Get Ready to Have Me Stop Flaunting It

In May, I'm going on another road trip. Which is good news for the blog.

However! I'm now going to be a full-fledged science teacher and I realize that I have to act like a public figure. Not all of my jokes are suitable for children or potential employers. So this will be trimmed down and serve for some mass communication of pictures, what have you.

I was ready to live in New Orleans for some time. I never thought I'd be getting an advanced degree. Much like Reginald's 'quivering member' I am turgid with anticipation. After that I don't know who'll have me or what I'll really want, but this is a job I can travel with and I intend to. In one or three years I could be living in some exotic international locale. Having a yarn with natives. Trading treasured goods.

Things are awesome for me. Remember that forever ye mighty, and despair.

On Saturday the first Mardi Gras Parade starts

Valentines Day. I don't have an ardent attitude toward the holiday. I have developed a few traditions, namely to start a new book and to do some activity that is abnormal. Yesterday was 75 degrees, and I sat reading Devil to Pay in the Backlands by Joao Guimaraes Rosa (What is called the Ulysses of South American Literature) all while obnoxious steam-boat music played over their steam-organ pipes belting dilapidated renditions of 'What a Wonderful World.'

After teaching I ran into a few co-workers on the walk home and we talked about abnormal activities. We brain stormed and tried to assemble a midnight drift down the Mississippi with Cooks Champagne (3.46 a bottle). It was no luck so we gathered to eat French-fry po-boys and beignets. We sat for three hours talking about submarines and school districts when we were graced by a rambling astronomer on Decateur. I've never heard a more passionate claim that Christ didn't exist and that the whole religion was based on Signus, and the crosses found in the sky that act as a calendar.

I crossed into the 15th while playing badminton in my living room with Veronica. We set up a net and strung it across my bare space. That sounded so raunchy in retrospect. The closest I got to being sexy was attempting a trick-shot serve that involved rolling the shuttlecock down my back and smacking it from between my legs as it passed my ass. Impacting your genitals is always a novelty.

I am officially applied to graduate schools. I am so very, very, excited and nervous about the results (Mid March). However, my worst case scenario is that I stay here, stress-purchase a motorcycle to ride around Mississippi while slamming 5-Hour Energy dunked in Drank.

My worst thought of the week came when I was listening to a woman describe her vacation to India. I began to scheme.

The most delightful double feature I saw this week was Babies followed by Departures (It's a pretty hammy trailer). Babies has such a clear narrative arc and is beautifully shot. It's Planet Earth with humans. The Prytania theater (The Castro and Upstate Films have stiff competition) is playing this years Oscar nominated short films. And if only to sound pretentious, you should see the Crush. It's the worst shot, but the acting and script sets it apart from 'Abridged Hotel Rwanda' and 'Hey, I hope you had an awesome rooftop screening in Brooklyn of that film you made.' I'm being too harsh, they are fun as well, but Oscar? Well, Oscars don't really mean so much.

Jacques Cousteau is a fitting place to end with his statement that, "We are human beings. We have faith, and we have hope, and we can work."

Discount Tickets

 Yesterday we took a day trip to a packed amusement park. We already have a picnic scheduled. The funny bit is that we go somewhere abandoned, and Veronica still manages to find a man in the Batman tower and is asked out on a date.

 

You would be amazed with how much is still left over.

Of course the saddest part of the visit were the ironic signs and the more pointed Welcome sign that noted that the park was "Closed For Storm."

Teaching at an after school program for under resourced urban youths is going great. A few days ago I was scheming how to build a biofuel company. What I eventually determined is that my goal is best started as a Chemistry club project using unpaid student labor as a free workforce. Working with children really is the way to have all my dreams come true. I understand that this is very near a Michael Scott moment.

Are You Confused About My Motivation?

I was afraid I would have to forgo winter in Louisiana. Two nights ago it froze and today has been a full day of rain. When it's night the sky turns purple as it does in Oregon when it snows.

New Orleans is a small city. You see people regularly on accident and part of that is that this is a wandering city. Where New York puts emphasis of getting and being at your location, this city promotes walking. Wandering is made easier if you love southern porches, swampy houses and Spanish moss.

It's an insular city. The outside world isn't as important as the Big Easy (just listen to any local musician and count the repetitions of "New Orleans"). They perpetuate their own image and news amongst themselves. We'll see if I buy in at any time. We'll also see if I can summarize the kind of person that moves down here. Lamentably, tall-bikers are among the stock.

I'm closing on an apartment, and interviewing for tutor positions at a charter school. Still not enough, but Levinas would say that marks me as a successful man. What really speaks to that effect is my victory as hot dog eating champion on Saturday. While Levinas says nothing about quality, I think hot dogs lodged in my duodenum is an exceptional omen.

Much like Ryan Beckwith, prince of the tramps, I take some time to ponder the serious unanswerable aspects of life. I wrote down something about the Age of Ambivalence that I saw at the London Science Museum. This time distinction seems to be unique to the UK, but is the general descriptor of the 1960s to 2000. Marked by an anxiety and ambivalence toward our increasing dependence on technology.

This all lead to Zygmunt Bauman. And though it pains me to quote Wikipedia, I have not read the book yet. And which is worse, quoting or plagiarizing Wikipedia?

"Liquid modernity is Bauman's term for the present condition of the world as contrasted with the "solid" modernity that preceded it. According to Bauman, the passage from "solid" to "liquid" modernity has created a new and unprecedented setting for individual life pursuits, confronting individuals with a series of challenges never before encountered. Social forms and institutions no longer have enough time to solidify and cannot serve as frames of reference for human actions and long-term life plans, so individuals have to find other ways to organise their lives. Individuals have to splice together an unending series of short-term projects and episodes that don't add up to the kind of sequence to which concepts like "career" and "progress" could be meaningfully applied. Such fragmented lives require individuals to be flexible and adaptable — to be constantly ready and willing to change tactics at short notice, to abandon commitments and loyalties without regret and to pursue opportunities according to their current availability. In liquid modernity the individual must act, plan actions and calculate the likely gains and losses of acting (or failing to act) under conditions of endemic uncertainty."

What I have read are transcripts of lectures by Bauman. He is not pessimistic about the future of our liquid modernity. I don't think it justifies being uncommitted, but I'll have to read it to find out. Perhaps unreliable framework will have a positive effect on how we cross-breed disciplines and jobs. Or maybe it'll just mean honest workers like my Mom will have to work shifts of unreliable workers.

Before I start Bauman I have to finish Jane Austen. I find my only hope is that I get stabbed while it is tucked in my belt so that I can say that she saved my life and nothing more. I read in bars and the streetcar, effectively increasing my Kinsey score and sex appeal. It ultimately is a waste of time when Powerman 5000 already summarized the conflict of sisters, class and romantic sensibility in their seminal piece "When Worlds Collide." The song interweaves the composure and counsel of Elinor Dashwood and the defiant demands and lamentations of Marianne. The third and youngest daughter, Margaret, is left out of the discourse as Jane Austen makes a point that Margaret is a trivial point in plot and is so plain that she'll amount to nothing. The imagery of travel refers to the ill-fated excursion the Dashwoods take to London town and the allusion to being 'hand chosen' before worlds collide is a clear nod at Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon - the final repetition of the chorus speaks not to the disparity of temperament between the sisters but of the eventual love Marianne feels toward her unlikely suitor. Resonating with the schismatic pairs of the Middletons and Steeles. Mr. Spider One is a clear fan of the classics.

Let it be known though that I like Emma and Pride and Prejudice. My enjoyment is a function of the percentage of snark - or Colin Firth, what have you.

If ever you had a worry about my health and sanity, take comfort in these plans: A morning exploring the abandoned Six-Flags, play Risk in the afternoon, and finish it off with a caper of watching Babies while eating homemade Elvis Presley Sandwiches (with bacon). Don't worry, real dinners consist of me cooking food. Garam masala with sweet potatoes, parsnip chips, bruschetta, or an improvised paella. The surprising thing is, they're delicious and cheap (providing you combine the ambition of Alton Brown with the structure of Budget Bytes, and the improvisation of Ratatouille).

If that didn't rouse confidence take pride in this:
"We should have tea time more often - without Kent."
"I caught it. It came out out of my mouth but I caught it."

What kind of man am I?

Intuition Correct

Everything's been somber on this blog. I don't want to jinx anything. Save to say that I am having a good time. Everyone down here is involved in education and I'm negotiating assistant and tutor positions at schools.So much help. I'm going to ride my bike. OH YEAH.

And I met the crypt keeper, her name is Page.

One word can sum up 'Winters Bone'; charming. Absolutely charming. Let's drop what we're doing and move to the Ozarks and cook meth with two stars from Deadwood.

Intuition and Arbitrary Choices (Erotic Dancing followed by Self-Help)

More than a few people have asked why I'm moving to New Orleans. There are a lot of arbitrary reasons. There is a logical progression to my intuition.

A few days ago I was talking with Hannah. She was a little overwhelmed by how arbitrary life seems to her. She can think of reasons why she moved to LA, but none of them are really sufficient answers to her. We both don't know how Bard got on our application lists, how it stayed on, and for me I don't really have a reason why I signed off to go there. She went because it was the best school, I went because I felt good standing there. I had to tell Hannah that she has a clearly defined character (what we can say informs our conscious self through intuition) that narrows down her options. After all, it isn't equally likely that she could have ended up in Skokie or Chattanooga (Chattanooga is hell).

I don't like the idea that everything we do is simply an amalgamation of experience that informs what we like. Conversely I dislike the idea that we're fated for a singular direction. I reconcile the two my trusting in my intuition. Intuition can be informed, and in some ways quantified, but ultimately you take it on faith that it is truth.

My intuition hasn't changed over my whole life. I everything I've wanted since I was a kid is still true today. I used to have so little faith that I could ever choose one interest to pursue and now I've found an awesome way to merge all the disparate elements. Maybe you don't think teaching science to high schoolers seems that thrilling or complicated, but trust me when I say I have more foresight and schemes than you think.

My intuition doesn't necessarily falter. I've over thought some great things to death. Intuition can only lead you to the right things, it's up to you to put the work into keeping them.
 
I care most about rare things (Place<Job<Relationships). I love a great deal of places. A number of those places have my job of choice. Even fewer have the people I want to live with. Yeah, I'll make friends, but we don't always have the benefit of discovery in that order. Last year I had the relationship and an inkling of the job and still an unfounded fear that there's only once place for it all.  

I'm sitting at home. Not too bad, not too great. I've got my Mom around and a fully stocked kitchen. I don't have a relationship. I don't have a career. As much as I'd love to leap directly to graduate school and a relationship, I can't. My choice is to go where I intuitively felt good. I'm moving to a place my father seems to think will transform me into a fat cancer patient (with poor health care to boot).

I trust that there is a truth to how I feel, and I bolster that with a large amount of arbitrary reasons. I doubt that I'll be climbing a ladder from now on. What I do know is that I will always prioritize the rarest things first. It's definite that I'll leave New Orleans behind for something more important. I won't miss a place as much as I miss a career. And I will always miss people most of all.

I'm fine with that.

I probably could have explained all that with a few selections from the internet. I have to keep reminding myself that this is essentially a mass e-mail lest I start to puke from proselytizing.

My Business Plan

Presenting innovative alternatives to the well-worn trope of the stripper Policeman.We are committed to deep character work.

First Act: Dusty the Janitor.
It's your bachelorette party and your 'friends' have sent you to a secluded backroom to receive a private session. You're nervous, after all you never wanted a bachelorette party - you were talked into it. You're not sure how you feel about strippers in general. You're so flush as you stand up to leave when the door opens. In rolls the janitors cart and tired Dusty. You scream, he yalps in a seemingly migraine-laden state. You both catch yourselves and he grabs his chest, his cheeks flushing. You're terribly embarrassed - you must be in the wrong room, you apologize. You look Dusty over as he assures you he made the mistake. He is the exemplar of how good looking fugly can be. Fear sets in. Dusty is talking - mumbling - a bit too long. You realize you're in a skimpy dress that Carol made you wear (that bitch). The adrenaline going through your system makes you nervous and aroused. This man could be anyone and he has you cornered in a room built to muffle the slapping of indecent flesh. You make for the door - he sidles up to the frame, head bowed. "Sorry for putting you in this position." he says.
"You didn't put me in any awkward position"
"I'm about to."
Dusty deftly scoots you with his pelvis like a bulldozer, simultaneously closing the door. The pilot light in his eyes ignite as you scuttle back. Your scattered steps are perfectly in time with the techno remix of the Good Will Hunting soundtrack. The rhythm. The rhythm is all you can feel as Dustys powerful frame closes in. Your body goes stiff with shock and the rippling bliss of Dustys weathered abs pin you down.

Any resemblance to His Excellency Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a result of the artists interpretation and purely coincidental. At this time we will not provide a Presidential role-playing service.

You experience the most frightening arousal. And the safest: all our dancers pass rigorous background checks, take a weekly abuse workshop, and are certified in first aid and couples/self-esteem counseling.

For a private party Dusty wouldn't do. A stranger is sexy to a certain extent, but not when they're trespassing and nonchalantly cleaning your home before taking off all his clothes.

Stripper Delivery: Marcus the Municipal Waste Worker
You open your door to a scruffy man seemingly going through his daily routine. His joyless, functional expression contrasts to the good time stirring in the living room. You become alarmed as Marcus informs you that the neighbors have been complaining of a stink, he's going to each home on the block in inspect the septic tanks. You haven't noticed a smell, you curtly inform him as his story becomes suspect. Marcus retorts with a short, nauseating anecdote about becoming accustomed to smells. You think it's best he come back another time, yet the words catch in your dessicated mouth as Marcus makes powerful, insinuating eye contact.
"The smell isn't coming from a faulty pipe, but a dirty girl. And with my large equipment and specialized training I can only do one thing for you; Pump. Pump, pump pump, pump." With each iteration of 'pump' Marcus' crotch smacks against your personal space. Music ejaculates from his clipboard. Marcus does a sumptuous spin move as the music pulsates and beer flows out of his sewage truck.

For an additional fee and a small number of liability forms we can arrange for actual police officers to interrupt the performance at its climax. The officers will arrest the 'known criminal' and take statements to provide a truly unique and lasting memory as your party guests must describe the dance in vivid, searing detail. Leaving the recipient with a heretofore unknown erotic sensation - having been lured into a sense of security by a total babe of a stranger. A stranger capable of anything; assault, or stealing your heart and/or kidneys.

Just a Boy Again

I am in an awful mood. I have been for a while. That doesn't mean I can't do some worthwhile things throughout. Like go to two continents, watch Forrest Gump and the Terminal back to back (a more disgraceful awe), write some great essays, draw, and do a shitload of stress baking. The croissant dough is rising for tomorrows Cinnamon Crispies and today I made the most amazing cranberry scones that you have to taste. Baking is a nice distraction and I couldn't help but think of Demolition Man.

There are many ways to portray a crappy disposition. I have been keeping most things to myself, not being prone to dithering. But! I am not defeated and I want the internet to know that I am very proud of myself. Last year I was taught a great deal, and I was the person I wanted to be. I was committed (though I could have stood to be less committed to my job every once and a while). Most importantly I believed (and still do) that I can make it all work.

Okay, maybe I won't want to be working a low-end job, but I won't be ashamed to be taking it if it means I can ride a bike home, carve woodblocks from scavenged wood, play rugby, wash my chemical burns in my own shower, hide pigeons in a friends bathroom. If it means that I can have what makes me happy. I'll say roughly the same next year hopefully without making the same follies (unlike some assholes I know of).

I acknowledge that by continuing this blog I break my unwritten code that I put nothing personal on the internet anymore. I also realize all too late that I am now on Google image search - somewhere. I'm sort of happy about that last point. I now feed what has fed me. I am the Human Monopede. I really hope that my Middle School picture will eventually be a result for 'Human Monopede.'

I fly again next weekend. We'll try to make this one last, especially as I was forced into a vow of only one snap decision this year, but I don't ever expect this to be final. This move has been more planned and thanks to a generous father I'm not required to work Kmart to save up. There will be a return on this investment even if it's just avoid what I have been told is an unruly amount of brain cancer.

While walking town I saw for the first time that one small 'mall' hosts the best cross-section of the Hood River population:

I think we're following a theme.

This weekend is a Mother-Son celebration, which might end with a gunshot wound if we don't play it safe. More baking, more running, and more preparations to go back to school. The future goal of school is my wife. And who doesn't aspire to be Ice T? Okay, it was the best couple picture I could think of.

You Better Listen To Your Friend Billy Zane

Finishing the first day of the new year alone in Oregon watching Titanic on the Oxygen network. And with contacts I feel disabled not being capable of taking off my glasses slowly, erotically, inquisitively.

I think we've all been the subject of an erotic drawing. Happy New Year, honestly.

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.