really eat up the crowd. Notice how many people there are. Maybe even look for family members... then realize that this is an AUXILLARY SIDE STAGE and that these guys were the OPENING ACT for JAY-EFFING-Z. My heart hurts.

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Oh, here's another taste...

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:'( WHY, GOD, WHY?!

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Kickass internet video: "Chimpanzee on a Segway"

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O!, revoir

2010-05-19T04:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve fumbled around trying to write this piece for an hour or so, half-blindly thumbing keys, unsure of how to turn words into notes. I’m tired but can’t sleep. I feel like a sparrow frantically flapping its wings, though I am not sure if I am struggling to fly or to land.

I want to say how my week in Seattle has been my best ever, but it doesn’t quite top Sammy or the week after StarFox came out for N64. This week was amazing, but not storybook. And the last thing any of us needs is a sap story.

The most incredible aspect of this week was the friendliness—unfettered, beautiful friendliness. I had become so accustomed to the daily grind of douche bags and go-getters on the East Coast, that the subtle gentleness of PNW personalities was an elixir. The strangeness of being back home was compounded by intermittent pangs of retro-homesickness. I could not measure how much I missed my family and friends while in D.C. until I came back into the fold.

I take off for Paris in something like 10 hours. I’m lying in bed, bleary eyed and letting my mind wander. A Calexico album buzzes through my shoddy little speakers; the white noise soothes the nerves—“Panic Open String” feels symbolic, but I am too unfocused to extricate any meaning. I feel like I forgot to pack something. Did I? Eh, probably.

You could have asked me about France a few weeks ago and I’d lambaste you with effervescent anticipations and silly goals. On the eve of voyage? I wish you could see my jitters. I’m tossing restively in the most comfortable bed I’ve used in five months. My palms feel like I gave Aquaman a handjob. I did a terrible job of wishing everyone farewell, and I feel badly. Part of me wants to mass text everyone I saw this week and fish for reasons to stay stateside. Should I? Eh, probably not.

I’m not worried about not fitting in while in Paris. Twenty years as the kid from a different cut of fabric teaches one to be outgoing, and I’ve found that it’s easiest never to question why people like me—like Maggie Gyllenhaal, but with better hair. I hope to make some friends from the get-go. I figure that one fortunate night at an ex-pat bar, with a few laughs and showing off my white man’s overbite, might net me a wife (or better offer). It’s going to be pretty intimidating, going out alone. I’m not sweating the crowds or the hoodlums that lurk in dark corners, but rather the eurotrash dancers. If you know me well, you know that I like to shake my tush with the best of them, so long as there’s a ladyfriend present. But Europe is a different culture. Like an auspicious bird of paradise, the norm is for the male to attract a less-elegant female with song and dance. That’s not my strong suit; I dance like a three year old with a seventy-eight year old’s hips. Maybe I’ll play some soccer instead. After scoring my hat trick, I’ll headbutt the closest guy and shout, “ZIDANE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” until the deportment officers show up.

No, what I am worried about is losing track of why I’m cutting the safety lines and drifting away. This might prove impossible because, quite frankly, I am not even sure why. It changes with the breeze. There was a moment this past week, at the TKE morning bar, when I despised what us Greeks do with our time at the UW. Maybe I need to get away from that selfishness and depravity for a while.

Then there was a day spent at home when I realized how small I was constructing my world, isolated on a small island and content with caging my niche within one area code. My group of friends is more homogenous than rainwater. When I’m old and rickety (gimme eight years), I need to be able to say that I’ve done things two-parts ballsy and three-parts crazy. The lucidity of that thought was demoralizing and emboldening and cacophonous in concert. Maybe I need to run towards that.

So far, college has been an exposition of missed opportunities and squandered hopes for a passable relationship with a girl, or something like it. I am literally the opposite of Brett Michaels’s “Rock of Love,” and that sucks turkeynuts. I need to mature before I set my roots down in Seattle again. This isn’t even a “maybe” statement; I could just use the break from my own heartstrings (…and pull some weird French ass!).

(Only kidding.)

Or maybe I am subconsciously stroking my own ego. I admit that I derive some delight from telling friends my euro-plans, lapping up their farewells and I’ll-miss-yous like a thirsty dog. I worry that I will treat “John O’Meara: World Traveler” as nothing more than a feather in my cap. I don’t want that. I look like shit in hats.

I sincerely hope that you and I keep touch, either through this blog or some other way. I’m away but not far, distant but not gone. I’ll miss all of you family and friends while I’m dipping my toes in the Seine and eating stinky cheese. Until we bump into each other again, keep smiling and I’ll make sure to smile back.

As always, be brilliant,

Johnny Boy

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Kickass music: "Give It To Me Baby," Rick James

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Kickass internet video: No explanation necessary

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Les Canadiens: Bags of Shit

2010-04-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

Just go ahead and pour some libations as you read this post, for it begins as a sad one.

My Beloved Boyfriends, the Washington Capitals, lost to those godforsaken French Canadians last night in Game Seven. It marks the first time that an eight-seed came back from a 3-1 series deficit to beat a one-seed in NHL history. They've been playing playoff hockey for about 120 years now. Fuck!

The game ended not with a bang, but rather a whimper. Playing with a 6-on-4 powerplay advantage with our goalie pulled to end the game, the Capitals looked weak and sloppy. We simply could not put the puck in the net. It was that way since Game Five. The Habs' goalie, Halak, refused more rubbers than the Pope, while Ovechkin and the BBFs did their best Disney on Ice impression. I'm still appalled.

I stayed up late last night, too shaken to sleep. I ate some ice cream and read a report or two for work. I laid down on the couch and watched Alex Ovechkin/Nicklas Backstrom highlights on YouTube--there may or may not have been some crying involved. Then I played Phil Collins on repeat and did some autoerotic asphyxiation in the walk-in closet. (Only kidding; I couldn't find my belt.)

While I was awake and perusing the interweb, I stumbled upon some things. I discretely mentioned in my last post that I would not blog again until I got home, but I found some gems worth sharing:

First of all, there was a Milwaukee Bucks highlight playing on a late-night SportsCenter clip. Deer's rookie Brandon Jennings (who is much, much smaller than I ever expected. They showed an "NBA Cares" PSA with Jennings painting a door, and he was giving up three inches and thirty-four pounds to the housewife) was having another good game and I knew the end score, so I turned on a Bond movie. There was Brandon Jennings again, eye-fucking Chris Walken in "A View To A Kill." I went back and forth between channels a few times. The resemblance is uncanny.

Find probable-transvestite, definite child-terrorizer Grace Jones on top. Find now-emasculated Brandon Jennings on the bottom. It turns out Grace Jones used to be a model in the '80s (for PsychoticAmazon Swimwear?) and turned millions of men into asexual mopes for at least a decade. They aren't as close in resemblance as Clay Aiken and his not-flamboyantly-gay-but-on-crack twin Thom Yorke, but it still got my motor running.

After that I found a wonderful site called "That High," which is a passable younger brother of FML and Texts from Last Night. I laughed and for about half an hour.

If there's one way for Canada to start the reparations process for destroying my budding love of hockey, it's crude sexual humor and beer. Thank you for taking the first step, Canada. Thank you for this. And, of course, there is no use mentioning potty humor without bringing this guy in. Suck on that, Gary Kasparov.

The day certainly ended on a more sour note than it started. The lone consolation was the smattering of weird stuff that I came across while doing my daily sweep of the global news circuits this morning. Here, for your edification, are the crème de la crème:

The lightning round of weird shit I read in the news everyday:

- IHOP is now making cheesecake-filled pancakes and, reportedly, Kirstie Alley just came in her pants;

- a sting operation in Bali this week successfully arrested 28 beachside, female tourist-hunting gigolos; one of Indonesia's ministers called it a "victory for humanity;"

- Japan wants to send a humanoid bipedal robot to the Moon by 2015, the design looks like a bad guy from Power Rangers, and there's already a spin-off TV show for kids;

- so many Indonesians have gotten penis enlargements lately, the Indonesian police force bans applicants who have turgid penises because they cause "hinderance during training" -- the best part: the procedure involves wrapping one's junk in itchy, semi-poisonous leaves so the allergic reaction makes the penis expand for days at a time;

- the police chief in Tehran is threatening to arrest and imprison women who are caught tanning in the capital city;

- whatever the fuck this is;

- I bought my plane ticket to Paris the day before Eyjafjallajökull started venting. I'm flying Iceland Air and have a several-hour layover in Reykjavik. Norse legend says that the only way to appease the disgruntled giant is to throw Justin Biebier into the volcano's molten mouth. 'Tis a shame to see him go so soon;

- a researcher from North Carolina State (Go Gamecocks!) recently developed a computer chip that can hold libraries' worth of information because of the use of superdupertiny nanodot technology. Just think of how much porn the SEC board of directors could've saved;

- Gary Null, a self-help nutritional quack, nearly died of kidney failure after eating the daily recommended amount of "Gary Null's Ultimate Power Meal" for an extended time;

- M.I.A. released an extremely provocative music video centered on ethnic cleansing... of gingers. The statement/video is getting a lot of publicity in D.C. from the FCC and human rights advocates who think the artist is flying way off the handle. Don't expect to see this on TRL anytime soon. It's pretty grotesque, so don't let the kiddies watch the video;

- a holy man in India claims to not have had anything to eat or drink (a perpetual fast, essentially) for 70 years. You can see the story here. I'm not really sure how to comment.

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music: Lake Washington High School's finest. (Go Kangs! Put 'em in your pouch!)

Fleet Foxes - A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

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Kickass internet video:

Makin' Music with John Mayer from John Mayer

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Two Weeks

2010-04-24T16:04:00.000-07:00

I'm in a weird place right now. Reclined on a couch, looking out to a nightscape jaded by an adjacent office building's lights, my body is as comfortable as clams. I have a glass of chocolate milk on my right and I've been macking on some strawberries and cookie dough ice cream for the past hour; à la Kevin McCallister. The underside of my foot itches a little bit, but I'm not flexible enough to scratch it. I'll just let it run its course. You win this battle, inexplicably itchy callous.

No, I am in a weird place because of some internal struggles. At the time of this writing, I am coming home to Seattle two weeks from yesterday. I've gotten to thinking every so often about what I'm doing here in Washington, D.C. -- judging if the work and the time away is worth the benefits down the road. All signs point to yes in this regard, at least I hope so. But this notion incites some other thoughts.

I sat in on a neuroscience presentation down the hall from my office a couple days ago. The brain doc from the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota said that a young man's brain will keep developing until he gets to be 30 or so, and that men do not think maturely until their early 20s. (Girls are sooner in both respects.) Our prefrontal cortexes -- which control our recognition, decision making, and forethought -- do not start fully kicking in until about the age of 20, well after we start downing tequila in earnest. This means that we make lifestyle decisions without our decision-making capabilities up to speed. (TKEs never stood a chance!) Now consider our education systems. Think of job markets. Think of that shitty tattoo you got. Since our world has become more competitive and pressured, the ramifications of decisions we make as early as middle school come with grave importance. The mighty oak is a product of the tiny acorn. I apologize for revealing my inner nerd, but this is striking.

I think that my time in D.C. came in concert with my brain finally maturing. This has its ups and downs. I can look back to high school and pick out the parts that I should have done better. My grades certainly could have been higher, I thought it was cool not to care. I certainly should not have streaked that soccer game (just ask Dootson) and given so much time up for school assemblies and one-time gags. I don't want to think about the warpath I could've done in high school with my present-day self. I'd overachieve like a mofo. Right now, I feel vindictive for not trying harder. It's like my brain has Sam Jackson's greasy afro and it keeps shouting "Describe what temporal lobe looks like. Does he look like a bitch?!"

Another contentious point rumbling around my head is how exactly I'll use the work experience here to my advantage down the road. I chatted up a bigwig from a D.C. think tank the other day, and after talking shop for a while it looks like I might get another internship. I was elated with the development and surprised at how easily the opportunity came, but then I found out that the think tank is ultra-conservative; like Palin/Beck after reading a textbook, for once. From the looks of it, they have a niche in D.C. circles because of their outspoken extreme political views. It's like someone peed in my pool on a hot summer day.

What is most vital, though, and the reason for this blog entry, is that I will be home in two weeks. The closer I get to the Emerald, the more I miss it. This puts me in the position of trying to figure out how much ruckus to bring as soon as my plane touches down. So far, I only know a few things: that I am driving straight to Ezell's and then Dairy Queen for chicken and a blizzard with my dad; that I am going to hug my mom every day and then have her make me food; that I will convince my parents and maybe a few friends that I picked up a crack smoking habit; and that Greek Week will coincide beautifully with my Seattle reunion. The halls of Fiji -- nay, the world! -- will tremble from my shenanigans. Is it wrong to say that you should expect me with my feet in a kiddie pool and my keister in a lawn chair from the hours of 10:30 to 3:30 every day? Can you put a price on Chef Dave's chicken fingers? Should I be sorry for partying? I think we all know the answers.

With that segue-less bit out of the way, it is high-time for me to sign off. I might not blog again until I'm back home, barring any great stories from my last two weeks in D.C. that deserve mention. So until then, let's wish good luck to the Washington Capitals (my new boyfriends), let's hope that Matt Stone and Trey Parker stay safe and keep the funny going, and let's pray that the Lakers-Thunder series ends in a tie and both teams go home crying.

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass internet video:

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Kickass internet video (oh crap, two?! Fuck yes.): For those of you hoping to watch Nick Cage's "The Wicker Man" sometime, go stare into a microwave. Worst movie ever. I dare you to do 25 push-ups every time Cage beats up an unsuspecting woman.

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Kickass/symbolic music: "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear (fan video), off of their Veckitamest album

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Beantown

2010-04-20T11:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 9:35 for an 8:30 bus to Boston on Sunday morning. Elena Feldman (lovingly known as the MexiJew 'round these parts) was expecting to host me for the Marathon weekend and I was worried that I would lose the opportunity to make it up there. I ran around the apartment, swearing loudly and packing a backpack with whatever was around me. I grabbed three shirts--two of them dirty--two pairs of shorts, a belt, and my toothbrush. I paced nervously in front of my computer for a few minutes as my purchase of another set of tickets tried to find the server. The last bus for New York left the lot at 10:30, and I was out of the door at 10:05. Bad odds for me.

I must've said some bad things in my sleep, because my karmic luck was shitty on Sunday. The guy sitting across from me on the train into the city was a street preacher/cult member (Yeah, we have those here, too) and the ache from last night's Edward 40-hands adventures were getting worse. "You are a sinner and an abomination!" he said, pointing up and down the rows of weary listeners. "You're all mistakes in the vengeful eyes of the Good Lord!" I tried to make the pun: "We might be mistakes, but you're the faux-padre" but he interrupted. The stop-and-go wobbles and the sermon made me feel sick. Fuck you, Father.

When we got to Farragut West station, the driver announced that we would have to wait for trains to pass through because of scheduled maintenance on our side of the tracks. It was 10:21 and I was staring at a ten minute wait on the train. I got out and ran.

I realize that you probably don't have a good sense of D.C.'s geography (can't blame ya, I still don't), but suffice it to say that I had to run from 18th-and-L to 10th-and-H in seven minutes in order to make my bus up to Boston. That's something like thirteen blocks when you factors in the criss-crosses. I sprinted up to the driver's window as he started to pull away from the bus depot. Dry-heaving and sweaty, I grabbed a seat.

I didn't get into Elena's apartment until about 11:45 that night. My ass and lower back was sore from the long ride, I was hungry and cantankerous from the day on the road, but I was happy to see a familiar face. We caught up for a little while and then turned down for the night. My feet were cold but I slept like a newborn.

Almost as soon as I had woken up, cheers of "Happy holiday" rang through the window. On the day of the Boston Marathon, Boston University (among other schools) gets the day off and everyone pours out into the streets to watch and cheer on the runners. Consider the prevalence of college students in Boston and you have yourself a veritable drinker's holiday. Observers celebrated in earnest.

Elena and I walked over to Tess's apartment by 10:40 a.m., loving the weather and anticipating mimosas. We talked about life and I made some fart jokes along the way--just like old times. Tess greeted us at the door with a big smile. I met some of the other pals: one girl from New York planted a welcoming kiss on my cheek without me expecting it, so I accidentally head-butted her slightly; Julie and Jacob, the couple du jour, who got blasted on neat little slizzes; and Shannon, a Southern Cal transplant who has Drew Barrymore's looks and J.Lo's tush. I thought about making a pass at her but got too shy... alas! Our group went to the course just as the main group was rushing through towards the finish.

There is something exhilarating and primal about screaming at people who are 24.8 miles into a footrace. They probably can't discern words more complicated than "Go!" or "Good job!" so most people stick to those. I dug deeper for motivation. Some runners drew their names on their shirts or bodies--fishing for compliments and, in my case, gentle jeers--and they were my targets. "Look out! Wolves!" I would shout at Peg or Tom. "They close the course at 3:15, Jenna!" for someone taking a break to talk or stretch. And my personal favorite: "Work that ass, Jermaine!" I like to think I'm just a PR machine. They'll thank me, one day.

After the race, Elena and I resolved to get some dinner after a quick snooze at Shannon's apartment. There was a pho place nearby and I was in the mood for soup. I loaded up my bowl with Sriracha and enjoyed every bit. My intestinal tract, however, suffered mightily. When we got back to Elena's apartment, I pulled a Liam Neeson and released the Kraken. I will say no more on the subject.

Leaving Boston was surprisingly difficult, both emotionally and transportationally. I got lost after saying goodbye to Elena and had to resort to an $11 cab ride to the bus station. Getting lost was certainly on my list of things to do, but it reminded me that I left a lot of goals on the table: I didn't pee on Fenway while yelling "Mariners rule!"; I didn't find an Irish guy named O'Meara; I didn't get a random girl's number (...alas!); and, most importantly, I didn't throw nearly enough lines from "The Departed" into regular conversations in order to awkwardly end said conversations. Next time: done and done.

I'm sitting on a bus somewhere in southern Connecticut right now. The guy behind me is about 5'3" and has a voice just like the lead guy in Jurassic 5. I want to ask if he is a rapper but I don't want to get punched in the face. Though Boston was a wonderful trip (thanks again, Feldie), the buses drive me insane. I'm almost three hours into the ride with five hours to go until I'm back in Ballston. Finding some form of entertainment on this godforsaken jalopy is a desperate game. I'm excited to try to hold my breath through Rhode Island. Pray for me.

Until next time, and as always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass internet video (recommended by Zach): MTV First Date with Wiz Khalifa and Curren$y. The host looks like the lost Feldman sister.

Kickass time-wasting online game: Taberinos. Simple game, way too addicting, made solely to distract a tired brain. Love it.

The People

2010-04-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

It's often remarked that Easterners come from a different cut of fabric than us folks on the Left Coast. And, well, there is good reason. The average Joe Schmo over here in the East is distinguishably different than Santa Fe Sam on the West side. There are a lot of wonderful people over here in D.C.--don't get me wrong--but at least once a day you run into a frontrunner for World's Biggest Assclown. Picture Principal Rooney from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," and then give him a government job. Picture Emperor Commodus in "Gladiator" and then put him on a rush-hour train that gets stuck in between stops for ten minutes. Picture the meanest, surliest, bruise-your-knuckles-with-a-ruler Irish schoolmistress and then have her wait in traffic behind Ambassador Nobody's motorcade. They say New York City has some tough personalities. Washington, D.C. has some tough personality disorders.

I live in an area of northern Arlington, Virginia, called Ballston. More specifically, I live within a pitching wedge of the Boston Commons mall, which resembles my vision of Hell (the only thing missing: Clay Bennet's boutique), and a football toss away from the Ballston metro stop. This creates an extremely peculiar mix of people who hang out in the 'hood: the angsty teens and depressed middle-aged workers from the mall side, and the crackheads from the metro side. Enter me in the middle.

Just by sheer numbers, I see some weird stuff every once in a while. You can go ahead and complain about cats on homeless girls' shoulders in Seattle, but we have girls who only think they have cats on their shoulders over here. There's a level of insanity and hoodrat-ness that you breach only after crossing the Mississippi. Whether its crack cocaine, alcohol, cotton candy, or just a Yuppie-lifestyle-on-steroids, something is always behind the oddity. I have a knack for finding them. Without further ado, here are the "Weird enough to deserve explanation, but also weird enough to defy it" All-Stars I've met in D.C.:

"Hey, fuck off, pal!" Guy

This man is the consummate asshole. I wish I could have you close your eyes to picture him, but that certainly makes reading a tough trick. In lieu of sorcery, just pause and reflect every so often to reflect on the douchebaggery.

First of all, his look. I don't mean to sound like a TMZ fashion fanboy, but this guy had a visual stink about him. Every iota of his appearance made him seem uptight: the snarky reading glasses, thinned hair with sweat beading under every strand, a jacket and shirt with short arms, and Secretariatshit-colored corduroys. I was sitting right next to the guy. For those of you who were (or are) "Smart Guy" fans, the asshole looked just like the science teacher who almost burns the school down with an unattended cigarette and blames it on Mo. (Great episode, by the way.)

Anyways, the weather in D.C. has been extremely nice at times. Snowmageddon gave way to a very enjoyable spring, and the park outside my apartment building usually fills up to its capacity during the workdays with business people on their lunch breaks. This one such day, I was eating a sandwich and reading the paper on a bench. A little ways off, in the circular sward of grass at the center of the park, a yappy dog was playing with a little girl. The dog jumped and circled the girl, and she bumbled around chasing it. Looked fun to me--really makes you wonder why it's socially unacceptable for a young man in business clothes to tell a three year old to shove off because it's his turn to play with the puppy--but I stayed on my bench. The owner and the mother talked to each other, passing occasional glances to make sure Fluffy hadn't morphed into Cujo.

The dog was pretty noisy, easily the loudest contributor to the din, but everyone seemed to be enjoying the milieu. As the girl raced in lopsided figure-eights like a drunk Formula 1 driver, the dog barked and barked. The asshole just couldn't take any more. [Editor's note: that may or may not be the subtitle of a porno.]

"Will you PLEASE shut that dog up?!" the man screamed at the two women. Conversation in the park stopped. The dog's high pitched growls and a faint rustling of alder leaves made the only noises. I wished I could've released some crickets right then.

"Really, put that dog on a leash or keep it quiet! Gah-lee!" yelled the asshole, reiterating his main point: that he is, not to be misunderstood, an asshole.

A guy on the other side of the circle yelled back, "Take it easy, man. It's a park!"

The asshole was indignant. "No, I'm trying to enjoy the park but I can't relax with all the barking. Please!"

A man in camouflage, not the kind that punks wore freshman year of high school, but legit Army gear, calmly chimed in. "No need to raise your voice."

Just as I was starting to enjoy the social contract negotiations, the last stop was pulled. Here it came... I hope you're on the edge of your seat... feel free to lightly pat a drum roll on your thighs...

"Hey, fuck off, pal!" said the asshole. I do not know this man or where he comes from, but very few people have a high enough rank in society to call out a decorated Army soldier. This guy had gray hair and a Lego set over his heart. Sure sign of a soldier who isn't told to fuck off all too often.

To make a long story short, the asshole was literally booed by people as he packed up his sandwich and left. I think the dog and the guy who steals bread from the pigeons even got in on the chiding. Justice was served: the asshole left the park in ignominy, and I got to play with the puppy before my boss noticed that I was peeing for 45 minutes.

The Mean Pimp

Every once in a while, when I leave work to grab some lunch or head home for the day, I see this mean pimp daddy smoking a clove cigarette. He stands near the top of the escalator at the mouth of the metro station. That area is where a lot of odd folks spend their time, a veritable oasis for goons in the desert of Yuppie that is Ballston proper. The last time I saw the pimp, he wore an ermine coat, a crisp white suit, crimson shirt with a matching fedora and tie, and more jewelry than Mr. T and Ben Bridge's bastard lovechild. He sports a thick, straight-trimmed handlebar mustache and a nasty smirk that screams second-degree murder charges. He hides his sanguinary stare behind Elvis glasses--probably a good thing, since Medusa doesn't need the competition. This guy is suave and savage: two parts Huggy Bear and five parts grizzly bear.

I crossed his path one time as we both walked towards my building. "Sorry, man," I said, and motioned for him to go ahead. Before I could stop myself, I cracked a wry smile and said, "Age before beauty, right?" He finished the drag on his cigarette and gave a Hmmph that no words could ever do justice. "You go on ahead," he growled, meanwhile tapping his cigarette over his cadillac pinky ring. He had a voice like Barry White's, if Barry only drank woodchip milkshakes and codeine syrup for six years. His throat must have been made of tar-soaked velvet; I think his vocal cords have an afro.

I haven't seen the Ballston Daddy in several weeks, since my last awkward encounter. I hope I did not scare him off. It's men like him that keeps a kick in my step and a girl on every corner.

What a gem. What a gent.

Ethiopian Drinking Attendant with a Parking Problem

My little dive bar, Fox & Hounds, is somewhat of a haven for the weirdos. The barstool commentary in this joint is thusly top-notch. I've gotten a quick shoulder massage from an old woman, Paula, who goes to the bar once her husband falls asleep around 8:30. I've sung a duet of "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter with a woman named Susan, who dressed (and drank) à la Crocodile Dundee and sang Cash's part beautifully. I even stood on a chair one crowded night and slapped a Franzia bag after UW lost to WVU in the NCAA Tourney. Fox & Hounds has brought some great times, but few experiences top my smoke break with an inebriated Ethiopian angel.

(I should mention, referring to the "smoke break," that I bought a curved, wooden tobacco pipe about a month ago. I saw the opportunity to be pretentious and I went for it. This night just so happened to be my first night out with the pipe.)

"Hey, buddy," said the guy. I noticed him at first because he was wearing a faded blue jumpsuit. "Do you have a light?" Unfortunately, I did not. I was just about to ask him the same thing. Without missing a beat or giving me a second thought, this guy turned on his heel and asked the woman standing next to me the same thing with the exact same inflection. "Hey, lady. Do you have a light?" He had a high pitched voice but it had a distinct gruff to it, kind of like a dirty Sesame Street character. The woman ignored him. A guy from the adjacent bar was braving the slight chill in a snazzy off-white dress shirt to hit on a couple girls splitting a cigarette. He tossed the guy in the blue jumpsuit a lighter.

"Hey, buddy. Thanks!" he said before handing the lighter to me. He stared dumbly over my shoulder with a slight tilt in his brow and a cockeyed smile. "You, you like an old man with that!" the man in the jumpsuit said with a laugh. I shrugged his compliment off and asked for his name. It must've been twelve syllables long and I was a little bit drunk so I didn't even try; figured he was okay with the "buddy" moniker. We got to talking.

It turns out buddy works as a parking attendant in nearby Dupont Circle. He is from Ethiopia originally, coming to America as a political refugee twelve or thirteen years earlier when the civil war rent his family apart and forced him to run. He learned English by getting drunk with people and hearing them spill their deepest and darkest.

Buddy hates his job and hates being in America. Since he is still essentially a political refugee, he always has to oblige to the U.S. government's becks and calls. He can't go home, not unless he proves that the United States is no good for him anymore. And so this is why, and I hope I'm getting his story right, Buddy is doing everything he can to get fired the right way. In fact, when we shared a conversation and a few libations, he was on duty at the parking garage. He said that he came here all the time when he was supposed to tend the keys on the graveyard shift. "Who wants their car late? You? Do you want keys?" he complained. The worst part was, he had been trying to get fired for a week but the company hadn't noticed that he wasn't working his shift. He said that he would pay me money if I went to his boss and complained. I couldn't believe my luck. I was shooting the shit with the African George Costanza.

We went back inside and I bought buddy a beer. "I have no kids!" he said, not cheerfully or disdainfully, but as if he had picked that sentence up earlier that day; the way a three year old sings the ABCs just to cement it in his head. I took it as a thank you.

Soon after downing the glass with only two shorts breaths in between glugs, Buddy went back outside for another cigarette. I think he was looking for those girls next door. "Hey, lady!"

Train Woman

I sometimes wish I could dive into other people's heads and swim around for a while. I can usually take one look at someone, or hear them talk for a moment, and take stabs as to where they've been and where they're going in life. The lanky fifteen year-old white kid in the too-big Antwan Jamison jersey and jorts: computer game fanatic who spent last summer shooting free throws and doing push-ups at the Rec Center. Girl wearing heels, gobs of make-up, tight jeans and a shirt with serrations on the sides riding the subway at 7:45 p.m.: daddy's girl who didn't like school so now she is working retail in northern Virginia and waiting for Mr. Will-Do-For-Now-(or-better-offer). But sometimes I meet someone who obviously has a story to tell and I ache to know what exactly is going on inside their heads.

Case in point: deranged, despondent woman on the train who was decked out in Tea Party gear. I know, I know... 93% of Tea Partiers fit that description (and, often, they manage to compensate missing teeth with superfluous cut-off Ts). But this woman was different.

Her black skin was wrinkled in the hands and face, but she couldn't have been older than 45. She stared at things for moments, but obviously wasn't reading them--her eyes never focused on anything in particular, they just gazed. Her "End the Obama Tyranny" hat was cocked to the side, partially covering a messy bun. She held a D.C. visitor's pamphlet tightly against her stomach. Her shirt said "Don't Eat Government Cheese/Drink Tea." I think she might've been the Masta Blasta's spouse.

I was seated across from this African-American woman for about six stops on the metro. On my right was an attractive, young professional woman. She had bleached hair, falsely tanned skin, and a neat business suit. As is the D.C. fashion, she kept her nice work shoes in her bag and wore cherry red Chuck Taylor's on the commute. I slipped her an answer to a crossword puzzle with which she was struggling; she smiled but didn't look up. The druggy woman stared at us like we were Ku Klux Ken and Barbie--like she hated white people more than all the Fugees combined. At the next stop, she was still staring at me. Her mouth would go agape for a moment and then close again, either like an eel or a person who wants to speak but can't find words.

To break the tension, I said, "Down with the government, right?" She didn't answer. Of course she didn't answer. The young woman to my right gave me a puzzled look like I had done something wrong. I hate that face. It's the same one people make when you lock the windows of the car and fart. The African-American woman across the way coughed to break the silence.

When she finally spoke, it was like everyone in the train waited on the words. A reverent, curious silence fell upon all the passengers. "God knows to save the wicked and turnabrickyougarbagemanhardspew!" It was like she was regurgitating a melange of all her thoughts from the last five minutes. Which, interestingly enough, was followed by her spitting up on herself. The young woman put her paper down abruptly and found another seat. I darted a look back at the druggy woman, tacitly scolding her for the cock block. She smiled for the first time. She was funny that way.

When we got to my stop, the woman hoisted herself up to stand just as I craned my neck to make sure we were at McPherson Square. An awkward glance connected our eyes. She looked like she was mad that she'd have to deal with me as we walked out of the station. I must've looked surprised that she'd recognized the stop before I did. I smiled and helped lift her bag to her shoulder. Emblazoned on the side was, "Obama is a fascist!" and the all-to-familiar LaRouche insignia.

Those damn crazies, I thought.

And as always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music (recommended by me): "The Expendables" trailer. For a quick way to die, take a shot of liquor every time you see someone on screen who's taken steroids at some point in their life, and take two shots of liquor every time you notice Stallone's rhinoplasty work.

if video does not load, click this!

Kickass music (recommended by me): "Blessed Breeze" by Fruit Bats, off the The Ruminant Band album

if video does not load, click this!

What I Do When Not Facebooking

2010-04-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

The first person I met on the first day of work was a timid, one-thumbed Norwegian. (Of course, I didn't know he was Norwegian at first. And the missing digit came as a surprise, too.) We sat next to each other outside my boss's office for a few minutes. I had tied my tie too tight but didn't want to subject myself to the embarrassment of re-tying it three minutes into the job. I tried to lean back and act relaxed. My chair squeaked gratuitously, and I couldn't help but try to rock the tune from "Beverly Hills Cop." He stared straight ahead. I asked if he starches his shirt collars but he didn't answer.

"I'm John," I said. "Teh-Terje," he replied, choking a bit, as if taken by surprise that he would have to speak. We sat like two dumb crows on a telephone wire. He counted ceiling tiles, and I twiddled my thumbs; sorry for bragging, I thought.

My boss emerged from behind a pale blue door smiling jubilantly and fixing his tie. I was taken aback by his appearance, really. Google told me he was a leading counterterrorism expert, and I expected to find a grizzled motherfucker with facial scars and a sawed-off sidearm. He is not, as I had hoped, the Bear Jew incarnate--in fact, put a red cone on his head and he looks exactly like the Travelocity gnome...or... If this terrorism schtick doesn't work out for him, he could always work as a Macy's Santa...or... Yonah looks like the unholy lovechild of Sean Conneryand Sneezy... I hope I've made my point.

Yonah invited us into the conference room and we waited for the others, chatting idly in the meantime. Terje's Norwegian compatriot, Karina, came through the door and sat down without saying a word. The awkwardness in the room was palpable. I tried to loosen everyone up by talking about the upcoming Winter Olympics. I could tell right away that I would probably say something that made me look like an asshole with this group--bullshitter in a china shop.

Vincent was the next one to come into the office. He is the oldest in the group, originally from Quebec City but graduating from U. Calgary next year. In an attempt to get some camaraderie going, I said, "Hey, Vinsanity, grab a chair... water's warm!" (**That's 0:22 on the asshole timer, for those keeping score at home.) He stared at me for an extended moment, and said, "Just call me Vincent. That's my name." Vincent immediately presented himself as a nose-to-the-grindstone guy, the type that wakes up early to do 65 push-ups before breakfast. We talked for a minute about hockey and the Habs' chances this year. Yonah wondered aloud why I was the only one in the predominantly international group who plays soccer, and Vincent replied that it was because I was allergic to snow. Though Vincent is straight-laced and serious to a fault, I like the guy. He throws what he knows.

Minh and Brian walked in together, joking about something. They're my nemeses. I don't want to seem shitty, especially over the internet, so I'll leave it at this: Minh spends a solid 84% of the work day avoiding work and Brian justifies every "Fuckin' Brian" joke Dane Cook has ever made. They make me look like the Little Engine That Could and they make Vincent look like Jesus Christ.

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For what it's worth, the work is wonderful. The first few weeks of assignments were to wrap up 2009 in a heaping pile of terrorist events, names, places and dates. I combed through 35-40 global newspapers every day and tried to stave off data-induced comas. Basically, I read everything there is to read about people who like to blow other people up. Careening from terrorist blurb to terrorist blurb was not the most exciting (nor uplifting) activity, but I've learned a lot about the world because of it. You don't truly know a people or a country until you see them at their best and their worst, and terrorism analysis usually takes care of the "worst" criterion. On the other side, I've learned a lot more about people's terror-related motivations around the world. It can be depressing as Hell and it usually tarnishes my cozy naivety, but it's all there for my intake and edification. The world's bustling.

Right now, I'm finishing a paper on Indonesia's nuclear security capabilities to be published eventually. I've tried to get the Indonesian Embassy to help me out with some info, but that is like herding cats. Ricky did give me a wonderful noodle recipe, though. (Thanks, mang.) My boss has also asked me to transcribe a series of speeches and seminars that we arranged last month. If you only read one sentence of this blog, make sure it's this one:

Never agree to transcribe anything--DON'T YOU EVER FREAKING TRANSCRIBE!

I am 4/7 of the way through an hour and forty-five minute speech, which consists of about 35,000 words and 18 migraines. The worst part is, Fucking Brian (you win this one, Dane) was doing his best DJ Skribble on the mike of the recorder and so every other word has to be interpreted and cross-checked like it was read off the Dead Sea Scrolls. The transcription business just throws a battle axe into my day.

I'd get a corollary if it weren't for GlöodyBall. Tucked into the corner of our floor is the office of a man we only know as Mr. Glöodensacht. (That's not his actual name, but it is something German and, well, it works.) He has an impish face, with a long slender nose and large alert eyes. The scraggly ponytail and thin mustache give him a villainous flair. He has the sort of look that would scare the crap out of Macauly Kulkin. After some rudimentary investigation, we've figured out that no one in the office really knows what Glöody does for a living. He just pays bills on time and keeps to himself. But, and this is the most important bit, Glöody seems to have the coolest door in the D.C. metro area. Because of this, and because there is only so much soul that transcribing can suck away each day, I play GlöodyBall.

For whatever reason, Glöodensacht has a very intricate, peculiar knocking system on his office door. It is the intermediate species between a cuckoo clock and a Fisher-Price "The Cow Says -- Moo!" kids toy in appearance and affect. If you press a wooden lever, some brass hydraulics move and a few pipes play a pleasant ditty. If you pull a brass cord, the whole contraption rotates a few degrees and snaps back into position to strike a bell. I aim for a little area just above the wooden lever. If that lever/switch is disturbed, a ball drops onto a scale which acts as a counterweight for a little hammer. A heavy knock and two lesser taps result.

The rules of GlöodyBall are simple: (1) leave a sweet letter outside Glöody's door when he's not looking, something like "We wuv you soooo much!"; (2) crumple up whatever spare paper you have around; (3) huck said paper wad at Glöody's door without leaving your chair in the intern area--a distance of about 20 feet. Whoever gets the hammer to knock first is the winner. It's a simple game, but we love it. The anticipation of making this bloke come to the door to get an anonymous love letter is intoxicating. The best part is, we can play five or six rounds a day and he never misses a knock on his door. He does not know what's going on, but it always brightens his day. Glöody is essentially our Pavlov dog. I think I'm in love with him.

(And, yes, I have indeed lost my mind over here. I blame transcription.)

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music (recommended by Cassie, sorta): "Excuses" by The Morning Benders

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Kickass internet video (recommended by me):

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New York States of Mind

2010-04-06T20:35:00.001-07:00

The first thing I noticed when I stirred awake was that both my arms were completely numb. The five-hour bus trip from D.C. to New York must have gotten the better of me: I didn't remember falling asleep lounged across the two psychedelic-print seats with my head and arms draped into the aisle. "On the left, you'll see New Jersey's biggest organic farm," the driver mumbled through the intercom. Cheers.

I was nursing a bitch of a hangover and utterly unhappy to be on a bus right then. It was the day after the Huskies-West Virginia game (also referred to as "The Day Venoy and Quincy Took a 40-minute Shit on our Dreams") and not enough hours had passed since my barmates sympathized with rail drinks. This was a King Kong hangover. Regret for sitting on the upper deck came on swift wings. 'I felt bad' doesn't do it justice--I felt like Zach had irradiated me in my sleep. The incessant rocking and squeaking on the upper deck was taken straight from Dante.

I tried to put my computer into my backpack with two lame hands. A girl with a lisp a few feet away laughed. I muttered something about scissors and sassafras, or maybe sweet sixteens and sisterhoods. She said that I was talking loudly in my sleep, something about Salinger. I sniffed loudly and called her a phony; she didn't get the joke. I tried to go back to sleep with my head against the window. The rain played a lilting percussion. Cathy came back to sit next to me, complaining that some bitch a few rows back wouldn't be quiet and let her sleep. Some people just don't know how to take a complement.

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The first thing I noticed in Central Park were two large brass acorns, one stacked on top of the other, surrounded by detritus and adorned in daisy chains. The weed brownie had just kicked in (sorry, mom) and so I paused in silent reverence for what I could only assume was the highest shrine of New York's metropolitan squirrels. I pondered aloud if squirrels were smarter than humans for believing in a simple god, but the group had already wandered off. They wouldn't have understood, anyways.

One should expect to see anything in Central Park on a sunny March afternoon; especially while tripping balls. But even the most clairvoyant soothsayer would have crapped his robes if he saw the crackhead roller disco. I feel like this story should be written on sheep's hide and canonized, but this blog will have to make do. So, if you haven't already, please take a seat and enjoy the next few paragraphs.

(Editor's note: The Old Monkey's Nest has received feedback that the story of the crackhead roller disco may cause fainting spells and incontinence. Please be advised and take caution.)

We had crested the large hill by the North Meadow, Phil, Greg, Cathy and I, when I heard some faint music on a northward wind. I had been hoping to see a genuine NYC busker all day, and I implored the group to follow the music's source. As we walked, and as Phil remarked, "I'm high, guys" for the eighty-third time, the music became more clear. "Night Fever" by the Bee Gees blared over hill and dale. I smiled.

From a shorter distance, it looked like a synagogue was getting its yard stomped. Eight or nine Black men boogied around a gaggle of older Jewish women all dressed in walking suits. In the middle sat a cluster of three bearded men in army issued trench coats, tending a ghetto blaster boom box. To my left were some younger guys, watching everything. Several ragged-looking men wore roller skates but looked clumsy. One of the men, who bore a striking resemblance to Saddam just after he came out of the spider hole, was holding a Steel Reserve magnum can. He was swearing loudly, though almost incoherently, at a white man in his forties wearing a cheap suit. "I'm just trying to have a good time and buy, what is this guy's deal?" the man said in a Russian-tinged accent. He feebly offered a cigarette and walked away, shaking his head. I found it curious, just for a fleeting second, that every one of the black men already had a cigarette. I heard a siren in the distance.

It was precisely at this moment that I realized that the roller disco was a front for drug deals. The younger men to my left, with the tell-tale shifty eyes, obviously had something to gain there. They barked at the Steel Reserve guy and made him sit off to the side. Every once in a while, one of the dancers would ask the older Jewish women--still jubilantly shaking arthritic hips and elbows--for a few dollars. "Gotta pay for batteries for the music!" they'd implore. I had to hand it to them... creativity is a lost art.

As I turned to leave, two NYPD SUVs pulled up with blues on and a dull siren whirring. The Bee Gees stopped bleating; my smile went with them. Two of the roller skaters took off along the footpath. You could almost hear them saying, "Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-shit" with every stride. Steel Reserve rolled awkwardly over to the cops, palms up, pleading with a harangued smile for them to leave. They talked to him for a minute before patting him down and throwing out his drink. "I made that lemonade!" he said.

I looked back to see Phil and Greg, the fear of God nested behind their pupils, as they motioned for me to leave. "Shit is about to pop off!" Greg whisper-yelled. (If you've ever seen "24," you know exactly what that sounds like.) But just as soon, the cops got in their trucks and drove off. I was still standing on the fringe of the crackhead roller disco when the two runners sauntered back, stumbling every other step. The music went back on, the old women strained to kick up their heels, and all was right with that microcosm.

"Wow," Greg said as we walked towards Strawberry Fields. "I haven't heard that song in forever."

Oh, brownies, you dogs.

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If there's one bright spot about New York, it's that you can always find someone drunk enough to pee on something you don't like. When we left sushi and saw a guy fumbling for his zipper, the opportunity became all-too clear.

On 1st and 10th, tucked neatly behind two other stores as if it belonged in Diagon Alley, lies Aisha Sushi Bar. This, my friends, is a wonderful place. You can eat and drink as much as you desire for $22.50. The catch (ahh, the catch) is that you may not leave a single piece of food or drink on the table, and you may not go over the two-hour time limit. These things, I did not know.

I blasted through dragon rolls, shashimi, unagi, spicy tuna, shrimp, carp dick, dolphin roast, you-name-it. I never thought I could take on so much food. What I didn't like, I simply left on the plate. All-you-can-eats were made to test the limits, right? The same went for the sake. Since the basketball tournament was going, we decided to stick around and root against Duke. When that game was over, we cheered for Tennessee and sake bombed for every made three-pointer.

The waitress must've been a practiced zen master to be able to hand us the bill without laughing in our faces. Leave half of your California roll? Make me wait on you for twelve extra minutes? Fuck you and your honor! she might as well have said. There was an ominous glint in her eyes when she handed Jason the leather bill folder. I've never heard someone swear louder in a restaurant. He made this guy look like Mother Goose. Flash forward three minutes and I'm figuring out how to tip the Asian Ice Queen for a $65 sushi night. (Note: I tipped her plenty, but I'll be damned if I didn't lace that bill with dicktures.) We were charged full price for every unfinished food and drink item, overbilled for time, and probably had a burn notice placed on us by the Triads. And so concluded the most expensive meal I've ever paid for. Luckily, a homeless man was eager to relieve himself in a phone booth just as we exited the sushi joint. One quick about-face and vengeance was ours.

Consider it urine well deserved, Aisha.

That's all I got for this installment. Give your retinas a break.

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music (recommended by me): "Valencia" by Josh Rouse, off the El Tourista album

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Kickass internet video (recommended by Amy Van):

Scarface School Play - watch more funny videos

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The Ferst Impression

2010-04-04T21:45:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, this is not the first blog I've made. My first dabblings occurred about this time last year. The foray began not necessarily out of want or curiosity, but rather because my teacher demanded it. I lived and studied in Berlin for a month last summer with a UW Honors Program group. The assignments were to blog--or when we didn't blog, we danced and talked about life. In the month in Germany, I earned 15 credits and a wealth of beneficial relationships. I even have an open invitation to go back and live for free along the Spree... all for blogging. Go ahead; let that marinate for a second. (If you're curious, you can see the old blog here.)

It was a slow progression to enjoy blogging. The ridiculousness of "I ate toast today; too much jelly"-like blogs were offputting at first. I didn't want to read that. Being so, I crafted my own writing style for my blogged assignments: make things up, speak through the text, go 600 words without touching the backspace. It was fun over there; the marriage of Joyce and jazz en papier. Since Berlin, and my month of broadcasting every passing thought, I have missed the blog experience--the rapturous way that musings and words flowed without impediment from imagination to fingertips. I've written for fun in the past, but those poems and short stories were scribbled onto white boards or napkins. I like the intimacy of a fleeting thought. But as a more mature thinker and a more outspoken individual, I figure it's due time to give my works some permanence. They deserve nothing less, dammit.

I am currently living in Washington, D.C., and have yet to tell most of my friends and family about my shenanigans here. Next month, I will jet off to Paris for two months and then spend a month in Amsterdam directly after that. This blog is a vehicle for my reactions and reflections while I can't be with all of you. I look forward to filling you in on my experiences as they happen, but also to share some short stories and pieces that aren't so cut-and-dried. In my typical loosey goosey fashion, I want this blog to be as fun and interactive as possible. If you want to hear about something specific, let me know. If you have a great new artist/musician or a YouTube video you want me to broadcast, send it on over. Think of this blog as a part of me in absentia--these words might as well be coming out of my mouth and this text might as well be my body. (Like Stephen Hawking, but without the spectacles.)

As always, be brilliant,

John

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Kickass music (recommended by me): "Ocean" by John Butler

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Kickass internet video (recommended by me): "Work it Out" by RJD2

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Things to do: watch HBO's "The Wire" and hug your mom