Evangeline

Bringing back Cee Lo Green; did you know 'Fuck You' was written about the record industry that always passed him by? It makes the song better and easier to understand. Only you don't really need to understand it when you're driving the orchards ordering all the bare peach trees to suck it.

I was too harsh on Simon Pegg. His book is thoughtfully written and very earnest. He's interested in all the closed circles his life has taken - famous idols now friends, etc. Not the greatest, but nothing to spit on. If you're looking for an amazing 'autobiography' I would insist on Michael Palins diaries. It's not just a detailed look at the beginning and rise of Monty Python, it also deals with labor politics, paint colors for the kitchenette, IRA bombing, thirty year old men dressing as women, and the course of his fathers Parkinsons. It's hard not to be enamored, and while it's a tome it is comfortably broken up.

I forgot to mention that I sent a rough draft of the Cannibalism article to Philip and I was met with instant validation. Now I'm trying to find an article to mimic in tone in the journal we're aiming to have publish us. Which has only gotten me flustered. Gummy Tree Phylogeny activities and worksheets? I wouldn't pay attention, and even in Middle School I would have found that degrading. But then I was the aristocratic youth that got marshmallows suck up his nose. I would know quality.

Look at that ocean of testosterone - mucking up the floors with his raw, sloughing charisma. Pursed lips ready to tell you what-for.

So I'm either developing lactose intolerance or I have giardia. True to the superscript, I’m flaunting it.

We've shared Christmases before, but this is the first with a girlfriend. Matte has brought Sarah for the holidays and Mom had too much fun making her stocking. And sucking down a few begneits on our Lords Day is a great way to earn high standing.

She also joined us for the Wolf gathering in Portland. It was an oddly sedate ordeal for my extended family. The highlight was early on when my Moms dad pulled her out to his car. We watched and narrated a shady deal as he produced a manila envelope, many black bags, and finally a revolver.

He promised Mom a gun for her birthday. In November he sent her, not a hand canon, but a single, unmarked photograph of his selected gun on a very soft looking pastel towel. You could almost make out the engraving of 'Happy Birthday' if it wasn't actually engraved with 'The Judge.'

So we watched as he pointed the gun at the car in front of them, and he read her some scrawled rules about safety, and produced more guns! These were just to display what she couldn't have because of her strength. Which she quickly grabbed and cocked back. We are classy folk. Why did he also give her five hollow point bullets? The popular position within my family is one for each of my uncles. Which isn't his true intent, because he'd want Richard to live.

I'm closer to being 25 now and that's the time that you're not allowed to wear hoodies (which you promptly ignore as a rule because you're 25 and nothing matters anymore). I'm tired of wearing t-shirts. Maybe its my memory of listening to Bruce Chilton lecture us on early Judaic sacrifices while wearing a green alien t-shirt that has instilled this in me. My conflicting idea is that I'm somehow marginalizing myself and losing character.

Making a pie from scratch.

When I start throwing knives at the tree outside or hitting the wammy bar on a small red guitar I found in a cereal box, placing it purposefully by my pelvic girdle, thrusting into the throng of my imaginary audience I realize that I'm all me.

On the other end of the dress spectrum is my brother. Who was wearing spants, striped socks, a t-shirt with a suit vest under my fur vest coat, fully waxed beard, and jangling plastic Indian feather necklace as he proclaimed how sad it was that the people who will fall in love with Portlandia are the very people they're mocking. Like cats unable to recognize their reflection they continue juggling and attempting to fondle you from on top their tall-bike. Unfortunately some people may not realize that the people featured in Portlandia are not outliers, but the center of the bell-curve.

I saw Tron for a second time - as a date with Dylan. It is what it is; biodigital jazz, man. After overdosing I could use some Willow or Stardust to counteract it. I'm pretty sure Dylan watches the scene where the midget in Willow rides horse to sober up. Tangentially, Zodiac is not the best movie for Christmas eve.

I don't usually proclaim a New Years resolution. However I've been forced. So this coming year I'll vow to decorate wherever I live - make it mine. No matter the length of my stay. I haven't done it in the past and it was a mistake. Tapestries are a must. I enjoy traditions, and I'm excited to make some of my own. I envision taking town the tree as hacking it to death with Holiday machetes, smashing all of the sugar ornaments we made over the past weeks. 'We' being my family.

Off to Oregon

Wednesday night I went out with the ladies from Amys. Fearful of anyone else noticing, or doing some 'triumphant return' I hide by garbage, watching a man wipe down the interior of his car. While at dinner I accidentally elbowed the waitress while dancing to Girlfriend. She was disturbingly happy about it.

What followed were a few days of specialty shopping, movies, reading, getting paid to be a dancer, lunch with Pam, and going to the American Museum of Natural History with Emma. Last night I also caught the tail end of Mike Molinas annual Man Day. We went to a bar in Chinatown before getting cuban sandwiches and watching the Rock.

I was shown a website called www.pornfortheblind.org it is apparently a volunteer operation of narrating porn for the blind. Some people are faking it, others can't shell out some of their own money to narrate more than a 40second clip. Mike and Addison and I decided we could record some noir pornography and make sound effects by hitting celery against a sidewalk. Which soon segued into plans of staging a two-man show of the Rock, including the Terminator score and very confusing gunfights.

We finished the night at the Randolph on Broome for more libations and I elbowed another woman shaking my chest to Cee Lo. It is now the song I get dressed to.

I've been reading Simon Peggs autobiography. Since he hasn't had a huge life I expected it to be him being cheeky. After all his major appeal is charm. The moments he goes on tangents about Star Wars are pleasing for that very reason. Too bad half the book is 'formative experiences.' It doesn't read like a justification of his career path, but whenever biographies focus on some birthday party where they got a guitar, or that their parent was an actress I hear them plucking a predestined string. And that readers should be comforted that they didn't end up a big artist, because these people were so obviously meant to do it. It's a Protestant Work Ethic explanation and I have gripes against it. If you're upset that you never were a musician, and never wanted to be one, then that's just confusing (I deleted a few lines that culminated in that last sentence).

And Dylan, I went to see TRON. I don't regret it because I was dancing the whole movie. They let Jeff Bridges be himself - really.

Then Bob and I got into a long discussion about the Coen Brothers. He insists they have no soul, just smarts. And without proper casting, their movies are nothing. True Grit and Lady Killers really prove this. If you like how they stylize a movie, then you'll like it. After that we got into a fight about the difference between fun and great movies. Bob thinks if a movie isn't great, it's trash. What's wrong with being a well-executed fun movie? Tokyo Drift, Easy A, Yes Man, are well done as they are. In protest I'm going to watch Troll 2.

One topic that kept coming up was that women feel there is a dearth of good men in the world, while there is an excess of good women. If that's true, then I will reap all the benefits.

You're Still Into This

Back in New York. There are a few surprises to returning, but none of them have to do with meeting Randy Quaid. It's that I don't feel any change - that is to say, I feel like I'm still traveling. Which is completely correct, as I'm leaving for Oregon on Sunday. I know the feeling won't leave there either. And it's not a bad thing, as far as I can tell. Even this morning, the usually loathesome Grandma and I had a long talk (as long as you can have at half your inside voice, shrugging - making small silences stranger). Which never happened before. It might be practice, novelty, or dare I say, something did change a bit in me.

But after having a choice of movies on the plane, and choosing to watch Eat Pray Love, I can't abide by the latter. While I'm happy she had no linear growth I was upset she got with Javier in the end. Nothing gave me any indication that it was a compelling relationship. Oh wait, it was a bad movie. I also watched the Swimsuit Issue (damn cute), and the Other Guys (which is quotable).

The last stint of my trip involved being stranded in Heathrow airport for twelve hours, then Frankfurt for fourteen, where I flew out a day late. When they made the announcement that there were no other flights to America, I spotted a flight to Chile. I started thinking, Antarctica.

Oh, returning to London I felt pleased, probably because I had a good time there - not much to read into. Landing at JFK I only realized that this place has no mystery to me. The city seems to me like clean-up after a large party (HRVHS HOME OF THE EAGLES!). You know people were there, but it's gotten comfortably quiet - the options are toil, or nap, and you might have one friend around to help.

Looking out of the cockpit, because I flew the plane, I saw a man on the tarmac. I immediately thought, that man speaks English (which probably isn't true). Links were formed and I suddenly saw this place as an English speaking colony. And that's how we present ourselves - as settlers. We should have had a war on our soil, because we have hasty throw-ups and never replace the buildings. That's the source of American stank. Not rustic enough to be classy - not sloppy enough to be third world.

Doing my final currency exchange to USD made me giddy. Not for what it precluded, but that it is the money I grew up with. I see it as real money. The green! The faces! I kept taking peeks at it in my pocket, hiding it from view - lest people get jealous. Although Switzerland wins for coolest foreign currency. Digitalized pictures and swooping colors - fitting for a nation that requires the least amount of decoration to be a setting for a sci-fi movie.

I thought that once I got back I would have some final thoughts, or a compulsion to speak my inner mind. In that spirit, I present you with a few things learned and done while abroad:

Three prose poems written. I won't copy them here, as they are on themes like snoring, and are borderline.
If I want to find people that get my sense of humor, I should look for Italians for the macabre and raunchy, British for the sarcasm, and middle-aged South American women for silliness - especially if they're wearing comfy shoes.
The Mona Lisa is small
The French really are dirty
German art is great, especially that it centers on reuse.

Most excited moments: Tower of London and finding an old Os Gemeos in Sevilla
Best ritzy vacation: Hamburg in the Summertime
Best scurvy vacation: Tangier
Place I felt most at home was Northern London, perhaps because it was so similar to parts of Oregon. Even the kids in the only theater in town made me think of growing up in Hood River.

Biggest regret: Not having a book
Greatest boon: Bringing 1000 q-tips

I have never felt more inhibited than when I was tipsy. I didn't enjoy it, and in the end would be more proud to carry on the family tradition of getting thrown out of a bar whilst being the designated driver.


The big life lesson I guess is that some things suck, and some don't, and that's okay.


I was happy to have Bob yell at me for not taking the job offer in the Lake District. He told me to go fuck myself and leave - that nothing was left for me here. That was endearing. It really was!


Here is a sequence of pictures from my last morning in Geneva:

 


Tonight I go out to dinner with three ladies, pull down my pants, and make gingerbread houses.

Everyone Gets Swiss Army Knives For Xmas

The party is winding down. On Thursday I got into Geneva early in the morning. I couldn't find an alarm clock to buy (mine had broken) so I stayed up all night watching movies, sleeping the with lights on to stay awake to catch my flight.

What a relief to be back in the cold, meteorologically and culturally. Swiss aren't my type of people, they are reserved and not very straight forward, and are made uncomfortable by a chatty tourist.

And the smell is so much better here. Cold air, fresh water, chopped wood and mulled wine. That and horn players and yodelers. And oddly a metal statue of Freddy Mercury.


Keeping up with seeing castles I visited Chillon castle, but you can't expect great stories from the Swiss either. The castle had no bloody executions, was attacked twice and both times it was short and the occupants fled. Nice place, but pale.

The thrill of the hunt.

Vivianne and I went on a quest to find a two-headed animal display in Laussane, but found it under construction. Now added to my very limited French vocabulary is now two headed lamb.

Let me tell you, hiking here is so boring.

Stupid.

And because my traditional pose was being overplayed:

This was taken from a small car garage. A peasants viewpoint.

One great relief about being in a home is that there are books on shelves, and finally books to read. There is something so secure in having a small library - that grounds you. And it made me nice and limp. Oh baby.

And since I was in Montreux, I had to pop by Nabokovs grave. Not that grave sites ever do much for me, but it was a good thing to do, finally have a semi-physical connection with him. To know where he settled and died. To imagine him in boots and shorts, chasing butterflies in uncharming hats.

Tomorrow I go. An early swim in the lake, and then the airport. Another sleepless night in London, then back to NY. But honestly, I don't think the blog will end there. Because it would be unfair to treat Americans as the norm, and not assess them - if there's any I can muster. Not like I have a changed perspective, but it's fair. Also, because I won't be staying. The trip is ending, but I don't feel bad either way.

I'm trying to convince some girls to go on a date with me to Medieval Times in NJ, but some women just aren't as enthusiastic about jeering on jousts while getting sloppy with mutton. That would be a pure woman.

High School Musical!

I'm tipping 100% like it ain't no thing. Seriously, it is nothing. It makes my 10 inch thick crust 4 dollars. It's because I like the guys - or maybe because one jumped out of the store, ran to a pink vespa with bedazzled keys and quickly rode off into the crowd.

I'm going along with things that I probably shouldn't. Well, when someone lunges to shake my hand, never lets go, and talks about the ash and mother we are from and then offers to join me (I didn't know I was going) in the Hammam I let him tag along. I'm not really that big of a patsy, I was planning on going to one today anyway. 

It was a relief to escape the lived-in cat smell to a more fresh cat smell. And muddy floors, were there tiles underneath that? There was no aroma to the foam mats they massaged me on because it was brick. A platza massage feels like a cruel practical joke that embarrasses you, but ends up killing the prankster and leaving you with their pet Kodiak that always pays for dinner, even if you insist it's your turn. I would have loved one of those. I forget what string of word was associated with the maneuver that turned me into a canoe.

All the talk made me reminiscent of Johns friend, who only knew the words; "money" "very rich" "drug" and "lick it."

Physical abuse makes me laugh. More so when it's directed at me. I fondly remember a few rucks that I cackled underneath. The confused stares and crushed ribcage made me laugh more, in a parabolic way. So the massage, while doing nothing for my body - or nausea, made me feel chipper.

So good that I sat on the roof writing, and then went out to watch Never Let Me Go. I did cry, but not at the end. It was the middle that got me. What about you?

I suppose I have an unofficial beard experiment on. Ah, science...

I have to rise early and catch my flight to Switzerland!

www.youtube.com allows you to share videos with friends!

I can't decide if it's the power of the pound, or the proximity to England, but everyone identifies me as British. And I immediately correct them in two ways; in my Scottish or Benjamin Button accents. Look forward to hearing them again in person, dear reader!

I don't think this country has refrigeration. Which solves some problems, but will it cause anything to stir when I'm gone? (Related link; I was constantly prepared for this while I was with John). Do you wonder if I do things just for the links I have, or do I find links for the things I have done? Make your predictions.

One of the very nice things about Marrakech in the winter is that people try to show you around, or get you to buy such and such, but they're polite, and if you're polite as well then no harm. Which is extraordinary. What is also extraordinary? Finding your livejournal from High School still exists. Not much to report except that I am so much cooler now. So krispy!

Okay, it's clear I didn't get out much today. There is something stirring in me already. And only one thing can stop it. Or plenty of water. But I did make it out to some more gardens. Blah blah, enough about travel, more about me.

Though I should say, aside from graduating, having been to 5 continents, and including links in my new blog, it would be hard to tell the difference between past me and present. I won't provide the link for your own comparison. The voice is stronger, but the content is largely the same (except the private posts I made on livejournal OUCH!). Maybe I am cynical about blogging, or I haven't yet accepted that this is essentially a mass e-mail. What would you like more of?

When I'm back amongst companions, you'll have more pictures (does that make John and Unnamed Assailant companions?).

P.S. For "OUCH!" I was trying to find this nice picture I have on my external hard drive, yes I have a collection. To find it I meant to type "exposed, vulnerable" yet I found results for "exposed vulvernable." All medically accurate?

Okay, one last thing. I read even further, to when I had signed the papers to go to Bard. And I say to myself that I didn't want things to change! Which is laughable now, in a good way. Yet it made me recall what Isabella told me in Camden. The gist is that she constantly is changing and only claims responsibility for the past 6 years, before that she wasn't a person. And right now I agree. However! There are times I find myself pretty funny. At the least I respect that some things just won't change.

Here's looking to the eleventh year of the Willenium!

Some Time All Too Alone

This is really lucky for me. After the first night, I was restricted on any computer from accessing anything related to Google. So no blog or e-mail.

Here are some snippets from what I wrote on the side, sort of a jumbled story:

12.3.10  I remember being told that Marrakech is rather boring. How could that be when I was having poorly rehearsed sing-alongs to the Bee Gees and Third-Eye Blind along the coast with two strangers the night before? There’s no mass exodus during prayer, as some people pray at different times and for different lengths - there’s even a ‘joke’ about how much someone prays in a day.

I’ve seen monkeys paraded around and numerous shops that seem to sell the exact same thing. At least I eat for 4 dollars a day, which to a man with no other cash that what he has on him, is a godsend. As luck would have it I’ve come in time with the Marrakech Film Festival. Who else is excited to go to a conversation avec Francis Ford Coppola?

As I go on with limited funds, I feel more and more the need to stop spending. And that fun times to me are burning things, drawing, baking, and rides around the country. I felt great having an unofficial purpose of finding street art in Europe. So I give myself the purpose of finding some cake.

12.4.10   Well, so much for the Ouzoud falls, or the cooking class I had scheduled. I feel like shit.

Being in Marrakech is like an extended stay at the Oregon Country Fair. One indelible similarity is that the strangest sights aren’t with the residents, but those who’re visiting. Though I have yet to find a Dr Vortex store.

And haggling. At your best, it’s more fun that television, at your most sick and hungry, it makes a short day a blessing. And what better way to end the day than upturned in the only room I’ve been in that lets you shower and poo in the same 4x4 inclined square.

I have an unusual urge to bake.

12.5.10   I ate lunch with a nice British couple. I walked around the city, especially the Cyber Park. A park with free kiosks for the internet scattered about trees and fountains.

I’ve lost a great deal of appetite, and feel like shit still. However, I did go out in the ammonia air to watch Keanu Reeves present Speed (too bad I won’t be here to see John Malkovich do the same for Con Air). He tried greeting the crowd in true Arabic/Keanu style. It was hilarious, especially since he really didn’t understand why he was there, as emphasized by his final, crouched and dramatic words, “SPEED!”

Ice cream. Oh thank god for ice cream.

I’m having trouble planning my life. How will I be a teacher and a role model while launching a major series of erotic photographs? And how will I afford the series featuring close-ups of weightless erogenous zones? Why is life so DIFFICULT?!




12.6.10  I wandered out and found the closest thing I could to cake. Sort of a marshmellowy mousse. Upon returning to the Riad I was shoved upon a Norwegian as I was the only person that spoke English. Roger and I went for some tea. He had just left his job composing music to travel and write his second childrens book (Of course I'll find the name). We walked around and have made plans to go to some music tonight.



In preparation for a long series of airports I have downloaded Daybreakers, Bad Lieutenant, Easy A, Dinner for Schmucks, and Get Him to the Greek.


I'm excited to leave Marrakech. It is kind of boring, but maybe that's just because I've been confined. And in my confinement I can't get Ewan McGregor out of my head. But then I've referenced so many men, that I should show the more attractive, and fairer sex (Of course I mean Holly Hunter).


And I have become purposeful, yet disheveled:

I found Tangier filled with friendly people. I never want to return.

Please note that I didn't have a miniature panic attack on the 1st, nor today.

I took off early for Morocco. I had the hostels numbers, addresses, I had a plan, knew the schedules of ferries, how to haggle a petit taxi, read the guides and even had the Embassy locations. Well, lets go.
The sun began to set as I crossed the straight. We were heading into ominous stormclouds that covered Tangier. So no pictures. To get to Algeciras I took the bus and I enjoyed seeing Spain from the road. It is very Californian in a way, even in poverty. I felt very good seeing the Mediterranean for the first time. I was going to Africa.

I got off the ferry and get onto the free bus to the center of Tangier. On the bus a man starts talking to me, he works in Gibralter as a plumber and his English name is John (Real name Jalahl). He insists that I come, get dressed, have real Moroccan tea, and then we go eat.

So now I’m on edge between having a good time, or avoid being stabbed. John is affable, so I start thinking he’s a very skilled con man. Three new handshakes later, some phrases, talk about the English, and evidence of British pounds; We departed the bus and he swatted away all the hustlers. He told them in Arabic that I work with him in Gibralter and that they should lay off. Maybe he’s the king con-man, claiming his prize.

I started to memorize the route we took to his house. I insisted that I couldn't stay there, but must get to my hotel after tea. He agreed to take me to it after he prayed. A very religious con man. He then said that I enjoy his hospitality now, and then a year from now, I treat him to my home. Quite a long-term con man, and not in the bad side of town. Already I have a leg up on Brad Strange who followed a man, not from the ferry, but prison, to Harlem to buy weed.

The tea was great, and as he dressed me in a wool hat and jabala (he assured me that I’d look Moroccan and that many Moroccans are ginger), I started to think I’ve either found a very kind man, father of two married daughters, or I’ve found the most patient sadist on the continent. Judging from how I looked, I was leaning toward the latter.

But enough awkward sips of tea, constant crumpets, and hearing prayer over Arabic subtitled Talladega Nights, we must anon to my Hotel. They didn’t let me book online, but I found it from Lonely Planet guide book, I knew how t get to it from looking at maps. I am Jason Bourne.

Thankfully I convinced him to remove the robe. And we took a taxi, which added to the confusion. Lets get to the hotel, then some money (ah, the killing zone) and then I will treat John to some dinner.

The hotel doesn’t exist, or it’s name and the street name have both changed. The number from the guide and the internet, didn’t work. John and the driver (a friend of Johns, naturally) ferried me around asking locals about the place, the street name (that I double checked from Google (damn you 3rd world Google)). Eventually we found it “Hotel California.” Number 8 on, this new street name, where it should be, but not what was advertised. John warned me that it looked shady and I could stay at his house.

Well, that’s enough. I’ve got my bags safely tucked away in the cellar, have it locked from prying hands. Lets get money, get robbed, and buy some food.

Now here’s something that no internet guide, tourist site, Lonely Planet book, or other weighty tome in the lobby of your Sevillan hotel tells you: KeyBank will never accept an ATM withdrawal from Morocco.
Finding that out was a bit difficult, having the taxi driver leap around town in fine leather Volvo mini style, to every ATM he knows. None worked. So we found a phone. No good, as they didn’t have a country code for my calling card. Off to the internet, where they blessfully gave me access for free. Maybe it’s Johns mob connections.

I eventually called with some dirhams from the driver, already it had been an hour. The bank eventually discovers that due to high fraud rates, KeyBank does not allow transactions from ATMs. He put me on hold, and wouldn’t you know, the American bank is playing a melody of Arabian Nights.

Well, best option was to go to a bank with the card, passport, and get a cash advance, if they let you, otherwise, there is no option. Beg my way to Spain. John and the driver were exclaiming repeatedly how unfortunate it was. That I had no money. I shouldn't be ashamed, I should go out and eat with them, tomorrow we can get the money. I wouldn't have it.

So, John, the driver and I agreed to meet in the morning, to go to a bank, pay the driver handsomely for his help, buy John whatever he wanted, and pay the hotel. And then, I realized that I’m the worst person to rob. And that despite my hesitation (natural), without John I would have been dead in downtown Tangier. Still looking for a hotel.


This was written in my cell:
"So now I lay. Cut off, and I wonder….if it all works out I get my 300 American dollars (3000 or so dirhams - enough to buy five nights at a hotel, a bus ticket, and plenty of food, and the driver) do I continue on to Marrakech.
Have I been beaten?
After all, I did leave early, no one but Rachel knows. But I do have a plane ticket from Marrakech, and a REAL hotel - pricey - ie in existence.
I remember that for Watson interviews they asked if I could continue my project, when I had no place to stay, no money, no language, in the rain. Could I keep going.
Foolishly I answered yes. And I think foolishly, I say yes again tonight."

In the morning we ran from bank to bank, until by luck and pressure I found myself tucking various wads of dirhams into different nooks in my body. Proud that I could afford to hop back to Spain, or continue on. John was very pleased and I took him to breakfast. Only you can't take a Moroccan man anywhere without him running into one friend for every block you pass, or he has to make a phone call. Despite his usefulness and the fact he showed me his family, I'm still not convinced about John. I don't feel bad about it. Especially after he politely offered me to smuggle something to Spain for a friend. "So many tourists, just under your coat, and woosh woosh, 200 euro, under your jacket." Whatever it was.

He didn't understand why I'd want to go to Marrakech, when I had to stay three days in Tangier - to see everything. We could rent a car, go to a hamman, and then go out for drinks. Imagine. I thought it was more important to pay the hotel, buy my bus ticket, and then we could do something.

And we rented a car. I was gleeful to see that the owner of the rental car had a few movies stacked on his desk; Traitor, the Mummy, and the Mummy 2.

I have a few moments of pride when it comes to driving:
Descending Dead Mans Pass in pitch black during a tornado thunderstorm, trucks hydroplaning the switchbacks.
Weaving around traffic in Sao Paulo during another storm where all the streetlights and traffic lights went out

But I'm not sure I'm proud of learning stick shift in Tangier in perfect weather while a man you still think wants to borrow your organs yells at you in Arabic. But we do eventually go for a ride along the coast with his friend, to see the mansions, the hole where Hercules lived, the empty resorts, Assilah - to negotiate for half an hour for oranges from a relative and to see more relatives in the medina, and the creme de la creme; the airport. "Just to tell people you've seen it."

I did get to make that momentous phone call to America, leaving a message that 'I was fine, in Tangier with some very nice men.'

'Bill Ubell here. I'm on a pay phone. I am still blindfolded. My arms are bound. But a young boy has been kind enough to assist me. There's not much chance I'll get another opportunity to call...so I thought I would ask if....what? No.'

 Soon after this, we ate a complex meal of fries, beef, bread, and tea along the road side.

Brad Strange ended his night quietly mugged and left unharmed wondering where his weed was in Harlem. Mine ends with John leaving me at the bus station. Ticket in hand, and advising me not to trust anyone. Still I was wondering if you should trust someone just because they tell you not to trust anyone, but he just left. He gave me his phone number but didn't ask for mine, didn't want my address. Nothing.

So I waited for the overnight bus to Marrakech, talking to a local people watcher in Spanish. We talked about the Moors in Spain, his favorite Agatha Christie novels, and how sad he was when Lady Diana died. He insisted that Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie are huge names in Arabic literature.

I've made it to Marrakech. I'm staying at Riad Fantasia room A3 and I've paid to stay until my flight on the 9th. After sleeping, I need to get more cash.

Long Story Short, the Stain Came Out

Today I must confess nervousness. I noticed a stain on my first-ever pair of jeans to be reserved for semi-formal occasions. And I threw a quiet hissyfit on Calle Feria. I started to get flustered that I couldn´t even care for pants. Which somehow lead to a train of thought that I was uncomfortable with the idea of returning to America.

And Pam Wess asked me, ¨Why go to Europe when you can go to Disneyworld and see it all in a day?¨

I´m not sure what the root of it is, a stain, a sense of responsibility, or something else ahead. I suppose the closest I get to understanding is that coming home sort of signifies that things have permenantly changed, or that I´ll have to face that. It´s easy to feel constant dramatic and purposeful change when you´re on the move. And I guess I´ll have to try and stop moving.

I´ll be forced to stop moving as I checked my balance. Holding steady at 2k. 2k I need to pay first and last months rent, and airfare to my next habitation and student debt. Despite canceling arrangements for a 5 day trek in the Sahara I still party and come home like a pro.

I spent the day pantless. So I booked bus tickets, checked hostels, and contacted some British Organizations about science education and outreach. Not for potential jobs, but I realized that I didn´t have a great grasp on what the majority of city-dwelling Americans thought of science, and I had an even more restricted idea of what the British thought. And how they go about changing it. A few information packets down my gizzard and I find that it´s sort of the same, but I doubt they share a similar curious sense of abandonment and apocalyptic fallout.

The Lack of Pictures Might Make You Believe I'm Back in the USA Already

I think I've solved the major mystery of what the foreigners to to pass the time before partying. The French Facebook, the Americans have a movie marathon of How I Met Your Mother and Forgetting Sarah Marshall (their obvious good taste is applauded), and the Germans sit in the kitchen, surrounded by contemptible eyes and hushed tones. But maybe that's just because I'm interrupting them.

I'm transcribing my notes from articles I've read and I apparently thought that the comment “sloppy seconds after reproductive output not bad” would be perfectly clear.

I got a response from my long-posted Ok Cupid profile (Disfigured69), but my reply of, “Your skin looks of average quality. I like that, and the Government.” didn’t get a reply just yet.

I had a different type of good time today, cooking my own meals, working, watching some BBC online, and scarcely an interaction as the aforementioned Germans are not as polite as their countrymen and because the drizzle has shut everything down again. Not the kind of culture I'd like to become naturalized in. I like it sloppy wet.

As a large part of vacation, spontaneous is spent planning the next bit. Amidst negotiations for camel treks I realized that I'd like to plan very large, longer and more involved trips. I'm sad that I'm hopping over a large section of these countries, when I could be shunt-piking for a month and a half across India or a similarly large country (Former Soviet nations, China, and African nations need not apply). That's what I really loved about visiting Australia and to a larger extent New Zealand. I do enjoy what I'm doing now, as it's what I wanted, and had time and money for but that's the next goal: Save 3k at least, study, plan, grab a tolerable friend or two and road trip.

Nobody else thinks of R. Pat when they hear "sloppy wet?" AM I ALONE HERE?

Years of Google Image Search Practice

Why is there not a deodorant that smells of fire? I came back from the flamenco show smelling of it. I love it.

One thing I haven’t adjusted to is the Spanish sense of breaking up a day. Noon and everything is still closed, things begin to swing around 3pm, but then abruptly stop until 7pm and there’s a lull again from 9-10pm where the night life begins for the early bird crowd. I keep wondering what locals do in the meantime?

Grab your friend from Portland, Oregon and watch Going the Distance it seems. I’ve come to find out that this small artistic city of many bridges attracts gobs of Oregonians. Yuki, Rachel, Jennifer and Joseph are a few of them, most are UO graduates. Not all of them came over as a pregnancy pact, but quickly met. Am I alarmed, or disgusted? It hasn’t ruined any mysteries, but it does make me feel as if I went the safest route. I begin to think about what Americans look for in the world at large, aside from underground gambling.

Out on my own I visited Fotomata to see some photographs. I was sitting in the Plaza De Torros and wondered what good was it to see a Bullfighting Arena, without a bullfight. I doubt I’d enjoy seeing it, but the circular arena isn‘t grand without a throng.

Yesterday was the first day that I’ve relaxed on this trip. I sat on the balcony, eating a Napolitana for a few hours, talked with people in the late afternoon, and as the sun went down I got some work in and even wrote a sketch. And in the greatest tradition of comedy I asked myself, “Is this funny, or just weird?”

And if you ever find yourself on a long trip, or need to pass the time for other reasons I pose the following question:

If you could speak and understand every language on earth, but your vocabulary and accents are all based off of one movie, which movie would it be? You may not be able to order food, but you can ask “Did he come in your mouth?” if you choose Closer, and mind you this affects how you say things. So if you chose Beauty and the Beast some of your say, Punjabi phrases would be sung in the approximate voice of the Beast. A smart route is to take a Woody Allen movie, as it packs in a great deal of words per minute, but you’ll always be whiny.

I ended the night at La Carboneria, watching a flamenco show. Sometimes all you hear is the wailing, and you really notice how much the Moors influenced the Iberian cultures. Speaking of, plans are set for the last leg of the trip. I cross the straight of Gibralter, head to Marrakech, see the desert, fly to Geneva, hike the Alps, then London - JFK by way of Munich.

Today is another rainy day and paradoxically the water is shut off. Because this place is built to be cool, it's frigid right now. Or maybe that's just the warm welcome I get when I say 'Que tal?' in the Wazzup voice.

Okay, one last thing, I'm watching Rachel from Portland who works here speak to Angie. Rachel doesn't know a word of Spanish, and is trying to tell Angie that she'll be back around 4. It's stereotypical. Rachel has worked here for six months. I suppose I just couldn't imagine living in a very foreign place just to 'live.' Maybe if she owned a motorcycle I would be more understanding.

Ultimately when I am an immigrant, I want to have loads of qualifications that can be ignored.

Mexico

Spainards have the audacity of hope to call KFC, ¨Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant¨. Cowards.

It was pouring rain yesterday. Which almost felt like a snow day, as people were huddled in thier empty stores. I walked around the river and saw some taggers at work, right opposite a homeless camp. For some reason too, I look like I speak English.

I also bought in and tried to party like a Spainard. Which meant the party started like an American one ends, around 1am with a bunch of people posing for pictures and sighing. And surprisingly it never changed. 2am is too early to go clubbing, so we bar-hopped. Eventually, around 3am we headed toward the club, which was just a bunch of people talking to low volume music. One sloppy kiss from Enrique on my nape ended the night.

In future plans, I go to the bullfighting arean today, and throw away all plans for Portugal. Why Lisbon when I could go to Marrakesch? I will be free!

NO8DO ¨No me ha dejado¨

I think I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Latin cultures. I think it has a lot to do with growing up in the West. For us, Mexico, or down south, is always a glorious option.

More specifically, I don´t know if it´s the courtyards, the sideburns, the smell of the pervasive Sevillan orange trees, the semi-tropical birds, or the huge fuck-off Moorish doors, but I´m more than pleased. However! beignets, churros are not. I don´t care what you do to them.

Sevilla is a nice small city. Now, I´m a few weeks away from a culminating post of life lessons. Regardless, in my admiration for this city and others from the trip so far I can´t but help and think that two years ago I had a strict idea of what I needed out of a location. I looked back on what made me happy in college, and I said, I must keep those. Not a stupid idea when you apply it to yourself, but when you insist a place must provide, you set yourself up for disappointment and vagrancy. As time goes on, restrictions peel away, and it´s not a sign of indecisiveness.

¨Restrictions peel away¨ would have had a link to a clip from Up in the Air, but here´s the bit I wanted:
You know, honestly, by the time you're 34, all the
physical requirements just go out the window. 
Like you secretly pray
that he'll be taller than you. 
Not an asshole would be nice. Just someone who
enjoys my company, comes from a good family. 
You don't think about that
when you're younger. 
I don't know...
someone who wants kids. 
Likes kids. Wants kids 
Healthy enough to play with his kids. 
Please let him earn more money
than I do. 
You might not understand that now,
but believe me, you will one day. 
Otherwise that's a recipe for disaster. 
And hopefully some hair on his head.
But I mean even that's not
a deal breaker these days.
A nice smile.
Yeah, a nice smile.
Nice smile just might do it.
Wow, that was depressing.


And if we´re on the subject (I sound like Samantha) I have had a few quotes floating in my head this whole trip but two keep popping up. On the phone I asked Veronica is she minded that there weren´t too many like-minded theater people working in New Orleans. Her response was immediately, ¨We don´t care.¨ Which goes along nicely with the previous discussion.

And my favorite, from Bob Schneider during a conversation about my Organic Chemistry final, ¨You have the amazing opportunity to fuck up your whole life. Chances like this don´t come around often.¨ Which always makes me smile.

And Sevilla, I walked around parks, ate tapas, saw some graffiti (eh), plenty of Jesus paintings, went to two museums, two markets (miles of navity scenes), and went dancing.

Tomorrow is some work. Ah, and I watched Chloe, dubbed. Which suited it quite well. Oh Liam.....

Traditions

Yesterday was a day of transit. My frist snow of the season was in Paris. And during the trip I started to think about tradition, more specifically, things I´ve never stopped doing.

Like fibbing. It´s funny, if not frustrating for some. It is nice to see the reaction from a person when I say that I´ve lived my life in Vanuatu, on Efate, where I eventually left, came to Europe to go to a lecture at Kohn. Not too far off, you have to stick near the truth, or else you have a man sitting next to you for the 2 hour train trip to Sevilla, interrupting your viewing of Love Happens (RACHEL!), trying to brush up his Russian with you.

I also had my best ´try to frighten a passenger in the adjacent train´. I looked at her, and did a double take. She did to, then I got pissed, shoved my watch to the window and pointed at it and then made the sign for money. She got flustered. Either I just made a woman flee France, or I had met my match, I can´t tell which.

I few things kept coming into my mind. And one of them was that I was planning to go to Costa Rica alone in High School. Looking back on that I´m fairly proud, that I would have just gone for it. I had it planned, but the tickets fell through. I did go, eventually, with my class. I was happy that I was doing it now. Proud.

I am also very happy to be surrounded by Iberian style, it has a constant wiff of the 70s. It reminds me of Mexico, Costa Rica, and Brazil. It has this smell to it to, maybe it´s called detergant. And I´m really excited. I also have a small power trip, as I´m having all of my Spanish snap back to me, and I´m talking to anyone.

Anyone not always being a good idea. Such as Mike from London at 2am, who just left his wife and kids, is going to try and convince the 18 year old he slept with to leave her husband. He even produced e-mails. My god. I avoided going sightseeing with him today. Go Mike, go on.

I also don´t need anything more than a t-shirt right now, which is pleasant.

It was an odd experience calling home to wish a Happy Thanksgiving. Although plans are now in effect that I may go to the family reunion in my Luftwaffe uniform, riding my brother, who will be dressed as a plane. Not sure how Grandad will take it. Fondle me, I suppose.

Someone just said 'Human Centipede'

Dear reader,

Paris, France. I am open and ready to be surprised, but not delusional. I know that I don't care much for French anything, save for a few movies. I get into Paris, get settled down along the banks of the upper Seine, and what do I do? I plan a night of a French movie, some Jazz in an Medieval cellar, and then some canard with a sample of escargot.

I got so giddy with the silly idea of going to a French action movie (the poster and name looked as much) and not understanding a thing. My perpetual need to view any and all movies is astounding, you mention. That is true. I was initially disappointed to notice the movie is in English! Filmed in America, but do not fret. Though the film wasn't in French, it was incomprehensible in a similar French manner. It was about an old tire that started blowing up things with its mind, whilst 'audience members' were watching from a hill top, being poisoned so the show could end, plenty of t and a. And even some p woven into a few bs.

This takes second place as the worst movie I have ever seen (He's Just Not That Into You still reigns). Speaking of reigning, Reign of Fire is still awesome. This movie really had my mind working on conversion rates and why I was alive. I remember a similar effect from HJNTIY (a smooth acronym), except my anger turned toward the human race, wishing we all repent, and losing all taste and sense of touch for a week.

I was guessing at the restaurant, but I figured 'The Petition" wasn't how you asked for the check. If you're curious, the duck was delicious, with carmelized onions, patatas bravadas with basil, and a lemon/rum drink (which did do something for the flavor, but cost a sandwich itself). And escargot, well, the garlic taste was all I could describe, but the texture caused taste hallucinations; that I was gnawing the dripping remnants of whale boogers from the inside of a heated tire. The garlic did help though.

Jazz is relaxing. That's about all I can say. Sometimes you get sleepy, but most other times you latch onto one instrument, and admire the players skill (hopefully). But you knew that without going to Paris, didn't you?

Today I saw all the major sights (on the Hitler monument tour, but people are reluctant to help me stage similar photographs), hiked around Montmarte (where they filmed Amelie, you love that movie, who doesn't), saw the peddlars, the comb-overs, was smacked by an unnecessary number of petitioners for the mute and deaf (I gave once in the train station, but have since been smacked in the arm and face-rubbed by 13 so far), and completed a promise.

SPACE TO BE OCCUPIED.

Noon. Paris. Today. Pont Neuf. You come alone. You walk to the middle of that bridge. You take off your jacket. Face east.

Unfortunately, due to construction, I had to face west. LOOK AT THE JACKET THOUGH. And if you enhance on my watch, you'll see it was done 5 minutes to noon. Of course, there is no picture, because the blog is rejecting it. Well, you'll see it, soon enough.

Did you know that Pont Neuf is decorated with the drunk faces of Henry IVs friends?

I am omitting pictures of different locks on the lovers bridge. One had a pacifier on it, which made me pumped for the next Twilight movie, you didn't read the books? One lock as a combination lock, which according to tradition, makes their relationship seem tepid at best.

In Global news, I have been told that the Wolf family Xmas Extravaganza will be Greek themed. I swear to god I'm wearing a toga, and though I am outmatched in the ruining a social engagement department, I will ruin my own little niche, and do my best to alienate myself and everyone around me. A true family tradition. The only way it could backfire is that everyone by chance wears togas, then what Dear Reader? They already bought a keg.


I have a flight to Madrid tomorrow afternoon. If I cannot catch a connecting train, I may be crashing with a friend of a friend. Hrm?


Oh, today I also met a teacher from Nova Scotia who is in Paris to watch his son figure skate in an international competition (he placed fourth for the Olympic trials). I asked the man what he taught. I thought he said Home-Ec. We had a nigh ten minute conversation before we realized that I wasn't talking about math. He said 'all math' which is confusing.


And sleeping in hostels, at its best is like bunking on a submarine. At worst it is Ibrahim, the Perpetual, in London spending two hours pacing to and from the bathroom and removing an baffling number of thin-thin layers. And what seemed like seven pairs of identical shoes. Upside down cake? Why's it upside down? (that article used to say that boobs are frequently referred to as 'Upside-Down cakes' something I endorse still).

There Are So Many Options and None of the End with "You Suck"

On the train I did a little self-check up by going over my journal entries. Anal Cunt would be so disappointed in me, but they're also disappointed in themselves.

So it's obvious to me that I'm going back to school for education. I know the requirements, and they'll be met with will and face-numbing humility.

Mom questioned me in February why I'd want to do a Masters in Teaching when I could just get a Masters in Biology. My rationale is that I don't want the qualifications to be a Lab assistant, or some armchair theorist who works at Knot Another Hat while trying to get articles published on his favorite ligands. I want the qualifications to teach. As far as great programs are concerned, it's back to New York. Rest assured there will be plenty of safety schools and exotic schools, you never know . . . the Estonian School of Diplomacy may be looking for me.

This is a case of edification that you put it into the ether and then you can't take it back. And I like it.

In a way I want this trip to be over. Mostly because I'm not doing anything life-advancing out here. But I did just walk out to a former city morgue that is now a huge art space. I mean huge. I go for runs, and do arm exercises (running 5k at 24 minutes - 7 minute miles!). I'm doing the obligatory test of Mrs Walls 'Don't Knock it Til you Try It' maxim. I am eating healthy. I am trying to eat more slowly (20 meals and not just to idle, because I would be that dude). (What's this?) I'm also trying wine with my food. Which I don't think enhances the flavor, but it's not bad on it's own. The cap is at one glass, I'm not unraveling out here. Although after tasting escargot I may change my mind.

After talking with a Spanish couple (and learning I speak more fluent Spanish with a fake lisp) I realized that I miss 'Latin culture' as ambiguous my personal definition of that is. Switzerland plans are falling through and I might make an early trip to Sevilla. And dance. Dance. Dance! As for 2011, maybe I can convince some ex-coworkers at Amys to house me temporarily in Bogota.

Obligatory Not-Dead Post Number 1 WITH NEW ADDENDUM

London for one more night, or more, as I wasn't allowed to purchase my ticket to Paris over the internet. We'll have to go do it in person.

What does one do after 5 in the hot spot of Windermere? See Harry Potter. I'm the BEST. Actually, the animation for the Story of the Three Brothers was the best. I loved the movie because it was a fantasy, post-apocalyptic, war drama. Throw in Joseph Gordon-Levitt and it's all done.

Continuing my addendum, I went to go see a show. And, I received some great correspondence. Fair waring, I feel my best on my own, which I didn't expect considering how lonely it can get. It's when I'm online that I tend to get mopey. And there's no real direct reason. We will ponder.

Explosive High-Five

Friday night I had a great time getting drinks with Isabella. We’d only met once before and we had a easy chat. More importantly she invited me back to her place to meet Sid, his sister Hannah, talk about comedian celebrity in the UK (along with the remorseful fact that no one over here has a clue who Dane Cook is), and then Life of Brian. I rode some very unreliable but fun double-deckers back, ready for four hours sleep and a trip to Windermere.

Now, Windermere is not the wooded hole Google maps prepared me for. If Charlie St. Cloud was Anglicized it would take place here. I’m the only one who saw Charlie St. Cloud, what’s the deal?

The train ride out sure made me think this would be a factory town. Dreary mud-grey houses shoved together. Now it is touristy here, but it’s beautiful. The benefit of being from a tourist town is that you eventually quit noticing it. The biggest lake in the UK, and quiet enough to cause someone to go nuts. It’s fabulous weather and woods. I feel great out here I took a walk today around Far Sawrey. The damp smells and the intermittent scent of fires made me happy.

While in London I had several serious cases of déjà vu. More specifically I have had dreams of these places (Camden Underground station, Kennington, etc). Now, if I have dreamt of all the places I’ll go, I can’t wait to go traipsing around the intestines of a mountain while a sloughing Mrs. Frizzle/bull chases me.

That’s things I’ve seen, but nothing really about me. I like it out here quite a bit, I wasn’t planning on it, but I do. I was chatting up the hostel owner, who casually offered me a job in this region if I'd want. Which isn't a bad idea. Especially because there's no guarantee of getting into grad school (especially no guarantee of getting a career job after that), so I'll keep it in mind. Not too compelling right now because it doesn't have two of the following: a place a like, people I like, a job I like. I expect it's very rare to have all three, so two will be just fine.

Sometimes, while in transit I feel lame. However, every day I finish feeling as if every last inch of me is covered in hair. That last link had many different options. One thing that makes me feel that way is that rugby is  EVERYWHERE! I spent last night writing the article while sipping tea and watching Ireland Vs. New Zealand. And tomorrow there is a live scrimmage. Oh yeah.

Easy Tease

Is it fitting that Jeremy Irons voiced the audio tour for Westminster Abbey? The last voice work I remember him doing was Lolita. Yet it fills me with elation to hear him talk about monks who on average were constantly sick from overindulging in food and beer, causing digestive problems, liver complaints, nausea, obesity, and arthritis. Westminster is quickly becoming crowded with tombs and memorials.

I went back out to Camden to meet with one of Mikes friends, which was a bust, I don't think she got my e-mail. I called and we made some loose plans that I left behind for dinner, BBC, and work. I stuck myself indoors getting information of graduate programs, and then transcribing my article notes. It feels so good. Be who you are.

Though I have gone to a lot of museums, I should note that I don't canvass the whole building. I'm rapacious when it comes to exhibits, and jump around, looking for eye catching bayonets, death masks, or the like.

Tomorrow I have definite plans to get cocktails with Isa (friend of friends) in Camden, which hopefully will devolve into a more raucous night, or just some nice chats.

Ah, and to solve the mystery of what I did last night: I did the latter. Shunt Vaults is closed, sadly, and the warehouse is open. Then BBC 2 for history specials galore! Particularly two men going through daily life as Edwardian farmers. It was cooler than it reads. I did drink tea, and then later watched a show entirely dedicated to mocking recently discharged contestants from Apprentice. Then some nice mustacheod dramas before bed. Tonight is more of the same and I'm glad for it. You should be glad too, dear reader, that this intensely sexual icon isn't out on the town. I contain it, and my emotions.

I think London is done aside from some hangings out. Spain house has fallen through so my route after England looks to be: Paris, Switzerland, Prague, Vienna, Northern Italy, Seville, and then home? I have a return ticket to NYC for Dec 13th. Time to catch the flight to Oregon on the 19th. After which I stay put for a month or so, finishing applications, and preparing to move to New Orleans.

Of course there are contingency plans, and I'm always open to something else (blood oath for Sri Lanka anyone?). I just want to be in one place earning up some money for school. And if schools fall through I'll be ready. I'm looking at friends who have been at it longer than I and am glad to see none of them have things figured out - I'm not singling you out this time Dylan.

I feel strong. I am strong.

And what are you doing with yourself?

Hope for the Best, Prepare for the Worst

The Brits really know about good museums. Today, and I feel my final for the country was the Imperial War Museum. Thank you for recommending it, Elizabeth. SIEGE WEAPONS, but then the most expansive and affecting display of the world wars. I held in a good amount of choked-up Susan-Boyle-looks-like-a-loser-but-wowed-everyone-with-her-voice during a recording of Winston Churchill:


Victory at all costs, 
victory in spite of all terror, 
victory however long and hard the road may be; 
for without victory, there is no survival.

And I never knew that WWI tank crews wore the most frightening protective masks. I also think that the home front posters from both wars, commanding citizens to make preserves and grow their own vegetables, worthy of public display still. "Keep smiling, don't be blue, don't let Hitler worry you." Got me in a mood of preparation.

The heavy accents of construction workers got me out of bed and walking around in this perfect weather. Thank god for free museums. I took a spin around the Science museum and became critical and comparative about education techniques in these institutions. Oddly and happily, they had the most impressive collection of Industrial revolution paintings.

Yeah, I spilled a little eye-juice when Susan Boyle sang. Toss off.

And, 'chuffed to bits' is a great expression.

The wilderness can't come soon enough. Did you know that London is the largest city in Europe? Quite Interesting. That last link also has an goodly amount of Fry and Laurie et al.

The night for me can continue on two paths:
Calling up Nessa to go to a club called Shunt that inhabits abandoned tube tunnels under the London Bridge.
Or
Going briefly alone, only to return to act an old man, sip some free tea and watch BBC. In that respect, dear reader, I may be considered an Anglophile.

Dylan.

Dear reader, although we are apart, you still make me want to be a better man. Wait, this is the right link.

No, this is.

"To those Americans, 'Welcome Home.'"

I should back track and say that yesterday I went to the British Museum yesterday, which is gorgeous, but nothing compared to the Tower of London (But the amazing Medieval.collection is a prelude).

I have never seen a real castle before in my life. Going in I got so excited, in fact I haven't been this excited about English history since reenacting the Bayeux Tapestry in middle school for the Medieval 'Studies' elective which I believe I took twice. It's hard to get excited about history you can't see in America, because Britain kept it all. If you had been there, reader, I would have shook you. We entered a vault to see the coronation robes, the jewels, the gold everything. Monarchy swelled up within me and the grandeur of it all. And the huge lances used for jousting and armour made for small princes.

I talked with a beefeater who stood guard over Rudolf Hess. Which was awesome too.

Walking along inner wall from the Bloody tower, looking at the Thames in the failing light I started to smile. Happiness flushed my innards as if Gods heavy pleasure fist hooked a wrought-iron blow to my scrotum. The nausea effect was similar too.

Don't take me for an Anglophile just yet, but it was awesome. Later was a walking tour of the East End with . . Gary, a local. He showed us street art for two hours and talked about the ethnic history of the neighborhood. It too, was really something. Despite his flustered behavior and dirty looks from the criss-crossing Jack the Ripper tours, he was well researched and did it for fun (and charity).

And that was the whole day. I really could have slept on the green on the Tower. Crossbows seem to feel right in my hands. I have never had so much fun at a National Landmark/museum (feel free to dispute it). I'm being honest. I'm starting to have real fun. Hopefully this weekend I can ruin it by getting snowed in at the Lakes District.

On a more personal note; I have a hard time working on something nowadays because I'm fearful of, well, an immense amount of things. Traveling does impinge, but I can't use that excuse. It's times like this that I get nervous about the trip, that I really am running away. Because everything I want in life has no fixed path, which makes it easy to throw some things to the side or to suggest I can do it all later. It was so much easier when I had less options, gave me a challenge and a course. I do think possibilities is one of my biggest fears, which is why I like making snap decisions. It works, but I need a slow thinker to help me out or a nice winter retreat.

And yes, on the really pathetically un-masculine side of things I intend on sharing more of my feelings because I have been remiss in the past. I can flex nuts in other ways that don't involve shutting people out of my life. I think I'm only talking to you Dylan. Sorry to single you out.

Bob Hoskins.

LDN

I have to say that I'm underwhelmed by what I thought the British attitude would be. I know this is an international city and that I'm currently in the trashiest place (Kensington tomorrow, any better?). Yet I find that in manners, even to the excess, and the power of queuing goes to the Germans. These people say hello and goodbye to the whole restaurant. Not like I'm fetishizing it, but I've searched for 'Manners Porn' and 'Emily Post XXX' with mixed results. I wish there was a video of two people, heavy bass in the foreground as they introduce each other and never assume the other would like to do anything more.

I went to a drag show, not bad, but it lent itself to the bar crowd. I also saw the Kids are all Right. It's Mark Ruffalo to the max, but it was still charming. HOWEVER! This, my friends, is the giolded approach of cinema perfection: Rare Exports. As I left the movies I thought, 'Oh shit, I'm in England.' Pleasant.

I'm having fun, and maybe it's because I took a tumble in the tube, and when I stood up Bob Hoskins was sweeping up beer bottles, asking if I was having trouble with the missus. Bob Hoskins, not Bob Hoskins.

Bob Hoskins.

Plans

I feel good. Something about this reminds me of when I went to go look at colleges. Despite being a tourist (which has it's discomfort) I feel good here. We're going to look for a new place to stay, and are looking into shows.

London is very nice. I love the weather and the winding streets, and had fun at the Camden locks (but I wish I came in the summer). I insist on going to Brighton beach. And when we part I'm going up to the Lakes District to stay in Windermere.OH YEAH VACATION.

The funny thing about traveling is that, aside from mandatory dorky sightseeing, the majority of what you do is what you do when you're at home, such as seeing movies, going out with people, and using the WC.

Oh, we just saw 221B Bakersfield. How did they do such amazing stunts, with such small feet?

Seriously though, does anyone read this?

I know, and I'm sorry, but the hostel at Piccadilly Square was the only thing open tonight. Arrangements will be made farther away. Perhaps in the country.

Tomorrow I hope to meet up with some friends of friends. Perhaps that's the reason I got so restless on the train. Or, at least I started to relax, sipping tea under the channel. Piccadilly, however, is the UK's Times Square, and just as comfortable. Well, do not despair, dear reader, because I don't.

I know the internet is amazing, but to what extent do you depend on it? You're cold silence disheartens me, reader. Also, what do you think about the Germans owning classical greek monuments and statues, being angered that Russia has yet to return some priceless objects to their 'home' in Berlin? Well, they do have the money, I retort.

I realize how far off in the future my dreams are, but I have this huge itch to start working. I need to pump out the Sexual Cannibalism article, and then get to applications. I am still waiting to see if a house in Spain will be lent to me. If so, expect nude photographs.

Magnetic Fields mood, WHAT?

Hello,



Hamburg had me down today, with the Reeperbahn, the nonexistent Nachtmarkt, etc. But my heart warmed when I heard the chanting, "I am going to a fuck, a fuck." Something about assholes cheers me, is that wrong?

What also cheered me is taking you out on a nice date. It starts at Eisenstein in Altona for dunch. I reserved us a table.

In fact I reserved the whole place.

There is distance between us, but I close us in with my glare. I order you that nice thin crust Tuscan pizza that you like. YOU LOVE IT.

Such a nice meal and I promptly ruin it.


I can't stand traveling without music, so lets go dancing at a kitschy club.


I laugh at your joke, and I let you buy your drink - to make you feel in control, but you're not.

We take a walk around some romantic monuments. We talk about our hopes and dreams, but I grow restless hearing you talk about what will simply come true tonight.


I break into my Dads old dormitory and show you how awesome I am.


You seem nonplussed by my efforts to pleasure you, dear reader.


Perhaps it was the line I gave you at my door; "Want to share my bunk bed?"

I'm pumped to head to London tomorrow. I think a familiar language, chavs, friends of friends, and buckling down to get some work done will make it more enjoyable, but I needed a hectic time too. Some Vodka and Justin Timberlake in an Ice Bar with Dutch people was a good end to the city.

I could have gone to the Caribbean.

Hamburg is a much more lively city. But today all I'd like to do is watch Ratatouille and cook for myself. I'm such a grown-up, or am I just getting ready to party? Shops close around 6, but restaurants and clubs open around 9, and that's the slow start crowd. So what do you do before you go out Friday Night in Hamburg?

SPOILER ALERT FOR DAD WHEN YOU READ THIS:
Traveling does shit for your train of thought, unless you have someone to converse with. Dad is a curious man and we can get some fun balls rolling about Etruscan death cults, but we're not quite on the same emotional wavelength yet. That's not a bad thing, because we're comfortable not talking too, which is more important.

Amongst songs in my head, I have time to give things a good ol thinking. The results are good. It's far more dangerous for me to be on the internet, so when that happens I jump at the chance to go 'dancing.'

Thinking of you, Dear Reader, while at the Pergamonmuseum yesterday.

This is 'my pose' for you. The inscription at the top says, "Before entering, STOP!" Which of us is being more suggestive?