Amsterdam a.k.a.- don't let Grandma read this

Hey guys,





sorry it's been so long since I last wrote. This one's going to be quick too b/c I'm on the clock and have 6 minutes before the world explodes (that was for the James Bond fantasy I live over and over in my mind) or until the comp. shuts off. So,





Amsterdam- A gorgeous city with tons of canals and flowers and boats.


Lots of bycicles and people/cars/trams zipping by. The people are very nice. I took a tour of a Windmill in a town an hour outside of the city called Haarlem, with Two Dutch guys who kept on saying, ' Ya ya ya, oo oo oo', to everything our tour guide said, even if it was not very important.



example-

Tour Guide-'Hello, I am going to be your tour guide of the windmill today'

Dutch men- 'ya ya ya, oo oo oo'.

Tour Guide- 'We will be walking all the way to the top'

Dutch men- 'ya ya ya, oo oo oo'.

Tour Guide- 'I will teach you everything you ever wanted to know about windmills'

Dutch men- ' ya ya ya, oo oo oo'.



Back in the day, even during world war 2 they would communicate from village to village using the positioning of the windmill wings to send messages. If the windmill was in the Red Light District, they would send massages. I might be mixing up two different facts, but for some reason, any windmill massage sent to the Red Light District finished with a happy ending. I love stories that end well.



Anyway, I hadn't ever seen two men moan so much over one fairly pretty woman telling them what to do in my life. Oh, wait, that's not true. I forgot about all the time I spent in the Red Light District.



Now, parents, family, and friends- Don't worry. I never have and never will pay for sex. But, my hostel happened to be 'near' the Red Light District', and the Red Light District happened to be on my route to many, well, every place I went in Amsterdam. Unless, of course, I was just going to stroll around the district itself. In those instances, I didn't actually have to walk 'through' the RLD to get to where I was going. Now, don't think I planned on going to Amsterdam to see the RLD. I wasn't really even going to go into it. Really, it was Rodrigo's fault.

Rodrigo, ladies and gents, is quite a character. Rodrigo is a 43 year old Brazilian who took a business/pleasure trip to 'the Dam'. He 's not doing anything really questionable- just smuggling back clothes that he can sell in Rio at 3 times the cost. When I got up to my room in the hostel, Rodrigo was there. Rodrigo, directly upon introducing himself to me says- 'you like girls?' And I say, 'Does Michael Jackson enjoy dancing middle-schoolers dressed up like Sesame Street characters after a casual Sunday afternoon nose job? The analogy got a little lost in the language barrier, but he took my response as a yes. 'Come with me'.

So he takes me for a little walk in the RLD.

Now, the RLD is a safe place. Police walk through all the time, and the girls just stand there behind the doors waiting for you to aproach them to strike up a conversation. They happen to be much more willing to talk than any of the girls I have tried to hit on thus far. Cant really figure out why though. There are sketchy big guys kind of hanging around the corridors though. They get mad when you take pictures of the girls. I don't know why. I'm always like, 'dude, it's a digital, I can e-mail you a copy.' But, apparently, they aren't up on new technology, because they just don't seem to understand no matter how hard I try. Those same men are

People Initiaing Money-Prostitute Sex deals. Or as I have affectionately called them- P.I.M.P.S.



Well, most men just walk by the girls, slowly, looking them up and down. Rodrigo stands, motionless with his shades on, staring straight at the girls, moving his eyebrows up and down until he decides he is ready to go. Or until these so called, pimps decide for him. As he walks through certain areas, he mutters to himself- Good Row. Or Bad, Bad, Girls.

There's not much else to say about Amsterdam except I did fall in love once. I don't know if it was real love, however, because she was backlit in red and I'm not sure if I'd feel the same way under blue, yellow, or no lighting. Anyway, I told her if either I had no morals, or she wasn't a prostitute, we could have lived happily ever after. Then pink bunnies started falling from the sky with pok-a-dotted tuxedos singing Mac The Knife. Really, it's true. Oh, wait. Like I'm going to tell you what really happened in Amsterdam.

That Round Thing in the Bathroom is NOT a Toilet

I just want to say that the title speaks for itself. I am not going in to details, but there was a little misunderstanding. Im assuming you can figure out what it is, but if you cant I will be more than happy to tell you about it one on one. That being said, I am now just a little bit wiser, and consider myself a better person for it.

So, Rome is amazing. Beautiful city with amazing piazzas and ruins. I turned a corner today and accidentally ran into the Coleseum (spelling?). How many times in your life can you say I accidentally ran into the freaking Coliseum (i tried a different spelling this time, just in case it was wrong the first)?

I had the best pizza of my life today. I made the decision that I would allow myself to eat pork, because, when in Rome..., for the first time in about fifteen years. Upon ordering my first pepperoni pizza I was in for a surprise. Apparently, over here, pepperoni means bell pepper. I couldnt even break the Big Guys law when I tried: Think someones trying to send me a hint? Well, I plan on trying again tomorrow, and if it doesnt work out this next time, Im becoming Orthodox. My waiter, however, stole the show.

He sat, as he was not serving myself and the other tabel outside, staring down women, and what amounts to barking at them as they walked by. Mind you it was a sexy bark, and I have no problem saying that, even about another man. I at one point purred at him, but realized that dogs hate cats (and remembered I was straight), so I stopped. My first reaction was- that is dispicable (said with a lisp). My second reaction was- lets see if this works, because I am not opposed to a mid-game strategy change. My third reaction- this is the closest I have ever been to truth in my life. Here is the explanation:

Finding someone to be with is based completely on lies. Women make themselves look like they normally dont look, and men make themselves act like they normally dont act in order to attract the opposite sex. Women lie physically to attract men because men are physical creatures. Men lie verbally to attract women because women are verbal creatures. (Please dont call me a chauvanist, you know its true, and the more you want to talk about it ladies, the more you prove me right).
This lying/period of dishonesty (however you like to rationalize it) is what I like to affectionately call-dating. Once we have lied enough to make the other person believe we are something we are not, we get married. This must be why 50% of marraiges end up in people not being married.

Now, this brilliant man decided to take the other route- he is going to act like the animal that he is, and when Ms. rite (spelling?) comes along, she is going to love him for the barking, chauvanist pig that he is. If he was anymore honest, we would have to make this asshole a saint. Hey, the Vatican is right down the road, and when in Rome...

p.s.- I had to say that at least once.

p.p.s.- If there are multiple errors here, the keyboards in europe are completely screwed up, and I asked for a glass of wine at dinner and they brought me a whole freaking tub of it, so you can figure out the rest. Well, screw it, I will tell you. I wasnt going to drink it all, and was about to send it back, but I figured, When in Rome...

Ciaow,

J-bird.

Howdy,
It's been a while since we've talked last. Lots has happened, but I'll spare you the petty details. The important ones are as follows:

1) When parking, the french know they have made it into their spot once they have hit the car behind or in front of them.

2) My little four year old french cousin talks to fast/ slurs his words too much for me to understand him. He talks to me, and I can't really respond. As a result, he simply assumes I am a large (bearded) baby; hence, he affectionately refers to me as 'le grand bebe'. (I tell him I'm not the baby, he is, and then I tell his mother- all he does is laugh, and it cuts deep down inside) Although we can't communicate, he likes to rub my beard and have me throw him up and down.

3) I met an Italian the other night and since I will be in Rome May 5th, and speak no Italian, he wrote me out a quick cheat sheet of only the most important sayings- Please, thank you, where is the bathroom?, you have beautiful eyes, can I buy you a drink?, is that guy really your boyfriend because you could do much better. Oh, well, I wasn't necessarilly talking about myself, but now that you mention it I think we could love each other forever. How can I tell? Because, when you walked by I saw the next fifty years of my life and it was with you, me, a bottle of wine and a little french guy named Pierre feeding us grapes as we watched sailboats disappear into the Sicilian sunset as we lay naked in our villa that has a swimming pool with little goldfish swimming around wondering how two people could ever love each other so much, and contemplating the complexity of our devotion. And, I think you're really hot, so if you'd just dance with me, that'd be cool, and then you could tell me your name. But if you just want to make one up, I'm fine with that too.

You know, just enough Italian to get my by.

4) I went to Giverny and stood on the bridges, and on the banks of the ponds where the water lillies continue to float, in Monet's masterpieces. Pretty cool.

Talk soon, probably from Rome,

Ciao.

Going to the Chapel (City Hall) Gonna get married...

Howdy folks. Just a little update. It is late so nothing to long. My distant cousin took me to his cousin's wedding outside of Paris on Saturday. It was great. We ate, sang, and danced. Literally all night. The Wedding was at 4 at the City Hall, then we moved it on over to a hotel and partied from 7 pm until around 4am. Well done my extremely distant French cousins, bravo. During dinner my new French friends played 'lets try and get the American wasted'. It didn't completely work, but lets just say I got a lot of anti-oxidants. See mom, I'm being healthy. Then we danced. I think we did the electric slide about 8 times, but seeing as the party lasted forever, I think it averaged to about 1 an hour. Fair warning to those attending the next Bar Mitzvah with me, I am now an electric slide pro and can, I repeat, CAN throw a spin into the transition from lean, lean, lean, to pivot and three steps to the side. They took the microphone around the dinner tables before dessert and had random people sing. Along with playing lets see how many glasses of wine it takes before the American starts drumming the National Anthem on Grandma Francine's, well, you get the picture, they also played, lets shove the Mike in his face and make him sing a song in English. Well, I consider myself a music enthusiast, but that was a lot of pressure. Any song? My mind went blank. I couldn't think of a song if Heidi Klum was asking me what I'd prefer her to strip to before, well, again, you get it. I had nothing. Truly a disapointment. Everybody's waiting, however, and the show must go on. So, what comes out? Twinkle twinkle little freaking star. Can you believe that. Here I am on the day of the peak of two peoples' love together singing to them about a freaking star. Naturally, I have since spent the last 18 hours unable to stop thinking about songs that would have better, but I don't like to live in the past. Anyways, it seemed to work out okay because all the French people knew the song and by the time I had forgotten the words (right after 'how I wonder what you are- which really is not that far into it) the whole crowd was singing along with me. It was fabulous. Later in the evening, when the DJ played Cotton Eyed Joe, the whole room stopped and turned to me to see what to do. Well, I'm glad there wasn't anybody else from the States there because I just kinda started flayling my legs around and tapping my feet. I think it was probably closer to a River Dance, but it got the job done.
As a side note- If you can swing dance and you are at a cousin's cousin's French wedding and you decide to grab a girl and give her the time of her life on the dance floor twirling her around, doing the pretzel, bending her over, etc... And if she starts smiling really big and looking like she's having a blast, she probably is. But, her boyfriend probably won't be enjoying it quite as much as the two of you. So you might do some due diligence and just check before you turn into the King of Swing with somebody else's Queen. As a further side note- If at the end of said dance, that same boyfriend marches up to that same girl, grabs her wrist and physically pulls her away from you, strongly consider letting that one go. There are plenty of other girls that want to be twirled.

My Cousin the Communist

Bonjour, I have made my way to the city of love, and it is lovely. But, before I begin, let me tell you that the french do not type quite the same as Americans, and if you find a Q where there should be an A or so on, please find it in your heart to forgive me. Mais oui, the city of love. Paris is a beautiful city with beautiful people. My cousin, who I am staying with, is a communist. I think it's cool. That's about the only relevant part of this entry in regards to the title. He took me on a backstage tour of Lido, a very famous Caberet. It was fun, but I was hoping I would get to meet the girls, they would all fall in love with me and (since a group of performers must stick together) all sixty of them would marry me, we would move to Utah, and have our own normal cookie-cutter, polygamist, Franco-Amercan, half-nude, dancing, Jewish, (big) pickett-fence, life together. But, it was their day off, so, no go. This threw me into a semi-depression until my overwhelming sadness was overcome with great anger. Having been so close to where many semi-naked girls would be later on (hey, beggars cant be choosers and its still exciting to think that at least somebody would get to see them), naturally I was hungry. I wouldve smoked a cigarette because thats what I do after almost seeing a naked girl, but a) I dont smoke and b) I think the French have used up all the cigarrettes in the world. So, I make my way to a cafe. It is quite crowded but there are three rows of tables outside. Two rows are full, save one seat, and one row is completely empty. I sit in the empty row, trying really hard not to be the obtrusive American the French have grown to love, but the waitress makes me move to the one seat stuck between the other sardined diners. When I sit down, they make me feel welcomed by giving me dirty looks, showing me the empty tables (where I just was), scooting their chairs away and continuing to reach across to my table to ash their cigs in the ashtray in front of me. Now, I thought about graciously offering to share the ashtray with my neighbors (on their laps), but since their table was full and seeing as how I was being such a nuisance (by enjoying their culture and adding to their economy) I decided to let it go. Bienvenue (welcome) à Paris. Thanks a lot Pres. Bush. Do all of us travelers a favor, and next time you think there are weapons of mass destruction someplace, go ahead and check first before you piss off the rest of the world. Oh, and as an added benefit, maybe thousands of young Americans wont lose their lives and limbs. Sorry, was that too political? Thats the freedom (of speech) that the soldiers are fighting for right now. Liberty is not free, right? Oh yea, I could have written that before Saadam wasnt building bombs. Again, another digression.
So after a long day of looking at beautiful paintings at the Musee D'Orsay ( I just figured out how to use ' ), I'm meeting my cousin, the Communist, in the Latin Quarter before going to see a River Pheonix, 1988 flick- Running on Empty. ( It's great, the French play old films in their theatres over and over. They are such cinephiles that their moviegoers support an industry that re-plays films in their theatres.) As I'm waiting at our meeting place, well, you can guess. It's finally about to happen. That which we've all been waiting for. The foriegn girl of my dreams is finally checking me out. There's no mistaking this one. She keeps making eye contact then quickly looking away and pretending like she's looking around for somebody. Don't play coy with me mon amour. An American boy and a French girl? I know it's wrong. But I feel it too. There's no stopping our feelings for each other. But, there's so much to overcome. It's like Berlin in the early 80's. You are on one side of the Wall and I the other. We are so close, but I can't reach out to touch you. Your head says no, I cannot be wiz 'im. E is American and I reach across him to ash my cigarettes. Mais, non. I can hear your heartbeat on the otherside. It says, oui oui. I say, no thanks, I tinkled earlier, but if you have to go it's no problem, I can wait. And you say what? I say, I would have said piss, but I'm keeping it PG for the kids. And your eyes grow wide. You act like you have no idea what I'm talking about (and if you don't you should go back and read my other blogs, because then you'd get it) but I know that it is just a rouze. You play like you dont understand me. I say, even though we don't speak the same language outloud, our hearts converse like two teenage girls on the phone after the cutest boy in school accidentally bumps into one of them and says, Oh shit, My bad B. And that is the language of the soul. The language of love. We are like one. And even though this Berlin Wall of love stands between us, tonight my love, tonight we're gonna party like it's 1989. (That's when it fell for you history buffs out there.)
None of these words had to be spoken. It was all in our eyes. Finally she gives in to her heart, starts walking towards me. I have my line ready- Wanna get some crepes and makeout? What, you don't like crepes? And as she approaches she opens up her arms and some French dude plays Dr. McThroat-examiner with his tongue. I guess I might have had one or two misinterpretations with the whole eyes/ me thinking she was in love with me. Oh well, I finally got my show. Even if the girl wasn't half naked.

Au revoir,

Jason, or as the French have so affectionately nick-named me- Jazon.

headlights and highways

Let me just begin this blog by mentioning how nice I have found the English people to be. It's much easier to get a smile in London than in NY. Everybody always seems happy to help with directions and pleasant to talk to. That being said, as nice as they are to interact with, they're not very nice on the road. And by 'not very nice', I mean pricks ('pricks' being interchangeable with any of George Carlin's 7 words you can't use on t.v. or radio or a word that rhymes with pricks but starts with a 'd'. Or a hyphanated word that doesn't rhyme with pricks but starts with 'M' and rhymes with 'ducker'). Now, I try not to judge a whole group of people based on one or two isolated incidents. How much would people like Presidents if they judged them solely on, oh, I don't know, Bill Clinton relieving some stress with a good cigar or two? Or people wouldn't like Congress if they only looked at the fact that a large majority of them act solely for personal benefit, take bribes, enact Pork Barrel spending, squeeze hidden earmarks into nearly every single piece of legislation, or have extra-marital affairs as a general rule? Okay, bad example.- Wait, did I just categorize the social and moral leaders of our country?
Again, sorry for the digression, but if this isn't the first of my blogs that you've read, you're probably used to it by now.
I was telling you that I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. And believe me, with London drivers I have. Doesn't matter. They're not nice on the road. My cousin told me about how she was getting into a cab and a biker (don't get me started on bikers not following the rules of the road and then asking vehicles to respect their presence. I drove a cab in Charleston and I can't tell you how many bike-taxi's or bikers I almost hit because they didn't stop at a red-light, or a stop sign, or yeild. Let's just say I've seen them commit almost any and all traffic violations you could think of.) So this biker, as she's getting in the cab decides that he's not going to wait behind the cab or even go around the cab. He's going to attempt to bike in between the cab (open-doored) my cousin and the curb. And when he almost takes a spill as a result, he stops on his bike, turns around and calls her a dirty British name. What? That's like when I was a Junior in high school and I asked a girl (no names but it rhymes with 'mean' and starts with 'coll') to the prom. She said yes to me. A day later some dude asks her. She decides to go with him and dumps me instead .Then he tells me he wants to fight me. What? Didn't you just steal my date? I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be wanting to fight you. Am I not getting something?

One more relevant story, then I'll continue with my point- I was about 14 and was having a few greivences with my travel-team baseball coach. Not anything huge, but we each knew that we weren't particularly fond of the other. I'm warming up (taking some swings) in-between innings. I'm swinging maybe three feet from the dugout fence. The coach has to go talk to the ump. So instead of taking the completely uninhibited space on the otherside of myself and the rest of the whole freaking field (I think he probably had around 300 feet from me to the left field wall), he decides to try to go between me and the dugout. Well, when I nail him right in the arm, what do you expect? On his way falling down to the ground in what I can only imagine as an overwhelming and intolerable amount of pain, this guy has the balls (nuts, cahones, gaul, audacity) to point at me mid-air and shout, 'You did that on purpose'. Well, anybody dumb enough to take the road between hell and the devil when the other path is lined with fluffy freaking marshmellows, angels, and supermodels deserves to get hit. Would I ever actually intentionally strike somebody with a metal bat (well, actually there was an incident when a coach ran at my father for calling him 'Bush League' and I grabbed a bat and ran after him, but luckily the police officer on-site was able to grab my shoulder and offer me a ride to the station, but that's neither here nor there- and I was...well, I was going to say young, but I was actually 14). The answer, however, is that unless a direct family member is in immediate peril, I'd never intentionally hit somebody with a bat. But did he deserve it based on stupidity? I'll let you answer that for yourself, but take my tone and a few solid winks for clue as to how I really feel.

Back to the lecture at hand. We took a cab home a few nights ago from that bar. A pedestrian woman crosses the street. The cab almost runs into her. He stops the car, rolls down the window and cusses her out. Continues driving and continues to cuss (to himself) about the girl he almost killed. The same thing happened with a motorcyclist almost hitting a dude on a bridge the other day. Anybody catching a theme here? Do these motorists realize that they're not the one's that are going to be in the hospital with internal bleeding and multiple head wounds? That at the worst they might have to have some body-work for their car, while the unlucky ped will need extensive body-work for his, uh,...actual freaking body?

I blame this aggression on the afternoon tea. I think they should switch to decalf. But riddle me this Batman. I understand why we have yellow lights before the switch from Green to Red. I mean, it gives cars warning so they can slow down (or in pretty much the case of any American with an actual place to be, speed up- exclude Congress during the worst recession since the Great Depression, b/c apparently they have time to take a vacation and give themselves a pay raise. But why in bloody (yes, I know, it's appropriate b/c I'm in England and I said 'bloody')...why in bloody hell would you give the stationary cars a Yellow light signaling to them that the light is about to turn green. Do they not gun it enough right off the block as it is? I'm sure you're racking your brain on this one, so let me help you out. It's so these pissed off drivers can have an even better shot at nailing an unlucky pedestrian. Say you're crossing the street and the light turns green. Well, you probably have time to finish crossing because the other drivers didn't know the light was turning and they have to take a second to notice the change, and then react to said change. But no. If you tell the drivers, 'hey your light is about to turn Green. Please rev your engine and gun it like you just got off your weekly weigh in at Weight Watchers and there's a two for one McRib combo running for the weekend.' If you do this, those pedestrians in the middle of the road have absolutely no chance because by the time the light turns green the cars are averaging twenty and they're hitting the intersection at around 45. Way to go Parliament.

Well, tonight, as you might infer, I was almost hit by a car. And when I say 'almost', I mean, 'I was really freaking close to getting rocked by the cab.' (Parent's, please don't freak out). They simply don't stop for you. I think in London they actually do get points for hitting people. These people take your crossing the street in front of their car as a personal insult. I mean really, I'm crossing the public roadway and I don't even have a vehicle. It's obviously going to take me a while to get to where I'm going. Just let me cross. It's not like I'm poaching venison in your private Wood (Again, I know, it works out beautifully because Robin Hood was English, and was caught in the Evil Sherriff's forest, blah, blah, blah).
My cousin, and I'm not blaming her at all because I'm a big enough boy to make my own decisions and should look out for myself, decided to walk into an intersection with the big red flashing 'Don't Walk' hand of the lord trying to send us a sign. Well I followed her into the intersection and when the light turned green, you guessed it. Instead of trying to avoid a car that was just accelerating, I was face to face with the English version of 'The Fast and the Furious: Piccadilly Rage'. Now, living in the country I know quite well what it's like to be the headlights. But I found out for the first time tonight what it's like to be the deer. You know that 'oh shit' look in the deer's eyes just before they sprint out of the middle of the road? Yup, they're actually saying to themselves, 'oh shit'. There's no question. Absolutely and unquestionably, the only possible thought that you (or the deer) have time for is 'oh shit'. You know how fast those deer are able to move out of the way? Well, so would you if you had a ton of metal screaming down you're throat at 45 mph. Call me a gazelle because I took one step and jumped my ass back on to the sidewalk from the middle of the intersection. Judging by that leap, I should have done track and field. I've learned my lesson- don't mess with the cabbies. They have nothing to live for, and if you leave it up to them, neither do you.

Sincerely (and thankfully still here),

Jay.

Pictures

Challo everybody. I don't have anything too special this time, however, I have finally managed to put some pictures online. Actually, 500 of them. I guess I've been a little snap-happy over the course of the last few weeks. There's a few that were on my camera from before I left. So, before you ask- no I didn't randomly happen to meet somebody that looks exactly like my dad in a European duplicate of Yankee Stadium. That was just from our trip last August. Hope you enjoy the pictures!

http://picasaweb.google.com/jason.field18

The Royal Flush

Caution: this blog contains explicit material, not suitable for people who can't deal with matters of the throne.

So I meandered my way down a staircase in the back of a restaurant near Buckingham palace to tinkle today (normally I'd say 'piss', but I don't want to offend anybody). It was a normal tinkle, not very much different than any I've had in the past. Zipper went down smoothly, or should I say, without a hitch. (Mind you, ladies, the taking down of the zipper is, while a very common activity, an extremely stressful one. A man can be three sheets to the wind, too drunk to notice gorgeous women throwing their numbers at him. So wasted that he doesn't know he just went into the women's bathroom. Too drunk to realize he's trying to tinkle (piss) in the sink (or if he's in the women's bathroom, maybe even the sofa just for fun- which I have serious qualms about. Why do girls get furniture and flowers in their bathrooms while guys get graffittied walls of obscene body parts and fake numbers of girls that are supposed to be 'a lot of fun' or 'a great time'- and I know they're fake because nobody ever picks up. And when they do, the person on the other end claims to not even know the girl I'm looking for. And I'm always like, 'hey, if you want to keep her to yourself, just say so, but don't insult my intelligence thinking I'll believe she's not even home.) Anyway, I digress. The point is, that men can be way too drunk for their own good, thinking that while they tinkle (piss) they'll be able to successfully aim and not spill their beer by pinning it with their chin against their chest (and don't even tell me you haven't tried this), but when it comes to unzipping, it's like the spinning world around you comes to a stop. Everything is in slow motion, Matrix style. The last of the girls are running and screaming out of the bathroom. Hair, makeup, purses flying in every direction. You know the bouncer's only a crowded dance floor away, but there's still no way that you're going to rush this. You look down but you can't see anything because your beer (still tucked tightly behind your chin- or if it's a glass, held in your teeth) is obscuring your view. So you got to go in blind. You reach down, try to clear a path from the other side of the cloth, and take one last breath (because you know if this goes wrong it's your last breathe work taking). 3,2,1 and go! The train tracks have come undone. A little bead of sweat drops from your brow into your tightly clasped beer. It's over. You're done. And for those two and half seconds you were as sober as the day you were born. You've made it one more time (until 6-19 seconds later, depending on how many beers you've had, and then you have to do it again. But this time you don't even have gravity helping you out-think about that)) (the second parenthasee mark- I don't know it's official name, though I should because I use it, is not a typo. If you look back, pretty much the whole blog thus far has been an aside within a parenthasees- so getting back to the story...)

I was in the restaraunt bathroom and the zipper was down. I'll spare you the next 6-19 seconds, but lets just say everything worked out fine. When it came time to send it all to the ocean- or judging by the looks of the river, to the Thames, I was baffled. There was not just one button for the flush. There was two. Well, for a man who'se lived much of his twenty-two (22 years old. can you believe it. College educated, and still not mature enough to avoid writing a whole blog about a tinkle (piss)) For a man who'se lived much of his life amazed at watching toilets flush (I really want to visit Australia), it's like I've hit the jackpot. But, which one shall I push? I could push the little button with a solitary dot in the center. Or, I could push the bigger button, with a pair of dots in the middle. I obviously only have one chance at this (I wouldn't want to flush twice. It's a waste of water). Well, I used my deduction skills, and thought back to my years as a young boy, when my parents first started to let me go to the bathroom on my own. I think I was 9 or 10. They'd want to know how long they'd be waiting so instead of simply asking me if I was taking a tinkle (piss) or the other option (as much as I'd like to name it, I think my mom'll be reading this, and there are just some things a son can't say), they'd make me use some sort of number code. Maybe they just didn't want other people to know what I was doing in there. It was binary in nature, but instead of 0's and 1's, I was to use 1's and 2's. This was probably to throw off anybody who might have been familiar with computers. Since you're not part of the family, I'll let you in on the code- 1 for tinkle (piss) and 2 for that bodily function which shall not be named (Sue me, I like Harry Potter). What are the chances that the whole country of England uses the same code. Seriously, we're like a whole ocean away. In the midst of my excitement I forgot that I had been staring at a toilet full of my own tinkle (piss) for much longer than any man should really allow and decided just to hit both of them at the same time. Wow. what a glorious rush of water it was. How many people can say that they have had a royal flush. (and I didn't even have to bet on it).

Other news- I went to the Royal Mews today. The Royal Mews is the royal stable/ garage where the queens royal horses/carraiges/cars are kept. Pretty cool. Those horses get 6 weeks of vacation a year. Not a bad gig. On my way there I passed by Parliament, where there was a huge rally with people protesting genocide and innocent slaughter of people in Sri Lanka. It was crazy. There were police blockades, police lines, and a huge mass of people shouting for a cease fire. I know that as a tourist I probably should steer clear of those things, and I walked away after accidentally (accidentally, Dad. don't worry. If I recall you wanted to join a march in Paris a few years ago for the 'working man') happening upon it. It was unbelievable. It was empowering, sad, scary, and inspirational, just to name a few of the emotions running through me. I'm extremely happy to see people using their freedom of speech and peaceful protests/assembly to get their messages across. Let's hope everything stays peaceful (more peaceful than a few weeks ago at the Summit), and never forget - Everybody has a right to speak their mind and there are always ways to have your voice heard (even if you want to talk about tinkle (piss)).

Charlie Bit Me

Hey Old Chaps, how goes it? I went to a bar last night in London to watch the London Arsenal (home team in red) vs. Villareal (away team in yellow-not a fan favorite in the bar). And what shirt does the stupid American wear- Drumroll please- his big fat nothing on it but Yellow shirt. Needless to say the Londoners were not thrilled. The cute bartender, however, was giving me the sexy eye. Naturally, I was pumped and getting ready for my first encounter with a woman of foriegn nature. I've always had a thing for accents, and who doesn't? I knew my mysterious foriegn mystique was probably driving her wild inside. "An American", she was saying to herself. "They're so suave and manly. Oh, my, look at his great big American beard and his gorgeous American smile. I wish he would make an American preemptive attack on my body." She didn't have to say it out loud. I could feel it. I made it to the front, put my hand on the bar, and before I was able to sneak in my subtle, but smooth pick up line ('Has anybody ever told you I look like Elvis?') she looked at my big fat yellow shirt, smiled, looked at the t.v. with the opposing team's big fat yellow jerseys, laughed a little bit, and asked me what I wanted. Tail tucked between my legs, I needed a major comeback like Eddie Murphy after Dr. Doolittle. I knew what I had to do. Order the manliest beer I could find on the tap- The Early Bird. Early Bird? That was the manliest beer I could find? That was certainly not the message I was trying to portray (interpret that as you may). It just came out. I got nervous and choked. After laughing at me once again, but trying to hold it in a little (I'm guessing as a courtesy), she poured my beer and walked away. Next time foriegn girl, next time, I will have you. I'm a little wiser now, and you stand no chance. I'm going out tonight. What do you guys think?- Maybe my American Flag T-shirt?

In other news, I saw the Rosetta Stone today at the British Museum. Pretty cool learning about something so important many years ago and then actually seeing it in person. If you don't know what it is, look it up. I could tell you, but you wouldn't remember.

Outside the museum there were two British brothers. One was a toddler in a stroller and the other maybe 5 or 6. The older of the two stuck his finger in the younger's mouth (an activity my brother-I won't name names, but lets just say the dyslexics like to call him Neb- was quite fond doing as a youngser as well). Anywho, the toddler promptly bit (what else is he supposed to do?- See that, Neb, it wasn't weird when I bit you, it was natural. Anyways, that was just a phase). The older kid screamed. If you haven't youtubed- Charlie Bit Me- please do, so you can understand what the hell I'm talking about. It was hilarious. Almost a perfect reproduction. I almost took my camera out to record the incident, but much like the career of Hanson, it came, it was glorious for a short time, then it went like my beautiful romance with the British bartender. I also didn't want to get punched by some dad thinking I was video-taping his two small boys. Because in some situations, that's just weird. Much love,

J

p.s.- Chim chimaney, chim chimaney, chim chim charoo.- I figured I'm in England so any Mary Poppins reference is fair game.

Mind the Gap

Well, hello again folks, or should I say 'Gooday'- (don't say it with an Australian accent. You'll confuse yourself. Actually, I think I just confused myself. I was able to use a British accent with it before, but now I'm stuck sounding like an Aussie and I have a sudden urge to 'put another shrimp on the bar-b.' But I digress.) Even though I'm now in London enjoying the luxuries of my cousin's apartment-such as showering without sandles and a nice comfy big bed, I haven't posted anything in a while, so I'm going to mosey my way back into Ireland for just a bit. So, my last night in the hostel I camped out in the lobby b/c I had to get up around 2:30 to catch my train and it wasn't worth renting a bed. But the night before that was pretty interesting. So the beds, in the hostels, as you might imagine, aren't the biggest- my feet hanging over the end of this particular top bunk sans railing. Further it squeaked every time I took a breath. Now, believe me when I say this, I felt bad for the kid below me. I did. For a while that is. Until the little guy got passive aggressive on me. So I'm rolling around a bit maybe a little squeak here, little squeak there. After every few squeaks he might give me a little groan. What are you gonna do, it's not the Ritz. After one particularly big squeak in the middle of the night, however, this dude decided he would impart his distaste by taking the bars holding up my top bunk (sans railing) and shake the sh#* (keeping it P-G for the kiddies) out of my bed. After almost rolling me out of bed, I decided it was time to take action. Needless to say, after body slamming the mattress a few times, he got the message that it wasn't going to be a happy time if he infact succeeded in throwing me off the bunk.
Now I'd like to take a moment to reflect on the pubs. They're great. The Irish love to gather in the pubs listen to a Trad. Session (some traditional music) and shoot the sh#* (remember-the kids). Our first bar that we went to , we found a drunk googley eyed man who looked to be in his mid to late sixties, though if he drinks everyday like he did this particular day, he was probably around 35. We talked about his life, love, and dog. Then upon his ordering another beer, we asked him how long he'd been at the pub. He said, "oh, since around 11". Mind you, it was 9 that evening. "eleven", I said. "That's quite a long time". "oh, yea", said the Irishman, "I was thirsty". And there encompasses Ireland. No, that's not fair, but pretty funny.
Now, the Guinness is the best I've ever had. It's way better than in the states, and i don't know if I'll be able to drink it ever again after tasting a piece of heaven. But, if Hugh Grant can go with that hooker after Elizabeth Hurley, then, I guess there's still a chance. the Trad music usually has an accordian, fiddle (violin), a drummy thingy played with a malet thingy, maybe a banjo or guitar, and about fifty drunks singing. It's great.
I met one of the musicians outside the pub, named steve. Previous to our meeting he was trying to sing a ballad but the pub was quite noisy. So , some older fellow decided to stand on a chair and yell, 'Shut the F*#!' (P-G for the kids, stop asking me why I'm doing this-further, it's nice to leave something to the imagination, right?). I don't know how familiar you are with this phrase, but where I'm from it goes a little more like 'Shut the F*#! up'. I've decided that it's experiencing the cultural differences that really make traveling worthwhile. Mom, Dad- don't say this trip wasn't educational.
For instance- another cultural tidbit (quirk) if you will. Steve and I are outside. I thank him for the good music. He tells me to 'shut the F*#!'. No, he didn't really. But he did go on and on about how large I was. (Which I don't agree, but he was of that opinion). he told me he was jealous of my chest and I told him I was jealous of his music and his hot Irish girlfriend. What I learned that day was priceless. See, he (the irishman) seemed to be interested in the man chest. While I (the american) have always been more intrigued by the woman chest. Another cultural difference that really makes you feel like the trip is truly changing your life.

In other, less important news, I saw the changing of the guard today at Buckingham Palace. It was saweet. A huge ordeal. They paraded in, played bagpipes, drums, horns. Performed a few ditties (I'm almost positive the first song was 'somewhere over the rainbow'- thought of you mom- unless there's a traditional English song that sounds exactly like the classic we have all come to know and love). Afterwards I stumbled upon the National Gallery and got to see Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Rousseau, Rembrandt, Saurat, Piccasso, etc. ( not the men, just the paintings ). Still, very nice. I walked around London listening to the Beatles, because it just felt right. And yes dad, I do have plans to eat some fish and chips. I'll throw one down in honor of my newly-hipped homey back in the states. (That's what we youngsters like to call a shout out) Easy, Peasy, Lemon Squeezies,

thinking about you all,

JJ

p.s.- What do you call a dog that only dates other dogs for their money?

'A gold dogger'.

Aran Islands- Walls, Bulls, and Captains

Hey there kids, how ya doing? This one's going to be a short one. Yesterday I visited the Aran Island of Inish Mor off the coast of Galway. It was gorgeous. My two traveling companions and myself climbed to the top of a hill and found the ruins of the smallest church in Europe. We ate lunch atop the hill looking down on the island/ocean. Behind us, we climbed over a stone fence- The Irish have tons of stone fences- and found another stone fence. After climbing over that one and probably 30-40 others (we walked and climbed for about 3 hours), we came to the back of the island where we found cliffs dropping hundreds of feet straight down to the sea. there was no one around but us (we figured it was because we were probably tresspassing), which made it even more special. We hopped one fence on the way back and found there was a bull hanging out in the yard. He wasn't especially happy to see us, so we hopped back over and found an alternate route. Once we made it back to the main road we ran into a Dutch Captian of a tug boat working in the harbor. He was very nice and giggly, especially when he was almost ran over by a car. "That would have been a bad time to die", he said. I pointed out that no time is really a 'good' time to die, and he agreed. Then he said 'adieu' and disappeared into the sea. Well, the last part wasn't true, he just said it was meal time on the boat and walked away. I was hoping for an invite to an early dinner but it never came.

In other news, I met a friend of a friend at a pub tonight and she was dressed up as a priest. I couldn't get any Irish girls to dance with me. I blamed it on the priest outfit, but she said it was my beard and baseball cap. I don't believe it. Who wouldn't want to dance with a strange, foriegn, bearded man executing Michael Jackson-esque moves. Seriously, it was possibly my best performance. (Billie Jean is not my lover, she's just a girl who claims that I am the one.) Everybody at the pub thought I was Canadian, so maybe that played a part in it. Oh, well, tough luck for them- I had a great time dancing one-on-one with myself. Ever been the booty-shaker and booty-shakee at the same time? It's a lot tougher than you might think. Well, it's time for me to go to sleep in a room with twenty-seven other kids. Wish me luck

Crack- it's for the kids

Hokay, so this is the second time I'm writing this message b/c the comp. just logged me off, and if it happens again I'm going to bed and you guys are SOL. Here's the shortened version- I spend the day walking around Dublin, seeing Trinity College and the book of kells-an old ass book in an old ass library. Ate some Irish Stew made with Guinness. Yes dad, even the food I eat has alcohol. No mom, I couldn't avoid it, b/c it looked good and I wanted to eat it. No Bubbi, it's not even possible for me to get drunk off of that, but chances are I'll be getting drunk off of something at some point later in the evening. Yes mom, I did have them stick some extra broccali in there. I sat next to a nice Irish couple on the plane over here. They informed me that I'd be travelling on Good Friday- A national crisis day on account of every pub being closed. Upon asking them what special sites I should see, they became more worried about how I'm going to get drunk on Friday than giving me advice on creating special memories that will last me the rest of my life. Needless to say, we drank a beer together on the plane.

They also told me to go to a city called Galway and that I'd get some great crack there. I was like, thanks for the tip but if you have a place where you're getting great crack, you should keep that to yourself, b/c if you keep telling everybody about it, there won't be any left for you. They informed me that Craik actually means fun. Naturally, I told them to disregard my last comment. Moral of the story- in the future, upon being offered crack, take it- You'll probably end up having a good time. Remember, no matter how old you are, there's always room in your life for a little crack. Be good all and talk soon,

JJ

p.s.- What did the fish say when he ran into the wall?
- Dam.

p.p.s- if you didn't get that joke, don't email me.

much love.

The Calm Before the Storm

"If you don't got good dreams,...you got nightmares."- Diner,

I'm currently sitting in my cousin's apartment awaiting my departure in two days. For those of you who might not be quite as caught up on the going-ons of my life, here's a quick 5 bullet recap. For those of you who are up to date, deal with it, and/or exercise that right hand of yours and scroll down a bit- Why do you think the lord gave you an index finger? (Dad, don't say it's for picking your nose.) (you might have to employ this practice of scrolling down at will a good bit with my blogs, b/c I can be somewhat verbose- which means I tend to talk a lot and over explain things sometimes-for example, I might carry on over and over describing a situation more than is necessary, called for, appropriate...well, you get the idea). Uh hem...

1)I graduated college
2)Looked for a job ( primary word in this bullet is looked)
3)Spent a lot of time in the basement watching Home Improvement and The Fresh Prince
4)Started waiting tables
5)Had an unfortunate incident with a customer involving her salad and my pride

Well, she was close friends with the owner, and long story short, it might be safe to say I'm not cut out for the food service industry.

Anyhow, upon my release- I like to think I was layed off, though according to the restaraunt's wording in the notice of departure, I was canned.- I thought back on my favorite quote from Diner and realized that it was time for a 'good dream'.

I booked a one-way ticket to Dublin and have since made plans to stay a week in Ireland, Ten days with an un-named cousin in London (But I'll give you a hint. Her name starts with an 'F' and rhymes with 'earn'), two weeks with some French relatives in Gay Paree (not a slight to Paris or men who like men but a literary reference to 'Going After Cacciato'- a recomended novel), and then on to Rome, Prague, and Amsterdam with friend (I won't say her name, but it starts with a 'w' and rhymes with 'litany'). After that who knows. Maybe some time in Cannes with a friend working a the film fest., maybe some time outside of Munich where my buddy's playing professional baseball, maybe some time working in a hostel, or possibly a loose job opportunity coming to fruition working in film in Bulgaria (and only because 90% of you asked upon hearing this news- No, I won't be working in Snuff film- I don't think). But that's neither here nor there.

The point is that I don't really know what's going to happen, but it's gotta beat -"Would you like that on a whole wheat or a seasame egg bun?"

I'd love to keep in contact with all of you on my 'sojourn' in europe and decided to creat this blog out of popular request. I hope you all keep in touch with me and shoot me a quick email, funny facebook, or random picture every now and again, but hopefully this blog will ensure that we stay close even though we are thousands of miles apart. Be good, be well, be easy peasy lemon squeezy.

p.s.- Two hats are hanging on a coat rack. One says, you hang here, I'll go on ahead.
p.p.s.- Please email me if you didn't get that joke.