Are These Your Eyes? I Found Them In My Cleavage.

2009-03-29T18:20:00.001+02:00

Well, I got a week left. What can I say. You had your chance. But you blew it ‘cause you were being a bitch. Also, you weren’t very tall, which catered to my superiority complex in that I knew, given adequate circumstances, I could roll you up in a flour tortilla, smother you with kisses and green chili and shredded sharp cheddar cheese, and zap your ass in the microwave for 30-45 seconds, finishing you off with shredded iceberg, finely chopped tomatoes and onions, pre-sliced pitted black olives, and dolloped with copious amounts of guacamole and envy.

But you were being a bitch.

Also, which one of you put a “Used Clio for Sale” ad in the paper and put my home number on it? Leroy, was that you? If it was, I’ll fu*king kill you.

Germanic style.

Uuuuuuu.

2009-03-07T20:14:00.000+01:00

I’ve taken it upon myself to half-heartedly improve my German. As numerous friends have high accolades for the “MTV English” method, I thought I would give it a try. However, I don’t get English subtitles over German noise. So we decided to go to DVDs. But the brain power required to both read English and listen to German was more than I could afford. I kept falling into the plot.

So, I went to my closest female friend and pleaded for her to raid her collection for mindless, plot-less cinematic adventures that I thought had the potential to double as a general anesthetic. I walked away with “Strawberry Shortcake,” and Season 2 of “Sex and the City.”

That first night I dreamt that I took all four women in a bathroom stall. No doubt we were all out for wine and shrimp, listening to Carrie talk about discovering her ‘Inner Freak’ as Samantha struggled to come to grips with her advancing age and her biological inability to tolerate the appropriate amounts of plastic surgery. Personally, Miranda freaks me out a little. Maybe it’s because she’s ugly. Fortunately, there’s Charlotte. She’s been quite lately. I’ll have to keep my eye on her. . .

2009-03-01T12:01:00.003+01:00

What can I say. I’ve been without inspiration to write. Instead of forcing myself upon the pen and notepad like it twer an anxious, maladjusted prom date bending to the social pressure to entertain my two readers, I’ve been indulging my desires in another hobby. Which benefits you in no particular way. Also, I purchased a new lamp for the living room. There is no On / Off switch. Its illumination is triggered only by the human touch in which two parts of my body must both simultaneously touch any part of the lamp, and each other, completing a circuit which ultimately has a net negative effect on Nespresso-induced erection. But it allows me to see my glass coffee table, on which rests my Nespresso.

It seems I’ve finally mentally settled into life here in Germany. It’s been now 14 months since I’ve arrived. I’ve come to love my home and the daily view it provides from every room in the house, my neighbors, and the fact that I’ve learned key German phrases like, “Shut up, Ass Face.”

I’ve reached a level of peace and tranquility which allows me to prepare for the much anticipated arrival of my beautiful, long-legged Wife, who still resides in Baku. Navigating a long distance marriage isn’t easy. I mean, have you heard her accent?? Nonetheless, our non-traditional ways will culminate on April 4th, where she’ll so eloquently fill out a white wedding dress (low-cut I hope I hope I hope), I’ll shave and put on pants, and limited numbers of family members will make the long trek over to celebrate the (second) union of the sexiest, most tender loving woman to ever come out of the Ukraine, and your humble, aloof American cruise director with nea a clue on how to complete a grammatically correct transitional sentence.

So I will document my daily semi-daily thrice-weekly thoughts on my final month in office. For my days of pulling a Dutch Oven on the cat and living off frozen pizza and chips and salsa are numbered. I have four weeks to grow up. And I’m taking you with me. Like I always do. But this time there’ll be limited numbers of Asians, no care-free jaunts through the jungles of Colombia, and we sure as hell ain't inviting Canada. Also, I’m taking suggestions for our wedding song. Absolutely NO Justin Timberlake, Hanson, or any kind of Boy Bands like Kelly Clarkson or the like.

Winner gets to name our first born.

2009-01-23T17:41:00.006+01:00

In the search for warmth and a good steak, we find our self back in Johannesburg. Land of the Johannes Burger and home to the unprovoked stab wound to your fu*king heart.

I’m finding that I like coming here. It makes me feel better about my life and having to deal with Germans on a daily basis. Like, did you know that the most dangerous days here are payday? And a quaint drive through Soweto may find you limping out holding what’s left of your door handle and wishing you had hands to carry it. Statements such as, “my car got stolen again,” are about as common as, “Hi.”

One of my favourites though is the story of a colleague who was getting car-jacked. For each word he said, he received a point-blank gunshot wound. His recount of the event went something like, “What-BANG-do-BANG-you-BANG-want-BANG-with-BANG-me-BANG?” There was a seventh shot in there but I don’t think he remembers. Fortunately he was picked up by the cops and taken back to the police station to give a report. Unable to do so given his current mental state, he was forced to take a taxi to the hospital.

Also, did I tell you about the steak here?

Fu*king. Delicious.

2009-01-17T10:42:00.003+01:00

Open letter to Russia:

Dear Putin,

You silly Bitch. Please turn our gas back on. Chancellor Merkel's testicles haven't dropped in two weeks and neither have mine.

I know you lurk here.

You goofy, gassy bastard.

Spacibo.

2009-01-09T17:29:00.004+01:00

If your holidays were as filled with joy and glee and tears and fears as mine were, I hope everything has cleared up. Seems as though much of my family was paid a visit by the Diarhhrea Ghost of Christmas Past.

I unwrapped the kiss of death by his Constipated counterpart.

I was Panic. Stricken.

Option 1: Call a friend.

Option 2: Manipulate the back end of an old toothbrush in pre-determined shapes and patterns to break up and disassociate whatever asteroid was trying to pass itself through my tract.

And you know damn well I’m not about to share this kind of vulnerability with any friend or close professional associates.

Are you a Proctologist? A Zoologist? Do you work in Internal Medicine or Theology? Do you hold a high position within NASA and have access to interstellar laser systems? If so, holla back. I could use your counsel.

Also, did I tell you that our house is haunted?

2008-11-21T19:24:00.007+01:00

We like all things Jordanian. Like how you can eat hummus three times a day. Or as you pull up to the hotel you get your car searched and then to get into the hotel you have to pass through the blast shield and go through x-ray. That shit kinda psyches you out a little, but then you go eat some hummus and all’s good.

Did I tell you about the hummus? If I had the skeletal dexterity to do so, I’d mount the mid-shin high tables and seductively drag my man parts through these great, big, heaping bowls of hummus while biting the corner of my lower lip on one side, connected to the Hubbly Bubbly on the other.

But I don’t.

Also, it’s socially taboo.

But that won’t stop me from coming back next year and trying it outside the greater capital area of Amman. Where there’s desert. And man has been known to do some silly shit while stuck out in the desert.

I’m sick ya’ll. Maybe it was the elderly, handicapped, heavyset (200+ kg) German man sitting behind me on the flight home who spent 5 ½ hours trying to cough up his Duodenum on the back of my head. Or maybe it was the coughing and hacking and sneezing and sniffling and eye rubbing of his 80 tour group friends. Or the poor senile man sitting next to me who spent the greater part of our pre-flight taxiing with his right hand down his pants scratching himself. I’m talking full ON down-his-pants. “Scratching.”

Why is it only cute when old men do that?

Or maybe it was a bad batch of Middle Eastern hummus that led to two days of, dare I say, explosive diarrhea. Beat THAT Boulder, Colorado.

I wish I was mature enough not to write that.

2008-11-14T17:39:00.007+01:00

It's Arab Hour here at Nine-Seven (dot com).

Why Arab? Because I'm surrounded by all things Arab.

Why an hour? That's how long it took me to write this post.

2008-10-28T23:15:00.000+01:00

We spent all day yesterday doing some very disturbing things to over a half dozen cadaveric heads via avenues like ‘Pterional approach,’ and, ‘Pretemporal approach.’ Today we journeyed through the interpeduncular fossa and the basilar bifurcation, with scenic, CSF-covered stops along the Prepontine region and Cavernous Sinus. I have no idea what this all means, but of all the dead human heads I’ve stuck inanimate and animate objects into, these were the nicest. Soft, succulent skin. Juicy, medium-rare muscle tissue. Even the arachnoid required the delicate, attentive dissection it deserves.

This is making me hott.

Also, I had a dream last night that I was in a plane crash. Shortly after take-off. I knew we were going down too. And I remember being ok with that because I knew I’d get an appropriate reimbursement package from the airline. But I had a complete inability to get my shoes on. Also, I was in an isle seat. Which I thought was weird because I hate the isle seat. I always leave with unilateral patella fractures from the cart and that pisses me off. Sometimes, when I fly United, and I’m stuck in the isle, one of the overly heavy-set geriatric Flight Attendants will back a disproportionate lower limb up into my knee and force my femoral head completely through the acetabulum. It hurts like a bitch.

Oh yeah. I’ve been getting a few inquiries about weather or not I really got married, and if so, since when did I start dating again, why didn’t I tell you before, and would I please return Seasons One and Two of The Wire because they’re not mine and I didn’t pay for them so I have no fu*king right to keep something that clearly doesn’t belong to me.

Yes, I recently married the most amazingly beautiful woman with biggest brown puppy eyes, a smile that shows half her soft, pink upper gum line, and the most soothing, sexiest accent you’ve ever heard this side of the Mason Dixon Line.

But this is Phase I. And no one was invited to Phase I because Phase I is the pre-curser to Phase II. Yes, this wedding is Phasic.

Phase II – IV happens in Azerbaijan, all of which was solely dependent upon Phase I. And while Phase I was completely and overly special to the two of us, we are deeply sympathetic to, and cognizant of the fact that we couldn’t share it with our loved ones and how that affects them and their feelings. But certain things have to happen before we get to Phase V, which is the part where she wears a white dress, does complicated but beautiful things to her hair and nails, and I shave. This is also where you come in and celebrate with us in all our dressed-up, vodka-soaked glory. Where we dance and eat and hug and kiss and you can’t stop telling us how good-looking our kids will turn out because my wife is so amazingly hot. And, there’ll be vodka.

So yes, I have a new piece of jewelry around my finger. And while we would’ve given anything to have everyone share the moment with us, we knew a long time ago that immigration laws coupled with our long-term goals provided us a unique situation in which we had to think of ourselves first, and selfishly delay the gratification of others. So while we fill out immigration paperwork and think of which war-torn Azeri region to pawn you off to for a day trip, we hope you’ll find it in your hearts to forgive us, and join us in looking forward to sharing our union with you next spring. If you’re looking for gift ideas, Mrs. Baku wants a puppy and I want a whisk.

2008-10-20T08:37:00.000+02:00

Boy do I miss you. I miss you like Mexican food. I once missed a connecting flight from O’Hare and that sickening feeling I had is kind like the feeling I have for you. But O’Hare has a Starbucks, so that’s cool.

Also, Ms. Baku and I are getting married today. It’s not the big party we invited you to in April (except for you, Todd) but today is the day we make it legal. There won’t be any guests. Nor will there be a white dress or flowers or adult entertainment. Just the two of us. And two witnesses.

Late last week, we were in a warm embrace, standing here in the living room. She’s shorter than I so her head was firmly embedded into my stomach. As would with anyone, my internal pressure increased, and because I’m a guy, you know I’m gonna share this. So, I squeezed her.

And then I let one rip.

Then I gave her the ‘evil eye.’

If a blanket was within reach, things would’ve escalated quickly. But I care. And she cares about me. Which is why she’s next door getting her hair done and I’m here in my undies playing on the internet. This kinda got off track, didn’t it?

2008-09-24T15:28:00.002+02:00

My job has many perks. Things like, I get my own laptop and cellular telephone. I just found out it has detrimental effects on my testicles. Aren’t you lucky I’m a decent cook.

It’s also necessary for me to continue my travels down to Nice. While that may sound fun, I’d like to tell you a story. Years ago I used to cook at fairly nice steak house. I wore checkered pants and kept a thermometer clipped to the breast pocket of my chef’s coat. I never actually took anyone’s temperature, but since it was an open kitchen and we were always in the public’s view, I convinced myself that wearing a thermometer would make the customer feel as though I knew what I was doing. Also, it was red and I thought it looked handsome with my white coat.

The meat dishes were nice; our core competency resting in the tender, delectable production of grilled filet mignon on a mass scale. The perk of this job of course being able to eat for free. What I’m getting at is, yeah, filet mignon doesn’t suck. But eating filet multiple times a week for over a year causes you to lose the appreciation of what was once a succulent, tasty treat.

Nice, France is my filet mignon. An undercooked medium-rare specimen of third-world red meat served with a side of limp freedom fries and a ceramic ramekin of warm, spicy mustard. Also, I have to fly into Terminal 2 and it’s just a bitch to get to my hotel.

Usually I stay at the Park Inn by the airport because I like the colors of their décor and I don’t have to bend over in the showers. That didn’t come out right. Um. . .there’s ample head room in the showers. Yes. However, this time I stayed at the No(tell)votel down the street, which is a clean option B.

You’re prolly already aware of my propensity for wardrobe removal. This night was no exception, and after reading the aforementioned article on the probable consequences my Blackberry may pose upon my male genitalia, I chose to remove my drawers, draping them neatly across the arm of the couch, giving the boys free reign over my king size bed. Besides, why dirty up a clean pair of day-old boxers?

Now here’s where things went strange. I slept. I dreamt of you. And I woke up.

Wearing my male undergarments.

That could make me anything from a sleep-dresser to a victim. But you’re not here to judge are you.

2008-09-18T17:08:00.009+02:00

Being a bit short of cash, I made a quick stop to the ATM. Where the machine subsequently confiscated my card. Also, it was a Sunday. But that wouldn’t stop me from photographically experiencing Paris, Homeless Style.

I’d narrate our way through this, but having awoken this morning to temperatures in the high 30’s (F) with no heat and no hot water, I’m feeling a bit, well, French. An arrogant, apathetic, smelly man I am. So instead, I’ll show you a few of my favourite perspectives of what surprisingly became one of the most beautiful, preferred cities I have ever been to.

See if you can find the place where Tobin and I fell in love. Hint: It wasn’t here.

2008-09-16T22:08:00.008+02:00

I had spent a short morning on the new TGV line from Strasbourg, zipping over to Paris at a cool 575 km/h. If you’re American handicapped, that’s just under 360 miles / hour. Which is about what my mom does into the office every morning.

I arrived into Gare de l’est with no idea where I was, where I needed to be, or how to get there. So, I grabbed a café au lait and a fresh baked good full of chocolate, and eye-balled all the young French women within eye-shot. ‘Cause they nice ‘n shit.

We eventually found the Metro, hopped on the #5 down to Place d’Italie, and caught the #6 over to Bir-Hakeim, the last stop before the Seine. Exiting the station didn’t find me in the most overwhelming of views until I crossed Boulevard de Grenelle and walked around to the corner of Rue de la Federation. Home to the Australian Embassy and what would be our luxurious tri-level 4-bedroom apartment for a few days. With accompanying view off the Grand Living Room:

It’s a short walk down the block to the security gate where I’m supposed to do my secret buzzing thing. I do. And am told off by the guard. Who sounds oddly French for the embassy of Australia. But I make a few phone calls and patiently wait as our hostess comes downstairs. While doing so, I take a seat on the concrete step supporting the gate.

I had previously noticed a shiny black A-series Mercedes pull up and park in the middle of the street directly across from me. I didn’t give it a second thought because that’s what the French do. They park in the street, take an apathetic, arrogant attitude, and then go on strike. But this time I looked up. And the driver, holding up a map, called me over.

A clean-cut, strikingly handsome man he was. Italiano. From Milano. Donned a well pressed light blue dress shirt, dark pin-striped pants with matching jacket in the back seat, and a light beige / dark brown tie crisply taught around his neck. Windsor knot. They’re a bitch. Ok. I don’t really know what kind of knot it was. I’m a cargo pants and fleece guy.

So the story goes like this: Having just finished putting on a fashion show and needing to head down to Nice for the next one, his credit card was just rejected and he’s panicked that he doesn’t have enough cash for gas for his rental car and French tolls. It was early Saturday afternoon and of course his bank is closed, dashing any chance of opening up his card. But here’s where he got me. Besides his dreamy eyes and Italian accent. He genuinely seemed embarrassed for asking and was visibly uncomfortable.

I tend to pride myself on my ability to read people and I’ve been known to make some pretty sound and accurate judgements. But this time I think it was more the excitement of being in Paris for the first time and coming off a clean trip from Italy, this man’s home country. Also, I don’t recall the last time I actually did something nice for somebody.

Now my initial intention was to fill up his tank with gas, which I was more than willing to do. So I get in the car and we drive around the corner and down the block to the Total station. But I must’ve misunderstood. He doesn’t need any gas. He just picked up his rental car so the tank is full. I know it’s a rental because of the countless trademark Europcar stickers everywhere. Also, it’s impeccably clean. Cleaner than any Italian man would EVER keep his car. He needs cash for the next fill up. Oh, and tolls.

Now things be getting kinda shady. So I bust out the math:

Italian. Seems coincidental.
Heading to Nice. Where I still have some emotional ties.
His demeanour. Steady but uncomfortable.
Size. Smaller than I.
And in the end, it’s obvious that on any other day, this man clearly doesn’t need money.

I can’t quite tell you why I did it, but I gave him 200 €.

As a gesture of appreciation he gives me the few remaining display items from his show. A dark pin-striped Gianfranco suit, which ironically fits my 6’5” frame. A new LA Sartoria black leather jacket. Which also perfectly fits my man frame. Along with a beautiful woman’s mid-length black leather jacket with belt. Which is the right size for you-know-who.

Then he kisses me on both cheeks and takes me home.

There’s a part of me that feels I should’ve blown him.

2008-09-12T22:43:00.008+02:00

Italy.

Where gnocchi flows like Chianti and everyone knows sign language. Hey, what’s an innuendo? An Italian suppository. Da-da—ching!

That was supposed to be a double snare click with 16” symbol crash. However, after a week in Bologna, the “Fat City,” my fingers feel too weighed down with parmesan and Prosciutto to care where this transition was going.

Also, Italians be pazzo. Did you know the hookers walk around with one breast hanging out?

Classy.

Just before Gotthard Pass in Switzerland.

Chocolate covered Parmesean.

2008-09-05T11:14:00.000+02:00

What’s the hard part about living abroad? You may think it’s the language, or the absence of Taco Bell, or the hairy women. No.

It’s running from the authorities.

Seems that bi-monthly bill from France Telecom was a penalty for stopping my contract without 2 months notice. Now Huissier de Justice has summoned me to his courtroom. For 125,48 €.

Then there’s HUK-COBURG auto insurance here in Germany. We refused to pay a bill 3 times the quoted amount and they’ve since notified the state authorities that we’ve been driving illegally since February. They seem kinda pissed.

Ooh, I know just where to hide.

2008-08-27T11:29:00.001+02:00

Who ever said, “The best things in life are free,” must not have had 700+ free satellite channels. And then had it all shut off.

To help me get through the last 10 days, I’ve allowed myself to complete Seasons 1 and 2 of Gray's Anatomy. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit. Thirty-plus episodes of Christina and Izzie packed into 10 days, I’m a little tired of their shit. I’m a bitter, emotional man. On the up side, to be detached from CNN is to calm the inner flame of man-desire for Anderson Cooper and his 360° circle of Anderson Cooperness.

Also, I’ve blown through my travel budget for the year. My remaining weeks lying on the couch as an under-clothed, unshaven bachelor will be spent looking for travel money and accepting the reality that without travel, my life has absolutely nothing to write about.

2008-08-15T17:15:00.000+02:00

Day 2 began against my will. A midnight exit to the parking lot for a bathroom release and I must have forgotten to lock the door when I returned. Our recently married groom snuck in and awoke me from my slumber, dragging me out for a sunrise swim followed by day old smoked fishes and beer for early morning breakfast. If there’s anything worst than the Spondylolisthesis cot I was assigned to it would be a sunrise swim followed by day old smoked fishes and beer for early morning breakfast. Maybe this is married life. But the rest of the day would boast nothing more exciting than a sunny beach with fresh smoked fishes and beer. And the sunbathing beauty to my side.

The evening’s events unfolded without purpose. I had it in my pocket with no solidified or even any thought through plans on when, where or how to ask. In hindsight, it was actually quite perfect. The night sky was clear and drowning out the faint thumping sound of the local discos was the mellow crashing of waves from the Sea of Azov. Also, I’m a sucker for women in skirts.

Our company voluntarily departed us after a botched attempt at a night swim, Ms. Baku and I choosing to press on. As cliché as it sounds, we took a long walk on the beach. And I liked it. Arm in arm, we strolled on, over one shallow sea shell sand mound and down to the next, skipping over beer bottles, just out of reach of low tide.

On we ventured. The music fading and the beach growing darker under the less-than quarter moon. We found our spot within a few meters from the wave’s reach, nestling our bottoms in the sand, she curling up in my gorilla-like arms, seeking the safety of my man chest. I say ‘gorilla’ because they freakishly long like a gorillas. Hairy like a Mother-in-Law.

I had asked her to tell me a story. Something action packed, preferably with misbehaving nurses from the Asia-Pacific region. A sort of ‘romantic comedy’ if you will. She gracefully declined and requested one of her own. Absent any culturally specific or health care related references or characters. Little does she know I’m not that deep.

But I am romantic. And coming off the fresh high from my recently purchased Play Station 3 and completion of COD4, I grilled up a verbal literary masterpiece d'jour that will forever transcend the depths of our language barrier. A fairytale journey of love, romance, sports, and all things bubble bath like culminating in the eye-opening discovery of one symbolic diamond.

She said, “Yes.”

2008-08-14T19:48:00.005+02:00

I had asked her to tell me a story. Something action packed, preferably with misbehaving nurses from the Asia-Pacific region. A sort of ‘romantic comedy’ if you will. She gracefully declined and requested one of her own. Absent any culturally specific or health care related references or characters. Little does she know I’m not that deep.

. . .

While some aren’t as seasoned as I,

the morning after still came terribly quick. And as crazy as it may seem, I felt absolutely fantastic. Headache-less. A natural host specimen of tasty, high quality Russian vodka, I am. I felt so good I could plunder a Georgian and pillage their cattle. Yeah, that’s right. I just made an obscure, off-colour reference to the 1974 feel-good, family Cinematic Blockbuster, Blazing Saddles.

In short time, our bags were packed and we were off to Kyrylivka, a 3-hour drive down to the Sea of Azov. And if you ever get the chance, I would recommend a few hours driving in rural Ukraine. It’s like real life Grand Turismo. Only you can stop on the side of the road to piss and buy fresh watermelon.

Prior to my arrival I knew we’d be roughing it in Soviet style beach homes. I just didn’t know it would be a complete 3rd World Gypsy Shithole. We rolled in with no reservations, spending the next 2 hours going from property to property just looking for a room with a shower and a toilet. The beach, entertainment and housing facilities stretched for a few kilometres, every other shack was a bar, a club, a shop with beer and condoms, peppered with shacks on stilts, shoddy camps, and sand covered in shards of broken beer bottles.

We settled on a room, 10 feet by 20 feet with 3 cots, a fridge, small table and a “shower,” which would later serve as “toilet.” Enough room to share with Ms. Baku, her sister, her Mother, her nephew and the typical amount of luggage 3 women would be packing. Out back were the toilet, shower facilities and sinks to wash hands and do dishes. The toilet facilities being of the Asian persuasion.

The first day was barely passable. You could walk in, hold your breath, and safely take in breaths from your mouth through your shirt. For the next 3 days, it seems the waste was treated with severely decomposing bodies, and to take in a breath from your mouth would start with a sharp sting and painfully linger in your throat for a few hours. Feedback from a few guests from neighbouring properties would be that we were some of the lucky ones. Several fellow beach goers found their way into our facilities, not so much for necessity as was out of pursuit of luxury.

2008-08-11T18:42:00.007+02:00

On we ventured. The music fading and the beach growing darker under the less-than quarter moon. We found our spot within a few meters from the wave’s reach, nestling our bottoms in the sand, she curling up in my gorilla-like arms, seeking the safety of my man chest. I say ‘gorilla’ because they freakishly long like a gorillas. Hairy like a Mother-in-Law.

. . .

Our next stop would find us at the Registry Office where the legal part of the wedding would take place. There’s no eloquent way to put this. It was like the DMV of weddings. Your entire party lined up outside, waiting for your turn where, once inside, the boombox played the music, and some woman said a bunch of things in Russian blah blah blah, here’s your marriage license and BOOM, you’re married. There were multiple rooms cranking out freshly married couples.

After congratulations and launching doves into the air, we were across the street drinking champagne in the park and snapping more photos.

Then it was off to some lake where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities and snacks, consisting of things wrapped in chicken and fresh cucumbers and tomatoes.

And girl watching.

Then it was off to the city centre where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities. The one tradition here was to have your photo taken in the middle of what was once the longest city street in Europe.

The sun high and our feets tired, we cruised back home where we would rest and drink for a few hours, preparing for the dinner. You may know it as The Reception. I now know it as the Hall of Overly Excessive Vodka Consummation. Or consumption. Whatever. Nonetheless, we were looking sexy, primed with Red Bull, and even the chickens were presentable:

The remaining 6 hours were familiar. Lots of toasting, plenty of dancing, vodka, more toasting with more vodka, bride kidnapping, vodka, and two overly large tables where the food flowed like vodka. There were of course the usual traditions of the bouquet toss, which almost turned into an East-bloc bloodbath.

And the garter toss. Where your humble narrator walked away victorious. For the second time in his career.

We then celebrated with more dancing and vodka.

2008-08-10T14:29:00.005+02:00

Our company voluntarily departed us after a botched attempt at a night swim, we choosing to press on. As cliché as it sounds, we took a long walk on the beach. And I liked it. Arm in arm, we strolled on, over one shallow sea shell sand mound and down to the next, skipping over beer bottles, just out of reach of low tide.

. . .

The first day was quiet and spent catching up with Ms. Baku. The afternoon found us all at Grandma’s. Along with her Mom and Dad and Sister and Nephew and Aunt and cousin and his fiancée, we chased the chickens, choked them, grilled them, and served them up with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, unknowingly prefacing what would later become an inappropriate euphemism about chicken choking. Also, Grandma has a chicken farm.

The evening was well rested, for we were to spend the entire next day galloping around the city fulfilling Ukrainian wedding customs. Not quite what I was expecting in way of ceremonial traditions, but there were girls there. And the weather was hot. And they was all emotional ‘n stuff.

The first stop was at the bride’s house, where the Best Man rolled up in a rented Ford Explorer with the groom. Poverty runs deep in these parts and I imagine it took a rather long time to save up for such a luxury. Yet the rumour mill soon churned out that this Ford was actually mine. And coincidentally, I quickly became known as ‘American Boy, American Joy.’ Which is kinda true. I am American. And I’m a joy. Ask my mom.

Upon disembarkation from said Ford Explorer, the groom was stopped by friends of the bride (girls), and required to complete a series of tests prior to being allowed to pass and retrieve his waiting bride. Tests of Love. Like reciting certain special days in their relationship, identifying her in a childhood school photograph, picking out her “kiss” on a piece of white paper with several lipstick-stained kiss marks, using words to describe his love for her for the next 30 paces, characteristical traits about her that begin with letters of her name, and of course, bribes. Which came in the form of bottles of Vodka, champagne and chocolate. If successfully completed, only then was he allowed steps closer to the house to retrieve her.

Once he worked his way into the house and on to the back bedroom, where he received his prize of an impatiently waiting bride, they emerged, he victorious, she hungry. I say, ‘prize’ because isn’t that really all women are? It’s like playing Skeeball at Dave & Buster’s for 7 hours, gathering up all the tickets you can possibly carry, only to change them in for a few plastic water guns and a can of bubbles, which by the end of the day, find themselves tucked away in the back closet only to be found again during Spring Cleaning and Anniversaries.

Ok. I didn’t really mean that.

2008-08-08T16:39:00.007+02:00

The evening’s events unfolded without purpose. I had it in my pocket with no solidified or even any thought through plans on when, where or how to ask. In hindsight, it was actually quite perfect. The night sky was clear and drowning out the faint thumping sound of the local discos was the mellow crashing of waves from the Sea of Azov. Also, I’m a sucker for women in skirts.

. . .

Visiting Eastern Europe kinda seems like wanting to visit Canada. It’s there. It’s so close. Both seem to have such an incredible, diverse history (except Canada). But we rarely seem to make the effort to cross the border. Also, why the hell would anyone ever want to visit Canada?

A long layover in Kiev,

is spent entirely watching girls. And by ‘watching’ I mean ‘stalking.’

Then we board this:

Something clearly below FAA standards, and staffed with a pilot who looks remarkably similar to Tom Selleck, only slightly older with a decent looking mullet. The male flight attendant took it a bit further. Slightly heavier man with the top two buttons of his shirt undone thus exposing his man-chest and oversized silver neck chain.

The interior of the plane, organized in a 2 x 2 seating arrangement boasted 3, maybe 4-decades old dark wood panelling, light, faded cloth curtains for window shades, and completely absent of any interior lighting. Your seating assignment was the usual number, followed by either an ‘А’ or ‘Б’ on one side, and a ‘В’ or ‘Г’ on the other side of the isle, which translates from Russian to English as an ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘V’ or ‘G’ respectively. Now you can see the potential for confusion if you’re assigned to the Russian ‘B’ row and the ensuing conflict that may follow.

Guess who got assigned to that seat letter?

On both flights.

It took almost 13 hours journey just to travel from Switzerland to Zaporozhye. Hometown of Ms. Baku.

That's not her.

2008-07-29T16:52:00.001+02:00

I’m on holiday.

Judging by your high milk prices and $4 gas, I'll bet you ain't. Also, don’t you only get like 13 hours vacation?

It hasn’t all been fun ‘n games though. I’ve been learning my new PlayStation 3. Auf Deutsch. And to make for an even angrier experience, I’ve been struggling through Call of Duty 4 since Saturday. I’ve snipered more Russians than I have weeks of holiday. At least I think they’re Russians. All audio and subtitles are in German too. Which I now require for any war game or battle-like movie. U-571 in English? Es ist Scheiße.

And know this. Boy or Girl, I’m naming my firstborn Captain Price. Happy Holidays.

2008-07-20T12:25:00.001+02:00

für empfindliche Kopfhaut
für die tägliche Haarwäsche
geeignet

That’s what my anti-schuppen shampoo bottle says near the bottom, next to the faint, purple feather. I don’t know what it means but I think it’s in reference to the little tiny Thai women inside each Tablespoon drop of anti-schuppen shampoo that weave my hair into silky smooth strands of finger-friendly hunkiness.

I’m not one to plug consumer products here. But then rarely does a product come along in which, subsequent to its use, even I can’t keep my own hands off my own self.

Such features include:

Die besondere hydraZinc Formel bekämpft Schuppen effective ab der 1, and Diese sanfte Formel enthält keine Farbstoffe und nur wenig Parfum.

I’ve found best results occur when you Haarwäsche und wirkt trockener, juckender und gespannter Kopfhaut entgegen, die häufig im Zusammenhang mit Schuppen auftritt. Easier said then done, but the end result is absolutely sublime.

If you have any silk bed linen, throw it down and roll around in there for awhile. That’s what’s it’s like to roll around on my rug. Queer, I know. But how else do you conclude a sentence with three contractions at the beginning?

2008-07-14T15:49:00.008+02:00

Happy news. I have more information on that Tasty Treat we spoke about in the previous post. Click here and you’ll see what got my Mangos oh so excited.

Rather than subject you to sub-par journalism, we’ll wind out this circumferential journey with lack-luster photo journalism. It’ll be like iReport. Only without links to syndicated personalities like Anderson Cooper.

Oh, Mr. Cooper. Your dimples and sophisticated graying hairline. . .makes me wanna do a follow-up piece about my new shampoo.

Cheap labor.

First Class: Where even my gas smells like roses.

Departure out of Hong Kong.

2008-07-08T15:04:00.007+02:00

The fourth leg of this journey finds us here, a short flight from South Korea and a completely miserable place to be this time of year. It’s hot, ya’ll. How hot is it? It’s hotter than a Mutha’ Fu*ka.

In our search to cool down, we find the treat of choice is a big bowl of crushed ice drizzled with Mango syrup sprinkled with chunks of fresh Mango topped with a big scoop of Mango ice cream. The perfect tasty treat to ice down my testicles. And we find this tasty treat in Taipei. The muggier-than-St. Louis-like hell capital of Taiwan. And assembly site of male undergarments.

But there is some beauty here.

It’s a fine blend of eastern China, Tokyo and the sweet, humid death of the New Orleans summer. The cute boutique hotel, Les Suites Taipei, is staffed with young talent who quickly learn your name. And who could pass up the chance to launch up to the Observation deck of Taipei 101, where the Japanese-made elevators shoot you skyward at 55 ft/s. That doesn’t seem like much until you try to run 55 ft/s, and then you’ll be like, “Fu*k that’s fast.”

2008-07-07T00:53:00.000+02:00

We’d like to thank the South Koreans for hospitality that has put them at the top of all smiley, black-haired people anywhere in the world. Also, we’d like to thank all young, single Korean women and their heels and short shorts. You’re the CNN of my daily news feed. Call me.

I guess my only complaint would be your obsession with my nose. Why do you have to keep touching my nose? And what trip would be complete without an Exit Interview at the airport? You’ll find an excerpt below:

Interviewer: “Can we interview you?”

Me: “Yeah, Girl.”

Interviewer: “What’s your favourite animal?” “What are your hobbies?” “Why you come to Korea?” “Can we take your picture?”

Me: “Can I take yours?”

2008-07-03T13:30:00.006+02:00

My diarrhea cha-cha-cha buddy picks me up this morning and we wind our way through downtown Seoul,

Headed down Yeongdongdaero near COEX Center.

on our way to the place to which we were headed. As we navigate through the parking lot, which resembled that of a big concrete lot with stationary automobiles, we quickly witness the theft of our future parking spot. Which sucks. ‘Cause it led to my 3rd car accident. All of which now have been in an Asian country.

From what I remember, we were primarily at fault. Also, I blacked out a little. Or was distracted by some young Korean woman (Sum Funyung-one, in Korean), strutting across the cross-walk. But what I do remember was Harry throwing the transmission into Reverse, looking over his right shoulder, and backing his Ice Cream Truck right into a car parked on his left.

Men are such retarded drivers.

Looking out over Han-Gang.

For my Mom.

2008-07-03T00:35:00.002+02:00

After a 5-hour layover in LA (which is 5 hours too long to spend in LA), we were off, and up out. And after yesterday morning, I now know to no longer ask a Korean man, "How are you today?"

To which he replied, "I had diarrhea last night. Too much ice cream."

We're new best friends.

2008-06-30T08:07:00.007+02:00

Things were about to get real ugly real fast. Turns out, Armenian women are simply stunning. And rather large breasted. Which I didn’t see coming. But as soon as my clothes arrived and I was able to dress like a man, it seemed unlikely even NASA could mine me out of my own sex appeal. And by 'sex appeal,' I mean, 'complete inability to woo even the 3rd World woman."

Bogota.

It started in the elevator and carried on throughout dinner. I’d tell you her name but I honestly don’t remember. Hell, I don’t even remember what letter it starts with or how many syllables it has. All I know is, she was hott, rather large breasted, and only spoke one English word: my name. It was actually pretty freakin’ cute if you think about it. Of course, it could swing either way. Like, God forbid you should hit her car or miss an alimony payment.

Armenia.

And then there came the Rumba bar. A whole new definition of ‘sexy.’ Colombian women clearly have the ability to do some PG-13 rated things when they dance. And it kept me from standing up for about 30 minutes. I’ll even go so far as to say the men have this talent too. I took notice. There. I said it.

Outside Downtown Bogota.

But I did learn a few new words. Like, “Papasita,” and another one that sounds too much like the word, “Moron” only ending in –reno. I think word got out that because I have an American Express, which will henceforth be known as, “Americano Rapido,” and have €’s in my pocket, that I’d make a pretty good catch. And yes, that’s true. Which is why I told whatsherchestface that I had Euros taped in ticklish places all over my body. Fu*k if she didn’t just skip the giggling and dive right in. At a dinner table of 20. Didn’t see that coming either.

How’d it end? I told her I was broke. But it wouldn’t stop me from carrying her child to full term then smearing it with Colombian coffee beans, wrap it in Plantain leaves and smuggling it onto the next delayed Avianca flight to Cartagena whilst I let her puppy dry-hump my immigration papers.

A Colombian Speed Bump. And not the good kind.

2008-06-28T19:23:00.007+02:00

Proud to say that my first night in Bogotà was uneventful. Save for my friend and her 3rd World communication skills.

I’ll highlight the lowlights and we can get on with this:

- Interrogation
- No luggage
- No pick up
- No money
- No working cash machines
- No toiletries
- No bueno

After quick sleeps and crawling back into my stiff socks and even stiffer undies, we were back at the airport the next morning to catch a flight out west to Armenia. The coffee capital of your shameful morning addiction and apparently home to the finest women in South America. No shit. That’s what they say.

Nonetheless, it’s afternoon of Day 3 and I still have no luggage. I’ve retired my undergarments and have them standing atop the television set. A vivid reminder of the potential biohazards of international travel. Also, I need to send them to laundry today. But lucky me. I have two Colombian women to take me shopping. Which almost didn’t happen because of Claudia's Soviet Era box powered by a lawn mower engine that required pulling of the string at every stop light and a complete inability to climb hills greater than a 3% Grade. Which means we had to get a running start to even get out of the hotel parking garage.

Most everything turned out ok. Except one vital part of my wardrobe. Colombia’s interpretation of so called, “Boxer Shorts.” Depending on various atmospheric variables and Taiwanese clothes designers, I swing between a 34 and a 36. So, I purchased a pair of what looked like rather comfy Boxer Briefs. 36/38. Clean. Cotton. Dark Navy Blue.

And 12 sizes too short.

Also, there was no slotted access to my junk which as you know, is an integral part of the public restroom urinal experience. How you can overlook such an important part of engineering is beyond me. But my bigger problem was asphyxiation. Which was, unbeknownst to me, adversely affecting my gait. And after a few hazy moments of lower cerebral level problem solving, (and some socially unacceptable manual exploration which may get you arrested in some countries for public restroom disturbance), I realized that the upper level of the waist band was below the lower level of my pants zipper. And with a little effort, I was able to break the vacuum seal of my waist band and lower the barometric pressure of the room a few points. Below is a scale model of what we’re going through. Approximately 6 inches above the beer can is where my navel sits. And to put this into further perspective, I'm 6'5" and my upper thighs are bigger than 2 beer cans in girth. Also, I had no pants on when I took this photo.

2008-06-26T15:32:00.000+02:00

This next leg has been oozing bad ju ju since the beginning. Close to 90 minutes sitting on the plane in Frankfurt before being evacuated due to a security threat.

Except us Business Class folk.

Which is proof that money can buy you exemption.

And lap dances.

Which brings us to Caracas, Venezuela. Where, after spending another hour on the taxi way in a lightening storm, in a big metal tube with big metal wings, and an absolutely unforgettable approach down the Caracas coast, I bring you this: a post about my hair.

And the new shampoo I started using.

It’s like Baby Jesus himself squirts out a little schtickle of sky blue, anti-dandruff cranial holiness into my left hand, and guides this vestigial appendage up to my dome, promoting the marriage of an ordinary man’s rug with a common consumer product, resulting in the blessed offspring that I simply can’t keep my own hands out of. While that may seem an awkward analogy for those of you that have young children, I literally spent the last 11 hours playing with my own hair. It’s like running your fingers through a mixture of mid-western American fields of golden wheat and the ubiquitous back-warehouse sweatshop of the Thai silk manufacturing industry.

I know what you’re thinking: “After the inherent dangers of stampeding through southern Ontario suburbs and the northern xenophobic states of South Africa, why continue to subject us to mild anxiety and perverse curiosities of yet another rogue state visit?”

To which I say, “Neh. Touch my hair.”

This is Venezuela. Fu*k that. I’m transferring onto somewhere safe.

2008-06-23T18:30:00.003+02:00

Remember that time when we were kids and they were constructing those new apartment homes just outside our subdivision? They had the dirt lots all nicely packed and staggered, like a gentle sloping dirt staircase up to the foothills. And we would hide behind the one single-family home sized dirt pile and chuck solid chunks of dirt at on-coming cars. Remember that? And remember the softer pile of dirt colored poo we left in our drawers when we heard the screeching sound of an automobile anti-lock breaking system for the first time? Remember that fear and anxiety lurking in our loins?

That’s what it’s like to sit at a stop light in Johannesburg at night.

A dichotomy of all things polar, and bi, Joburg has left me with an apprehensive and unsettling aura marinated in the protective and hospitable grips of my local colleagues, not unlike the welcoming feeling of Australians and the personally catered hospitality of Japan. It’s like knowing I’m going to get stabbed in the neck or chest plate, but when I get home, there’ll be a freshly drawn bubble bath flanked with scented candles and an ice cold Hansa Pils resting under a dimly lit yet freakishly large Makiwa Mutomba piece.

Sitting there. Staring. Staring at my disproportionate, bubbly genitalia.

To put your mind at ease, take comfort knowing that when you park your car, there’s security patrolling the lot whilst you eat. I use the term, ‘whilst,’ because Rue is still learning the proper North American usage of the word, 'whilst.' I like security. They even wear brightly colored traffic vests. Which is necessary for the Zimbabwean at night. But when you emerge from your 250g Filet-submerged-in-chalet-and-black-peppercorn-cream-sauce drowned in a classy, expressively firm and well defined Stellenbosch to find your car stolen, take comfort in that, “Hey, they had a gun,” comments are better then tipping them as you drive off only to watch them throw the change on the ground. It ain’t so bad if you understand and accept the fact that it was security who called their buddies in the first place to come steal your car.

Fu*k that was a good steak.

2008-06-16T19:18:00.005+02:00

After a bl*gworthy giddy up and the subsequent near-death beating from preserved beaver pelts and Moosehead bottle caps, your humble narrator is on to the second leg of what will come to be known as, “The International Incident-Laden Holiday That May Have Ultimately Ruined Youth Day, Broken Hearts, Embarrassed My Mother, and Brought New Meaning to the Phrase. ‘I Wonder What It Feels Like With a Di*k In It.’”

Remind me to follow up in a few months to see how many times that phrase was Googled and led you here.

I’m sensitive, ya’ll. I’ve become unable to quietly digest airline food in socially acceptable fashion. A part of me secretly hopes I pass this trait onto my future daughter and it lies dormant until around the time she starts dating. Anyway, as a diplomatically firm response to my Business Class seat not being able to recline last night, I spent the latter half of the 11-hour flight exploring the Economy cabin. Not only because I think it’s funny, really, really funny, but because when you’re superior to someone, you can do that sort of thing. It’s like when you and Dad used to play the Fart Game and he always won.

As the sun inched its way over the horizon,

And we inched our way down into Johannesburg, reality began to set in and it became clear that skills like these won’t help me here.

I’ve been here 10 hours and have already come down with food poisoning. Guests are advised not to leave the hotel property and security is literally visible around every corner. And I sit here, struggling with which stereotypes to cling to and which ones to do away with. But as the sun is now gone, I’ll heed their advice tonight. For I fear the natural camouflage of the night is evolutionarily superior to my visual acuity and ability to make a South African man giggle.

2008-06-14T20:23:00.001+02:00

There’s a reason people don’t go to Hamilton, Ontario for vacation. Probably for the same reasons people don’t bl*g about Hamilton, Ontario. If there was ever a town that didn’t have much to live for, it would be this one. ‘Cept for the fact that they have a Taco Bell.

Fu*king love Taco Bell.

2008-06-12T03:12:00.003+02:00

This little whirlwind ‘round the world tour was supposed to begin uneventfully in the uneventful nation of Toronto. Canada. Land of beavers. Home to weather that keeps you circling until you run out of gas and forces you to limp your way to Montreal where you re-gas and sit on the plane and wait until the weather clears in Toronto but because things move east they head over to where you’re hangin’ out and then you finally lift back off over to Toronto but have to wait your turn as the airport clears its backlog and by now your pick-up has long since been sent home so while you mentally prepare for the psychological cavity search this Beaver Nation so highly values you can’t help but titillate with goose bumps and glee that this place has a Taco Bell.

And that’s pretty neat.

Why Canada? ‘Cause no matter what happens after this it’s sure to feel like a winner.

2008-06-04T21:17:00.002+02:00

I paid $8.93 per gallon of gas the other day. If this keeps up it’s going to put the serious kibosh on my grocery bill. And by “grocery bill” I mean “lap dances.”

So, in an effort to stem my demand and increase my supply, I parked my car at the airport, and took a long weekend in Baku. Where I spent a day on the beach skimming the gentle, rolling waves of the Caspian Sea for extra leakage from the oil platforms parked the few km off the coast. The rest of the time was spent practicing essential Russian terms such as, ‘Breakfast in Bed,’ ‘Candle Lit Bath,’ ‘Oil Massage,’ and ‘Dishes. Do Them Now.’

I also had the pleasure to meet a nice young man on the flight to Istanbul this morning. Eighteen years old and his first time on an airplane and out of his home country of Azerbaijan, I couldn’t help but recollect my first memory of flying. Then, I thought I’d spoil it for him by screaming, “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODWE’REGONNADIE!!”

Didn’t quite have the effect I was going for seen as how we hadn’t yet left the gate. But I still think he soiled himself a little. And once we got to altitude, he was clearly struggling sitting next to the window, so I said he should either roll down the window for some fresh air or he can do switchies for my isle seat. Perplexed and looking pale, he slid into my seat, and the Emergency Exit Row seat responsibilities were now safely in my possession.

Now, a plea to all you New Yorkers, if you see a young man wearing jeans and black shirt, dark hair, about 5’ 5” with dark Caucus-states features speaking in debilitating broken English wandering around the streets of Manhattan, please help the kid out. It’s his first time away from home and you’re his host for the next 4 months. I’ve already laid down the Welcome mat to America and Americans by treating him to a Starbucks coffee at the airport this morning. It’s up to you to sustain the goodness. The wholesomeness. The hostessness that is you, America.

Also, turns out he’s a tea drinker because his digestive system can’t handle coffee but I didn’t know that. So don’t fu*k that one up again.

2008-05-25T18:11:00.001+02:00

I know a few months ago I promised you a summer of adventure, tears, and sub-par bl*g posts. The next two weeks were supposed to be no exception. But due to immigration issues and the Dengue Fever, we’ve had to shelve our Brazilian wax for a later date. Which leaves us here, hairy, laid up with a chronic case of Tennis Elbow whilst you sit there and read a bl*g post about my hairy Tennis Elbow.

Kinda lame, I know. But it hurts ya’ll.

No joke.

Ow.

2008-05-20T08:38:00.002+02:00

Forward Looking Statement: . . .I was there too. Right in the thick of it.

There’s nothing like a Friday evening at the opening night of the Carnival to experience the vast economic diversity southern Germany has to offer. What initially seemed like a harmless 2 am run to Walmart morphed into a full blown white trash Gypsy Middle School take over of our peaceful little Black Forest town.

Following up from last year’s experience of multiple slipped Cervical vertebrae and subsequent spondylolisthesis of the lumbar spine propagated by the Break (Neck) Dance, and some ride that boasted 6G of force, we spent the latter half of the evening laughing and pointing at our own, who barely managed to wobble off the Airwolf, staggering towards the nearest trailer with his right thumb and forefinger covering his mouth.

Ironically, most of the rides from last year that brought nausea into our Sunday afternoon, were not present this year. Rumour has it from safety issues. Nonetheless, looking around, it’s moments like these that make us all feel better about ourselves. Better about the way we dress. Better about the way we look. Better because we actually do our hair and hide our obesity underneath our clothing.

2008-05-15T15:26:00.004+02:00

Having missed this earthquake by a few weeks I can’t help but be a bit touched, wondering how my new found friends are doing. I also can’t help but be saddened to think that the Pandas I never got to see may be buried under piles of rotting bamboo, fighting for their little furry lives, screaming for a glass of tea. Damn you, Karma. Damn you.

Nonetheless, I have a confession to make. I think I’m developing a man-crush on Anderson Cooper.

Maybe it’s the grey hair. Or perhaps it’s because he has his own bl*g called ‘360.’ I’ve noticed I’m getting a few grey hairs too. My bl*g even has a number in it! I dunno. And while I hope to Baby Jesus that this will soon pass, I can’t help but be alarmed at the growing list of vices. Between my penchants for younger Asian women, older, graying Prime Time male television personalities, and an escalating frequency of delaying bodily evacuations until I return to my place of current inhabitance for safe and complete disrobing, I fear the social backlash may diminish any hopes I had of remaining ‘That Cute Boy Next Door.’

Also, I’ve decided to take up tennis.

2008-05-10T16:42:00.001+02:00

I've brought you home with me for Mother's Day.

So I want you to sit there. Be quiet. And behave.

And if you're good, I'll take you to the Happy Bar tonight to see some boobs.

2008-05-07T18:41:00.004+02:00

Good Morning.

I say, where did this last week go?

Then I found this photo on my camera:

To the Arabs, I’m not sure what this room is called. But to you and I, it’s the Hubbly Bubbly Room. Some kind of fisherman’s terminology I ain’t yet familiar with.

Yet here I sit, while the cat lays on my keyboard bathing what’s left of his / her genitalia, trying to piece together what once seemed like solid prose about a week in Dubai, all I can muster up is that they’re pretty solid folks who know their way around the kitchen.

A week making new friends from Jordan, Egypt, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Oman, U.A.E., Yemen, has left me with pleasant memories of why all those nationalities shouldn’t be in the same room debating in their non-native language. Lively. Fiery. Intellectual. Like your humble narrator all hopped up on the Hubbly Bubbly smacking around a late-20 something Latino girl for “misremembering” the correct family lineage of Cortes and La Malinche in the story of La Llorona.

Jesus. Could you imagine?

Then we all had dinner. On a boat.

Which took us out up to opening of the Gulf. That didn’t suck.

Then we drank. On land.

With one of the more pleasing backdrops of the trip.

Except if you were to go into any restaurant dominated by all Pilipino women servers. Which isn’t everyone’s thing. Like the Gays. And the French. Do I smell Astroglide?

2008-04-29T04:41:00.009+02:00

I thought I would have had my fill of slim, petite Asian women.

I was wrong.

Three days back in Germany with them Lumberjacks and I was off, and up out.

I’ve been thinking all day of how best to describe last night’s view flying over Kuwait, but I’m still so full of emotion from not being able to hold a baby Panda that I’ve completely forgotten where this literary transition was going.

Instead, we’ll Ying / Yang this Bitch and dichotomize today’s hunt for terrorist training camps for those of you in both parties.

What looks to be either a Nuclear Research Facility or some kind of Jungle Gym.

About an hours drive outside Abu Dhabi, High-Level Security is still prominent.

As if on cue, we spot 4 Arabian Humpback Horses trekking across the dunes.

After spotting us, they immediately throw in a decoy and begin heading in the other direction. Witness the origins of the 'Rope-a-Dope'.

Not one with the olives to spend a night with no television, we begin our trek back to camp.

2008-04-26T15:12:00.001+02:00

We were supposed to complete our 4th week, but due to this whole Panda fiasco, I’ve decided to boycott the remainder of my trip and head home. A bit lagged, I awoke this morning at 4:50, baked me a pizza, and reflected on this past month. And how if they just took me to the Special Place of Pandas like I asked them to in the first place. . .

And then I come back to this. A global food crisis, America complaining about $4 gas, Hillary winning Pennsylvania, Chinese boycotting CNN, and most importantly, South Korea could be ashes before I ever get the chance to date a local South Korean girl. How depressed would that make you?

Then I started thinking about all the people I met during the last few weeks. Trying to piece together the conundrum that is Tibet, China, and the rest of the world who believes they know better. And the only thing I could come up with is that those of us who speak out aren’t qualified to do so.

From the east coast, to the north, to the south coast, to central China, one thing was consistent. No one could directly answer the question of Human Rights and what exactly it meant. All the basics seem to be there. If you want a cell phone, internet, to purchase a car, a home, clothes or a sack of rice, you could if you had the money. Same as where I come from.

If you need health care, an education, or want to read the news, you can get it. And while not a single one of the more than 15 hospitals I went into had hand soap in the restrooms, the medical care was there and apparently good enough for people to be walking out on their own. Which is the main goal anyway, isn’t it? If you were going to die, it was because you got stuck in traffic.

If you want a good education, chances are decreasing that you’d have to fly overseas to get one. Those that went to Europe and the United States for their education have since returned and are now teaching the homegrown. And here’s a novel thought. The only international business school in the entire country which makes it mandatory to learn golf, can be found on the southern island of Xiamen. I think its genius. Admit it. You wish you thought of that too. However, here’s the catch for you nurses. Seven days a week in China should net you a few hundred dollars a month. If you don’t like it, get another job.

Should you want to read the paper or watch the news, it’s there for the taking. So long as you can buy or steal the paper, or have a TV. But I can’t promise the quality of the source or the information. For those of you who watch your daily news, FOX news, or read your local liberal kindle, you can’t make the same promise. And if you really wanted to know something, you reach for your cell phone or go to a local phone booth, and you call your friends or family overseas. Or send them an email. Many of the locals have friends or family in San Francisco, where the excitement and opportunity to experience a different life in America recently met the chance to show pride and honor of their home country. Only to clash with the ignorance of those who still have a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker on their ’89 Subaru Wagon and lack the basic understanding of the Sino-Tibetan relationship and the countless years of history that shaped it. What a tarnish on your American experience.

I still struggle to understand this agenda. Four months ago Tibet wasn’t an issue. Now you can’t turn on the television or open a newspaper without seeing something about a protest. Why are you still protesting Human Rights in a country you’ve never visited, occupied by people who have never before had as much freedom as they do today?

I am truly embarrassed for the French. Who else would attack a paraplegic? Yet the current boycotts throughout China over the French grocery chain, Carefour, primarily hurt the 99% Chinese employees selling the mostly Chinese-made products. But the point is taken.

And I’m truly embarrassed for the Americans. The international press successfully generalizes the anti-Sino perspective across the greater population. I sit here and try to convince myself that it’s a minority of ignorant individuals doing the shouting, probably because they like to hear the sound of their own voice when in fact they have no idea what they’re screaming about or fighting for. I’m inclined to believe they too have a false impression of life in China. And the international community is laughing. If we can’t manage 300 million people, what makes us think we can successfully lead 1.4 billion? For a country that has failed to take care of their own, we Americans remain convinced that the rest of the world is doing it wrong and we have the better way.

We don’t. And if I see one more hippie camped under a “Free Tibet” banner asking for donations, I’m gonna kick them in the mouth and take their money. If you want to make a difference, get on a plane, go to Lhasa, and help ma’ and pa’ rebuild their shop. As an incentive, if you can find Tibet on a globe, I’ll give you half your money back.

On the other hand, my news source for the last month has been the only English newspaper in the country supplemented by State-controlled television. So maybe I’m getting it wrong. But what I am sure of is that these are a harmonious people who play the same game each day to feed and clothe their family. What separates them from you and I? They smile at their neighbors, and absolutely everyone is a guest in their home.

What could make for a better close to this trip but to pick up my suitcase with a gigantic wet spot on the front. I dismiss it to the fault of the rain, and imagine my surprise to find it still so prominent and vulgar the following morning. Utilizing my trustiest investigative tool, I give it a thorough sniff and am violently thrown back by what is the unmistakable scent of a big pot of spicy cooking grease with spicy grease sprinkled with spicy whole black pepper corns soaked in spicy grease. I can feel the cancer develop in my esophagus as I type.

They’re really taking this whole Karma thing too far.

2008-04-23T00:36:00.011+02:00

Day 23:

I feel sluggish today. Maybe it was the 4 tablespoons of MSG I had for dinner. Or the litre of grease I washed it down with. Or perhaps it’s because I miss you and how your skin smells of salsa and an 8-hour work day. Either way, Chengdu is the Panda Capital of China. And I refused to leave until I see one of these devil creatures.

From the beginning, things didn’t go my way. I wanted to go to the Special Place of Pandas, where you can play with them and wrestle with them and bottle-feed one of the 8 new cubs while cradling them in your Gorilla-like, yet pillowy soft, adoptive motherly arms.

Instead, I got dragged to the Zoo. Where the Welcome sign posted strict rules of ‘No Spitting and No Pornography.’ The logical place where I can feel like less of a freak show. Nonetheless, I wanna see a damn Panda.

I’d go further, but as I organize my photos, I see they didn’t turn out as well as I thought:

Maybe it was the flash. Or the devil. The whole Karma thing would make sense here.

It’s best we end now so I can go get sick.

2008-04-22T10:09:00.004+02:00

Day 22:

After poor weather stranded myself and 90 million other people at Xiamen airport, we were finally on our way over to Chengdu, a sleepy little farming village of 480 million up in central China.

You wouldn’t believe it, but yesterday was the first day I’ve seen blue sky in an urban area since I’ve been here. As Chengdu sits in a valley surrounded by mountains and gets 330+ overcast days a year, it was a gleeful moment. Then it rained, so that sucked.

Speaking of sucking, we had this group foot massage the other night. And after getting my butt and back tenderly reorganized, I thought I’d try something new. My Taiwanese colleague, who had his first foot massage ever done by another man, which was kind of awkward for him, especially after his Foot Technician mentioned that he even smelled Taiwanese, took me to the next level in the Chinese World of Medicinal. Heated jars.

You’re probably thinking, “What do Taiwanese people smell like?” I don’t know. But these heated jar things were craaaazy. The guy lights this stick, flames the inside of a circular jar, then twists it onto your back. Strategically placed along the spine, they suck the muscles and skin up into the jar like a heated glass soft tissue sucking machine. Removed after about 10 minutes, those areas where the muscles are more tense, will produce a darker mark. It’s been three days and I still have 10, 4-inch diameter, dark purple circles all over my back. I look like a Twister mat. Oddly enough, I feel incredible.* If you get the chance, I highly recommend you and your buddies gather up a few jars and give it a whirl.

Now, I have to tell you about last night’s dinner. Hot Pot. Have you ever had Hot Pot? I had it once before in Hong Kong and I remember it being very delicious. But this one last night? It. Sucked. First tray to come out was Ox stomach. Then there were some kind of little eggs. From a dragon or something, I dunno. And because we’re in Sichuan Provence (rhymes with Poonan), it was all spicy as hell. I love spicy. But I like flavour too. This had no flavour. It was like a big pot of spicy cooking oil with spicy oil sprinkled with spicy whole black pepper corns soaked in spicy oil.

Also, it sucked. So to give you something to add flavour, they give each of you a side bowl of grease. Then you can add vinegar, salt, and get this, MSG. Yeah. I know, huh? I thought it was sea salt. *I have morning sickness too.

Stay tuned for my Panda adventures. . .

2008-04-20T07:49:00.005+02:00

Day 20:

I’m a freak show.

People on this tiny southern island of Xiamen, population 105 million, have never seen the Tall White Man before. My translator, who is actually dressed like my escort today, is having trouble keeping up with the questions from the locals. All cattled into the boarding gate for the ferry to Gulang Island, I’m overcome with stares and smiles; she of questions. I told her to tell them, if they don’t stop staring, I’m gonna whip out my jock and start mushroom-punching the elders.

And this keeps happening:

I have absolutely no idea who this girl is.

I’ve also learned a valuable lesson today. I’d like to share it with you.

You see, in China, when you have business dinners, it’s believed that wine over dinner is the avenue through which relationships are formed. It’s a chance to drink and toast, and open the lines of communication which help foster future partnerships. And like any social lubrication, its best used without moderation.

So here sit 30 of us at the largest round-table setting I’ve ever seen. Even Lazy Susan was so big she had her own motor. And God forbid you missed your chance to grab the dish of your choice ‘cause it took another 30 minutes for it to come back around.

Now as the custom goes, the person who chooses to toast, goes around the table and toasts each and every person individually, downing a few large swigs of wine or white rice wine, then refilling up for the next person. Kinda cool I think. But fu*k that.

At one point, my local colleague, who doesn’t speak English, managed to mumble out a few words about the table, its size, and asked if I liked it or something. Now I “thought” he asked if I would like to have a table of that size. I said, “Sure. I wouldn’t mind.’ But what he actually asked was if I would like to go around the table and toast to everyone. This was translated to me after he made the news public.

Here’s the funny thing. The only Chinese words I know are, “Hello, Thank you, How are you? and, green tea.” I went with the obvious choice. I said, ‘Hello,’ called everyone Green Tea, and thanked them. That’s about all I remember.

The lesson learned? Next time a China man says something to you, say, “No,” and punch him in the genitals. And as an added repercussion, I’ve wished a violent visit from Tropical Storm Neoguri on the island.

2008-04-18T17:16:00.002+02:00

Day 18 :

After eight long, emphysema symptom-filled days in Beijing, it’s time to move on. I’m not one to give a bad plug, but the Park Plaza is a complete shithole. Maybe it was the 200+ geriatric American tourists wheeling their way around every morning, filling the non-smoking section by 6:45 am, forcing the rest of us into the smoking hall whilst they quabble with non-English speaking attendants about the difference between milk and cream, regular and decaf. Or maybe it was the overbearing staff that stood over your shoulder, just waiting for the chance to refill your coffee, take your plate, or wrestle away your luggage.

I know I should be more patient with our elders. I cherish them. I really do. But among all these 40 – 50 year olds, not one single couple brought along a child for me to play with. Papa need a playmate.

Speaking of playmates, I’ve had to get a lung biopsy. The pollution here has left me a dying man. If you’re one of my many Kenyan readers headed to Beijing for your marathon games, you had better be training appropriately. If you’re not running behind a bus everyday to and fro the next town for bread and rice, forget about it.

Nonetheless, we are headed to Southern China, where incidentally, the first Typhoon of the season is approaching. And should anything happen, I want to get a few things off my chest.

First. My Beijing escorts. It’s true. Tall white men can pretty much get anything they want in China. And it was getting to the point where I would ask a local colleague to walk me home. I’m finding out that I can only be so nice for so long. You have an agenda. And you’re not cute enough for me to want to find out what’s on it.

Second. There were dudes escorting me from Point A to Point B too. There. I said it.

Third. I’m developing a new habit. Over the last few months I’ve started noticing that when I come home or into my hotel room and no matter HOW bad I need to use the restroom, I can’t use it until I take off all of my clothes. I can’t really explain this one. Sometimes I think it’s kinda funny. Then sometimes I’m in a suit and I can’t get my dress shoes untied. I’ve developed this psychological barrier. Listen, if you’ve had this problem and have overcome it, I’d love to hear your suggestions. I’m afraid things may get awkward at the office.

2008-04-15T16:37:00.004+02:00

Day 15 :

Beijing.

I’ve been escorted from Point A to Point B by young Chinese girls (traveling in pairs) more times in the last 5 days than I care to admit to my mom. On the way to work. On the way home from work. On the way to dinner. On the way home from dinner. I feel like a young Wilt Chamberlain without the mustache. Avec an affinity for young Asian women.

I’d love to take the time to share with you our second opportunity to hike along a somewhat remote section of The Great Wall,

But I’m afraid to tell you that I’ve suffered a rather serious, potentially handicapping injury. Wendy, my Massage Therapist 2 blocks down the street from my hotel, refers to it as a, “See Me 3 Days a Week” injury. For those of you in the medical field, you know that’s some serious shit.

I was working out yesterday, and I was doing this exercise for my upper back when it happened. A blinding pain of a seemingly pulled, torn, or otherwise exploded Glute muscle on the starboard side of my undercarriage. To fully appreciate the gravity of the situation, I’ve included a photograph of exactly what was going on when it happened.

2008-04-09T06:45:00.004+02:00

Day 9 :

I know I promised you some sort of humanitarian or political efforts to further extend your support for human rights while rightfully acknowledging the spirit of human competition at its highest level. But right now, I’d kidnap a Tibetan national, dip him in a vat of guacamole, roll him up in a tortilla, sprinkled with melted, processed cheese and homemade salsa, and beat him with a funnel cake if I knew the end result would produce ½ lb greasy BBQ’d burger topped with anything and everything from your vegetable and cheese drawers pressed between two white flour sesame seed buns topped with a run-on sentence. Lightly toasted.

Though I’m sure I could create such a scenario here in Shanghai, I’ve been preoccupied with this:

A crazy, ungodly adorable Shanghai girl who keeps following me and taking my picture. So, we buy her lunch.

Catching up on old times, I grace her with my witty banter. My ability to use chopsticks fills her eyes with admiration. And I gently plant the seed that an evening out with three of her closest, bestest looking female friends tomorrow night would be a diplomatically important move to strengthen political ties between China and the US. Or Germany. Or where ever who gives a fu*k.

2008-04-06T15:12:00.007+02:00

Day 7 :

We arrived in Changsha yesterday, capital of Hunan (rhymes with Poonan), to what can only be described as The City of Black Lung. If you’ve ever flown into San Francisco on a foggy day, you know it’s, well, foggy. That’s like Changsha. Only with pollution instead of fog.

I’ve also decided this week that I want a Chinese baby. Those things are so freakin’ cute you just want to smother it with freedom and human rights. And I’m addicted to foot massages.

Chairman Mao says, "Wassup, Bitches."

2008-04-03T18:40:00.003+02:00

Day 3:

The driving here is worse than I remember. Imagine Manhattan’s drivers. Only take away their vision. Then add an extra 8 million bicycles and scooters. Take away their vision too. Then get all the pedestrians together in the middle of the city, give them frontal lobotomies, and scream something about a huuuuuge tidal wave.

Also, our driver just started driving this past weekend. I remember when I first started learning to drive a stick shift. Only I didn’t make the white guy sit up front. Why it always gotta be the white guy to get taken’ out first, yo’?

Luckily, I took a Panda tranquilizer and was out most of the drive to Ningbo, a sleepy little suburban port city of 712 million, nestled in near the East China Sea.

Also home to the best foot massage parlor this side of Easton. Looked shady at first. Kinda reminded me of the one in Rush Hour 2 where that Black guy and the Asian guy got in a fight or something. Remember that? Anyway, on the way home I noticed the Massage Club at the end of the driveway to my hotel. Looks like a giant Casino. I’d link you to a website but I can’t find one. Will check it out tomorrow and report back.

2008-04-02T16:38:00.003+02:00

Day 2 :

I’m so freakin’ excited I don’t know what to bl*g about first. Our car accident this morning, the eel with the spine still attached for dinner, or our replacement driver who doesn’t look a day older than 10. Cute as a button. But I’m scared shitless.

West Lake. Looking East.

2008-04-01T17:01:00.001+02:00

I came here with the best of intentions. To free Tibet. And maybe liberate a few vulnerable ladies with low self-esteem. But I’ve only been here 6 hours. Papa gotta eat.

Until then, we welcome you to China. Rice-Potato-Sack Capital of the world. Home to an estimated 9.3 billion people. Land of Alabama Cuisine. And creator / manufacturer of the squeezed Papaya.

So, to all my Chinese readers out there, “Ní hǎo. Yígè xǐaoshí dūoshǎo qían? Tài gùi le!”

And a special Index-3rd Finger “V” sign to all my readers who don’t read Chinese but may have a Chinese blood relative who may or may not speak, read or understand Chinese. You know what? Fu*k that. If your last name ends in –ing, -ong, -ang or any of the 6 vowels, a big, WTO “Shout-Out” from the Mainland.

Saddle up my little Kung Pao Pork Chops. This month-long disaster-waiting-to-happen is 6 hours and 50 minutes old. Yeah. That’s right. It took me almost an hour to write this post.

1st Stop: Hangzhou. Ironically, their homepage seems to be blocked from within.

2008-03-21T13:03:00.003+01:00

Like many living species, our time in the frozen tundra of Halifax was short lived. I got in. I slept. I made myself a sandwich. I got the fu*k out. A one-night-stand of frozen, business-like proportions.

Back on the plane and where do we end up? A place of cleansing. A city of healing. A chance to rid yourself of your sins, your tears, and your fears of über busty Dutch women pressing themselves up against the windows.

Welcome to Amsterdam. An opportunity to forget about the multiple interrogations and confiscation of business paraphernalia at the Canadian border and an open invitation to, well, pretty much do any Goddamn thing you’d like.

Leaving the relative moral safety of the Centraal Train Station.

One of several bridges into the Red Light District. Where the magic happens.

For a good occular molestation, you can't help but feel dirty after walking through this block.

We wish you a Good, Disease-Free, Bulky-Breasted, Intoxicating Scent-Filled Friday.

2008-03-17T14:27:00.003+01:00

Have you ever woken up in a taxi, or on an adult film set, and immediately thought, ‘What the?. . .Where the hell?’

This happened to me last night.

In the wee morning hours we found our self in a lower-middle class hotel amidst the sub-zero temperatures of Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Groggy.

Confused.

Cold.

Confused.

And utterly freakin' in love with my brand new Rimowa Bolero, Black. Sexy. Wholly unlike the people of this great Canadian nation of Halifax.

2008-03-13T20:11:00.002+01:00

So much for bl*gging everyday.

I’m busy preparing things for you. Here you sit, the sole beneficiary of my efforts. My pains. My good-natured stories of semi-rompless travels to lands I still can’t spell. Like the word, ‘every day.’

There’s actual work behind all this, this “work.” You see the Up side of the Swartz. What you don’t see is the Down side of the Swartz. You see, there’s two sides to every Swartz.

I’m headed to _____ in a few weeks, which requires legal paperwork in my Passport. Those of you who, like me in the near future, imported your wives, (Todd), are familiar with this process. So in an effort to oblige, I took the long trek to Frankfurt where the _____ Embassy is erected.

And like most adventures, my efforts fell flaccid.

I guess deep down, I already knew. It just took some ill-mannered _____ kid behind the single-pane window to remind me. As I have no Resident Visa in my Passport, I’m technically an illegal alien in Germany. And what do they do with illegal aliens of Germany? I don’t know. I assume they either gas them or send them to assemble the smart car. Something America should look into. . . Oh, also, they don’t issue legal paperwork to _____ to illegal German aliens.

So that leaves me with no choice but to head to the nearest _____ Embassy from where I hold legal residency. If you’ve been keeping track, it ain’t France either.

On the plus side, I have family in Chicago, which gave me the treat to spend about 40 hours with my Aunt and Uncle and the cutest, most loveable 8-year old cousin you could ever have. You’re probably saying to yourself, “Nuh-uh. MY cousin is cuter than your cousin.” To which I say, ‘Your cousin is a Bitch.’

Basically, here’s how it played out. It was a day and a half of repeated face-thrashings with her stuffed animals and a barrage of high-impact shin blasts with her soccer-playing legs. At first I thought it was cute. Then I realized that God has given her an unbeatable, undeniable talent that may best be utilized in the South East Asian underground world of Muay Thai Kickboxing. Then we made waffle mix and played Sticky Guns.

Also, I had hearty Mexican food two meals in a row. Which was a surprise shock to my plumbing and an unwelcome guest to my seat mate and surrounding Business Class passengers. But don’t worry. It was on United. Who by the way has recently begun recruiting Flight Attendants from your local Nursing and Assisted Living Homes.

2008-03-07T19:02:00.002+01:00

I got internet at home ya'll. Which means I can now bl*g every day.

Big Gulps, huh?

Well, see ya later.

2008-02-29T16:53:00.001+01:00

Hi. I know. I still don’t have internet at home and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to bl*g at work secondary to a serious lack of desire to be here.

However, I have something for you.

News.

The good kind.

The kind that makes you want to come back here at least once a month. The kind of news that when you read it, you say things like, “Sucks for him,” and, “Why do I keep coming back here once a month?”

I can’t tell you what it is yet, but I suggest you get your Hep A, Hep B, Encephalitis, Rabies, Typhoid and Yellow Fever shots and any other routine vaccinations you’re privy to.

I know what you’re thinking: “Why would he go to Canada?”

2008-02-15T17:25:00.001+01:00

I’m at a crossroads as to whether or not Germany is a good move for me.

On the one hand, I’ve started drinking during the weeknights again. Which is good for business.

Also, I got a new TV. And thus far, free satellite with 769 television channels, 150+ of which are Adult Channels. Which makes the weeknight drinkings, well, good for business.

On the other hand, I attended my first Tupperware party. In German. Boy did she take that shit seriously. Did you know they make collapsible Tupperware now? Also, I didn’t know that you couldn’t put rigid Tupperware in the freezer, only the flexible kind.

So I dunno.

2008-02-07T17:25:00.000+01:00

I thought that after all that shopping and Asian-style pampering, it be best if we tone things down a tad and revisit reality. Temporarily.

Hence another long weekend in Baku. That third world country we’ve come to know and love. Also home to my, nay, our, future wife. Who we’ve also come to know and love. Primarily because she’s simply fantastical. But mostly because she’s hott. And has an accent. But not like the kind you find in Canada. Or Arkansas. Illiteracy isn’t an accent. Write that down.

I’m also now a Wanted man in Moscow. Which is kind of ironic since I jokingly bl*gged about it a few months ago. I couldn’t wait any longer for my restaurant bill, so I bolted. Scadattled, if you will. I don’t remember ever doing such a thing, so I wasn’t sure if I did it right or handled it appropriately. But as we sat on the taxi-way, I anxiously veered out the window of yet another outdated Aeroflot aircraft, cognizant of every flashing light that came into my peripheral, half expecting to get pulled over.

Alas, we are back home in Germany. A place where, like France, nothing gets done. I’ve been in the office for almost 4 weeks now and I have no cell phone, computer, ID badge, AMEX, office phone or business cards. Getting something approved here is like getting a Resolution passed through the United Nations. I have no idea what a ‘Resolution’ is, but I hear it’s a bitch to pass. Like a gigantic kidney stone. I once had a roommate who had six kidney stones. All while we lived together. Even though she would always leave the lights on, I felt really bad for her. They’re so small so I would imagine passing one would be like a gigantic, prolonged orgasm.

But I guess not.

2008-01-29T12:27:00.000+01:00

It’s official. I’m shopped out. And out of money.

Ok, I’m not really 'out' of money. I just have none to give to the homeless or needy. Which is selfish, but Papa needed a new iTouch and Tui-na Massage, an Oriental bodywork therapy utilizing the flow of Qi through my meridians, channels and collaterals, restoring my being to a more harmonious state.

That being clarified, I can truthfully say that the new cabin design in Singapore Airlines is tops; officially beating out First Class in British Airways. BA, sure, you give out pajamas, escort me to my seat, and speak broken English. But lately it seems that you’ve been having trouble with my bags, keeping your elbows to yourself, and apparently landing planes has become an issue.

And it’s not that your Flight Attendants aren’t much to look at, regardless of their English heritage, but they don’t look like this. Go beyond the superficial, flawless, sweet-smelling scent of every gentle female Flight Attendant I’ve been personally waited upon on SA, and what you’ll find is a full set of teeth. Something I value as I spend 15 hours in a seat / bed big enough for the two of us, surfing the over 1,000 channels of mindless entertainment only a late 20-something with no TV can appreciate.

So hats off to you, Everything Singapore. You’re clean and green, your hospitality is purely Asian, your shopping heavenly (even for guys), and regardless of what goes on in the First Class Cabin or the rumours I’ve heard, you’ll forever be associated with the word, “Welcome.”

Special price for you.

2008-01-24T09:15:00.001+01:00

I can’t tell you much about the next day either, but it too made a blurry finish in the sunrise hours of the following morning as we shut down just under half dozen bars in St. James Power Station. I vaguely recall the Gala dinner and subsequent celebration with the Koreans as virtually everyone in the bar got the symbolic “Fist To The Chestal Area,” which requires you to finish whatever tasty beverage you’d be drinking at the time. As with the Japanese, Koreans shouldn’t play drinking games. Unless someone has a video camera.

We had a video camera.

Where were we? Right. Two a.m. and the genius in the group of four decides to order 2 bottles of vodka. I’m later told that genius was me, which was confirmed yesterday as I found the receipt with what looked like a picture of Chuck Norris clubbing a baby seal for a signature.

Turns out, I have a shopping problem.

My first day off since I’ve been here and the rigors of breathing and getting fitted for a new suit find the three of us diving into the first Bear Valley Mall-like massage parlour we see for a group foot reflexology massage. Sounds shady, I know. But this time, we stayed together.

After having to take the pulse of our Japanese colleague, he finally awoke, we found our shoes, and stumbled back onto Orchard Road. It would be hours before our legs would work properly again.

In much need of an afternoon nap, we dropped off Japan back at our hotel, and my colleague and I decided the next logical step was to get manicures.

I’ve never had a manicure.

I had my first manicure.

Does that make me a pussy?

Pretty much. But I say that my cuticles look fabulous. And despite the stern lecture I received about biting my nails, she shined and buffed and I was mesmerized for hours.

2008-01-23T11:43:00.000+01:00

Upon arrival and in dire straights for a haircut, I did what no white man should ever do. I got a haircut in an Asian country.

Which culminated with a scalp massage. A cosmetological “Happy Ending,” if you will. A welcoming sign of things to come or an inappropriate modification of the word, ‘cosmetology’? Stay tuned. . .

Our first evening found us on Sentosa Beach. Site of our Dragon Boat races along the lagoon. Also home to 6 hours of open bar for 2,000+ people. We were greeted by a percussion line and dozens of locals, mostly young girls, showering us with two-handed waves and smiles.

Aaaah yeah.

As I forgot my flip flops, I made a B-line to the nearest hut to purchase a pair. The largest, a thermonuclear green couple with cute little white flowers for straps and two sizes too short, would later find themselves involuntarily hanging from the ears of an Aussie colleague.

The boat races provided for a few hours of partial-contact entertainment. To summarize, the island countries of Japan, England and Australia all capsized, while the Germans somehow took home the gold. Or a coconut. I can’t recall. It wasn’t me so who gives a fu*k. Thems the highlights.

I can’t tell you much of the next day, but it made a blurry finish in the late hours of the following morning, 70 floors up in the New Asia Bar. Which sounds kinda neat. Until you look out the windows and 9 hours of drinking meet vertigo and a new Asian hair cut.

2008-01-17T19:56:00.001+01:00

The last 38 hours in Singapore have left me with 2 immediate observations:

1) Clean, and
2) Where are my pants?
3) Who has my camera?

2008-01-14T11:13:00.000+01:00

Going without internet for this long is like nothing you could ever imagine. Think being blind, deaf, and having no hands to type or legs to run into things. It’s what I imagine it would be like to move to my next country and have no IKEA.

God that would suck.

We’ve made it to Germany. Our new home. Yours. And mine. But mostly mine ‘cause I don’t see us getting together anytime soon. I’m too busy arranging my 800+ € worth of crap from IKEA. That’s like $9,400 to you. And it won’t be hard to get more. In Nice, IKEA was some 200km away. Here? Eight (8). That’s like Lunch-Hour close. I could figuratively blow 500 € over lunch. Then spend it on shit that’ll seriously fu*k up the chi in my next home 10 months from now.

The one thing I do need is a new computer monitor. It seems the fine French folks at Allied International (feel free to leave a comment expressing your displeasure) thought they could use a 21” Sony LCD Computer Monitor and stole mine. Also, “Shamu,” the certifiably retarded North African Immigrant who disassembled my bed, forgot to send six special screws with it, so the delivery crew had to Chirac-rig my headboard to the base. Which means no funny business, ok?

Don’t go far. We have a surprise for you this week. Remember last year in Lisbon? This year, we’re doubling it.

In a place where public intoxication is illegal. . .

Update: I reviewed the photo and it was a Samsung monitor that was stolen. Samsung. Like the kind of Samsung that made my stolen television. Why couldn't any of my ex-girlfriends be made by Samsung?

2008-01-04T20:01:00.001+01:00

My love for you is like a simmering vat of green chilli. Flavourful. Not too spicy, and simply fantastic on top of a chicken enchilada.

Which is why I feel all the more guilty for not seeing you for a few weeks. Also, I hope you’re fat and happy from the holidays. I am. Except for my ride over on Lufthansa. They can suck it.

But we have sadder fish to bake. It’s time we close the chapter on Nice and the Niçois. They have come and taken all of my worldly possessions (except the cat and my coffee machine), and have left me with a cold, empty home. A barren kitchen and a tile-covered floor, which is surprisingly frigid to sleep on in the winter. We have used our remaining cardboard boxes as insulation under the slowly deflating air mattress purchased from Eddie Bauer in October of 2006.

When a tear hits the floor, I hear its echo.

It’s a crisper, sharper sound then when the cat had a shit near the front door last night. Shorter, and softer than what I imagine it sounded like when he was pissing in cardboard box in the bathroom that had two mechanical pencils, a few golf balls, my Ti-85 graphing calculator and a 0,5 litre bottle of lavender fabric softener.

I'll see your sweet ass in Germany. A bientôt. . .

2007-12-19T14:59:00.001+01:00

It’s a good thing I wore pants.

Who knew there’d be a children’s Birthday party with TV cameras, Belly Dancers and a live band?

So I met Ms. Baku’s parents. And sister and brother-in-law and nephew. I’ve never been invited to meet a Russian girl’s Russian family before. And she has never invited a boy to meet her Russian family. Combine that fear with the confusion of local Muslim traditions and I didn’t know whether I needed to bring a dozen camels or a bottle of vodka.

Things didn’t start off so well. On the way to the restaurant, the family taxi, as driven by their friendly taxi-driving neighbour, hit a pedestrian. Which is funny if you think about it. Be that as it may, this pedestrian was drunk. Think of all the horrific consequences on his liver. Man. His poor liver.

Anyway, so I thought it best to bring a dozen goats instead because they’re more useful than camels. Especially because they have a neighbour that has a taxi. But then I got all confused about the customs and what I should do and was I confusing this with Hinduism? I dunno. Also, I didn’t have any goats or camels.

It’s a good thing I didn’t bring any vodka either ‘cause there was plenty of that shit going around the table. And they toast a lot which I thought was pretty cool. They toast to some very sweet and genuine things. Most of which I can’t remember secondary to all the vodka.

And the food. My God, the food. Delicious.

And the dancing. My God, the dancing. Too much after drinking all that vodka and eating all that food.

And the music. My God, the music. Azeri, Arabic, Russian. All very loud and festive to mix with the food and vodka and dancing.

Bring back the Belly Dancer. Thank Baby Jesus for all the vodka, for otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the potatoes to get up in front of her family and the restaurant and do whatever it is they said I did. Like I had a choice.

So. How’d it go? You ask.

I fear they’ve begun to plan for some things my friends and family never thought they would witness me involved in.

Yeah. A coup of sorts.

Call it what you want.

2007-12-16T12:08:00.000+01:00

Sometimes Allah blesses you with enough luck and knowledge to get you through next few hours. Kinda like a few really (really) good bong hits. And though I have no idea what an ‘Allah’ is, it gave me the presence of mind to leave all identifying documents in my room. The first time I can ever recall doing that.

While walking in the early morning hours, we were approached by a uniformed officer wearing one of those silly Russian fur hats. Knowing its unusual, borderline culturally unacceptable, to see a woman out in public at such an hour, I presumed we were in for a stern questioning and would be on our way.

As he approached, he looked me up and down, which I thought was kind of queer at the time. Then I noticed how big his night stick was and begin to imagine the subsequent beating I could get if I so much as opened my mouth. In hindsight, I wish I had the lexicon to reformulate that last sentence.

As required, Ms. Baku presented her identification and I, played the ignorant white man who doesn’t understand Azeri. He looked over the ID card as if looking for something illegal, occasionally pausing to glance at me and continually press for some form of identification. I had a feeling we were going to be here awhile.

He called his partner over, a taller, younger and more handsome officer. They continued to talk to me, pressing for identification, not quite accepting the fact that I had no idea what they were saying. You know that dumb look you think you’re sporting when someone yells something at you in a foreign language, or when your IT guy comes down to fix your shit and explains to you what you were doing wrong? The look that says, “I’m sorry I’m not home right now. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.” That look is not universal.

Ten minutes of this, and Ms. Baku and the short, older, more ugly one excuse themselves towards the building while the taller, younger and more handsome officer keeps me at bay. At this point, the two begin to argue as I struggle to remember what time breakfast at the hotel begins and if they’ll have those delicious little French Toast thingies and if not, what they could possibly replace them with.

‘Cause I’m a hungry bitch.

Just when I was about to excuse myself to seek out a snack pack, or street-side mobile snack booth, Ms. Baku turns around, tucks her ID back into her bag, grabs my arm and escorts me away, clearly insensitive to my hunger pangs. As suspected, I have just witnessed first hand the corruption of the state law enforcement. An abuse of power to demand identification and grant its return to the lawful owner only if the price is right.

Threats ranged from, ‘Do your parents know where you are and if so, I need to call them to verify,’ to, ‘Why don’t we just take you down to the Police station and we can work it out there,’ to, ‘Perhaps you should come to the hotel with me. You might need your ID card again someday.’

What I didn’t know was, as my fantasies jumped from a fruit snack box to a night-stick beating, back to a tasty snack box, I was watching this woman argue with a Police officer in a language she claims with limited speaking abilities, ultimately negotiating her way to his submission and free return of her ID.

I forgot she studied law.

Also, she’s hott.

And, I’m meeting her family tonight. I’m thinking of going without pants.

2007-12-14T20:29:00.000+01:00

My first trip through Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport will forever be known as: The Beginning of My Criminal Record. Never has the power of foreshadowing, an underutilized literary device in which subtle hints point to future plot developments, rang so true.

We are back in Baku.

Turns out, someone in Baku likes me. Though they don’t have the technology to make such a shirt.

You might be asking yourself:

1) What??
2) Who likes you?
3) What about ‘us’? I thought we had something. and,
4) What was Mary doing putting her face near tires?

With a heartfelt thanks to Mr. Dane, I can answer all four.

Also, you and I will be fine.

Also, nothing happened in Moscow. That was a lie.

Also, you wouldn’t baleeeeve the silly shit the local Police pulled on us at 5 am this morning. But right now, I’m watching the CNN especial on Romania’s Lost Children

2007-12-01T16:55:00.000+01:00

It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be to sleep on sheets with someone else’s blood stains on them. But then I saw the bedpan for a bathroom and thanked the Russian gods I didn’t have to make poo. That could’ve really made for an interesting post.

Seven a.m. on the pickle, and we rolled to a stop on the outskirts of Sheki, an ancient mountain town just below the Russian boarder and not too far from Georgia. It was dark. Freezing and snowing. Like an early morning mountain town in the beginnings of winter.

We were quickly escorted to the only waiting taxi, which I thought was odd. Why was there only one taxi? And why did a strange man just walk across the parking lot and get into the front seat of our taxi? And why the hell did I fill my tank with helium instead of oxygen?

All salient questions to ponder as we dozed off in the back seat of our Izh-412 IE. Or “Moskvich” to you locals. I’m sure we could’ve been there in under 30 minutes had we not been blessed with 18th Century roads and a car that belts out a top speed of 40 mph. But it was ambience we were looking for. And after checking into our room at the Saray Hotel and using the detachable sink faucet to shower with, it was down two blocks to Chelebi Khan for a Sheki breakfast.

If you like your coffee strong and your eggs served in a bowl of grease, have I the place for you. Sure, the bread, cheese and honey are nice. And of course the tea. But did I mention the 10W 30 eggs? Just what my furnace needed as our guide took us through Old Sheki. Home to one of the few remaining Armenian churches, a few palaces, and some shack of a bakery that is infamous for its 1 kg brick of Pakhlava. I know I’m spelling it wrong, but it’s not babka. Just imagine 0.98 kg of sugar and 0.02 kg of honey with some kind of something else. Here, here’s a photo.

As this would later earn me an interrogation at the airport for its innocuous dimensions and mass as picked up by x-ray, I’m still glad we purchased two, which increased the weight in the trunk of our taxi as we hunkered down for a 5 hour night drive back to Baku through the snowy mountain passes that could only be described as the scariest fog-filled off-roading journey I’ve ever taken.

What can I say? In the end, there ain’t much in Azerbaijan. And they have an Allah’s prayer of getting the 2016 Summer Olympics. But next to the high quality of food and welcoming locals, it’s still not worth the visit. The sea is one giant oil slick, the road system is one great big off-road track with just that kind of driving. The power supply is intermittent, the taxi drivers financially rape you, and if you drive anything newer than 30 years old, you’re bound to get flagged over by police with the expectation of handing over money or be thrown in the backseat. Interesting to watch as drivers rushed out of their cars to approach and shake the hands of the oncoming officer, exchange pleasantries, and rush off.

But when you’re trying to cross the 8 lane road and your über hott young Russian guide takes your hand and says, “Close your eyes and trust me,” and you do and live to bl*g about it, how can you not go back?

2007-11-29T23:20:00.001+01:00

What better way to work off a traditional Russian dinner than an overnight train ride through the snowy Caucasus Mountains in an aluminium box rolling along on Cheerios with little heat and minimum electricity.

We were suspect enough when our taxi driver couldn’t find the “Train Station.” And when we pulled down a pitch black alley, lit only by a few fires promoted by the homeless we were abruptly greeted by a relocated red and white striped gate, manned by 3 questionably young guards. Shady. But working harder than the French.

I don’t really recall any kind of terminal. There was a tiny booth which doubled as a place to buy a Coke and purchase museum tickets. And then, the bum rush of people as they pushed to get on either the left train or the right train. But security wadn’t having it. Openly questioning if these things were actually real, we found our car, #15, flashed 2 pre-ordered train tickets and identification to the guard, and embarked into the Third-Class darkness that was to be our next 8 hours.

2007-11-27T20:01:00.000+01:00

After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I continue to wonder if the apostrophe in ‘night’ is correctly placed to indicate a possessive noun or because of the rather bland adjective, I am inadvertently portraying that the ‘night’ possesses the ‘good.’

Having missed breakfast, I was slightly pissed. But I knew full well that anything other than biscuits and gravy was gonna suck anyway. I don’t think Islam knows biscuits and gravy. Nonetheless, our first order of business was to head over to the Old City.

Quite a beautiful walk really. Up and over and through and under the rather chic shopping district, we worked our way through the freezing rain and rather large numbers of people who should’ve been at work. People selling crap here, beggars huddled there, dogs crapping right here. For a few minutes, it seemed I had stepped back into the 21st century. It was short lived.

Passing under the stone gates, we made a B-line to the nearest tea house where we could thaw our bones. But I said, “Tea? Nay.” What followed was one of the best cappuccinos I’ve had since Italy. And just when it looked like the rain had ceased, we donned our cold weather gear, and headed back out. Into the freezing rain. But we couldn’t be discouraged. Hopped up on caffeine and eager to get away from the rug stores, we found our way to the Maiden Tower. Something I was looking forward to since I heard about it minutes before our arrival.

As we approached the crossing to the entrance of the Tower, an older gentleman, possibly in his early to mid 40’s, approached us and groomed us into coming down to his rug store. We conceded. He and my new friend exchanged pleasantries, and I countered with an introduction in my best Russian. What followed was a half hour of tea and chatter over how the one place he had heard of and wanted to visit was unknowingly the same city in which I was raised. Also, how I should never get married. They clearly understand the concept of, “half.”

We said our Goodbyes and expressed our gratitude for one another’s time, and headed out the door, I now more confident in the proper use of the apostrophe. As we encroached the 5’ doorway into the Tower, we noticed it was closed. Not ajar, as one would expect. Behind us, a frail old man, grey beard, weathered skin, tired eyes, obviously pushing his mid 50’s, brought a cigarette to his mouth with a laboured hand, and explained to us that a local had thrown himself off the tower a few days earlier. And while today, the Tower was closed to the locals, he was happy to invite us into his home where we could go to the roof on the 4th floor and catch a view of the city and surrounding Caspian Sea.

Upon leaving, we expressed our thanks, and were again, invited to stay for tea. But I had to seriously piss, so we politely declined. Where we ended up next had no bathrooms, but still beautiful in its own right.

Shirvan Shah Palace, founded in the Thirteenth Century, this was a place I didn’t entirely understand. Arabic passages intricately carved into the stone complimented by 8-sided rooms with high, conical ceilings, it was a beautiful compound that resonated no religious aura to me. Neither welcoming nor uncomfortable.

But if it was a sense of welcome and comfort I was longing for, it was found at dinner time. A traditional Russian restaurant beneath the ground, we were greeted with a kind face who helped us remove our coats and gently hung them up. A recurring theme I would see over the coming days. Decorated with dark colours and low ceilings, I felt oddly at ease as I braced myself for a positively memorable dining experience of all new tastes and birthday wishes from the softest, friendliest Russian singer you could imagine. She was like a Mrs. Potato Head with a traditional red dress and a smile from here to Armenia.

2007-11-26T06:47:00.000+01:00

I'm not yet sure how do describe my first 4 hours in Baku. Or, why the hell I even came here in the first place.

Long before we even landed, it was clear that Azeri's are new to 20th century travel. Following a stern lecture from the flight crew after someone was caught smoking in the lavatory, another man invited himself to a German-style beatdown for refusing to buckle his seatbelt prior to landing.

Once on the ground, negotiating your way through the Russian Cluster-Fu*k that is Immigration becomes your first local adventure. Budget close to an hour. Bring a couple of passport photos, 100 U.S. dollars, cleaned and ironed, and a whopper of a story as to why on God's climate changing earth you would ever want to visit Azerbaijan. My angle? I was looking for love.

Turns out, this is Muslim country. And they weren't buying it, thus dashing any hopes I had for a Day of Birth celebration at the local Titty Bar.

I was recommended to stay at the Park Inn. A new hotel with a familiar name. Located on the Caspian sea, just a 15 minute walk to Icherishekher, it seems an ideal place to call Home Base. In our book, any hotel where you wake up in the same bed is one worth the Manat. And after a pot of tea with my one familiar life-line, she was off to home and I was off to bed.

More about her and the anal-puckering trek through the Caucasus Mountains later.

2007-11-21T21:51:00.000+01:00

It seems that if you want to be a legal resident of this third-world Land of Laziness, you gotta be tough. Not the emotional type of tough like where on that one episode of Friends when Joey and Chandler realized that their baby chick had lost itself inside their Foosball table and after desperately trying to free it, they eventually made the ultimate sacrifice and destroyed the Foosball table just to rescue this little duckling. Remember that? God, could you imagine taking apart your Foosball table like that?

No, I’m talking physically tough. Like the chicks on American Gladiator tough. That’s what it takes to do the equivalent of you renewing your American driver’s license here.

It began with a congregating of the masses around 7:45 am. Outside the perimeter of the C.A.D.A.M. compound, security forces were allowing those appropriately-tagged cars to enter, turning the others away. We, the people, locked outside the 3 metre high iron-gate which posted the sign, “Overt 09:00.”

As the minutes crawled by at a French pace, the crowd grew larger. And despite the open acres of sidewalks and round-a-bouts, the group, by this time in the hundreds, grew tighter, which prompted the 98% that were smokers, to light up.

This was about when all the’ cut-sies’, or, ‘cutsies’ if you can’t follow the hyphen, started. You remember cutsies. That sneaky stunt you pulled when you were a kid and wanted to cut in front of someone in the lunch line. But now as an adult, when you pull that shit, you either get ‘Hey Buddy’d,’ or you get a beat down. Which is kind of where this post is headed.

But not tonight.

Tonight must come to a close. You see, it’s that time of year when we must begin to prepare for our Day of Birth-like celebration. And this year, we’re pullin’ out all the stops. Not having any idea what that phrase means, we’re proceeding with Day of Birth celebration plans that will not only make my mom worry with worriness, but will make you want to come back to see just what the hell is going on. Or not. Whichever.

I can’t tell you where yet, but I’ve decided to set the unrealistic goal of spending each subsequent birthday in a different country. And looking back over the last few years and how I’ve unknowingly set the stage for this year, it’s clear why this weekend will undoubtedly be a disaster.

Having inadvertently spent the previous three celebrations in the three wonderful countries of the United States, Kentucky, and France, you’ll soon appreciate the downward spiral I’m on. And we’re not half-assin’ this year either. It’s a big one. So I ask you, with a losing record like mine, where would YOU spend your 30th?

2007-11-17T18:07:00.001+01:00

Nothing quite says, ‘Sorry you had to go to Canada. Now, smoke this,’ like a visit to Amsterdam.

Fortunately we never made it any further than Rotterdam. Home to a Holland St. City of architecture and Run D.M.C.

Starting our visit with dinner at Hotel New York, I was amazed at how similar Heineken tastes to that poured in my native land. And if you don’t know the history of Hotel New York, it’s probably where your Dutch relatives first set sail to the New World 100 years ago. You could almost feel the anticipation and excitement reverberating throughout the walls; immigrants young and old dreaming of a new life a world away.

That last sentence isn’t really true. But the mushroom Ravioli with Truffle sauce was muy delicioso.

And the shopping. My God, the shopping. Stores a plenty. Ya know, if that’s your thing.

And the women. My God, the Dutch women. Tall. Beautiful. A plenty. If that too is your thing.

It’s only a shame we couldn’t make it a little further North. A land known to combine the two. Maybe next week. For your birthday.

A walk through Veerhaven.

A view from Veerhaven of the Erasmusbrug.

From Erasmusbrug looking over to Hotel New York. It's the little on on stage left, your right.

Walking home over the Erasmusbridge during sunset. Too bad you weren't there so I could kiss you.

2007-11-15T00:13:00.000+01:00

Few things in life are as exciting as a 13-year old watching his first pole dance. Hamilton, Ontario isn’t one of them. A city whose own website homepage posts no photos.

Where life sparkles like the left over eye-glitter from last nights’ aspiring med students on Stage 1 is inside the Taco Bell on Hamilton St. and Cedar. The place of three Crunchy Tacos, one Nacho, a Crunch Wrap Supreme, and small Mt. Dew. Small ‘cause you know you get free refills?

You can’t really appreciate the magnitude of this experience unless you’ve gone 13 months without. Supplement that with 13 months of bland French food. Sure, there’s the occasional Schnitzel, sushi or sorbet. But Jesus, have you ever had a Crunch Wrap Supreme? I even wore my second best suit. Which was proper evening attire for watching the man outside scoop dog shit from the lawn into his white chlorine bucket.

We're only getting started.

Two hours later, we found ourselves in Chatham. Locale for a wedding reception with 200 people who I’ve not only never met nor will ever see again, but, as made clear with 1.5 hours of wedding party speeches, hasn’t really gotten out much. With tear-jerking speeches reminiscing of the days when “we went 4-wheelin’ after schoo,” it’s clear that one of us does not lead a normal life.

I once had a friend who had a 4-wheeler while we were growing up. That was cool. But he never provided an open bar with it. Also, he never put larger than average sized cockroaches on my hotel walls. Nor did he allow 3 dozen, 8-year old female hockey players to run anarchy through the halls at 6 am. ‘Cause if he did, I’d have to punch him in the face with one of my Crunch Wrap Supreme wrapper-wrapped, cockroach juice covered clogs.

2007-11-11T14:01:00.001+01:00

We’d like to give a shout out to the fine folks at British Airways for another First Class ticket home from Tokyo, as well for losing my bag you Old Speckled Hen-drinking, meat-pie eating bastards.

Proud to not be one too quick to judge, we decided to give them another chance.

What we didn’t know was that the French were on strike, refusing to put gas into planes. An essential part of my plan to get to Heathrow for my 11:50 am connection.

Setting a new land-speed record of just over 15 minutes to Terminal 4, marking the first time I’ve ever run through an airport like a group of Special Ed hurdlers dragging a laptop bag on wheels.

Alas, here I sit, in Toronto. Cold. Hungry.

With no luggage.

2007-11-04T14:08:00.001+01:00

First, I’d like to thank the kind folks at British Airways for the free First Class upgrade to Tokyo. Know that I had full intentions of removing my pants upon settling into my original confirmed seat. Regardless. Your kind offer of a pair of washed and starched, dark navy blue pajamas was well received and partially utilized.

But your service. It's gotten physical. See, before I settle in for a long winter’s nap, I like to preface said nap with a glass of alcoholic. Or commensurate substitute.

But your boy. So nice. Middle-aged, well-groomed. An obvious veteran of the skies. Not a chick. Gently placed a glass of wine on my table, politely said, “Good Health,” and walked away, his elbow landing a glancing blow across my left brow.

I like the Japanese. They’re funny.

Also, turns out, I have a karaoke problem. And when I karaoke, I do beer. Which is cool, except when a local colleague keeps poking my butt with his finger. He also drink. And wears glasses. Still no reason to keep poking my butt with his finger.

2007-11-01T14:18:00.001+01:00

I recently read somewhere that it’s National Post Everyday on Your Blog Month. For a man who finds it difficult to put on pants or something akin to lower-body over-garments 7 days a week, I don’t see that happening.

But I promised you an exciting November.

So, we begin this month with a quick lay-over in London. And, in roughly 2 hours, I’ll board an aircraft where my first order of business will be to remove my pants, shirt, and socks. Hand them to the nearest knee-high skirt donning, under-paid, First Class Flight Attendant, where she’ll graciously accept my Sears and Fort Collins, Colorado Micro Brewery-purchased garments, and hang those bitches up with the tender loving care of a Turkish Dry Cleaner handling the wedding dress you know you’ll never fit into again.

I say Turkish because it’s November. The month of the Turkey. Also, they just made a boarding call for Warsaw.

2007-10-29T20:46:00.001+01:00

Girl, I been missin’ you.

I got a whole new shipment of coffees in and between drinking them, I’ve been hiding capsules around the office and apartment building. Just in case.

Also, I started German lessons. Figured they would go good with my new home in Germany. Which we’ll inhabit after the year turns new. And here’s the exciting part. I’m taking you with me. Metaphorically, of course. Just like last time. But I need you to help me move all my new shit. Except for the television set. That’s already been taken care of.

I’m excited for you. I think you’ll like it in Germany. I won’t tell you exactly where yet, but some people call it the California of Germany. These people have obviously never been to Germany. But if you like college towns with plenty of German ass, you’ll be plenty of happy here. There.

I missed you.

And to make it up to you (also in the hopes that you’ll help me move all my shit), I have an exciting month of November for you. I have to ‘cause December ain’t looking all that hot right now. Mainly because I’m gonna seriously blow through my travel budget this month, but mostly because I still have three weeks of vacation left. Where those other four weeks went, I haven’t a fu*king clue.

Do you?

Sit tight kids. The days of spending three or more days a month in the office are over.

2007-10-19T07:28:00.001+02:00

A few months ago I bought this coffee machine. High-tech. Like a boxcar full of Japanese engineers. And with it, comes these little capsules. Colourful. Durable. Full of coffees.

Each capsule is worth one coffee. Or espresso, if you have the desire to, or already have hair on your chest. And unfortunately, there’s only two known places in France where you can purchase these capsules.

So when I went to register my coffee machine, I was offered to purchase a Welcome Pack, which consisted of 250 individual capsules sampling the vast array of flavours, strengths and colours from coffees around the world, and Africa. Seventy-nine Euros later, I took my kitchen counter public.

Also, I have this little silver holder which can hold up to 40 of these coffee plugs. And it rotates. Which guys like. But the other day, I noticed I was down to 6 decaf coffees and no real coffees. As I opened the cupboard where I previously placed the above-mentioned Welcome Pack with 250 individual capsules sampling the vast array of flavours, strengths and colours from coffees around the world, and Africa, I noticed something amiss.

They were gone.

Stolen.

Like my new television set.

So now, as I’m down one Flat Screen and all of my coffees, I sit here, drinking decaf, struggling to comprehend how one man can do so much emotional harm to their fellow man.

2007-10-11T18:31:00.000+02:00

It wouldn’t be Finland without a sauna. A place of vodka and tiny testicles. A place where they beat you with a stick.

Alas, there was no beat down. No smack down, no rub down and certainly, no let down.

Finland, or as we'll now call it, Land of the Fins, has beautiful women.

Here’s one right here:

One thoughtful enough to accompany me on a country stroll through the fields of Ruissalo, Turku.

Notice the subtle difference in visibility from that of Tampere:

Wherest I awaken, with glee, at the thought of seeing more beautiful, fog-covered women with fins.

But we hadn’t the time. There was much to do before our trek back to Helsinki, where tickets of one ice hockey game await. You may know it as “hockey,” but to the locals, it’s known only as, “ice hockey.”

There’s really no logical transition from “ice hockey,” to “old man feeding water foul.” But it’s a cute picture. And who doesn’t like cute?

2007-10-05T21:10:00.000+02:00

My first 6 hours in Finland included learning new words, of which half the letters are ‘k’s,’ and dining in a restaurant called The Grill. Turns out, The Grill is celebrating “Fiesta Latina.” Which to me translates to, “Female Party.”

Were there any ladies partying?

No.

Were we greeted with chips and salsa?

No.

Were there margarita specials?

No.

Was my Pollo Chimichurri any good?

Sure. If you like well-seasoned chicken topped with a light, sweet barbeque sauce. Hint of orange. Parmesanjuustolla kuorrutettua, grillattua broilerin rintafilettä ja chimichurrikastiketta (VL, G).

Whatever the fu*k that means.

2007-10-02T09:59:00.000+02:00

I’m tired ya’ll.

Can’t sleep.

Every little creak. Every subtle movement, snap, crackle or pop wakes me up. Paranoid? Yer darn tootin’. Sunday night I thought someone was on my terrace moving my furniture around.

And those tacos I made? With my internationally famous salsa and guac? Gave me gas. Now everytime my butt pops I’m wide-eyed with fear that someone is hijacking my dining room chairs.

I know I have a few female listeners. And I’ve been struggling all weekend how to translate the pain a man feels when his TV is stolen into something you can better relate to. Maybe it’s like having your make-up kit lifted. Or that new pair of slutty black heels you bought for “those Friday nights out” where you sit and drink with your “girls” and complain how your man spends more time watching TV than listening to you. Whatever it is you're talking about.

See? Your dreams can come true.

Seen as this week I’m out of a car, which needs new locks and ignition system when we discovered my spare key was missing, I’m thinking we’ll take a few days away.

Someplace new. Someplace to cool off and relax. Maybe someplace where it’s socially acceptable to punch a stray alley cat in the testicles.

Who knows.

2007-09-30T15:11:00.001+02:00

Getting my home robbed is what I imagine having one robbed of their virginity is like. I say ‘imagine’ because I lost mine in a freak horse-back riding incident in Mexico a few years ago. Banditos por todas partes. Yours may have gone to the highest bidder, but I'm not here to let your business savvy overshadow my attempt at mediocre metaphorical-laced literature.

I mean, there are just some things you don’t steal from a man. Like his dog. Or a new circular saw. Hell, take his girlfriend. Even lo-jack his matched luggage set. But his semi-big screen TV? Now you’re just trying to hurt me.

I think our cat is taking this whole thing in stride. I’m sure he was scared. But my coping mechanism consists of more than just frolicking in a pile of clothes, having a snack, taking a crap, licking myself smooth, and napping the rest of the afternoon. I’m a man. Versatile. Complex. Like the new King’s Castle Siege by Lego.

So, I made tacos.

I’ll be damned if the world isn’t a better place today.

‘Cept I still ain’t got no television set.

2007-09-28T20:15:00.001+02:00

Clearly I’m not welcome here. Or, this is the way French people welcome foreigners into their land. Like when the Indians came over from Britain and Spain, landed on Plymouth Rock, and then the locals, the cowboys, stole everything from the Indians.

They’re not even deserving of capitalization.

Anywho, I’m excited to say that today is my first day getting robbed! Sure I’ve had my car broken into. But my home? First time.

Today.

Add insult to injury, I almost couldn’t even get in my own home. See you can only get in by the key and well, that lock there, they busted that bitch up.

But here was my first view,

Exhibit A:

I know, huh? They stole my TV! My 40” Flat Screen LCD TV.

Motha’.

Fu*ka’.

Oh yeah, they also completely trashed the place.

Exhibit B:

On the bright side, our cat is ok. He’s a bit shaken up and he’s not fielding questions from the Press right now, but he’s ok. Also, they emptied my suitcase, so that’s one less thing I have to do this weekend.

If you were wondering just how lazy the french are, not only did they not take my computer or any computer equipment, they left me my new DVD player, all dj equipment, my Playstation and my wine. Hell, they even left my Passport, a credit card (which is a closed), and my check book. I mean, that’s not even teenager lazy. That’s like quadriplegic lazy.

But really pisses me off, you wanna know what REALLY pisses me off? They left the bathroom light on, the toilet seat up, and the door open. I mean fu*k! I still gotta pay the electric bill. And what if my cat was drinking out of the toilet?!

Oh God. That’s just disgusting.

2007-09-27T20:08:00.001+02:00

I’m a man without a country. Also, we’re out of toilet paper. I was going to stop on the way home but it was all cold. And rainy, ‘n shit. Just another minor detail making it easier to leave this third-world hole.

Now, as the clouds have cleared, the sky a faint blue with a dull pink hue that signifies any beautifully feminine sunset, I sit here, past du Lundi au Jeudi supermarket hours, thinking I should probably be developing my German.

Speaking of Germans, it was made clear to us that our favourite Japanese colleague really doesn’t understand a word we say. Here this whole time, with all that nodding and hesitant laughing, we thought we were getting through.

Or, maybe he’s just a complete dick.

We’ll let you, our viewer, decide.

. . .

Having been inquired about our lunch plans, Japanese style, we state that we’re finishing up a quick project and would love to grab something later. Ok.

Two ‘o clock. Parched. Famished. We’re a hungry bitch. Like a shoebox full of Ethiopian puppies. We find Japan, apologize, and invite him to split the last sandwich with us. We grab the knife, cut the cucumber, red onion, chicken breast laden between two mayonnaise-based sauced pretzel rolls sandwich into two equal halves, grab two plates, and as we turn around to grab two glasses, Japan puts both equal halves on one plate, and walks out of the kitchen.

Ok. That’s the polite thing to do. Take my half out there for me while I get two glasses of water. It’s thoughtful. Like opening the door. Or giving a courtesy flush.

As we walk back into the office, the first half is gone and he’s fist deep into the second half. My half. Hunger knows no funny.

Thinking back, I see the humour. It’s a fu*ked up thing to do. But I see the humour. Actually, it was funnier than an elevator fart. We’ve all been there. And we know how funny those can be.

2007-09-20T20:07:00.000+02:00

Unlike this website, all good things come to an end. I’m sorry kids. We gots to leave.

Nice, you were great. Your clear, blue skies. Your 15th century villages. Hell, you even had running water. Thank you. Really. But this Bitch has got to go.

You know what I’ll remember most? Is it the office on the Mediterranean? Or the peaceful terrace up in the foothills of the Alps? How about that time a few weeks ago when I cut my nipple shaving and I just so happened to have fresh, starched sheets on the bed?

Nice, I’ll remember it all. Even though somebody’s Goddamn dog keeps crapping in my parking spot, it’ll be a memory I tuck away in my metaphorical safety deposit box.

Where will we go next? We don’t know. But we’re pretty sure we’re gonna have to learn a new language. And that’s ok ‘cause chicks dig dudes with accents. Except the deaf ones.

Fu*k I hope it's not America.

2007-09-17T15:14:00.000+02:00

There ain’t much funner than a night of Japanese karaoke. Too hung-over to conjugate my nouns, I’d like to apologize for not inviting you. Also, I’m terribly hung-over.

I can’t stay long. I’m off to teach a class. But in the spirit of whatever it is I do that has spirit, I have to share another first. De-Robe Your Partner From Behind Karaoke.

Maybe it’s a culture thing. I dunno. Or the insane amount of Asahi we drank just prior. Always a suspect.

Jesus. My head hurts.

Fu*k you Patrick Swayze. Fu*k you AND the pottery wheel you rode in on.

?

2007-09-01T22:39:00.000+02:00

We’re going about this ‘no-pants style.’ I haven’t felt this liberated since the wall came down. Ooh, and then there was that time when my old boss molded a penis and a vagina out of some exothermic surgical cement and handed it off to me for role-play and it almost burned through my gloves. That was pretty neat too.

Anywho, I don’t much feel like typing, so here’s a semi-narrated graphical representation of what you missed.

Grandma takes a quick, "Don't you wish you were nicer to me when you had the chance?" fake death nap.

I've taken you to Florence before, so we'll skip over a few days.

A high-speed stroll on the Autostrada through the lands of Tuscany finds us in Venice. Birth place of bridges, Catholicism, and Venison.

Having just sort-of randomly showed up, we didn't really have any place to stay. Luckily, we likes us some drinks. Also, we happened upon this little boutique. Where we would spend a night trying to fall asleep to the sound of the Grand Canal traffic.

Taxi gridlock.

Our third night found is renting this little appartment. This is the Master Bedroom, or Grande Chambre, in Italian. Looks small, but there's more to it on the left.

Like the loft. In which, the bed was too high up for my taut, pre-teen, Italian farmboy-like frame. Its proximity to the rafters, though uncanny, required the use of hard-hats.

Alas, a peaceful nights sleep.

2007-08-30T20:44:00.000+02:00

After having spent a shortened weekend in Miami, it was time to fly Northly to visit the corporate office for a few days. I figure since said airline had trouble getting us into the country on time, negotiating the domestic airwaves would be like, well, pretty much like any other man-made disaster.

Like the Black Hole that is O’Hare, it swallowed up my luggage and tenderly allowed me to visit the corporate peoples in my Sunday-South Florida-Attire. Open-toed sandals and all.

Not that this was any reason to take a few weeks off for holiday, but I’m French now. And that entitles me to 7 weeks of paid time away from the stress of living here. You might know that as “vacation,” or “the two weeks a year where you can get your errands done.”

Yes, the family has come and gone. So as soon as I have the energy to put pants on, I’ll share with you some memories. Italian style. Tales of which include an anticipated record number of speeding tickets, The Grand Canal, and a precious, aging Granny who proceeded to wash dishes with Windex and grill her tea cup.

2007-08-19T21:13:00.000+02:00

I’ve been hearing a lot about US travel lately. And how it sucks.

Me being a man of the people. You, being the person. I decided to visit US travel, and see just how bad he sucks.

Here’s about where things go nosedive.

Whilst enroute from Munich, with the primary target Washington Dullas, apparently it started to “sprinkle,” along the east coast. Hence all those erratic, evasive maneuvers just off the coast of your country.

There’s really no way to lead into this gracefully, so I’ll just jump right in. We ran out of gas.

I know, huh?

I’m not going to name who I was flying with, but it rhymes with Schmu-nited.

Fast-forward to a non-emergency landing in Richmond, Virginia, where I do my best to locate on the above map. Ok. I don’t know where Virginia is. But it wasn’t where my connecting flight was departing from.

It also wasn’t where we were going to depart the plane from either. Port-of-Entry or not, I and 300 of my fellow passengers was hungry. Thirsty too. And my Port-of-Exit was stirring with emotion from the spinach omelette I had for late afternoon lunch as I laughed and cried my way through the hit motion picture, Blades of Glory.

As we were parked out in the middle of the airfield, cut off from reason and fresh air as they filled our tank with some gas, I couldn’t help but notice just how fu*king ugly your flight attendants are. Also, I was hungry. So I decided to play the Atari version of Brick Breaker on my Blackberry. You may or may know this game, but it’s mind-numbing. It’s like an episode of The View.

Anyway, you’re now reading the bl*g of a champion. Not like those other pussies who throw winning touchdowns, or those that win 7 Tour de Frances with one testicle. I’m talking about a true, odds defying champion who was stuck on what was supposed to be a 9 hour flight that turned into 13 hours with a bunch of little bastard children running around the cabin in an elevated ADHD state of euphoria while the rest of those young and old stooped towards the floor in a hypoglycemic state. That’s right, bitches. High score of 14585.

14585.

Hero.

I would’ve been more enthusiastic about my record run on Brick Breaker, but my blood sugar was too low. I hadn’t the energy. So, I reclined my Business Class seat, and took a celebratory nap.

2007-08-06T09:46:00.000+02:00

Like the hopes of my mom ever becoming a Grandma, this blog is where those things go to die. Like your dream of ever regaining full use of your legs. Unless you really are in a wheelchair, in which case, I didn't mean that last line.

Speaking of death, let this rumour die here as well. No. I didn't do it.

Keep it shut. Or neither one of you is gettin' a Christmas present.

That is all.

2007-08-05T19:13:00.000+02:00

So, yeah. She was nice. Cute. South African. Definitely good company to spend a few relaxing, undersitmulating hours with.

I know what you're thinking.

No.

No chance. Given my propensity to fire inanimate objects towards South Africans?

Also, she speaks English. How can I be with someone who speaks English?

2007-07-31T21:01:00.000+02:00

Having gone all European on your ass in that last post, I thought I’d trickle this one down. Give you time to ask yourself why you keep coming back here.

Why do you keep coming back here ?

Nonetheless. This arrived in my email box a few days ago :

Dear (me),

Hi. My name is (sexy female name) and I am 25 years old. I will be visiting Nice and was wondering if you’d like to meet up for a drink.

Am I a soon-to-be victim of an Online Predator ? Probably. Will I continue to allow such grooming to occur? Probably. Will you guide me to do the right thing? Probably not.

2007-07-19T12:55:00.000+02:00

Rarely does such a bright idea pop into my mind, that when one does, I usually disregard it secondary to her lack of experience with fresh produce and inadequate knowledge of farm equipment. Or, I blog about it.

A quick audit of this "blog" failed to yield any such examples, so we’ll officially introduce this as my first non-sucky idea in almost 30 years.

Both of you have undoubtedly heard of Father’s Day. One of you may have even unexpectedly received your first Father’s Day car this year. Or not. Good luck with that whole thing. But what do you get the Dad that pretty much has it all, except his dream car?

A Play Station with Gran Turismo 4?

Wash his rental car?

A pony?

All adequate ideas in their own special, American way. We do you one betta’. Mo’ betta’.

A 90% all-expense paid, surprise round-trip from the States to Leipzig, Germany. Home to the certified test-track of Porsche. And an ideal place to find Germans who actually know how to drive one.

And, who are willing to teach an American the basics of how to race one. Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

Were there alternative motives behind this? Most certainly not I can’t believe you would ask such a thing. Though since you asked, it does appear that I’ll remain the only child. And since I’m their (parents) favourite, with a 50% chance of outliving them, I may or may not be the sole beneficiary of a Will that might someday therein contain ownership details of a Porsche. Hypothetically.

Does this get me off the hook for all the silly shit I did and decades of headaches, stress and financial strain I caused as a child? Not. Even. Close. But it’s a start, Ja?

Dear Dad,

I don’t know about you, but I had one helluva memorable time. Also, sorry you had to fly such a long distance for only a few days.

Now, can I have a pony?

Love,
Son.

2007-07-06T18:36:00.001+02:00

I wish to wish the both of you a Happy 4th of July week. And in honour of your holiday of independence and in light of recent activities in the Great Britain, I have decided to spend the holiday in the Kingdom of United-ness.

Fighting terrorism.

For you.

I began my English Terror Campaign by making my hosts a platter of my now internationally famous guacamole and fresh salsa. These were subsequently used to line the appropriately-warmed taco shells and top off the piles of shredded white cheddar and lettuce, respectively.

Call it “Diplomatic Relations.” Also, do you know anyone who can fight terror on an empty stomach? I didn’t think so.

But back to my English Terror Campaign. You may be wondering just how does one go about fighting terrorism against an enemy he can’t see in a country he can’t drive in?

Easy, Homeschool.

Golf.

Think about it. Why can’t you easily find a terrorist? ‘Cause they’re hiding. And if they’re hiding, they’re prolly wearing camouflage. Right? So if they’re wearing camouflage, them buggers are prolly hiding in the shrubs. So why not fire a few hundred British Pounds worth of golf balls off course?

That’s exactly what we did.

I lost my first two balls on shots number 2 and 3, respectively. And being the cautious Patriot that I am, I decided to take out my South African comrade on Hole #3. Having spent most of his professional career patrolling the boarder between S. Africa and Mozambique, I began to question what side he was really on. Some may call it, "Racial Profiling." We here call it, "Pre-emptive Assumption." So, from about 80 yards out, as he walked towards the rough where three of his balls lay, I got out my 1-Wood, and swung like your freedom depended on it.

Clearly underestimating my accuracy, you could say that I “buzzed the tower.” For such a tough bushman, I’ve never seen anyone “hit the deck” so quickly. Turns out, he really was on my side.

His old S. African army buddy, however. Not so sure. Which brings us to Hole #9.

This fella wasn’t so easy to crack. And being the American that I am, everyone is guilty until I decide otherwise. So, as he approached the green, me about 100 yards out, I decided to go for the lay-up. This time, grabbing my 3-Wood, I find my line, take a quick reading of the cross-wind, and then swing like a mutha. Fu*ka.

Quick survey of the crime scene.

This one didn’t see it coming. But his old Army buddy, and recently-acquitted member of our foursome, did. Turning just in time to see a brilliant white flash, he flung himself backwards, losing his glasses, and dropping his golf bag, narrowly tripping backward over it. Turns out, he too was on my side.

If you’re keeping score, I fought my way through the front 9 with a score of 71 and firing somewhere between 8-10 shots into the forest. Does that make me a hero? No. Prolly not. Should I be recognized for my valiant and patriotic performance? Maybe. Can you sleep better tonight knowing there’s people like me out there fighting for your daughter? You bet your sweet ass you can.

T-Ball Style. The key to "really launching it."

2007-06-28T14:50:00.001+02:00

I didn’t know this, but did you know that in New Zealand, students can now write their school work in the Cell Fone Text Language? ‘R u kidng?’ you may ask? Judging by the amount of time it took our Front Desk Lady to check us out of our hotel, I’d say they’ve been doing it 4 years. Also, she may have been retarded.

But I wish not to distract you from the real meat of this post. Sheep. With a 4:1 ratio of sheep to bipedal homosapiens, how could one not find companionship here? I don’t care what ethnicity you are, them are good odds.

We now welcome you to Wellington, New Zealand. Our fifth and final stop on this Steve Irwin look-alike tour. I say that not because many of my students have chompers resembling that of a high-speed train accident, but because I just can’t understand a freakin’ word they say. Did you know that Wellington is the third windiest city on the planet? I didn’t either. I encourage you to look it up and tell me the truth.

Back to the sheep. Ooh, also, last Saturday marked the day in which a new anti-child smacking law goes into effect. We are now bitch-slapping our way through the first full week where it is now illegal to smack your offspring. And by “smacking,” I mean, “beat the ever-living piss out of.” I didn’t know this either, but in the Northern Hemisphere, parents can legally spank, slap, smack or otherwise knock you upside your fu*king head (ok, actually, I did know that), but in New Zealand (Southern Hemi), the term “smack,” literally translates to, “make you feel the black and blue wrath of near-death as my God-hands publicly jack you the fu*k up.”

No joke, kids. Latitudinal differences in child-rearing. It’s real. Fo’ sho’. Be glad it wasn’t you living through the Anarchy last Saturday morning. Pajamas and Sugar Pops everywhere, ya’ll.

But back to the sheep. Oh! I forgot to tell you about this Indian restaurant we ate at. I don’t know what cowboys beat these guys into submission but to say their manners were fit for a dinner with Jesus would be low-ballin’ it. I’m stereotyping my reader now, but I think you’ve eaten out before. Did the waiter ever approach the table with a platter full of curry-laden, sweet, sweet Indian goodness and say, “Gentlemen (pause for dramatic effect) it is time,” hold in his suit jacket, and lay down a silver tray full of whatever it is people from India eat as appetizers? A product of a disciplined up-bringing. No doubt.

2007-06-25T15:21:00.001+02:00

I should’ve known better. Maybe it was having to walk the three flights of stairs. Or the shady looking China man playing “Locker Boy.” Maybe it was the one hot tub full of concrete bags, 2x4s and plants. Or perhaps it was the recliner room resembling that of a Keno Lounge. But once that little Chinese woman started walking on my back and cracked my spine, I let the questions of this illegitimate establishment fade away with my tension.

Until she ended with, “OK. All done. You want special massage?”

And with that, I grabbed my budgie smugglers and rounded the corner to the nearest Mexican restaurant, where I revoked my colleague’s privileges for asking pimply-faced, mid-20 year old Concierge boys who still live at home where to find a good Thai massage.

Welcome to Melbourne, Australia.

Where pimply-faced, mid-20 year old Concierge boys who still live at home send unsuspecting white male business types to shady, shady massage parlours. Open ‘til 2 am.

I would’ve written you from Brisbane, but the only time I left the hotel was for a Friday night out in The Valley. And I don’t take night photos so good. Aside from not making it back to my hotel room and my friends sneaking away as I dozed off in the park under the late Saturday morning sun, you didn’t miss much. They were however, nice enough to call and wake my ass up as some freaky, lonely old homeless man encroached. Ok. That was funny. And I would’ve done the same.

2007-06-17T13:52:00.000+02:00

Gidday Billylids. I would’ve written sooner, but the weathers’ been bull dust and I’ve been busy trying to make a quid. It seems that it’s been dryer than a dead dingo’s donger here and to say the weather has been bodgy would be a dinkum furphy.

I feel stuffed ya’ll. I can’t shake the wrinkles out of my strides and learning this strine makes me feel like a whacker. I don’t mean to whinge, and don’t get me wrong, the beaches are ace, but I miss the wog white pointers. I’ve learned there’s just no clayton.

On the bright side, I’ve made many new cobbers. Most of whom are cockroaches, but I have yet to leave the state. And you’d be surprised by the sheilas. Met quite a few that would give you a crack of fat. Though I can’t remember any of their names.

Yes, I’m back of bourke, but I’m as busy as a cat burying shit. Also, it doesn’t help when you’re out hittin’ the piss every night. But thus far, Sydney has been a Rip Snorter. Just you wait ‘til I tell you about the Sandgroper I met. Stands out like a shag on a rock that she be diggin’ this spunk seppo.