Alex the American

Historoliterarydickensian Expectations

2011-07-13T07:08:00.005+01:00

This evening, accompanied by one of London’s foremost literary-gossip connoisseurs (not pictured in this post due to a much-sympathized-with photograph-escape clause in the friendship contract signed universally by pairs of curly-haired women who reserve the right to claim “bad hair day,” which—as I well know—in curly-haired-girl terms means simply a “curly hair day in which I didn’t use my flat-iron”), I got one of the most remarkable tours of literary London. It’s the sort of tour that only people the most steeped in historoliterary arcana and can give. My old friend is just that sort of person.

We met in front of the British Museum, of course. Because that’s a very, very historical spot. There were even a few people standing outside holding replicas of the Rosetta Stone tablet they had just purchased within.

This is not a photograph of us, by the way, but I felt the need to share it because it confirms everything I had started suspecting lately: Doc Martens are back. And thank the little baby Jesus lying in his ghost manger, because they really add so much to an otherwise subtle denim-sandwich, as you can see.

So after my old friend and I reunited, we strolled North in search of a restaurant. Immediately we passed by what can only be termed a highlight of my life: The British Medical Association. Through its gates, you can see a little courtyard area. I mean, I couldn't quite make it out, but apparently one of Dickens’ houses was there! The two be-suited and be-suitcased men walking innocuously in front can only be undercover guards protecting that inner-sanctum of Victoriana.

And of course what should be located a convenient seven-ish minute walk away from the aforementioned old man of such moral and undeniable rectitude? Well, my friend gestured to this marvelous preservation of literary history:

You guessed it, probably! That’s right! That parking lot, gated of course for security, and respectfully festooned with those lovely primary-colored lights, is the spot where Ellen Lawless Ternan was lodged by Dickens. Ternan, of course, was his mistress. She was only 27 years younger than him when they met. That would mean that basically if I follow in Dickens’ footsteps as assiduously as I intend, my own future boyfriend is right now 2 years old. To put this in perspective: he was born after Harry Potter was written. We will meet in sixteen years!

Speaking of young boys, remember Tiny Tim? The young, differently-abled son of Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol? We passed by his house on our walk near the Camden Canals. I swear I could smell that roasted turkey Scrooge sent over to them for Christmas that year.

Lastly, and not leastly, after we dined in Gwyneth Paltrow’s neighborhood—yes, the very Gwyneth who played Estella in Dickens’ Great Expectations in 1998 (only eleven years before my hypothetical future boyfriend would be born, for those of you keeping track!), and yes, the very character who is, in part, modeled after Ellen Lawless Ternan—we went to this spot located inside a Gelato shop:

Recognize it? Probably not. It’s very obscure. It’s the sort of insider-information that you only get when you travel around with one of the elite luminaries of London’s literati. That’s right: Helena Bonham Carter stood there 2 months ago and ordered a gelato! And my friend witnessed this grand moment in history from that very chair in the top-left corner of this high-quality photo! And of course, I hardly need mention that said actress is a cornerstone of literary fame simply because she’s about to appear as Miss Havisham in an upcoming remake of Great Expectations!

I don’t know about you, but I’m squirming with excitement about that future moment in my life when I will see HBC’s pouty face squinting on the screen, her hair in disarray, saying to Pip, “Come nearer. Let me look at you. Come close. Look at me. You aren't afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since before you were born?” Perfect casting, I would say. All those years she's spent avoiding the sun have finally proven useful to her career!

A grand thank you to my friend for this incredible tour of “LonDickens” as I will hereafter call it.

Return of the American!

2011-07-12T06:04:00.000+01:00

Sometimes you don't realize how proud you really are to be American until you leave America again. Living in California, I often feel like an outsider. After all, I don't know how to skateboard to work and it's hard to find shampoo in the drugstores. It's difficult there, whatwith all the people speaking a strange dialect of Mexican and Uptalk, to really get a handle on one's American identity.

That was why I felt strangely at home amongst some of my students yesterday, while sitting in a restaurant in Covent Garden. We are here for three weeks doing walking tours of historical literary-spots. Greg, a former Marine who is completing college after serving in Iraq, ordered the "American Supreme Pizza" and a Budweiser. I knew then that I'd found a kindred spirit. "I'm offended that the 'American Supreme' pizza has pepperoni and onions on it," he said with no further explanation. A student named Robert, unlike me, understood what Greg meant. He leaned over to him reassuringly and explained, "It's called that because in Italy, pizza just has tomatoes and cheese. In the US we do things all zany!" He gesticulated with some jazz-hands to clarify. "You know, with pepperoni and crazy stuff in it!"

"I feel so out of my comfort zone here," Greg confessed as we ate and drank as dinner wore on. "Last year I went on a trip to Disneyland for a week. Every day was planned out. It was so much fun." Robert took a photograph of his own dish: Fish 'n Chips (which had no chips as far as I could tell). I asked him how it tasted. "Adequate," he said. It looked soggy. I'm so glad he captured an image of that dish on film. He also took pictures of some trees he liked, some buildings he liked, and of an accident we witnessed where a taxi driver hit a biker. Robert is clearly an American who knows how to travel properly!

We completed our evening's adventure by taking a photograph of Robert standing in a London phone-booth pretending to dial up the Ministry of Magic. The photo-session became funnier when we realized that there were "tarty" sex-phone ads posted above the phone itself.

I am sure that Robert, Greg, and the other students I was with (one of whom was carrying around her Harry Potter notebook she bought especially for this trip) will make me, you, and all of our fellow Americans proud as they examine the mother country this month.

Road Trip to America

2010-07-06T01:39:00.003+01:00

I'm leaving the land of California soon and heading to America. That's right - the land of the free, home of the Braves (a totally inoffensive team-name; don't even get me started). Glad to watch the Hollyweirdo skyline recede behind me like my father's hairline and looking forward to hearing the ka-ching of the slot machines and the whirrrr of hooker nipple-tassles in Nevada.

Where will I go when I'm in America this time? I'm thinking hard about visiting the "Atomic Testing Museum" which includes the famous and not-tacky 9/11 Display.

Or maybe I'll RE-visit, yes RE-visit, Area 51 where I once spent the night in a trailer at "The Little A"Le"Inn." After all, since I last visited, they had a 2009 sighting according to Google.

According to Nevada's own MUFON site, Nevada has "one of the highest concentration of sightings in the US." Wow! I'm totally willing to believe a site that titles itself "Ufo's in Nevada." Great use of the apostrophe, guys! I hope your scientific skills are as good as your punctuational ones - surely they must be to be able to dispute the fact that most (all) astronomical evidence is against you!

Well on that note, I think I will bring a great camera with me on my trip and hope to spot some weird lights in the sky on my own. Bon voyage to me!

Dispatches from Kansas...

2010-01-12T18:46:00.006Z

Ahh Kansas... Though it looks like we aren't there anymore, I like to remember it as a place where Gene Kelley helped defend our monkey-heritage. Well, folks, Kansas is at it again: it's the new battleground of American values. And that's as it should be.

Sometimes news stories come along that alert us to the presence of grammatically-challenged fellow citizens who make us just so proud to be American all over again! Especially groups like the Army of God - an organization that apparently has close ties to the abortion-doctor-killer Scott Roeder. On their site, they call abortion-doctor-killers "American Heros." I particularly like the part of their page - the "Scott Roeder American Hero Index Page." - where they list his accomplishments, including a link to the following masterpiece he drew in which two people stand over the slain abortion doctor's grave and one-the looming not-creepy-at-all man-vows to "protect precious babies." I like his attention to detail here. The shading on the bottom of the tree, the man's combover, the woman's ankle-bones...

The "Army of God" website also offers us a link to an email address (glory2jesus@armyofgod.com - damn! I wanted that one!) where you can send letters to Roeder that they will then print out and show him! Wow! Fan mail!

If you want to read more about the court case, I suggest googling it or clicking here. It seems like the judge might be on the army's side! In any case, all I would do would be to refer them to the following image below. It's an actual photograph of Moses with the Commandment tablets:

Fortunately, none of these self-appointed God-soldiers, and no one involved with this Roeder fellow actually read Greek or whatever garbledy gook is on those tablets. Good thing! Or they just might have to change their arguments a bit!

2010: Another great decade begins for America!

2010-01-01T08:37:00.004Z

If you want to start your new year right, ditch the ol' Resolution list and head straight to the theaters to see Avatar. Immediately. (If you haven't already.)

Here are 5 reasons why you, as an American, will be proud of this film:

1. It was made by an American. A GREAT American. One who realizes the important role Americans play in world-domination. (See minute 2:56).
2. Americans discover yet another land! That's right! It's a planet this time, and it gets named "Pandora." It's filled with long-haired, less-clad natives with agile bodies and different-colored skins (see movie still below). They conveniently already speak English in funny accents, just like real non-Americans do! They speak in secret code (aka non-English) when they don't want the Americans to understand. (Apparently they haven't heard about sub-titles yet!)

3. An AMERICAN marine - well, half a marine really, that is until he can fulfill his mission and get his legs back from the sarge' like promised - is sent into the bush to find out inside information so that the Americans can better exploit native resources. He is given an "Avatar" via MRI-coffin machine. His avatar has legs and therefore is able to actually do things (unlike the Marine himself apparently).
4. Said AMERICAN's covert intel was so good that it means the natives and their ancestral homes will definitely be terminated! Because their natural resources are worth genocide!
5. So THUS, the AMERICAN is the natives' LAST HOPE!!! You might call it ironic, I call it "perfect." Only the American can repair the damage he himself caused! Just like in real life! And then he can congratulate himself on a job well-ish done!

LOVE IT ALREADY? ME TOO! I hope it wins every Oscar, just like Titanic did. Cause we all remember how great THAT movie was, right?

I am so proud.

2009-11-13T04:19:00.005Z

Obama received the Nobel Imperialist Prize recently, much to the surprise of the hippie, commie, Muslim, bleeding heart, unwed-mothers who elected him.

I, on the other hand, am so proud that I could almost go buy a new Amer'can flag today, but I've bought them all. Venice, unfortunately, has only a limited supply and likes to reserve them for the homeless vets who like to decorate their wheelchairs with them.

Here's why: Obama accepted his Imperialist Prize on behalf of us, after all. And by "us," I mean those of us proud Americans who believe that our nebulous belief in "liberty" and "freedom" should stand in for ALL BELIEF SYSTEMS around the world. Some call it "American;" I and Obama consider them to be default. As he stated in his acceptance speech: "I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, rather as an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people in all nations." That is right. American leadership represents the "aspirations" of people in ALL NATIONS. EVERYONE is secretly Amer'can. I knew it all along.

Obama, like any good conservative ahistorically-minded oppressor, also gives a shoutout to the Founding Slaveowners, stating that his prize "reflects the kind of world that those men and women and all Americans want to build, a world that gives life to the [white-man only] promise of our founding documents." In other words, again, Amer'cans are building the world. And the world hasn't been built yet. And this future world, constructed by Amer'cans, is based on the founding documents - cause they were so good. (And hopefully we bring back the 3/5 clause too.)

King (may I?) Obama also informed us that many Amer'can soldiers (see yesterday's post) sacrifice their own "safety and freedom and ... lives" so that others can benefit from our ruling powers. Obama concluded by saying:
That has always been the cause of America. That's why the world has always looked to America. And that's why I believe America will continue to lead.

I am so proud. I am an American who believes in safety and freedom, no matter how unsafe that makes others and regardless of whether or not "freedom" ever gets defined!

Good job God.

2009-11-12T03:20:00.004Z

I'd like to honor the Veterans of our country today by interspersing pictures of them with President W. Bush's Veteran's Day speech from 2004.

What veterans have given our country is beyond our power to fully repay,
yet, today we recognize our debt to their honor.
And on this national holiday, our hearts are filled with respect and gratitude
for the veterans of the United States of America. (Applause.) May God bless our veterans
and their families, and may God continue to bless our great nation. Thank you. (Applause.)"

GOOD JOB GOD!!!

APB to all sluggies and snailies!

2009-09-22T16:51:00.003+01:00

Dear snailies and sluggies, who have never caused any harm to anyone except by distracting someone by being cute when they're trying to do something else,

YOU ARE IN GRAVE PERIL!
I was at my local Home/Casa Depot/Depota, which apparently happens to be in Mexico because I didn't see any Americans there, and I was shocked by the barbarous product on its shelf:
So if you are a snaily or a sluggie and you are reading this, or if you or your loved ones know and love (obviously) any sluggies or snailies, then please spread the word. America and Mexico are no longer safe for them. They/You are welcome to stay with me here, but I think the saltwater of the ocean would cause them severe shrinkage.

Hey what are you doin' at 9 tomorrow morning?

2009-08-18T02:04:00.005+01:00

Wanna go hang out and loiter on the Venice Beach Public Library property with me? See you there at 9! Check this out:

Unfortunately, these are still tough times here in LA for skaters, so leave the skateboard behind:
You can only get to THIS library via shopping cart or in your held-together-by-duct-tape-shoes.

I have to say, as I check out my new digs - as far West as I can go from America and still be there - I am fascinated by the neighborhood library. While it's still totally okay to go to the library to sit in the Children's Section and look creepy and mustachioed, and it's totally fine to be a non-teenager and sit in the "Teen Corner" and be so high on the drugs that you can't even get the free candy up to your mouth without dropping your head, it's NOT okay to hang out and be weird when the library is actually closed.

And while you're inside the Venice Beach library, don't forget to check out their free laptops so you can watch movies on them all day in between your loitering sessions. Don't worry! They have in-your-ear-cavity-headphones you can borrow.

Meanwhile: click here for some related government news, courtesy of everyone's favorite Austrian-American. GOD BLESS AMERICA!

OMG Google Me!!!

2009-08-04T20:13:00.002+01:00

When you type in the little google search box, you know how it has suggestions for the rest of your word? As in, you type the letters "fuc..." and you get "fuchosin" as a suggestion? Well I just typed in the first 13 letters of my first then last name, and GOOGLE FILLED IN THE REST!!! I feel so famous right now.

What not to do when you have your national tv debut: READ ON!

2009-06-26T06:27:00.004+01:00

Okay well who knows if the people with their lenses on me were, you know, national media or not. But the fact remains that as I was turning up the collar on my favorite t-shirt, I had a fresh ice cream stain on it. I was a dance-dance-dance-dance-dancing machine, (watchem get down watchem get down), but I was also ill-prepared for the event (i.e. no white glove, no sporty hat) because I had left home with the intention of reading at a local coffee shop, not dance-dance-dancing at the hospital three blocks from my apartment where MJ's corpse awaits autopsy.
The media was there. People were vying for interviews, throwing their MJ-dressed kids in front of reporters (see above photo of child dancing for BET), and so on. But there was an initially small group of people collected around a boombox (for those of my fans born after 1990, that's like an ipod but bigger) showing off their moves. I did my Thriller rising-from-the dead shake, my moonwalk (that's right!), and some spins and joined the middle of the circle of people who knew all the lyrics to the best albums ever produced. I felt like I was with my people! They didn't seem to care that I was in pajama pants when I perfectly executed the three-syllable "Lone-ell-ley"of "The Way You Make-a Me Fee-heel."

In the future, though, I will recognize that every time I walk out of my apartment, there's a real possibility that I'm about to be on national news, showing off my skills and moves. So lesson learned. No more ice cream before my next national appearance. Which could be any time. So no more ice cream. Ever.

ADDENDUM: I would like to add here that I just went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I HAVE A FLECK OF COOKIES AND CREAM ICE CREAM ON MY FACE! A LITTLE OREO CRUMB ABOVE MY MOUTH! Oh how could this have happened???!!! Even Lindsey Lohan manages to avoid ice cream stains on her face!

Sad day for America.

2009-06-26T00:31:00.004+01:00

Where were you when JFK got shot? (In a past life.) What were you doing when the towers fell? (Sleeping with my phone turned off.) And how did you find out about MJ's death? (Cellphone call from mother.)

I just have to take a minute to post about my childhood hero, my favorite musician and dancer ever, and fellow Midwestern-American, Michael Jackson. I woke up this morning thinking it would be a good day: I heard the news that Shaq signed with the Cavs! But then I was shopping at Tar-ghjay for cheap things made by children in sweatshops and got a call from my mother.

America never had it so good:

NYC Prep v. Gossip Girl

2009-06-24T19:54:00.003+01:00

Well, my final paper for the school year has been turned in and I can get back to the more important things in life. Finally. Last night, after enjoying the Real Housewives of New Jersey pregnant-reunion special, I watched the new show NYC Prep. As a Gossip Girl fan, I am truly disappointed to learn that actual kids from the Upper East Side are, in reality, inarticulate and lacking in ironic self-awareness. How could GG have so decieved us? Here is a list of differences between the two shows:

1) NYC Prep kids all have better cell phones than the kids on Gossip Girl. The NYCP kids use Blackberries, exclusively, and never "text" each other. Instead, they "BBM" one another. I have never heard of the verb to "BBM" before, but it turns out that it doesn't stand for "Big Bowel Movement." It's a Blackberry-internal messaging system. The kids on GG barely have iPhones, let alone Blackberries. It's like everything about GG, technologically speaking, is about 2 years out of date. Get with the program, GG!

2) NYCP kids don't have parents. In GG, we all got to know Chuck's executive dad, Serena's mom, and Dan & Jenny's 90s rockstar dad "Rufus," but these parents are actually central to the plotlines. NYCP parents have occasional cameos: one girl's parents pop in once in a while from the Hamptons to ground her, Camille's mother asks her what community service project she wants to do in order to get into Harvard before Camille shuts her down by saying she's stressed out, and the girl who goes to an actual public school and lives on the Upper GASP! WEST Side has a DIVORCED mom who merely pipes up to ask if her daughter could possibly maybe put her Blackberry down once in a while but stops asking when she hears that her daughter is BBMing with Sebastian, the wavy-haired French-speaking Chuck wannabe.

3) GG kids are very intelligent. Maybe that's because their lines are written by extremely literate geniuses and the NYCP kids have to come up with lines on their own (like, "Sometimes I wear things that are like less than twenty-bucks" and "Which Hampton do you have a house in?" with no irony).

4) NYCP kids look younger. That's cause they are actually 16 and 17, unlike the kids in GG who are my peers.

I can't wait for more.

UPDATE: Anorexic Window-Woman Changes Clothes

2009-06-22T12:16:00.002+01:00

Just wanted to let you know that the La Perla window-model about whom I wrote last week has changed clothes (though not positions). Someone throw her a donut!

The headlight was out!

2009-06-20T16:24:00.003+01:00

Before you read this post, I have to warn you yet again to ask your children, Truman High School students (hi Mr. Obes!), and dimensia-unit grandparents to go to another room. This post is RACY! Rated-N! For NIPPLE!

Ever wondered, when you're passing by those headless women in clothing store windows, how they manage to appear so... er... attracted to you all the time?

I always thought that they kept the stores just a little too cold in order to maintain the headless-store-women's... er... boobies on red-alert at all times.

BUT! Now I know the REAL trick to appearing a tit bit nipply all the time! I call it "The Scottish Solution"!!!

Notice the elaborate fold of the tape - a bit of a moebus strip of nipple! I'm glad I now have found this insiders' tip on fashion. If someone asks you, "Wow! Where'd you learn THAT perky little tip?" please be sure to credit your favorite American!

NYC Crisis: Women not being fed during the recession!

2009-06-18T04:14:00.006+01:00

I'm back in NYC and am very, very concerned. You would think that, after ten months in Southern California, I would be used to and even appreciative of skinny female bodies! There is a LOT of pressure to fit into your bikini, as some of my friends there can attest!

But this was too too much. Cruising down Madison Avenue the other day, I saw the true suffering borne out by the high end retailers: no longer can they feed their window white ladies!!! I see ribs! And they're not the finger lickin' good kind either!
As if it weren't bad enough that the first season of the Real Housewives of New Jersey is ending, and as if it weren't bad enough that there's an increase in dog and child homelessness because of the recession, now those poor women who stand in the windows of La Perla lingerie are forced to starve...

Alex the "American" After All? Part I

2009-06-02T04:11:00.006+01:00

My dear readers. I have stumbled upon some humbling news. I cannot comment on it at length right now because I'm just at a loss for words. What you are about to read might be shocking, unsettling, and hazardous to your self-identity. It has been for me. I will present the following information, but need some time to reflect before I offer my commentary on such mind-blowing information.

Please make sure your children and pets and war vets are seated as far away from the screen as possible.

Okay, are you ready?

This is NOT "America"!!! : I know! I know! Deep breath. We're not done yet. Brace yourself...

THIS is America:

Let it settle in. Comments are welcome, for I'm not sure yet how to interpret myself in light of this new information.

Memorial Day 2009

2009-05-25T20:36:00.005+01:00

My apartment overlooks a "vet cemetery." Now I'm as supportive of vets as the next guy - although they didn't manage to save Leroy when he had renal failure a few years ago - but it really is shocking to me that they get their own cemeteries. Not only that, but today there have been all sorts of guns going off. There are helicopters overhead and cannons booming every once in a while. After the first round, my neighbor actually called the LAPD to report a shooting! No JOKE! She's right! What do veterinarians know about guns anyway? We SHOULD be scared...

Shortage of Indian People in 1984 Apparently! With an update...

2009-05-25T08:32:00.006+01:00

UPDATE: I have just received news from Gabe that Ben Kingsley IS actually ("half") Indian! My friend's granddad played cricket with him at prep school back in the day. This means that the brown makeup isn't technically brownface at all. I DO want to state for the record, however that Alec Guinness, Dustin Hoffman, AND Anthony Hopkins were originally chosen to play Ghandi before the movie people settled on the more-appropriately-ethnic Kingsley.

But I still think it's crazy that Ben Kingsley had an iPod in 1982!

----Original Post:
I just finished watching a film called "A Passage to India" on Netflix. It came out in 1984. It basically plagiarizes To Kill a Mockingbird. Tom Robinson gets replaced by an Indian Muslim man named "Aziz". After they cast Victor Banerjee as Aziz, they must have run out of Indian people! Because the second-most important Indian is a Hindu named Professor Godbole and I guess the best they could do was get Alec Guinness. He is known for his spirituality and deepness. I guess that makes sense. . .
As we all know, India doesn't have much of a movie industry or anything. Nor does it have many people. So it makes sense that Anglophone films continued to cast old white guys in the parts of Indians back in the 1980s. Particularly when these films are about liberating Indian people from Anglo-oppression. It just makes sense!

(Sir Kingsley pictured above with his 4th wife: Brazilian waitress Kingsley.)
Ben Kingsley as Ghandi. With his iPod headphones.

This reminds me of a time of ol' yore when the film industry ran out of black people. Then they also turned to white people with makeup to compensate for this dearth.

Obama Helps Local Pet Store through Economic Crisis!

2009-05-24T22:25:00.005+01:00

It looks like the American President, Barak Obama, has really decided to take our economic crisis into his own hands!His message? "Forget About Politics. Support Small Business." Here's the full photograph:
That's right! Obama has taken time out of his schedule of international travel and speeches to Congress to pose with a huge lizard and turtle. I'm sure the modeling session took hours, but based on the high accuracy of the portrait, he must have held pretty still!

It's reassuring to know that no business is too insignificant, no artist is too unskilled, and no reptile is too gross to hold for our beloved president!

Who doesn't love duckies?

2009-05-22T21:17:00.007+01:00

Ducks are pretty damn cute. Don't believe me? Look here:

This...and this...and this... (ducks are so cute that even babies try to be ducks sometimes and so do kitties! thanks Lodro for the great links!)

and even this...

That's right! Nothing is cuter than a duck. And nothing is tastier than its feet! My friends would know. They ate a bunch of them.

All I can say is that things like this make me really, REALLY, love America.

"Laws" and "Regulations" in California.

2009-05-01T06:48:00.005+01:00

I was wandering on the pier at Venice Beach, checking out the scene (if you know what I mean!) and looking for a bite to eat. But then Johnny Law got in my way, yet again. Take a look:

Which means both this
and this
are illegal for Americans and Mexicans (note the Mexicanish)! The HORROR! I guess I'll head north to Malibu for my next bite of meat!

Living in College-land, continued.

2009-04-28T20:57:00.002+01:00

My dear readers. You all are writing to me, asking me what I am up to, and urging me to continue to post blog-entries. I will oblige. As an excuse, let me show you what I've been up to in the meantime:

Of course it's hard to focus on one's blog when one's local grocery store makes it so so convenient to set up for a beer-pong game. I mean, I walk in, I walk straight to the beer, and the ping pong balls and red-plastic cups are already waiting for me. Such efficient marketing means that there is little interim time--time spent wandering, contemplating, and making up my latest blog entries. Instead, I wake up at 10, get something to eat, and start over again. With beer pong, that is. Who can blame me?

Higher education has its perks. And they never made it this easy to enjoy them when I was an undergrad. THAT'S for sure!

Thank god for the 1960s!

2009-04-12T22:57:00.003+01:00

I swear, if the 1960s never happened, if people had never marched on the streets, if the ERA had never been passed, where would we women be? Well let me tell you: we'd be without such essentials as these:

I am certainly very glad that with our "Liberty" comes a remedy for both those doggone mood-swings and those flabby thighs. Each is available for just over a dollar less than minimum wage. God bless this country! Can I hear an amen, sisters?

This is really what my life is like! How did he know?

2009-03-31T18:29:00.001+01:00

What are all these "students" doing here at college?

2009-03-25T00:11:00.005Z

It's spring break here on the West Coast--not that we need extra time to go off somewhere to remind ourselves what sunshine is because, well, we have it at all times. So the college campus is just empty of the undergraduates, their Ugg boots, and their school-emblazoned sweatpants. Yep. Just nerdball grad students wandering around aimlessly, sometimes walking to libraries with rolling-suitcases full of books, sometimes checking boxes for returned papers which were handed in days ago, occasionally checking in with the secretary of their departments to see if they have refilled the baskets on their counters with fresh candy or something.

Anyway, just a week of sunshine and relaxation--you know: printing out 300-pages of readings for next week on free school printers, buying textbooks, alphabetizing personal libraries, studying for language exams. This is why I was completely shocked by the presence of about 100 students lying on the grassy lawn in the middle of campus.

"Students." You know: thirty-year-olds who wear backpacks, don't tuck in their button-down shirts beneath their argyle sweaters, have separate, brand new bag-lettes for their laptops and have really nicely-groomed hair?

As I examined this group of people, I realized something was a little...off. No one was picking at zits (because no one had any), bags and clothes seemed a little too new to belong to people living in dorms, people were a little too attractive to be anything resembling an adolescent. No one was reading anything.

And then I saw it: a movie camera on a moving thingy. These people were NOT students. These were ACTORS!!!

So on some 2nd rate network television sitcom in the near future, there will be an episode taking place in "college." There will be "students" like those described above.

But maybe somewhere in the background, wearing large smudged actually-prescription glasses, bearing an oversized bookback filled with actual "books," with a slight rash on her forehead from stress and eating too many of the secretary's chocolates, you will see me.

I hope I'm in the credits!

How to speak Cowboy.

2009-03-22T15:43:00.004Z

You know how in some places they have bumpy letters under the American ones? Or Mexican under the American words? Well in Denver, they have Cowboy hieroglyphs. Does this mean that somewhere out there, in schools on the frontier, they still speak in cowboy?See? From this sign, I can start to piece together a dialect:

Apparently Cowboy does not have a word for "6". Cowboys can only count to 5. This makes sense.

Westwood-or "Wonderlandwood" as I like to call it...

2009-02-22T06:51:00.005Z

If you have ever done the sights here in Westwood, CA (yes, THAT Westwood with the three different frozen yogurt shops in it! I know: I'm lucky like that!), then you surely have spent time in its all-famous bookstore!

Because of COURSE, as a small University-town, filled with students and their frat-brothers and sisters, Westwood would be home to a wonderful bookstore. This is what you come to expect from college-towns, right?

Not only is there a great bookstore, but they have thought to combine it with a CVS. So late at night, when you need a new hemorrhoid-donut or a new shade of lipgloss, you can also get some of your coursebook shopping out of the way.

Here are three happy English Department PhD students marveling at the diverse selection of offerings in Westwood's CVS. Dissertation ideas, anyone?
And notice, in this close-up below, how the reference, parenting, and profound-literature sections are all combined in a very avant-garde, cuturally senstive way!

I'm sick of typo on the internet.

2009-02-10T23:10:00.001Z

Please stop confusing "your" and "you're".

DAMN! This guy is good...

2009-02-10T16:01:00.003Z

I just got back from my second stake-out. No luck. This newspaper thief is good! I moved my shift up a half-hour. The custodian was friendly and didn't ask too any questions as to why I was sitting on the cement in a hallway just off the entrance to our building. In the photo below, please note my camouflage (a book and a pen to simulate "casually working on my PhD"), my cheerful sweater ("does a fierce warrior-spy wear something with gratuitous elaboration? I think not!"), and my clear view of the newspapers on the ground.
My only complaint is that this is Los Angeles, folks, and it's supposed to be warm here. Even at 7 in the morning! And it's not. I had to wear a sweater.

You have been warned, newspaperstealer!

2009-02-09T16:10:00.003Z

If you are not in the habit of stealing my New York Times EVERY MORNING between 6:30 and 7:45, then please feel free to stop reading here.

If you ARE the person who steals my New York Times every morning, then here is your final warning: CUT IT THE FUCK OUT! I have had a hard enough time having to leave New York City for this god-forsaken, warm, palm-tree covered, beach-in-February place called Los Angeles. I have endured looking at fake titties in the locker room at the spa. I have suffered through dipping my toes in the mild-temperatured Pacific Ocean at least once a month. I have been force-fed delicious Mexican food and seen B-rate celebrities at C-rate bars. It's hard enough to make this transition WITHOUT having my New York Times stolen every morning!

But then you go on and take my paper every morning. Not only that, you are clearly a disciplined person who gets up at the break of dawn, such is your commitment to taking my paper.

Are you in medical school? If so, I hope YOU are not wielding a knife anywhere me whatwith your loose consideration of ethics and your paltry moral code.

Are you in law school? This seems more likely, and I would recommend this guy as your client:
I know for sure you're not in a PhD program. You obviously get up before 10AM.

Religious Truth found in New York

2009-02-04T04:00:00.005Z

I have been hiding from sin for a long, long time. I just simply hide from it. And this helps me to fit into society better.

When it occurs to me to stick my foot out when someone walks by, I simply fall into fetal position on the ground, gnaw on my knuckles, and pretend to be a rock. Sometimes I have the idea of spitting into someone's salad bowl when they are not looking, but I put my napkin over my head instead. When it would be SO so easy for me to fart into a cupped hand and then stick the hand in my brother's face, I go into a corner and stand there for a few minutes and sing the alphabet.

In these ways, I simply manage to hide from sin and people gaze at me with real wonder. I know they're thinking, "Wow, I am so amazed by how Alex simply can hide from sin like that!" As if they too had wanted to pull the cane away from the old person, they marvel while I fling myself into the nearby bushes or stick my hands as far into my armpits as possible and squeeze.

So you can understand my shock and horror when I came upon this on the side of a building in Manhattan in early January:

HOW DID THEY KNOW???

Does this mean that despite my greatest acts of self-restraint, one day I will not be able to control my urges? Does this mean that it is inevitable that I will start knocking down kids' ice cream cones and peeing on dogs tied to trees outside drugstores and restaurants? I guess so!

Well, you will be able to find me when that day comes. Just follow the path of overturned wheelchairs.

I have been LOOKING FOR THIS for weeks...

2009-02-03T18:02:00.002Z

Millions of my readers constantly email me all day asking me, "Where, oh where, can I just get a hold of a finger-painting artist of pets?"

Well, true to form, I have found the answer to your questions:

Alex encounters very dangerous local animals.

2008-12-29T04:41:00.002Z

Because Hawaii is so far away from the United States, it has lots of birds and trees and skin colors and fish that you wouldn't recognize. Well, one of these crazy species has really put itself on the "It Should Be Endangered"-List. I can't quite identify it, but please see what you think:
I was at the hotel with my family one morning, minding my own business with a Mai Tai, and I saw this bird. Thinking it too would like a piece of my waffle-fry, I went over to the edge of the pool and handed it to him. He courteously accepted the piece from my hand.

Pleased with my interaction with local Hawaiian fauna, I sat down to admire him some more. He thought, apparently, that I owed him more waffle fries! He pecked at my arm a few times and then took a shot at my butt!

Although I shouldn't complain--this was all the action I got while in Hawaii--I really do think that this weird, exotic local species should never relocate to the United States of America if he knows what's good for him.

Attention Obama: Hawaii is the gayest state ever.

2008-12-28T22:19:00.005Z

I bet Obama is getting a pretty strong message while he spends time with his family here in Hawaii, the gayest state in the universe.
It must be pretty embarrassing for Obama, if his experience here is anything like mine, when he opens his door or his curtains and sees a rainbow. I personally saw sixteen yesterday during my time driving around the island.

But at least when I see a rainbow, I am not forced to think, "Gee, gay people must be really upset at me right now, even though they mostly voted for me." I just think, "Gay people".

Even all the cars on the road are tsk-tsking Obama as he drives to the golf course or nearest gym for his 30 minutes of cardio or weights. They are saying to him, "Gee, gay people must not be pleased with my selection of Rick Warren as the Bible-thumper for my inauguration." When I see Hawaiian license plates, I just think, "Aloha, gay people!"

COMPLAINT: Extreme adventure sports discrimminate against the visually impaired.

2008-12-26T02:38:00.004Z

Yesterday I was subjected to activities that I normally avoid: extreme activities. Well maybe you don't consider "ATV-ing" and "jumping down waterfalls" and "going into caves" to be extreme, but if you add on "wearing glasses while..." to the beginning of those activities, then you will see that they are very extreme.

When I was 8, I was prescribed my first pair of glasses. I chose a pair that were large, plastic, and faded from blue to pink. I liked them because they had both blue AND pink in them!
Now I'm in Hawaii and in order to keep up with the crowd, I'm being forced to participate in activities that jeopardize my health, my dignity (what if my swimsuit comes off?), and my vision. I had to slide down a waterfall in order to get down from a perch that I had climbed up to. There was no other way out of it unless I wanted to fall down an extremely steep hill covered in lava rocks and slippery moss in my bare feet.

The dilemma was: do I hold my glasses in my hand as I slide down? Or do I wear them and try to keep my head out of the water when I get to the pooled-water below? Before I could make up my mind, my body lunged forward and the decision was made for me. Fortunately, I managed to keep my glasses on my face, but I didn't enjoy one minute of the waterfall jump because I spent the whole time holding my glasses and thinking about a life with no vision.

What are some good activities in tropical islands for people like me? I'll tell you: reading books in preparation for your upcoming semester with two 19th century-novel classes, taking showers with your glasses carefully stowed on the sink in a case nearby, watching movies in your hotel room, and typing a blog.

Americans with foot fungus shouldn't wear sandals.

2008-12-26T02:09:00.006Z

Which is better...

This?Or THIS:

It's a really gross topic that no one really wants to talk about, but I want to get it out there so none of you fine readers ever can be accused of the following crime:

Wearing sandals when you have incredibly gross foot fungus.

Now I know I've probably complained in the past about the prevalent socks-with-sandals, popular with my 9th grade English teacher, all of the residents of Seattle, and Japanese geisha. I used to think this was heinous (except with the geisha) and would rail against it obsessively. But ever since I landed with my family in Hawaii, I have had a full change of heart.
PUT THOSE GODDAMN SOCKS BACK ON PEOPLE! If you have any question as to whether or not your toe is gross, and you are staying in a hotel with other people in it, please oh please wear your socks. Invest in some tea-tree oil, apply, and wait it out.

Alex doesn't get modern art.

2008-12-20T14:55:00.004Z

I am a very cultured person--I read books, I watch HBO, I voted for Obama, I like Tina Fey. So I am back in cold, wet, slushy NYC for a much needed vacation from Los Angeles (the sun, the beaches, hobnobbing with celebs) and decided to join my fellow cultural elite at the Museum of Modern Art.

Imagine my surprise and excitement when I stumbled on my new vocation: I should be a modern-art artist. Modern-art artists can do whatever they want and they get paid for it and are famous.

Example 1: The long, orange stick. It's about an inch wide and six feet long. No, you pervert! It's a painting! It's from 1950. There must have been a canvas and paint shortage in 1950 I guess for this to count as a piece worthy of MOMA, but no matter. It's there! And I could have done it! When I was 4 years old!

Example 2: The plain white canvas. This one is a square and it must have taken the artist a while to decide whether it should be plain white or a little off-white I guess. Anyway, maybe he didn't even paint the canvas! Fuck painting if you can just sell the museum the blank canvas!

Example 3: The bricks on the floor. I learned that if you don't actually paint, and if you don't know how to sculpt, no matter! You can still be an artist. You just make what they call "installations." In this case, the artist piled some bricks on the floor. I guess the difficulty there is finding someone strong enough to carry bricks and low-class enough to know where to find them. I am not sure I could do either, so I give this artist props.

Example 4: The pink think leaning on the wall. This artist painted something a shiny pink color and didn't even bother to hang it. Who cares.Example 5: The stretched out old t-shirt. I love this one. You just get your brother's sweaty old t-shirt, cut it apart, and thumbtack it on the wall of MOMA. Voilà! Art! I could do this a million times. My brother has TONS of sweaty, old t-shirts.

Just be sure to rinse it out!

2008-12-11T21:44:00.006Z

It has gotten to be that point in my life where when I'm scanning Facebook.com (an online social network which everyone but Jill is on), most everyone I smoked weed with freshman year of college or didn't talk to in elementary through high school but am friends with now on Facebook has a baby or two. And they put their child's face up as their face and their status messages are updates on their babies' burps and vomits and health problems.

Given the fact that this is my current friend demographic, I just wanted everyone on the internets to know that on the Upper East Side, the following is available:I particularly like that they printed it on PINK paper. That makes sense, right?

Be my 1000th VIEWER...

2008-12-04T22:16:00.003Z

...and you'll win a prize!
But you better be quick - I'll probably be my own 1000th viewer.
If you think you are my 1000th viewer, simply post it as a comment. I will get back to you!

Graveyard mysteries...

2008-12-04T22:13:00.000Z

Can't wait for Thursday...

2008-11-25T20:52:00.007Z

... because it's my favorite American holiday of the year!

You know you were wondering.

2008-11-21T05:24:00.008Z

Well, now we know what that naked armless kid was hired for.

What is Jason doing though? Is this akin to this post?:http://alextheamerican.blogspot.com/2007/12/ive-noticed-tit-cupping-trend.html

WARNING: NOT A POST TO SHARE WITH ALL YOUR KIDS! (Only the ones you look at porn with.)

2008-11-19T06:03:00.005Z

One of the largest industries out here in LA is the porn industry. I have verified this in the flesh!

This afternoon I went no further than my OWN campus to discover the lecherous under-belly of sexploitation. Who knew that public education could sink so low!?!?!?!What's she doing with that left hand there?
Hey! What's under there?
Hmmm, shaved. Must not be European!
What do you think? Real or fake???!!!
Hey! Watch where you point that thing!
I've seen smaller.
This one never gets speaking parts.
Children should NOT be brought into this!
For those of you who like something to hold on to!

There's nothing inappropriate about this photo...

2008-11-14T16:28:00.003Z

New York, London, Paris, Westwood... The "Great Four" of store-window displays. Famous in all the circles who care about such things. We UCLA students are lucky to go to school in such a rich cultural environment. When we're ready to put down the books and push our glasses up our noses to go out in the evening, we like to spend some time taking in the cultural richness that surrounds us.

Don't jealous! Yes - it is just like living in Paris here...

I am my own 400th viewer!!!

2008-11-12T06:29:00.002Z

You probably all have noticed that I have a "Hits" counter down on the right of my blog. It took me a year to figure out, and it involved copying "CODE" into some setting thingy.

Anyway, I check the hits counter ALL the time. Every time I check my page, there is at least ONE new viewer! Can you believe it???

Los Angeles night life? Count me in!

2008-11-11T02:30:00.006Z

I write with great news: I went out on a Friday night. I saw celebrities*, prostitutes, and a bar fight!

I know you may be wondering, "but AlextheAmerican, you had TONS of work to do. Don't you have a presentation to give next week on a book you haven't even read? Don't you need to go to the P section of the library?"

Well late-1630s British intellectual history be damned! Dewey Decimal system memorization be damned!

At the first stop, (by the way, arriving at a bar early, before your friends and all the other people do, assures that you get in fast and that you are DEFINITELY the coolest person who already has tasted the whole specialty drink menu of the evening) I was sitting with a group of people from my department in a corner booth. I was the lucky person who sat with my back to the room while everyone else faced towards me.

So apparently while I was sitting there, one of my friends saw a CELEBRITY*. She was cool enough to ask him to pose in a picture with her. Here's the picture:Well the bar was really dark and no one has flashes on their cell-phone cameras. You see, I didn't know this happened until the next day, and then I found out that the celebrity* had been standing right behind me! (And also this isn't the actual picture, but according to my friends it looked something like this.)

Then we went to drop a from-out-of-town-friend-from-college off at her hotel where we decided to stay and check-out/enhance the scene. WOW! It was like the Hills to the skankth power! It was like Lauren Conrad took all her black dresses, ran over them in an Escalade, barfed on them after eating asphalt, and then these girls at the hotel put them on and wore them out Friday night.

As we waited on the burgers we ordered, I swear I saw this celebrity:Actually, I only THINK I saw this guy. No one I was with would actually agree with me that it was him. Also, I did not see his pubic hair! (Until I found this photo. And until then, not since Queer as Folk ended and I finished watching it all on demand in that year I pissed away after college.)

On the way home, I saw prostitutes. It was like, for guys that are into really tall women with even taller heels, very defined cheek-bones, Adam's apples, and extremely bright, short, tight, boobilicious clothing, Hollywood is the PLACE to be! I saw tons of them. All standing in a group. They must have thought that my designated-driver friend and I might be celebrities because they were all looking intently into our windows as we drove by. Like, "hey! who are YOU guys?" Don't you HATE when that happens? Yeah, me too!

I've never seen such tall, glamoUrous women before!!! I only think they might have been "ladies of the night" because of their fishnet stockings and sexy shoes. But that might JUST be judging them based on appearances. And I'm REALLY against doing that! So maybe they were just hot, tall, well-defined-jawlined-chicks!

*First celebrity that I (didn't actually) see in LA: the guy who plays the large-boned man on the Office. The white large-boned man, not the black one.

WAIT A MINUTE... I thought my vote for president counted.

2008-11-03T23:18:00.002Z

Two numbers:
50,456,002
50,999,897

Which one is higher? I personally am bad at math, but if you look at the third digit in each number, you can see that the 9 is bigger than the 4. So the SECOND number is bigger, right?

50,456,002
50,999,897

Okay so to break the big news to you, the first number is the number of votes George W. Bush got in 2000. The second number is the number of votes that Al Gore got in 2000.

"WAIT A FUCKIN MINUTE, ALEXTHEAMERICAN," you might say. "THIS IS BREAKING NEWS."

In the first presidential election I ever voted in, I cast a ballot for Al Gore. So did 50,999, 896 other Americans. That is over .5 million more than wanted Bush.

I don't get it.

I am one of 36,457,549 residents of California. We're 12% of the population (rounded to the nearest whole integer).
There are 515,004 residents of Wyoming. They're 0% of the population (rounded to the nearest whole integer).

So according to this "electoral college system", California has a 10% say in who becomes president. Wyoming has a .6% say in who becomes president. So basically a Wyoming person is more important than a California person.

Could someone explain this to me?

You asked for it.....MORE ALEX EXAMINING OF THE ISSUES: Proposition 4 in California

2008-11-01T22:38:00.004Z

Talk about CRUEL: the people who are advocating Proposition 4 in California convinced this POOR GUY to talk on camera about his harmless night of fertile sex with a few teenage girls and the subsequent abortions (paid for by the commies that are Californian taxpayers!) that they had of his babies without even telling their moms or teachers or priests! They didn't even make him shave off his little mustache before filming! Didn't they know that that would make him look like a molester? Gosh!

My favorite line is, "Okay. So I get a couple of them pregnant. What is the big deal? I can just take her to get an abortion."

Since all of my friends from college are now in, or applying to be in, law school, I'm going to get one of them to represent this poor guy in a law suit. He was unfairly duped.

I know I often present you, my readers, with amazing things that defy your conceptions about this world. Moving to California was totally worth it, if only because I am able to watch this commercial on my television (and also wear t-shirts and shorts well into November).

ALEX EXAMINES THE ISSUES: Proposition 8 in CA

2008-10-27T16:29:00.009Z

As a new resident of California, I'm amazed at how much power the state gives me to decide on issues. Me and all its other residents - Paris, Lindsey, Ellen, Gary Busey... We're deciding! What a system!

In California, apparently children are taught about health and sexuality in the schools! And apparently, they are going to be taught that sometimes there are gay people!

Okay, since the election is approaching, and since I'm coming out of the closet as a Fox News watcher, AlextheAmerican if finally going to provide you with some political endorsements.

The first is that I endorse WATCHING THIS VIDEO:

What would happen if you are adopted into a family with TWO DADS? Or TWO MOMS? Isn't it inherently better to be adopted by a family with a traditional arrangement? Like this one:
Or this one:
And what if Gay Adoption prevents you from being adopted into THIS traditional family?:

You're probably wondering what life in LA is really like, right?

2008-10-10T21:15:00.003+01:00

Well I've finally found a way to show my fans and readers (not that the two aren't the same!) what life in Los Angeles really is like. Watch this (but first turn your volume WAY up)!

OMG! There was a cloud this weekend.

2008-10-07T15:36:00.002+01:00

That’s right. There was a cloud over Los Angeles. I even needed to use my windshield wipers for a couple of minutes.

Where is Whitey?

2008-10-04T02:22:00.004+01:00

I have been living here in California for a total of two weeks now. I have eaten tacos, Animal Burgers, sushi, and fuck noodles.But I have yet to see a single white person. Even the governor is not American. And the mayor is gay-ish (see photo - he's the non-white one on the right).

There are things I only can do with white people: like… um… talk about Seinfeld episodes and go to Bat Mitzvahs.

I can’t understand the street signs and I can’t join any of the college clubs (unless Undergraduate Korean Campus Christians for Christ is accepting non-Korean and/or non-Christian, non-undergraduate members!).

They still exist!

2008-09-15T13:26:00.000+01:00

Can you believe it? There are still Indians* in this country. I had no idea! Here’s one:
*Word used to describe all light-brown people, basically!

I always wondered about that!

2008-09-14T13:27:00.001+01:00

Where does everyone go to get their adults? Apparently in Illinois! I always wondered about that.

Once again, American signage nearly convinces me!

2008-09-14T13:20:00.001+01:00

The people of rural Indiana and Illinois, just like those of Boulder, Colorado, believe that just by posting nifty signs in public places, they will get the legions to convert to their beliefs. And you know what? They are nearly right!

Right when I entered Indiana, I saw this sign:

Right when I entered Illinois, I saw this one:
No, silly! Indiana is a TOTALLY different place than Illinois. For one thing, Indiana apparently updates its apocalyptic signs more frequently. Renewing your apocalypse signs helps to ensure that you, the sign poster, will probably spend eternity somewhere better.

If you don't rubberneck, you might miss salvation!

2008-09-14T13:17:00.000+01:00

I decided to go abroad for graduate school in a faraway place called California – a Mexiclishophone Austrian colony – and am getting there via automobile. I love cross-country trips mostly because I have an excuse to eat peppered beef jerky three times a day. But I am also pleased to see that the American tendency to announce personal beliefs is consistent throughout both blue AND red states!Did you know, for example, that “Jesus is real”? According to the Indianan sign I saw, it’s true. Do they mean “Jesus” the famous-Jesus? The one that God begat with Mary non-sexually? (Could someone please explain that to me, btw?) If so, wasn’t he killed? So wouldn’t they mean “Jesus WAS real?” Ergo, it can’t be that Jesus.

I have to conclude that this present-tense “Jesus” must be really pronounced “Hey-zues” and refers to a Latino area-man. Or else some sort of weather condition coming up from Latin America that no one wants to believe in. Or some local Bigfoot-legend they want people to take seriously.

THE AMERICAN ON THE ROAD: WVA incest

2008-09-14T13:14:00.000+01:00

Well, at least they spell it out for you!

This is the first post in a series documenting Alex’s trip across the country…

Preparing to live in L.A.

2008-08-29T23:11:00.003+01:00

So today I visited a Los Angeles orientation centRE I found in New York City. I heard that L.A. residents/friends like Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes (whom I sometimes still call Joey!) and John Travolta were members. In fact, they recommend the Scientology CentRE to all their friends as a prerequisite for attending their pool parties.

So at the L.A. orientation centRE, I learned about Dianetics, Elrond Hubbard, and how to hire a wife to make you look heterosexual to the media. I also learned about the best breast implant doctors, where to go to get my Posh-Spice haircuts, how to wear sunglasses indoors without worrying about not seeing anything, and where to shop for my tiny dog-collection.

(FYI: This is a real photo I took. This place is on the Upper East Side, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art!)

Upstate NY: It has solved the energy crisis!

2008-08-24T16:32:00.002+01:00

As a proud resident of the state of New York, I am always surprised that my neighboUring state, Upstate New York, has anything to offer besides reduced-price camo-coloUred rifles and Walmarts.

Lo and behold, folks, Alextheamerican has gotten its big break, though! We are pleased to be the first to announce that someone in Upstate New York (with the help of God) has solved the energy crisis. Not only is there a new energy source that will make it so that we no longer need to rely on oil, but in discovering this source, we no longer need to rely on being friendly to non-white people to fuel our large cars!

Can you believe it?

I’d like further details about harnessing this energy, of course. Do you burn sons? With fire? Chemicals? Or do you just put them on a treadmill or energy wheel, hamster style? We’ll find out, of course. These details usually just take care of themselves.

Art galleries up North: Rated X (Not a post for young children.)

2008-08-23T16:20:00.000+01:00

I was shocked and appalled! Really, I had higher expectations for Northern Heartland, USA - a place where you can get your camo-coloUred rifle at Walmart for $45.

Our family went on an annual family vacation to the northern border of the United States for a week. Bored of huntin’ and fishin’ and tannin' on the dock, I decided to find some local culture and bask in the glow of what I could only expect to be the finest of America. My trip to a Boulder Laundromat had surprised me with some wonderful folk-art in the form of wall-graffiti. So I knew exactly where I would go to find what I was looking for.

Upstate New York does something clever: they combine Laundromat with Dry Cleaner with Art Gallery with Tailor. But imagine my surprise and shock when I saw what they deem acceptable:

Now you might be asking the same question I was asking at the time: Where does the good taste draw a line? Not only does this painting show a man with a penis for a nose, but he is also looking down his too-big pants at his own penis! And that penis seems to be bulging out (see the ripple in the zipper area!?!?).

The presence of a needle at the bottom right of the illustration alludes to some sort of S&M technique, as does the oversized spool of thread.

Now to make matters worse, if you are a literate art gallery/Laundromat visitor (and you will be relieved to know that not everyone in these parts is!), you will see the not-subtle references to pants-dropping in the captions to the drawing.

Each line of the caption is more offensive than the last. “Don’t drop your pants.”!!! I should hope not! Not in a public art space! “Just take them in…” The ellipsis at the end of that sentence lets you know that they’re not just giving some sensible darning instructions. The caption concludes with “To us!” – like a clever punch line.

The artist signed this poster. As a tax-paying citizen, I urge you to contact this foolhardy pervert of a painter immediately. Gross.

Look no further!

2008-08-22T15:06:00.001+01:00

Boulder has been good to this blog – an endless source of inspiration, motivation, and meaningfulness. I truly appreciate the way Boulder’s residents constantly throw their sophisticated answers to life’s deep questions out into the open – be it with bumper stickers, drum circles, tie-dyed message Ts, flyers, or bathroom wall graffiti.

My last question – “How do we introduce white people’s children to this path of Profundity as explained by pithy sentences on T-shirts?” – was finally answered when I passed by a shop on Pearl Street. In addition to your requisite “christian & celtic traditions” stuff and your oft-needed “inspirational card sets,” this store provides its patrons with “children’s spirituality”.

I am relieved.

Philosophy Lessons & Inspirations About Meaningfulness

2008-08-18T12:34:00.002+01:00

Sometimes in life, it’s hard to know how to think or feel without someone to guide us. This is why we rely on such pithy, platitudinous works as “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff”, “Marley & Me”, and “Confessions of an Heiress: A Tongue-in-Chic Peek Behind the Pose”. Works like these have inspired millions, cleared away confusion, and illuminated the dark corners of the heart. I get teary just thinking about these books and the way they’ve touched me and all the members of my “Women’s, No-Men-Allowed, Sisterhood Bookclub”.

I’ve decided to write an inspirational book of my own because I know I like to touch lots of people. What was my inspiration? My inspiration was something I found in a public restroom in Boulder while sitting on the toilet and pooping. I looked up, and there, right in front of my eyes, were two jewels of wisdom that cut right to the heart of what I feel and believe:I really appreciated how the “Creativity: the key to creation” author also drew a heart near the message. This really spoke to me. It reminded me of love and circulation. I also liked how the author used a colon correctly and even underlined “Creativity” for added emphasis!

The second author omitted punctuation, you can see, but also kept his messages short and pithy. I think things that are shorter are usually more profound because you can either tattoo them on you or remember them when you’re signing someone’s yearbook or autographing their copy of your latest inspirational book (see? I’m already planning ahead!). “Take Care” and “have faith” are so true! I think so!

Thank you, dear wall-defacers, for bringing such a little joy and inspiration to my life at the most (most) unexpected of times!

Something to take a bite out of – finally!

2008-08-18T12:17:00.002+01:00

I’ve been in Colorado – the hippie part, not the Bible part – for two months now and all I can find to eat is daal and bean curd. The land of bumper-sticker shops and guitar-buskers on every street corner is devoid of many of life’s essentials: fried food, fast food, people of color, chain stores, rap music, and so forth.

Imagine my joy and surprise, upon returning to Boulder from my Buddhist retreat, when I came upon this packaged, tried-and-true, American food in a vending machine at the Laundromat!

“Nascar Beef & Cheese” is the perfect snack for the American doing his laundry, riding in his racecar, sharpening his knife, or polishing his Remington. I sunk my teeth in pretty darn fast.

Weird modern poetry.

2008-07-05T07:33:00.003+01:00

So Boulder is really such a fantastic place – filled with solar panels, fountains, parks, bums playing mandolins, and lots and lots of art installations.

I was walking down 14th street in downtown Boulder and came across the following installation. It was located in front of a church-like building – obviously an ironic wink-wink-nudge-nudge reference to traditional Americana. Then in front of the church-like structure was this stone sculpture with a weird and obscure poem, loosely signed by a man calling himself “Jer.1.5”. Maybe a post-postmodern sigh about the collision of man and computer?

The 11-syllable, two line work reminded me of e.e. cummings' works in its simplicity and its lack of proper punctuation. You'll notice that even the second-quotation mark at the end of the poem is facing the wrong way, oddly enough.

The artist demonstrates his etching skills with the engraved pair of hands holding a little baby in them. This portion of the work gives a softness, a tenderness, a gentleness to the harsh cuts of the stone and rigid carvings of the Arial font, specially chosen for the piece's text.

Just behind the marble sculpture was another nod at religious Americana – a “notice board” for the “church”’s services including one “misa” in “espagñol”. I thought that this was the critical punch that really added a scary realism to the piece.

I laud the artist for his or her bravery in depicting outdated and overly-simplistic American moral messagery, but question his or her insistence on such realism as it lacks a certain level of irony. This piece’s lack of irony made me somewhat queasy because, for a second, I believed that it was real.

The most subtle and nuanced way to communicate your political and social views.

2008-07-02T07:25:00.000+01:00

I’m still here in Boulder, Colorado. I have learned a lot. Especially from all the bumper stickers! I found the mecca of bumper stickers in an underground bookstore located across the street from Ben & Jerry's and near the "Outdoor Divas" outdoor gear shop for older women.

Of course I asked permission to photograph the bumper sticker collection. As I was taking the picture, the woman behind the counter (a self-proclaimed “volunteer activist and community member”) must have noticed my confusion and admiration of her store’s wondrous goods. She asked me, “Which of these moves you the most?”

“Wha’?” I replied, thinking “doesn’t she realize that I’m infiltrating as the writer of an ironical blog intending to make fun of her wares in an attempt to self-aggrandize?”

“Which one strikes you?”

At a loss for words, I pointed to the one saying, “Outrageous Older Woman” in purple wavy letters (see the second picture). Can you even begin to imagine the occupant of the car slathered with that message? My friend here in Boulder has a box of “Women’s Moon-Cycle” tea. I would imagine that the owner of this tea might also own the “Outrageous Older Woman” sticker.

Where do I sign up?

2008-06-26T21:15:00.001+01:00

I’m back in the U.S. of A. Thank God! I’m Colorado with my friend John. We’re staying with his mom in a great house in the mountains outside of Boulder. We have views of mountains, deer, bears, and mountain lions*. We have an aerosol can of Bear Spray in the closet that sprays 50 feet at bears just in case they attack us.

When white people go to Colorado, from what I knew beforehand, they do one of two things: they go outside to go hunting or they go outside to go mountain-hiking/ biking/ skiing/ rafting/ kayaking/ snowshoeing/ yoga/ etc. On our first day in town, we went to a state park and went on a hike. This did not surprise me at all as it conformed to my preconceived ideas about what white people do in Colorado.

But imagine my surprise when I found I could add another item to the list of white-people-in-Colorado activities! If you are at all bored with hunting or mountain-activitying, you can participate in a DRUM & FIRE CIRCLE. At the park where I was hiking, I found the sign advertising this activity.

So what is a drum circle? Well, a short romp on Google can clarify that for you. But briefly stated, and according to the aforementioned poster, it’s an opportunity to, “Connect to nature through Music”.

The hippie kids in my high school were into these sometimes. You would see them through the window of the debate-team classroom in the field wearing alpaca sweaters and German comfort footwear. Some of them managed to coax their smooth blond hair into dreadlocks. Others wore necklaces made from marijuana.

The noise of the drum circle would waft in through the slightly-opened, suicide-proof window where one might be, say, preparing a contingency plan if the Neg team proposed nuclear war or coming up for an Ontologically-correct argument for supplying guerrillas with uranium. The chaotic beats and arhythms would remind you that there was a world outside of your alphabetized-by-brief filebox and the state debate championship; a world where your SAT score didn’t matter and “nature” was more than a mere threat to your new graphing calculator’s safety.

Anyway, I’m glad to know that white people have more than just two things to do in Colorado these days.

*If any were to walk by, that is. Which they haven’t done yet.

How Pithy, Humorous Signs Almost Converted me to Christianity

2008-06-25T21:18:00.002+01:00

I’ve probably mentioned here before that I’m a Buddhist. But my trip to Los Angeles really shook some doubt into me! Why? It seems that the Buddhists lag far behind in the clever church-frontyard-sign competition. Mostly because Buddhists don’t have churches with frontyards in which to place pithy signs to recruit converts. And I am SOLD when I read a funny church sign, let me tell you.

I also want to mention, before you start doubting your own faiths after perusing my photographs, that during my descent to L.A.’s International Airport, I saw a huge, round building with the words “FAITH DOME” painted on the top. That was so cool! I’m definitely going to pay a visit to the Faith Dome before I finish my PhD. Good thing I have about seven to ten years in which to fulfil that goal!

Oh and by the way: when I was taking the first of these pictures, there was a nervous homeless guy who was ducking from view because he didn’t want to be in the picture with the sign. As if I wanted him in the picture anyway!!!

World’s Greatest Guy Ever

2008-06-20T21:11:00.000+01:00

There’s one thing I can say that I honestly love about Los Angeles: the traffic. Most people complain about it, but the way I see it is that you actually have time to learn about people. Especially people who have bumper stickers and window decals.

I think bumper stickers are great: nothing sums up a person more than a “Honk if you love Jesus” sticker on his car. Or “One Day at a Time.” If you see that one, for instance, you know that this person is an alcoholic! Trust me! I love knowing that about people.

One thing I love to know is where a person went to college or if their kid is an honor student. It’s so important to share with people how smart you or your kid is. You never see a “Tri-County Community College” sticker. Why? Because that’s not impressive. You never have a car with “My kids are pretty average.” No wonder.

When I was in L.A., I was stuck in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. I read the stickers on a car in front of me and thought, “Boy! Now THAT’S a person I’d like to meet!” Why? First I was excited because the car was a BMW – a VERY expensive car. Very cool. Next, right in the middle of the back windshield – smartly placed right where you can’t miss it – was a “Yale” decal. All right!, I thought. Now THERE’S someone with intelligence and success in life. In case someone were to miss that decal, there was ANOTHER one to the left on the window that said, “Yale Law School.” That’s when I knew, “This is a great guy”. It was so considerate of him to take into account all those who might miss the first sticker by providing a second one.

I was sold. I was really ready to get out of my car and go shake the guy’s hand, see if he was not old, and perhaps ask if I could bear his high-IQed children. Just when I was putting my car into park, I saw the real humdinger: HIS LICENSE PLATE. It read, “YALE ESQ”. SO CLEVER! Who would have thought of such a coup but a Yale grad. I was so impressed that I was paralysed for a few moments.

Some people have photographed bald eagles, or horses, or the Loch Ness Monster. I photographed the triple-sealed Yale Car. It is with pride that I bring this image to the privileged lives and lucky screens of you, my faithful readers.

It must suck to look like a celebrity! (I should know...)

2008-06-18T21:32:00.003+01:00

"Wait - was that Nicole Richie? … I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation on your pink Blackberry, but are you Nicole Richie? Oh I'm sorry - you looked like Nicole Richie!"

This is the conversation that I keep having with people ALL THE TIME here in L.A. (short for Los Angeles). I’m visiting here, scoping out my new “hometown”, and I keep running into people who look just like my friend* Nicole Richie. It’s crazy. I feel so bad for all these Nicole Richie look-alikes who must constantly be asked if they’re Nicole Richie.

I guess it’s not hard to be mistaken for Nicole Richie out here – I mean, just because you’re really skinny and wear big sunglasses and have blond hair doesn’t necessarily mean you’re Nicole Richie. It could just mean you live in L.A.

I myself often get mistaken for celebrities all the time – Tina Fey, Gilda Radner, Janine Garafaeefwojldalo. It’s tough, and sometimes just to save face for the other person, I will say, “Yes, that’s me” and pose in a picture or sign an autograph or something.

*maybe in the future!

REVEALED: The Real Dangers of Riding the NY Subways

2008-06-12T17:50:00.004+01:00

I re-entered the United States last week with great excitement: finally! I’d be back to a place where people speak English, use dollars, are sometimes black or Jewish, and don’t smoke.

I celebrated my return by visiting my favoUrite part of New York City – da Bronx. Don’t be fooled by its Dutch name: there’s nothing low-country about this particular borough except for its occasional swamp and its various prostitute-filled neighboUrhoods.

I had spent quite a bit of my early-twenties sleeping on the uptown and downtown five-train, so I felt nothing short of excitement when I found the perfect end seat, slid my bags’ straps around various elbows for safety, and leaned my head against the bars for a nice nap. There’s nothing like the newly-designed green-line trains for a good nap; London’s Underground, with all its “on-time” trains, accurate train count-down arrival clocks, and “safety”, has nothing in the way of comfortable napping.

As the train pulled up to the Grand Concourse, the first stop in the Bronx, I had just about dozed off when I heard the dreaded noise:

SNAP SNAP.

That crisp, self-satisfied noise could only mean one thing: Nail Clippers!

If there is one thing that I hate, it’s when people groom their nails on the subway. Since when is it acceptable to leave your blackened, half-moon droppings all over the seats and floors of public transportation? Also: there’s no way of accounting for the direction that they will fly in. Your nail could hit someone in the eye! Worse, it could hit me in the leg!

As if to encourage this behavior, many nail-clippers come with holes in them which are perfect for attaching them to YOUR KEY-CHAINS! (See photo for proof!) Why is this acceptable? I demand a recall!

To make matters worse, I have noticed that people use their Metrocards – the thin yellow swipey things that give you access to the subway and busses in New York City – to CLEAN THEIR NAILS!

So next time you visit New York, hoping – like me – to find the Utopia of Americans, don’t ride on the subway. Because it is there, more than anywhere else, where you will be exposed to the nastiest part of our American culture: our dirty toe-clippings.

Is vacuuming them the same as killing them?

2008-05-16T11:21:00.002+01:00

Animals tend to like me. I don’t know why, but it’s true. Even when I was a small child, my stuffed animals and teddybears were never far away. My dog sleeps in my bed, my cats join me under the covers. I get a lot of mosquito bites.

Even French animals like me! I know this as a fact because all of them have come to live with me in my trailer. There are bees buzzing in the horse chestnut tree above me, there are large spiders in the crevices of my cabinets, and I have two separate colonies of ants that parade through.

The first collection of ants was of a small breed. They made a trail on my ceiling, from one of my sunroofs to an un-working ceiling light. Based on this evidence, I concluded that these little ants were living somewhere above me. Using my door handle as a ladder, I climbed up onto the roof of the trailer and found thousands of these little guys living in a 2-inch thick pile of dirt. How dirt made its way onto the top of my trailer, I have no idea.

I don’t kill things, because I am a Buddhist, but I did want to make sure that I destroyed their home good & quick. So I got a broom and swept the roof clean. That’s when I realized that there were holes in the roof that had been previously covered by dirt. If it were to rain now, I would have puddles inside. So I took the trashbags I had previously been using as a carpet inside and used them on the roof to cover the holes.

I also took a vacuum cleaner and sucked up the few hundred ants that were remaining inside. I made up for the fact that this might have killed some of them by chanting a Buddhist mantra.

I'm the pale one in the middle.

2008-04-14T19:10:00.002+01:00

Moving to L.A. means a lot of things – Driving my hooptie through Compton, smokin’ dope with Snoop, looking at cops with shorts on – but nothing gets me more excited than the prospect of spending more time with my friends Posh ‘n Becks.

I better start getting in shape – because the two of them like to lead active lifestyles. It takes a lot of work & burns a lot of calories just to keep up with the shopping. Apparently, Posh has taken up an interest in American folk sports because she spends a lot of time on Rodeo Drive. I’m not sure if I need a new pair of cowboy boots just yet, and my Lasso is just fine, thank you! But I’ll give her a hand with her bucking shopping bags if she needs it.

Limp-pede!

2008-04-13T07:58:00.004+01:00

Limousin is known for its “boeuf”. It has more cows than people and the ratio of cow-to-field is MUCH larger than the ratio of teeth-to-local-Frenchperson.

At the Buddhist Meditation CentRE where I live, we don’t eat the local beef, of course. “Oh you crazy Buddhist vegetarians!” you may be thinking. But no – we don’t eat the beef because our budget requires that we stick to cheap, mass-produced stuff.

When I saw this injured, helpless, confused, and anxiety-stricken fellow sentient being limping down the road, I felt a surge of compassion. So I reached for my camera and made sure I captured it all on video!

I'm getting fake tits!

2008-04-12T19:01:00.002+01:00

Well, it seems like I will remain “Abroad” after all! That’s right, I’m moving to California! Next fall! It’s a small country that is located near Mexico. I have been studying about it on the internet and have learned some things:

1. California is filled with Rappers! The two main cities in California are Compton and the LBC.

2. The other main city in California is called Hollywood which is filled with beautiful gay people. They control the American government and subscription-cable channels. Thank God for that…

3. The main employment in California, besides Rapping and picking strawberries and then being kicked out of the country, is Porn. If you Google-Image-Search “California girls”, you’ll see what I mean.

Well that’s pretty much all I know about California at this point. As you faithful readers probably know by now, I’m up for adventure. At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll ever live in America again.

La Trash de Trailer

2008-03-28T09:19:00.003Z

Since moving into a trailer, when people ask where I live, I say, “Ee-in the tray-ler park!” in a really good Southern accent. “Vat?” “Ee-in the TRAY-ler park!” I reply. There is no laugh, no smile, nothing. “Ahm TRAY-ler TRAY-ash now,” I like to tell people. There’s a couple of other Americans around here, and they get the joke. They’ve even started to call me “Kristale” (with a K!) as a way to take part in the joke. (We all decided that this was the trashiest name we could come up with – especially with the “e” at the end.)

So I’ve tried to explain the connotations of “trailer trash” to the French people around here so that they get my joke. But even more importantly, I’m realizing that they are probably missing out on all the references to trailer trash in the movies and on television. Since France doesn’t really have too many of its own movies – pretty much every movie I’ve see here in France is American, after all – it’s important that their understanding of the subtleties of American cinema aren’t lost on them. And there might be a trailer park reference that they won’t get – like in “8 Mile”, for example. Understanding the true depth and profundity of Eminem’s suffering and his subsequent meteoric surge of fame rests on an understanding that he’s trailer trash, after all. From what I can tell, I bet most of France probably didn’t get “8 Mile”.

When I try to explain “trailer trash” to the French, in French, it goes something like this (loosely translated): “You know how some peoples are poor?” “Oui.” “You know like the really poor peoples who are always dirty and beat their kids?” “Oui.” “You know the peoples who sit in plastic chairs and drink cheap beer? And have bad haircuts with the short hairs in the front and the long ones in the back?” “Euhhh, d’accord.” “OK! These sorts of peoples live in really small houses in the parks. The houses are on wheels. Sometimes they are destroyed in Tornados.” “Oui.” “So we make jokes about these peoples! It’s really fun!” “I see.” “Yeah, so now I live in a trailer, so the joke is that I’m pretending to be one of these ignorant poor people! Get it?”

I realized finally how best to explain trailer trash to the French when I took a ride to the grocery store with my German friend. We drove by a big field filled with trailers! I exclaimed, “Oooh! What’s that? Who are THEY?” My German friend explained, “Those are the gypsies. You should be careful – they steal things sometimes.”

McTreason!

2008-03-19T09:00:00.003Z

Last night, I convinced a friend that if he would drive me to the grocery store, I’d buy him McDonald’s for dinner. As residents of a Buddhist centRE with cows and horses for neighboUrs and floating dust particles in a shrine room for entertainment, we find things like “aisles of products” and “parking lots” extremely exciting and novel. Needless to say, this was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Personally, I was excited to go to McDonald’s because it’s always nice to feel really American once in a while. It’s great to sit back, eat a Big Mac, and feel culturally superior to all the people around you. Yes, it might be a “French” Fry, but we all know that it only tastes good when it’s fried in American grease.

Now when I go into a McDonald’s, I am happy to say that I don’t even have to LOOK at the menu to know what I’m going to order. But since the French are EXTREMELY slow – even in fast food restaurants – my friend and I were stuck waiting in line for close to ten minutes while one man ordered a burger and fries. To pass the time, I decided to check out the menu and see how badly they adulterated the purity of the American menu items in the name of French accessibility.

“Milkshake” was still “milkshake” (although the woman behind the counter didn’t understand what I was saying until I called it a “meee-lk sheek”). “Quarter Pounder” is “Royale”, as we all know from watching “Pulp Fiction”. Everything was pretty much the same… But then the horror:

“Croque McDo”.

“CROQUE McDO”??? What the hell is that supposed to be? I know from my French Beginners Level 1 book in seventh grade that McDonald’s is “McDo” (pronounced “Mc Dough”) with the French youth. I also know from that very same textbook that “un croque monsieur” is some sort of eggy-bacon thingy. Its poorly illustrated, indecipherable mess of squiggles was always depicted right next to the “croque madame” which differed from the “croque monsieur” in some way that I can not be bothered to remember.

But a “Croque McDo”? This abomination on everything America stands for is pictured on the menu right next to such staples as the Big Mac, the Royale, the McNuggets, and their new acknowledgment of health-issues, the McSalade.

The irony is that I still have no idea what a “croque” is supposed to be – the picture on the wall did nothing to clarify this mystery. Eggy, bready, who knows. All I know is that this is NOT what our founding fathers had in mind when they conceived of our American liberties. As far as I am concerned, this is a total “croque” of shit.

A horse is a horse of course of course - until he's my DINNER!

2008-03-15T19:52:00.002Z

That’s right folks! I did the nasty (see blog post from February 16). I ate horsemeat.

Last night, some friends and I were out in the big city – Limoges, of course – and we went to a place called “Le Pub” which means “Pub” which means “Bar”. I ordered a “Burger Classic” which basically means “Classic Burger” if you translate it from French (which I can do!). It was a hamburger with French Fries and Cole Slaw on the side.

But my friend across from me? Did she go with the sane, cow-meat burger? NO! She ordered the “Burger de cheval” which means “Horse Burger”. The fact that it’s not the default “Burger” should already be troubling – the fact that its meat variety needed to be clarified in the first place is just upsetting.

Does the fact that she’s Swiss (from Switzerland – a small country near Europe) excuse her? I’m not sure. Does the fact that she speaks fluent German AND French excuse her? Assuredly not – I initially thought that speaking too many languages led to lots of problems, like mixing up words and stuff, words like “horse” and “cow”. But this does not seem to be true.

Anyway, when her burger arrived, I was startled to note that while I think horses are significantly cuter than the shit-stained, fly-covered cows when I view them from the safe distance of my car driving by occasionally, when they’re killed and slapped between two halves of a hamburger bun, they look a lot like regular meat. In fact, there’s no indication, when a horse takes the form of a hamburger, that it’s actually the same as the cutesy horse-y creatures that I liked to draw pictures of when I was a kid. If you secretly switched my cow-burger with my friend’s horse-burger, I probably wouldn’t even notice!

With this in mind, and my discovery that no matter how cute the animal is in real life, on my plate it looks like other meat (I made this discovery with bunny-wunnies a few years ago), I decided to do the cultural thing and taste it! Turns out, the meat was pretty dry and overcooked. Just like my burger!

I’m pleased to now announce to you, my readers, that shittily-overcooked meat, no matter what animal it originates from, tastes bad. Even if the animal killed to provide you with that meal was really cute or awesome or hardworking or beloved by a child, it can still be made to taste like a tire.

Le Mullet (French for 'Mullet')

2008-02-18T21:28:00.002Z

I wanted to send you guys the latest report from France before someone on VH1 News tells you first: mullets are back! And they’re all over France. That’s right… on the hot streets of Limoges, fashion (or “mode”) capital of Western Europe, the French teens are depleting the La Pharmacies of hair gel and hair spray to make their mullets shine!

This look is so hot that a Google search for: “french teen style”, “french mullet”, and “french teens” yielded nothing that resembled what I saw on the streets last weekend on the heads of the local cow-farmers’ kids. I didn’t have my camera, so I couldn’t subtly take close-ups of the French kids’ heads as they walked by me. Instead, you will have to take a look at the drawing I did today. (See above illustration.)

Basically, the mullet begins with a little poof of faux-bangs in the front. Take about five little segments of your hair from the base of your hairline and use your gel-coated fingers to smooth out five little strips of hair to go down towards your eyebrows. Preferably in points. The rest of your bangs will be combed back off your face onto the top of your head where they will join the rest of your hair in a distorted symphony of seemingly random peaks and crests. Don’t be fooled, though! There’s no lack of design in the way in which these tufts are folded and overlayed.

The key to the mullet look, as all good Americans should know from their trips to the local car shows and the Brooklyn-bound L-train - is the longer hair in the back of the head. This segment should also be highly gelled and should not move when the wind blows or when you turn your head to look at something – like the approach of your mom with her cigarette lighter to light the fourth-cigarette of your typical 14-year-old samedi afternoon on the town, or the slowly approaching lips of your best friend Jean-François-Luc-Pascal to non-gay-kiss you on the cheek.

They Eat the Nasty in France…

2008-02-16T16:24:00.002Z

You might be wondering why I haven’t written for a while…. Well, I was in the United States. Everyone there is American. There’s really nothing to write about… People drive on the right side of the road, eat normal food, call fries fries and chips chips, tell Yo Mamma jokes from time to time. Really there’s nothing to report.

But I’m back in France. And boy do I have stuff to report about these people over here!

On Saturday, I took a day off from my stressful life of daily meditation practice and french-press coffee to venture to town. A few friends and I and went to the weekly market in the neighboring metropolis of St. Junien. There, you can buy stink-ass cheese, meat, baguettes, or stink-ass cheese. I also saw a booth where someone was selling large polyester blankets with pictures of horses and kittens on them.

Did you know that it’s perfectly acceptable, at your meat-selling stall in a local market, to sell horse meat? That’s right – your search for lean, dark, raw horse meat is over. Just come to Limosin and you’ll find what you’re looking for.

Wikipedia says: “Horse meat is the culinary name for meat cut from a horse. It is slightly sweet, tender, low in fat, and high in protein.[1] Like beef and pork, it is a taboo food in some religions and cultures. The name for eating horse meat is hippophagy.”

I love the Frankenstein way Wikipedia grafts its paragraphs together. I also really love that first sentence...

New York’s Latest Butcher Shop. Awesome! (And Gross…)

2008-01-25T21:02:00.001Z

I had been attending a very grown-up political event at Rockefeller Center with a couple of my friends. I elected to walk all the way back to my parents’ apartment and stumbled upon what I think just might be the very latest development in the culinary world…

Lo and behold: on the ground floor of an enormous office building located somewhere on Park Avenue was located a very strange and luminous butcher shop. Instead of cutting them and slicing them and aesthetically arranging the slabs in sandwiches, the butchers had taken the whole bodies of meats and put them in swimming pools of formaldahyde.

To complete the marinade, in one of the tanks, the butchers had placed a dove in a bird cage and a leather easy-chair.

It must be so easy to grab lunch if you work in that building! Just go downstairs, ask the butcher for a ham & cheese on a bagel sandwich, and watch him go for a dive! I wonder what butchers look like in wet suits…

The World’s Ugliest Painting Award. (And we still don’t know what it’s like to have sex with God.)

2008-01-04T18:31:00.000Z

I’m sure many of you join me in wondering how Mary got to have sex with God so she could have Jesus. I’m sure even more of you can join me in wondering what was “immaculate” about her conception. I looked up “immaculate” on the internet, and it said: “free from spot or stain… immaculate linen”. So she got pregnant without staining her sheets? Why this is such a big deal is a mystery as well.

Sometime in the 17th Century, there lived an artist named Antonio de Pereda. She lived in Spain and was a painter. A shitty painter.

Sometime after that, Boston – a city in Massachusetts – built an art museum. It found a painting by Antonio de Pereda and stuck it on its wall.

This painting happens to depict Mary’s Immaculate Conception. WHOA!, you say. Now we might find out how Mary managed to keep the sheets clean while having sex with God. That is DEFINITELY something I want to see! Especially since God must be some lover, since he’s God and all.

Take a look at this painting:

This is horrible. Not only is Mary a total dog, but there is NO sex going on in this picture.

Now take a look at the tiny angel heads at the bottom of the picture:

What are those? Are those supposed to be cute? Maybe it’s a cultural thing – Spain has lower standards of baby-cuteness? Maybe babies were uglier back then and there has been evolution to cure babies of ugliness so we take better care of them? Your guess is as good as mine. Please feel free to share it below in the “Comments”.

Taking a Break from Tourism…

2008-01-02T13:56:00.000Z

I am walking up to a Metrocard machine. It’s great. There is no Czech option. Only Spanish, which I don’t ever choose, obviously. I know exactly which buttons to press, and within seconds I have a Weekly-Unlimited Metrocard. For a fraction, I might add, of what it costs to travel around London for a day. I pride myself in the speed with which I can purchase a Metrocard.

When I went to buy my first Metrocard, I had the pleasure of being annoyed at tourists – or maybe they were immigrants. Not only were they speaking in Polish (or Russian, or Czech even), but they were deaf! I could tell this from the frantic way they were gesticulating to each other while they spoke in another language. And not only were they deaf, and fluent in sign-language, but they were NOT fluent in Metrocard-machine. They couldn’t press the buttons on the screen well at all. Like I can. Having spent many months flabbergasting locals and natives behind ME in line, it felt wonderful and strange to be flabbergast-ED.

Ahh, it feels good to be home. Familiar songs being sung by familiar subway-car homeless singers; familiar slang being used in conversations on the subway (“Yo and then she be like, ‘Bitch, please.’” “For real?” “Dead ass.” “You should cut her.”); familiar lectures from my parents (“You shouldn’t wear jeans to an interview.” “But it’s at a coffeeshop in Brooklyn, mom! And my legs are going to be under a table!” “I don’t like your new haircut. You look like a Mullet.” “That’s not how you use the word ‘mullet’, Mom! You’re so …ugh.”).

What the Paris Métro Has Over the Rest of Europe...

2007-12-30T15:43:00.000Z

One of the worst things about Paris, and also most of the world besides the U.S.A., if you are a Diet Pepsi fan, is the lack of Diet Pepsi in restaurants, stores, vending machines, and hotel mini-bars.

TravelLing abroad, for my mother, is quite a sacrifice: she must sleep without her fat cat Peanut, she has to spend a lot of time and effort setting up her digitally-recording cable box to ensure she doesn’t miss a single episode of Dr. Phil, Judge Judy, or Clean House while she’s gone, and she must learn a new language’s version of the words “Diet Coke, please”. The most difficult thing to bear, however, is the fact that most European countries sell a lot of Coke, but rarely any Pepsi.

In 2002, she learned that the entire island of Sicily has yet to import any Diet Pepsi. In 2006, a waiter in a Palermo hotel refused to serve her any Diet Coke for breakfast, claiming that it was a thing just not done before noon in his experience. Christmas Day of 2006 was spent in a frantic search for an open shop – turns out that in Catholic countries, everything is always closed on major, minor, and secret holidays. And Sundays. And Saturdays. And half of Mondays. And for four hours in the afternoons when people are taking naps.

My mother was not totally surprised to find out that Paris, like every other travel destination she’s forced to leave her cat for, has no interest in Diet Pepsi. She quietly resigned herself to ordering a “Coca Lite” for the duration of our stay.

One afternoon in Paris, while standing on the métro platform at the Odéon station in St. Germain, my brother’s girlfriend nearly replaced me in the hierarchy of love in my mother’s heart by discovering that the vending machines were filled with Diet Pepsi. My mother screams, we start fumbling through our pockets and our bags for the two-euro coins that the machine required, and my mother manages to acquire two bottles before the train arrives.

The Family that Looks at Tits Together…

2007-12-29T15:41:00.000Z

As part of our whirlwind tour of Paris, we decided to go see the show at the Moulin Rouge. “Moulin” means “windmill” in French… but the only things being powered up in that building are the blacklights and the water-tank hydraulics.

Earlier that day, during our tour of the Musée d’Orsay, we had seen a large painting by Toulouse-Lautrec depicting the “Goulue”, the notorious late 19th Century can-can dancer being watched at the Moulin Rouge by Lautrec himself and Oscar Wilde. From my understanding, I’m sure that Oscar Wilde had little to no interest in what was going on when this dancer lifted her skirts above her head, but I became extremely excited by the prospect of seeing frilly underthings and boobies with my family later that evening.

The scummy, seedy, smoky days of watching the Goulue have passed, along with spending your time at the Moulin Rouge bumping shoulders with gay men and painters. Instead, thank God, you can sit at the Moulin Rouge, eat your foie gras, and surround yourself with fellow travellers – mostly American and Japanese. And don’t worry! Since no one is even allowed to bring in a camera, your likeness has no chance of being reproduced on a wall in the Musée d’Orsay anytime soon!

If you are into fluorescent feathers, black lights, and lip-synching – which I am! – then you will love the production at the Moulin Rouge. I’m glad that there was no plot that I had to follow, save some sort of incomprehensible liaison between a blonde woman and an overtanned, shaved-chested man. The lyrics were in French, except for the first number. We were singing along after about five minutes because the song’s sole words were: “Dance, dance Paris, dance! Paris dance, dance!” (Except they pronounced it “Pair-ee”.) If you repeat those two sentences and don’t follow a tune, you will have the song perfectly.

There were some sideshow acts – a magician, two contortionists, a girl swimming in a boa-constrictor-filled tank, and a ventriloquist – but the best scene was near the end. The lights went out and all of a sudden the male and female leads, never without their headset-mics, were suspended on cords above the audience. The black lights were on, their teeth glowed like romantic pearls, and they waved their arms like beautiful mermaids in a sea of air. Just like two curtains being pulled together on a track, they came together over our heads. I could look up above the heads of my brother, his girlfriend, and my parents, and see two perfectly formed breasts looming over us – nipples like stars in a night sky.

Some of the dancers showed their tits and others did not. Mostly the leads showed theirs. The most remarkable thing, and the thing that caused the most disappointment to my mother, was that it seemed as though none of the dancers had fake boobies! This is something that we, as Americans, were utterly shocked by. My mother exclaimed, “I came here to see boobs. I wanted things swinging in my face!”

Say "Cheese", Van Gogh!

2007-12-28T21:05:00.000Z

The advent of the digital camera and Johnny-Public’s increasing ability to use it precipitate a new trend in the international-tourist museum experience. Now, instead of just looking at a painting or sculpture or pressing the number of the painting on the audioguide, people can take flash-free photographs of all the paintings that they see in their visit to the museum.

I visited the Musée D’Orsay today with my family. My brother Geoffrey, Sarah, and I split off from my mother. When you travel a lot with members of your family, you start to recognize patterns of behavioUr: for example, my mother manages to run through galleries at an extraordinary pace. Within an hour, she will have seen, and been moved by, thousands of paintings and sculptures. In that same amount of time, I will have gotten lost three or four times looking for the one particular painting that I want to see. By the time I see that painting, I am bored and tired and just start looking for the room with the most comfortable couch in it. (Tourist Tip: the National Portrait Gallery in London has very expensive, leather sofas.)

My favoUrite thing to do in a museum is to get the audioguide. This feature – now available in most museums – helps fill in the gaps of one’s art history knowledge base as well as helps explain why a large square of red with a white stripe down the centRE qualifies as “art” in the Whitney Museum or about which woman in the painting was Rembrandt’s mistress (hence her juicy, bouncy boobies).

If you ever go to a museum with friends and get audioguides, then be certain that you play a game I like to call “Synchronize your Audioguides”. The way it works is that you and your friends decide on what painting you want to learn about, you press the numbers on your little machines at the same time, and then on the count of three, press “Start”. If you synchronize your audioguides, then you can all hear the same things at the same times, react at the same moments, and it makes the trip to the museum a little less boring somehow. Sometimes the other people in the gallery might give you weird glances, but I’ve learned to have no respect for them anyhow.

The patrons of the Musée D’Orsay alerted me to this latest development in classy tourism: photographing all of the art that you see. Given the fact that computer screens are much better at depicting life than the life itself, I can understand why a tiny cameraphone is a better lens with which to capture Van Gogh and Renoir’s timeless pieces of work than one’s own two eyes. I definitely apologize to all the amateur photographers and art lovers whose shots of the paintings I ruined by actually looking at the pieces of art. When Geoff, Sarah, and I would line up in front of a painting to synchronize our audioguides, you can be sure that NO ONE else could photograph a painting without getting a bit of our head or hair in the bottom of it.

And what better way to say, “Hey, I’m a cultured person” than by embedding a photograph of yourself looking at a Cézanne into a text message to all your friends.

I've Noticed a Tit-Cupping Trend!

2007-12-27T20:51:00.000Z

My favoUrite genre of fellow-tourist is the variety that says, “I know, take a picture of me in front of that naked statue and I’ll pretend like I’m holding its boob!” Although the person doesn’t actually touch the boobs, it looks like he does because of a phenomenon known to artists as "perspective".

I saw this act replicated and re-replicated at such places as the Jardin du Luxembourg and the Louvre with the Venus di Milo. An extensive search on Google, with search phrases like “cupping boob/breast famous statue” and “grabbing tit statue Paris” convinced me that although people don’t hesitate to take these classy pictures, they do hesitate to post them on the internet. This was the only one I managed to find that represented the spirit of my original search.

Blog fans, please indulge me by trying a search of your own. I’m sure these “I’m cupping the breasts of a famous statue” pictures are out there, I just can’t get the wording in the Google Image Search right. If you do find some photos, or take some of your own, please feel free to share with a comment below!

Acqua, Tambien.

2007-12-24T13:49:00.000Z

I knew things would be off to a good start here in Paris this week when my family showed an aptitude for attempting other languages. Nothing tells a Frenchman “Relax! I’m someone you don’t have to condescend to” like speaking in a European language when you order food – any European language.

When we arrived at our smoking-friendly hotel yesterday, we crowded at the bar to order some food and drinks and wait for a table in the smoking-only lounge to open up. My family shows me great honoUr each time a member of the hotel waitstaff gives us any attention by remaining entirely silent until I say everything we need to communicate in French. I decided to give them a valuable cross-cultural opportunity by remaining silent.

After a few moments of awkwardness, enhanced by the waiter’s typically-French lack of interest in removing awkwardness for your comfort, my father piped up and ordered “Acqua Frizzante” – Italian for “soda water”. Midway through “Frizzante,” my father realized his ERREUR, and quickly corrected himself. It came out sounding something like this: “Acqua Frizzant… Gassat… euh, oakai… Alex… con gaz.”. The waiter quickly said, “ Euh, viss gaz? Okay, monsieur.”

Next, my brother’s girlfriend Sarah placed her order: “Café tambien.”

We are certainly off to a great start here in Paris! I’m sure the Europeans have never met with such a culturally astute and well-informed group.

How do you say, "I want it well done"?

2007-12-24T13:31:00.000Z

What could be better than one American travelLing and journeying around countries like Europe and France? Well obviously: FIVE AMERICANS.

That’s right. The rest of my family is joining me here in Europe for the week. I’m sure that you can surmise – from my ability to blend like a chameleon, adapt like a 220V plug, and wear a beret at just the right angle – that the people from whom I originate are extremely subtle, informed, and well-versed in the customs of the natives, wherever they go.

I Speak English Now!

2007-12-23T23:24:00.000Z

The other night, I went to the house of my British friends for an evening of pizza and alcohol. One of our friends was missing and I called him to see what he was up to that night. He explained that he needed to stay home that night to clean in preparation for a visit from his mother.

“Where is he?” my friends asked.

“He’s cleaning because his MUM is coming tomorrow for lunch,” I said.

Then I was to utter a sentence that confirms how far I’ve come in my quest to learn about the British culture and customs. Prepare yourself now to read it:

“He’s excited because he found A HOOVER IN A SKIP.”

That’s right, folks. Without stuttering or hesitating, I told a bunch of British people that my friend was HOOVERING his FLAT with a HOOVER he found in a SKIP.

To be fair, in the group of people assembled, there were two Americans, one Canadian, one Frenchman, and only two Brits. The former four needed me to translate the sentence for them, but you can be sure that I was absolutely revelling in the moment. It feels good to educate people.

I get my pulse taken and STILL have dandruff! (And I also see The Fresh Prince of Bel Air!)

2007-12-23T21:30:00.000Z

London continues to surprise me, despite my increasing ability to blend in with the locals and understand their ways. In the United States, you will never walk into a shop or place of business, let alone a doctor’s office, and get swindled. No way! We have checks in place that prevent these things from happening. Here in London, though, you don’t have such stars-and-stripes-clad security.

I have been suffering, since the beginning of my odyssey, from a not-rare scalp problem that is part familial-inheritance, and part stress-induced. (Inducement of stress is also partly familial at times as well!) Basically I have a small, not-too-foul, noticeable, and pity-evoking rash on my forehead that comes and goes. It gets better with the use of certain shampoos, but I’ve been searching for an all-out cure for a long time.

My friend here in London has been recommending that I go to see a Chinese doctor. For a long time, I thought him plagued by some sort of Orientalistic prejudice – I too used to think that Asians were smarter. For example, I used to call my most-Asian friend whenever I needed help with my math homework in high school. Now, that good-at-math Asian friend is earning a Ph.D. in Nano-Robotics at Cal Tech. But it’s certainly not because he’s Asian.

To be honest, I had no idea at first that my friend meant that I should see someone trained in Traditional-Chinese Medicine. He claimed that his friend had gone to this one Chinese-style doctor before having missed her period for a few years and he pressed a spot on her thumb and she started bleeding all over his table! Once I heard this story, I was thoroughly convinced that Chinese-type medicine was right and Western-Conventional medicine probably had it all wrong. I’ve never heard of a gynAEcologist doing something like that before. Although, I have to say that this girl who missed her period was lucky she had never accidentally banged her hand on that particular spot on the Tube or in Sainsbury’s – imagine the mess and the embarrassment! In fact: warning: don’t bang your hands accidentally because you might suddenly get your period!

Anyway, thus convinced, I resolved that the next time I walked by a DODGY-looking “Chinese Medicine and Herb” shop in London, I would definitely go in. I happened to be in Chinatown last week with the said-Orientalist friend when we walked by such a shop and decided to go in. I set up an instant appointment with the Doctor upstairs and my friend accompanied me into the “examination room”.

The old doctor, with fifty-years of experience according to the girl in the shop downstairs, asks me a number of questions about my sleeping abilities, my period (I answer him, but don’t let him anywhere near my hands), and my stress levels. Then, he starts writing on my sheet in Chinese. He takes the pulse of my left wrist for about a minute, writing down some numbers and more Chinese characters. He takes the pulse of my right wrist next – no Western doctor has EVER been so thorough! He writes down some different information – as if to say that the left and right pulses are different! I can’t wait to tell my Western-medicine father.

As he takes my pulses on all my wrists, I look around the room – he has three different badges hanging from his white doctor coat. Some are in Chinese, some in English. All look official and convincing! There are some family photographs – presumably of his grandchildren.

After he takes my pulses, he informs me that I have Psoriasis and, much to my morbid-amusement, he shows me a bunch of photographs of other people with the same disease. To be honest, I had hoped to hear I had some kind of strange, emotionally-sophisticated illness with a Chinesse name. Something roughly translated as “Intelligence-tempered-with-Empathetic-Capabilities-Neurosis”.

He shows me numerous “before” and “after” photos to convince me of the efficacy of his treatments. He scribbles a “prescription” on the pad of paper and hands it to me, explaining that there were two creams that I should use, one for the morning and one for the evening. He also indicates a concoction of herbs that I’m to take in tea-form every day.

I thank him, feeling very convinced, though saddened that I couldn’t actually read anything on the sheet he handed me and disappointed that there’s nothing special or unique about my condition. I descend the stairs with my friend. We reenter the shop to purchase the medications. I am contemplating how I will later dispose of and recycle my special anti-dandruff shampoos and conditioners at home.

When I hand the young woman the prescription, she immediately starts doing fancy finger-work on the calculator she had in front of her. As she pounds away, engaged in complicated calculations (the estimated cost of my handbag times my age plus my relative degree of dupe-ability), my friend ambitiously pulls out his wallet and claims he is going to pay for my medications. After all, he reasons, he’s the one who brought me there to begin with. Now that’s true friendship right there: paying for someone’s dandruff medication!

As we argue about the need for this generosity – I’m arguing mainly because I am thinking, “it’s near Christmas and I don’t want him to think that this means he’s off the hook in getting me a real Christmas present” – the woman announces that we owe her £180. That’s POUNDS! One-hundred and eighty-pounds! That’s nearly FOUR-BLOODY-HUNDRED DOLLARS1 For tea and cream!

We both gaze at her as if she made a mistake. She sees our reaction and starts the fancy finger-work on her calculator again – presumably subtracting £30 of dupe-ability. “Well, I can give it to you for £150.”

My friend says, “You mean one-pound, fifty-pee, right?”

“No,” she responds, “150 quid.”

I say, “Um, I have to go home and think about it.”

“Well I can give you a two-week suppry for £70 if you want. You have to reschedule an appointment with doctor for the anyway. You will see, it works.” As she says this, she starts looking up at my forehead, which I showed her earlier when convincing her I needed to see the doctor. She’s staring at my Psoriasis, scrunching her nose, as if to say, “That’s so ugly. You’re so ugly without our Chinese medicine.”

Again I tell her that I need to go home and think about it – think about how much getting rid of my forehead’s rash is really worth to me at this point in my life. Maybe I can live with it, I am thinking. Maybe I can just continue to use the cheap, conventional Western dandruff-shampoos and conditioners like always.

I reach to take the prescription paper from her, and she kindly offers to keep it nice and safe behind the counter.

As I finally walk out, with the grave feeling like I’ve let her down, let the doctor down, and consequently, let down all of China and shown no gratitude for the fact that a Chinese doctor somewhere induced a period by pressing on my friend’s friend’s thumb, I feel like a hopeless, skin-shedding monster.

Walking down the street, my friend informs me that the only reason she wouldn’t give me the paper is that we could just take it to another herb place and get the requisite prescription probably for the cost of a bowl of white rice. Not only that, but he informs me that I deserve that piece of paper, having paid £15 for the appointment in the first place.

I plead with him, “Don’t go back there, don’t go back there! We lost! They won!” I don’t know why, but I want to concede to them their victory. They out-witted us fair and square.

We ended the evening at Leicester Square where we happened upon a premier of the movie “I am Legend” starring Will Smith. We heard a crowd of voices screaming, “We want Will! We want Will!” I also want Will, so we tried to find a spot where we could peer through the crowd at the red carpet.

I couldn’t see anything but lame, “I’m not Will Smith but I’m special because I’m attending a premier”-people walking up and down the red carpet, but my friend claimed that he could see Will Smith. Consequently, I saw Will Smith too because I was staring in the same exact direction from the same exact spot as him. Although, I couldn’t tell which person he was. But…

I SAW WILL SMITH!

To Canterbury I Wende!

2007-12-20T16:37:00.002Z

No, I am no "palmer", nor was I "seke", and nor do I need the "blisful martir" to "hopen" me, but I did wende to Canterbury. As an avid fan of literature - particularly the novels of Maeve Binchy and Sophie Kinsella - I feel a certain kinship with my adopted country-men in that I love visiting places rich in literary history. Fortunately for me, the English have a good deal of fun decorating and writing signs for their literary sights and encourage their travelLers to pay for tours of them.

Geoffrey Chaucer wrote his Canterbury Tails many, many years ago. I won't read them until the BBC puts out a nice cereal drama to help me understand them. The journey to Canterbury, in fact, quite harrowing. Just like pilgrims of yore, I faced many hardships along the way. The first was that I had to wait in a "QUEUE" five-deep to get to a "CASH POINT" (ATM). Then it was not immediately apparent where, in Victoria Train Station, one had to go to get one's £3.80 ($8.00) Grande Crème Brulée Soy No Whip Latté. (I may now add "figuring out how to put accents onto the e's in my Starbucks drink for my blog" to my list of harrowing pilgrimage adventures!)

Like the original pilgrims depicted in Chaucer's œuvre, I had a very long journey. The train ride was around an hour and a half. I slept for most of it.

Apparently in the middle ages, I guess age 37 or so, people go to Canterbury to see the tomb of the martyr, St. Thomas, in the Canterbury Cathedral and his dead body cures their illnesses. He was killed in the cathedral, and his death conferred magical powers of healing to the place itself. I too wanted to see the holy spot, but felt the £12 ($24) entry fee was way too high. So much for wending all that way.

I did, however, make a stop in a small church-like place which cost only £1 to enter. It was the Hospital of Hospitality. It's not actually a hospital, the plain-clothes-monk at the front desk explained to me. It's just a church with a big "crypt" or "basement" in which poorer pilgrims would sleep and recover from their long journey during their time in Canterbury. Now, it's where poorer tourists go when they can't afford to visit the actual Cathedral.

Mid-afternoon, I found the "Canterbury Tales" museum. It was technologically advanced, artistically savvy, and literarily brilliant. When you walk in, the lady at the desk hands you a long black thing, resembling an early-90s suburban-housewife-carphone proto-type. She informs you that you have to hold it up to your ear, like an early-90s carphone. (The tourist in the picture is holding one in front of her.) When you walk into the various rooms, if you stand at the right angle and don't move from your spot, then you will hear the audio script that generally corresponds with what you are seeing.

They had a different room for each of the more famous of the Canterbury Tales' pilgrims. The rooms were dank and smelled like Medieval armpits! So authentic! They were decorated with stage-set type cardboard scenery and spotlighted the places you were supposed to look during your time in each room. When you held your audio-90s-carphone at the correct angle, you could hear the narrator tell you the story that corresponded to the pilgrim represented in that room. Truly a high-quality homage to one of our literary titans. Weirdly enough, it's pretty hard to get a copy of the Tales in Canterbury, of all places! I thumbed through editions in the gift shop and in other local bookstores, and apparently all the English copies have sold out! The ubiquitous German editions were useless to me.

My last stop on the tour was to see the Canterbury Castle. I had read about the place on the tourist-map that the old monk of Hospitality had given me and I noticed it didn't have an entrance fee. When I finally found the place, I realized that it didn't even have an entrance. The lackluster Canterbury Castle is probably Canterbury's least popular tourist attraction and is probably also where many of Canterbury's local teenagers go to get pregnant. It's walls are falling down, its roof and floors are gone, and in the Middle Ages, it was used to imprison criminals and Jews. Against my better judgment, and any judgment at all in fact, I climbed
all the stairs in all the turrets. This project ended abruptly when I found a neat pile of human POO at the top of a flight.

Don’t get a “Herna” when you lift your heavy stacks of cash!

2007-12-14T18:35:00.000Z

Do you know what Prague locals do when they’re not drinking cheap beer and not-paying for tram tickets? They go to the Nonstop Hernas!

No, silly. That doesn’t mean that pieces of their intestines poke out of their stomach muscle-walls! (Although if they did, I would know a great doctor to recommend! And he could fix it remotely with a robot controlled by his Blackberry.) It means that at any hour of the day (“nonstop” means “all day” in Czech), you can go GAMBLING!

Having more thoroughly exterminated their own set of Native Americans, Czechs run their own Casinos. And they run them EVERYWHERE. Let’s say you’re just casually walking to your friend’s house. Then you’re suddenly struck by the urge to gamble: you can! Let’s say you’re strolling to your first day of sixth grade and you’re struck by the urge to gamble: no problem! Let’s say you’re down and out, broke, STD-ed, and ugly: try gambling!

My patriotic fervoUr was truly enflamed, I have to say, when I saw this particular display in a HERNA window. Here in the Czech Republic, the US Dollar is worth approximately bajillions of Czech corona-ultra-lites. So this wheel-of-very-little-money must look like a wheel-of-fortune to the average Czech Nonstop Herna-ite.

And let’s say you strike it big in the Nonstop Herna… Well, you can go to the lovely bra shop next door and buy this ensemble for your lovely lady waiting eagerly at home for you to return with your spoils. Clearly the obvious purchase of choice for the Nonstop Herna-frequenter, who must have tons of lovely ladies waiting for him at his various homes.

Actually, "Kecup" tastes GREAT on spaghetti!

2007-12-14T17:41:00.000Z

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I forgot the ketchup!"

So said my waitress at the Pizzeria I went to in the Old Town of Prague. I had ordered a plate of spaghetti and had been eating it with an excited vigor known all too well to those of us traveling and exploring countries that prefer to serve you fried cheese at every meal.

Before I could protest against the horror and insult to good cuisine everywhere that was the placement of a bottle of "kecup" on my dinner table, I found myself pouring some on my noodles. Then I poured some more. And then some more.

Well I have to say that I ate so much KECUP that I actually woke up with a sore in my mouth! I wasn’t able to brush my bottom row of teeth for the following two days as a result of the experience. Was it worth it? Absolutely. As soon as my mouth recovers, I will be sure to repeat the experience.

I explored the Old Town of Prague for a few hours, keeping my eyes glued to my two travel books and the supplementary map I had picked up at the metro station. It’s one thing to see a lot of beautiful old buildings, but who wants to get lost while looking at them? Not this world-traveller!

It was nice to get to see real Czech people, doing Czech things, looking very Czech. I walked around with a group of them, just to study how things were done by the locals. Apparently, even they haven’t tired of the beautiful scenic vistas and remarkable cobblestone streets that characterize their town.

My one objection is that these maps don’t always line up with the actual streets and that the Czech government should do what it can to fix this issue or else tourists like me will complain on their blogs about the problem. My suggestion is that they should try to change the roads. Doesn’t it make more sense to change the ONE road than the hundreds of maps?

Czech Me Out!

2007-12-10T20:42:00.000Z

Prague was invaded by the Nazis. Prague was invaded by the Communists. So it seems as if a city so easy to invade would at LEAST be easy to visit. But this is not the case.

The first thing that went wrong was that I needed money when I arrived at the airport so I could buy myself lunch. It turns out that this country – called "the" Czech Republic – does not use Euros. I have trouble pronouncing the currency that they do use, but it sounds like “Corona” – as in “Corona Lite” or "Corona Extra-Lite”.

Needless to say, the Country-Formerly-Known-As-Czechoslovakia provides me with an unending series of adventures. Toboot:

In which I try to get money out of a parking-lot ticket validation machine:
I disembarked and headed towards what appeared to me to be a cash machine. I stuck my card in – fearing that the card would get some sort of Eastern European STD from the looks of the machine – only to find that it wouldn’t fit properly. Even credit-cards are shaped different here? What? Well I tried to force the card in and kept having trouble. A sign above the machine had a picture of a car on it and I saw someone at the next machine inserting a little piece of paper in the same slot I was attempting to insert my card in. This was no ATM. It was a parking-lot ticket validation machine. Ahoi!

In which I walk the streets at night and see bizarre things:
The first night of my visit, I walked around with my proper British friend Ed. It was dark, and the street names were unpronounceable. We settled on just using the first syllable and making up the rest. For example: “Vladskabooboo Street” and “Belnaanaapoo Street”.

Ed is not the type to carry a guidebook with him. I’m not sure how he planned on finding the “right” pub or the “latest” restaurant without one, but fortunately for him, I had two on hand. We found our merry way to the “Shakespeare” Café. It’s a great “ex-pat” “haunt” with “lots of English books” and “people speaking English” and “smoking” at nearby tables. We drank our first Czech beers and I learned in the burning-way that the Czechs usually install their hot-cold water faucets backwards.

We walked by a bunny-wabbit-experimentation-supply store after our hour at the pub. Then we went by a well-lit basement experimentation chamber with ladies in hair covers injecting things. Last but not least, there was a creepy-doll store.

In which I can’t tell which are boys’ and which are girls’ bathrooms:
I can’t tell. I don’t know the name for man or woman in this language. I just open the door and look for urinals or men peeing in urinals and know I need the other one.

There was one restaurant who understood its patrons’ language needs. But honestly, I think this sign might confuse British men.

In which Jesus’ father has a hairy neck:
There are a lot of nativity scenes set up around the city. They were taken out of storage after the Velvet Revolution, wiped clean of the industrial communist-dust, and planted in every The nearest Namasti to me has a Joseph with a hairy neck. I think this helps keep him warm during the cold nights slept in the manger.

In which Beethoven dedicates the Eroica to a Czech:
Did you know that Beethoven’s annuity came from a Czech aristocrat? And that he changed his dedication of the Eroica Symphony to this Czech when Napoleon declared himself emperor? Yawn.

Beware of Art Galleries in Paris, Folks!

2007-12-05T22:56:00.001Z

So apparently after you kill a bunch of people – excuse me, “assist” the “suicides” of other human beings – come on over to Paris! You, too, can open an art gallery! Or at least that’s what Dr. Kevorkian did. Right here, on the Left Bank, you can see his new digs.

Nothing beats the Louvre when it comes to seeing the Mona Lisa. You go in, you say, “Où est the Mona Lisa?” and pretty soon you’re there! There are tons of signs with her picture on them with arrows pointing up the stairs. I timed it: you can get from the gate to the famous picture in under five minutes if there’s no line.

Now I loved the Mona Lisa – especially the inch-thick glass in front of it that really dampened its bright coloUrs for the viewers’ pleasure and picture-taking faciliation. But the rest of the Louvre? Forget it! First of all, who would really want to look at all the stuff there. It’s too big. I prefer online galleries, where you can stop at any time, and you can look at the art even if you’re just wearing your ol’ “Stop the Arms Race” sweatshirt or something.

My second objection to the Louvre is the whole naked-ness thing. It is really too bad that there are so many naked sculptures in there – otherwise, it would be a great place to take your children or your school-classes to.

The only other good thing about the Louvre, besides the easiness of getting to and photographing the Mona Lisa, is the stuff that reminds you of The DaVinci Code. Seeing something like this is like meeting a famous movie actor in person – like Tom Hanks or something!!!

I’m Not Gay, but I’m in Par-EE!

2007-12-05T22:10:00.000Z

Why is it that French people eat the grossest food? I sat down at Café de Quelquechose this après-midi, ordered a Kir Royale, and stared at the food-list in front of me: "Tête" means "head". "Vaux" means "cute, baby cow-ey". Now "Tête de vaux" must logically mean "Really disgusting, foul, nastiness". It usually comes with mayonnaise, just to make bad things worse.

Don't get me wrong: I love some French food. There's the fries, of course, and the baguettes, and the crêpes - but not the ones with savoUry things on them. But why would anyone want veal head or cow dung or pig intestines to go with their hand-rolled cigarettes and mênthe-à-l'eau? I thought "mênthe-à-l'eau" was something weird they only put in my middle school text books, but no! A woman next to me at the café was having one!

I settled for an "assiette aux saucissons" once I verified that "assiette" had nothing to do with "ass".

Another thing I wonder about is who the guy is that goes around writing on all the French restaurants' chalkboards. It's really too bad that it was raining all afternoon - he's going to have to go back to everywhere I went at least and rewrite "plat du jour" and so forth.

Here in Paris, they have what I might translate as "gratuitous toilets". So silly!

I Drink Eight-Dollar LOT-Tays.

2007-12-04T21:35:00.000Z

I paid 1 pence for my ticket to Limoges today. Can you believe it? Then with the taxes and baggage fees, it was more like £40 – which is like $100. The American dollar is extremely weak, but every time I go to get cash out of the machine, I still get pounds out. So I figure maybe my bank hasn’t been caught yet… I pay £3.80 for a Crème Brulée SoyA Latte at the Starbuckses here. That means it’s worth nearly $8.00 for a latte. That’s a LOT-te!

So my dad and I flew down to Limoges on this cheap airlines that secretly charges you for everything. You can even pay £5 extra to get in the front of the boarding line. We were picked up by my friend Maggie and taken to her barn-cum-house where we sat in front of her fire and watched British television via satellite.

I took my dad on a walk around the Buddhist retreat centrE where I had been working and practiSing for three months earlier in the AUTUMN. I showed him all of the shrine rooms and tent areas and he kept asking where we stored the human bodies we use for sacrificial rituals. I did my best impression of someone laughing off a weird suggestion and continued with the tour.

I tried to take him on a walk down the nature-trail, but he pointed out that his boots were rustic-looking for fashion purposes only, and he couldn’t risk getting them muddy. We turned around and went back to Maggie’s.

The rural, rustic countryside is very different than the urban, non-rustic Londonside. Maggie and I showed my dad the chickens that live in her backyard, the guinea fowls, and the two turkeys. There are some goats nearby too, and we ate some local goat cheese at dinner. A few weeks ago, there was a pen filled with roosters. They were all gone this time, and Maggie told us that they were now living in the refrigerator. Maurice, their owner, must have a large, not-too-cold refrigerator to house all those roosters! It doesn’t make too much sense to put them in there, since it’s pretty cold outside these days… But the French are weird, aren’t they?

On one of our drives in the countryside with Maggie, we had to pull over and hold our wallets tight. That's right, dear readers: we saw gypsies. As you can see from this candid shot of the wily caravan driver, there is a lot to fear when they come near!

Speaking of gypsies, on that same ride, we stopped by a neighbor's house to see Maggie’s friend - Polka. Polka's the old, arthritic horse that lives down the road and used to belong to gypsies. She couldn’t walk over to the fence to see us because her legs don’t work any more.

My Favorite Nail Salon Ever!

2007-12-02T06:32:00.000Z

I spent today walking around London's busiest shopping district on the busiest shopping day of the year - Oxford Circus on December 1st. I wanted to show him all the ways in which Londoners spend their time - riding on the Tube (pronounced "Chee-you-buh!"), taking pictures of yourself riding on the Tube, pointing at national monuments and historic blue-signs, shopping for things with Union Jacks on them, pulling out your map. Everyone on Oxford Street does all these things, and we fit right in. As we stepped out into the crisp, SE London air to go to the Tube station, I managed to capture a moment of pure good luck! No wonder we had such a great time on our outing...

As always, I looked for the natives. I really wanted my dad to see something authentic. Boy oh boy did I find what I was looking for: according to my English uncle, all the colonies prospered, thrived, and fed their hungry under the calm authority of the British Empire. No doubt they continue to do so still. Just look at the Indians playing bagpipes in spats in Soho on a Saturday Morning to get a sense of the real achievements of Indio-British citizens.

I mentioned in an earlier blog entry that there are very few nail salons in this town. This has been worrying me. As a long-time resident of 2nd Avenue in NYC, known for having the city's highest nail-salon per female ratio, it has come as quite a shock to me that a place that finally is starting to have just enough Starbucks to keep you from crossing the street for coffee fails to meet its citizens' cuticle needs. Well, you can only imagine my surprise and utter delight when I saw this particular salon in Soho... There's nothing that shows respect for a great literary poet slash artist like a thriving business in his former home.

Britain's consistent and respectful appreciation of literary genius continued to amaze me during my sojourn with my father. We happened upon this little "Pub" called "Shakespeare's Head." No doubt it was one of his favoUrite haunts when he was alive - maybe they even had a special seat for him in there. And if you have never seen a photograph of Shakespeare before, don't worry - there's one of him hanging right outside the Pub and a beautiful and realistic sculpture of him leaning out of the top window. It really gave me a start! But the real Shakespeare has been dead for nearly 100 years. Too bad!

I Saw a Famous British Person Today!

2007-11-29T23:10:00.000Z

Today I did the most English thing I could think of doing: I went to a movie! What no-nothing tourist would just waste their time in a foreign country by going and watching a movie? How about one dedicated to doing what the Brits do? No native is going to BO'VAH with seeing Tower Bridge or looking at paintings! But plenty of locals go to the movies! I guarantee you that I was the ONLY American present for the 3:45 PM showing of "The Darjeeling Limited" starring Owen "my nose is actually supposed to be crooked in this movie" Wilson. Not only was I most likely the only American, but I was practically the only PERSON in the theatRE. This GUARANTEES that I was the only American. I say "practically" because, for whatever reason, the "Gentleman's TOILET" (that's their word for "bathroom" here, for you Americans out there!) was located right in the theatRE.

The movie was great, but on to more important news: I saw a Famous British Person today! I was walking down the street in Islington after I saw the movie, away from the Angel Tube Station because there had been a fire in it or something, passing a car accident with a victim lolling and rolling on a stretcher on the side of the road, when walking by me was none other than Tobias Menzies (I think that's how you spell it!). That's right: TOBIAS MENZIES!

He is such a great actor that, while he walked by the scene of the accident, he looked genuinely concerned and curious about the incident that had happened (involving a bus and a woman). I nearly shouted, "E tu, Brute?" at him and started to smile when the moment had passed - as they always quickly do when you walk by a really famous actor. I have been hitting myself about it ever since. That would have been the perfect line, you know? Well, if you ever have the good - no great - fortune of walking by Tobias Menzies, you have a good line to throw at him. Just don't expect a repeat performance of the emotional gravitas I saw him affect today. It's not every day that someone gets hit by a car just in time to be passed by a Famous British Actor!