Rome Is So Crowded It Took Me 3 Days To Pee On It

Preparing to go to Rome--

Prep Day 1: I went to London and checked into my hostel. While there, I was treated to a preview of my time in Rome when seven dark-haired, smoke-skinned Italian women crowded the counter and chatted incoherently with the desk jockey, causing me to wait forty five minutes for my check-in. Later that night I was stuck in a room with a bunch of crazy Spaniards, who promptly conquistadored the room. Because they didn't shut up until after midnight, I had time to think two things-- 1) Spanish people talk way, way too fast, and don't say "queso" "bonita" or "viva!!" nearly as much as you would think, and 2) I was just annoyed by two very different ethnicities in very short succession. Plus I already hate whitey. Where am I to fit in?

Prep Day 2: Went to the airport to pick up the soon to be aged and decrepit Nicole Clement, who turns 23 in December. Later that night I ate the most delicious steak in the world at a Scottish steakhouse (who knew? I thought they ate grass and the weakest of their young) and we went to Les Miserables (in English, "the nino." ...Remember when SNL was funny?). I thought the play was fantastic. The performances were great, the songs were catchy enough to be good but not simple enough to haunt your existance into the next week, and they weren't as encrusted with cheese as modern musicals. I also enjoyed the plot, which is in part about a man who is forced into crime by an immoral and unfair social structure, then unable to redeem himself because of that same class disparity. It really lends creedence to the Tenacious D line "the government totally sucks mother fucker, the government totally sucks." And you wonder why I said I hate whitey.

Also, it needs to be mentioned that we saw perhaps the greatest television show of all time on British television-- "Cirque de Celebrite" (the "e" has one of those French line things over it, but I don't know how to type it). We watched a fat black woman swing from a rope and then shriek like a jet engine made of live howler monkeys. I can't describe the feeling to you. Its too emotional.

Th next morning we took a cab to London City Airport, which is popular amongst business professionals. With my baseball hat, sweaty t-shirt, ketchup stained jeans, and all-natural, unshowered man-musk I fit right in with their kind. However, beneath the professional veneer, the airport was more like the basement of a really fun high school pothead-- the shop was chock full of munchies and porno, and the one girl was playing video games on her laptop to prove she fit in. Call of Duty! After a brisk morning molestation from the security crew, we were off!

Rome: .... is fucking crazy. The whole city actually looks a whole lot like the parts of Mexico I've seen, just much, much older-- the buildings are all fairly old and slightly disheveled (and short, because by law nothing can be built taller than the dome of St. Peters), the streets are narrow and cobbled, and the city design is a chaotic mess. This could be because it has to be built around the ruins of the ancient city, which are everywhere. Whenever we turned a corner we'd see an awesome statue of some old dude we had never heard of, and there are so many ruins the city doesn't even seem to bother to take care of all of them, just the important ones. I like this, because it made me feel as if I were living amongst the history, not visiting a gigantic museum.

But then, that could be less from a design and more because the Italian government appears to do, well... nothing. Nothing at all. The streets are filthy, the buildings are in poor shape, and the traffic is the god damn craziest thing I've ever seen. The vespas (euphamism for scooter, if you ask me) don't legally have to stop at red lights, and the drivers exercise what one guidebook called "logical caution"-- meaning that if they didn't see opposing traffic, they would just go. Complicating things even further was the fact several intersections, even four lane intersections, were completely uncontrolled. Basically, to cross the street, you just go-- and pray the traffic stops. If they do, you keep going, and if they don't, you figure out which way you're going to run like hell so as to avoid the indignity of being slaughtered by an unemployed man on a glorified scooter.

Also, nary a place in that damn city took credit. The Colesseum even demanded exact change! One of the top tourist attractions in the world, and they need exact change. I think this is to help support their thriving pickpocket industry, which makes bus or metro transport an arduous affair. Our one experience in the bus was a crowded mess, surrounded what smelled like b.o. fermented in curry.

However, none of this means I disliked Rome. Far from it, actually-- while London is the only big city I think I could take residence in, Rome is definitely a place I could visit once a year. There's just an incredible amount to see, and, because the city has been around so long, an incredible variety as well. I personally love Greek and Roman history, so I really enjoyed seeing the really touristy sights. I saw way too much to mention here, but I loved the Colesseum because it is incredibly well preserved (same with the Pantheon) and the Roman forum, because there is enough left there to visualize what once was, and the scenery is verdant and full of life.

My other favorite place in Rome was the Piazza Navona, another extremely touristy spot, but one full of local artists peddling their wares and what I found to be excellent cafes. This is also where I realized the Italian people are the best looking people on Earth. Fellas, if your girl ever cheats on you with an Italian man, take it in stride because chances are you'd cheat on her with the same guy. They just look that good. What I don't understand, however, is how all young people in Italy are tall, thin, and charming, whereas every elderly person we saw appeared to be grumpy, fat, and 3 foot 4. How does that happen? Is it genetic, or did everyone in the country suffer a dehabilitating farming accident? Other than Rome and its museums, we saw...

The Vatican City, noun. 1) a clusterfuck. The Vatican City is overcrowded to the point of being a massive clusterfuck. Its impossible to describe the amount of people we saw there. Granted, we went on a Wednesday, when the Pope makes an appearance (he looks much less like a Nazi war criminal in person) but from all accounts it is incredibly busy all the time. The Vatican City Museum felt like a lavishly opulent waiting line for the Sistine Chapel. Though the Sistine Chapel did make it completely worth it, as I thought the room was beautiful and plenty interesting besides. You know in Good Will Hunting, when Robin Williams says "I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that?" Well, what is far more interesting is how it sounds. It sounds like a bunch of Swiss guards yelling "No photo!" every three seconds to fat American tourists who are determined not to listen to them, followed by those same tourists mumbling derogatory comments into their Italian flag t-shirts coated in breadcrumbs and camera straps. Why do people need to take inferior pictures of world famous tourist attractions? Get on the damn internet.

We also saw St. Peter's Basilica, which was great, even though there were dead Popes littered around the church like Snickers wrappers. But, although I know I'm not the most religious God damn person in the world, I really loved the Cathedral. I have to say I like St. Pauls better, but only because its more managable-- St. Peters is over two football fields long and so intricately decorated it would take several hours to take everything in. The amount of frescoes, mosaics, and sculptures in that museum is staggering. My favorite was a sculpture of a young Virgin Mary holding a crucified Jesus that Michelangelo crafted when he was only a 23 year old ninja turtle.

The last night we met an American guy at a bar who was with the FBI and days from retirement. Though I can't remember any of his stories, I do remember he bought me two rounds, and I feel bad he's destined to die. I mean, he's a nice, family oriented FBI agent days from retirement. If movies have taught me anything, he's going to be murdered and then avenged by a tempestuous young newcomer only he could reach. Sounds like one sexy adventure!

(Note: sorry if there are several grammatical or spelling errors in this one, but I don't have time to proofread it)

3 Strange Things I've Seen In Wales

1. In Wales, dogs are not, I repeat, NOT allowed to poop meatballs. That fine is $2000 in American money. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.

2. A couple of days ago I was forced to endure a tv commercial for men's hair gel. In it, several men were breakdancing in a gymnasium to display how the gel kept their ri-god-damn-diculous hairstyles intact-- and these hairstyles were hideous and nonsensical, the head fashion equivalent of wearing a dress created entirely out of hemorrhoids.

3. And here's my favorite: I was in McDonald's the other day (apparently Welsh food isn't making me fat quickly enough) when a hobo walked in, rooted around in the trash, didn't find whatever magical hobo juice he was looking for, and left. Now, I always take a special interest in hobos because I may very well be one someday, but this one didn't add anything new to the formula. He had an unkempt beard, teeth that looked like worms were about to pop out of them, and the same hobo outfit they all wear (a mixture of pale green and pale beige, the perfect combination to create that special hobo mixture of monotony and despair).

What I didn't notice as I ate my McNuggets was the fact this man also had a crazy glint in his eye, the kind causes sane people to willingly enter a shark cage or buy $3000 rims for their car. How does the crazy glint effect those who are already nutters? Well, as I was walking back to the bus station, I was distracted by a distant rumbling that soon became a monotony and despair colored blur... First I just saw a rickety, hand-crafted, three-wheeled sled with my hobo on top. Then I noticed the dog he had strapped to the front. That's right-- this genius, this beacon of hope and ingenuity in the homeless community has trained his dog to pull him on a sled. Where is he going? And for what purpose? This we may never know.

Also, I haven't posted in awhile because I've been busy with schoolwork (gasp!) and haven't done anything fun, though I did drink a bottle of champagne to celebrate Rumsfeld stepping down. I'm going to Rome for about five days, though, so hopefully I'll get something better than a sledding hobo out of that.

Four Quotes and a Discussion Point

Here's the world's greatest airbrushed painting, as promised. In case you forgot and are too lazy to scroll down (how are you even alive?), it was found in a bar called the Grasshopper in Amsterdam. On with the rest of the post!

1. "The President cares about the poor-- he made a lot of them." --Steven Colbert.
2. According the the Associated Press, in last week's game against the Washington Redskins, Peyton Manning was "bent over awkwardly twice in the first half, losing his helmet and once appearing hurt." Think someone over at AP has a passive-aggressive hatred for ol' Peyton?
3. "I can't help it but I'm a bit bummed out that George from Grey's Anatomy came out of his closet this week wearing all the colors of the rainbow." -- My sweet lil' mother.
4. "I took your profile picture from bullschmitz and saved it to the background on the computer at home, and it bothered everyone so much they eventually resorted to taping a piece of paper over the monitor when they didn't have another window pulled up--it was that frightening to them. Eventually, I was getting angry letters telling me to promptly change the background. It's funny; your picture has the same effect on my parents as I have on the opposite sex."-- My friend Hampton, who I once depantsed in front of the high school cheerleading squad and, on a separate occasion, whipped with a belt until he had scars (to be fair, he told me to. It's a long story).

Also, Hampton met Pauly Shore. How awesome is that? I would much rather meet a formerly famous and/or guilty pleasure celebrity than a quality one, and it's not just because I still watch "Son-in-Law" at least once a year. Think about it-- Sean Penn is talented but he'd be a huge dick, Tom Hanks would leave me totally thunderstruck, and Natalie Portman would probably need to issue a restraining order. Plus, if I met someone like Jason Bateman and hated him it could retroactively ruin Arrested Development for me. Things would go much differently if I met some awesome quasi-celebs. Think about it. I run into Cary Elwes buying panty hose for his next film and he acts like a dick-- I just shout "Robin Hood: Men in Tights" and "the Princess Bride" quotes at him until he runs away crying. If I met Minnie Driver outside a gas station I would just stay calm and firmly say "no" when she asks me for money, and if I met Rick Moranis... well, I'd have met Rick Moranis. I could die happily. Not that any of you read this far in the post, care, or will respond, but at least think about what bad celebrities you want to meet. My number one is Steve Guttenberg.

Finally, if you're bored (and, since you're reading this, I'm sure you are), click on this link and read about how cool Beck is: http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/12072882/beck_brings_his_goofy_roadshow_to_nyc

Amsterdam In Technicolor! ...Not Really. Just Pictures.

Everyone keeps raving about how informative and beautiful my photo tour of London was, so much like Harold and Kumar, I'm going to Amsterdam for the sequel.

(By the by, this is my second post about Amsterdam-- the first is below, so read that first)

This first picture(I like to call it "Buddha Triumphant!") I found in an absolutely delicious Chinese restaurant. How in the world does this thing not fill you with happiness? I love a any religion where the figurehead is fat, bald, and filled with what appears to be utterly euphoric joy. That's how I hope to be in later life-- mainly because it's probably the most I can hope for.


This place made the most delicious sandwiches in the entire world. I ate there twice. They put hard boiled eggs on their baguettes, and the proprietor was this kindly old man I kind of want to be my new favorite uncle. If you're in Amsterdam, make sure to eat there. I forget where it is, though, so you'll have to go door to door.

You know those assholes who think there's nothing to do in Amsterdam but get high? Well the hell with them. You can also learn about getting high. It's a place of education, dammit. Why else would you hear people having such deep, life-affirming conversations? For instance, several people on our trip came to the conclusion that (affect pothead voice in inner monologue now) "the whole world is a stage, man. It's like we sit here, and we're the audience, and the set changes, and the actors change, but it's all a stage. We're just watching, man." Nothing but the solid education found in Amsterdam could produce such knowledge. That or it was the mushrooms, I dunno.


This is the entirety of the men's restroom in the Old Sailor pub. I mean, all of it-- my ass was up against the door. The second time I visited the restroom the change on the floor was gone. This means, obviously, that someone actually stuck their hand in several people's urine in order to retrieve about five cents Euro. What the hell is wrong with people?


Here's a sign I found outside of the 1-up store. Unfortunately, they didn't sell turtle shells or flower power. The signs outside of the stores were pretty handy, though, as they let everyone know what drugs are sold there-- obviously, this store sold mushrooms. I was a bit confused why places to buy and smoke marijuana were called "coffeeshops," however. I was in several of these and never saw one that had an actual coffee machine. I feel bad for the poor, unsuspecting tourists that walk in there.
"Can I have a mocha latte, please?"
"Sorry, we don't serve coffee here."
"Oh... Well, I guess I'll just get fucked up on hash."

Amsterdam: It's Not All About Pot (They Also Have Prostitutes).

So Amsterdam is pretty damn fun, not going to lie. It's strange being that close to so much decadence, however. Every street and most of the buildings absolutely reek of what today's youngsters call "marijuana." Prostitutes stand in the windows, peek out their cute little heads, and wait to distribute stds, while the coke and ecstasy dealers, shy as they are, emerge after dusk so visitors can still do something illegal. But the ecstasy dealers have to greatly aid the whoring business-- I haven't seen that much cellulite since Kathy Bates showed her ass in About Schmidt. But here's the rundown of the weekend:

Thursday. We land in Amsterdam. I immediately complain that I'm not high yet, then get distracted by this:
The Dutch have vending machine waffles! How did we let this technology escape us? In the States, if I want a waffle, I have to drive to the south and eat at one of the 4,061 Waffles Houses down there. In Holland, you can find one in every warehouse and office building (While you're there, you can steal some printer paper!). First Russia beats us in alcoholism, then Japan beats us in, well, everything else, and now this? What's next? There's only one reason I put up with America's deceitful government, ignorant populace, long lines, country music, and pungent aroma-- the good eats. Get back on track, America.

...Um... Anyways...

After checking into the Hostel, everyone immediately got way, way too high (and therefore completely useless and too intimidated to go outside). Thus, after 9 pm there were only about five or six of us still out and about. But I feel like we made the right decision, because we got to drink at the Old Sailor. I mean, honestly, who doesn't want to drink with Popeye? Fucker is crazy.

Friday. We went to a Van Gogh museum, which I really, really liked, though I was surprised to see his ex-girlfriend didn't donate his ear to put on display. Then we went to "The Heineken Experience!!!" (editor's note: I put in the exclaimation points. It deserves it.) Basically, it's just a quasi-museum inside the original Heineken brewery, but it was so fun, hyper cheesy, and ridiculously unnecessary it was impossible not to have a good time. Just listen to (or read, if you're alone) this quote from the bio of their old CEO: "Green was his colour, for green is earth, grass, trees... green is safe." Um, I guess. Maybe you should lay off the sauce for a little while, buddy.

After seeing two different things in Amsterdam, we thought "enough of this shit!"and almost everyone got too high and went back to the hostel. Those of us that didn't, however, went to a sex show. It was wildly disappointing. I was expecting to see some seriously sick stuff, things that would make me want to vomit afterwards, but there wasn't anything there I can't see after 4 pm on my parents Cinemax. Ah, well. Maybe I'm just jaded from acting in all those pornos.

Saturday. Saw the Anne Frank House, which I thought was moving and incredibly well done. It also led to this exchange, while we were waiting in line to get in:

Alex: What are we going to do after this?
Jen: Get fucked up.
Jamie: Let's just go to a store, go to a pub, go to a store, go to a pub.
Me: I think that's how Anne would've wanted it.

Then we went on an evening canal tour, complete with wine, cheese, and grapes. We were at least 15 years younger than everyone else in there, but don't worry, we handled ourselves with dignity-- Alex (remember her? She's the one who affectionally calls female genitalia "meatflaps") only stuck one grape up her nose. I mean, we didn't want to embarrass ourselves. After the canal cruise five of us went to a bar called the Grasshopper, as everyone else was high off of mushrooms and couldn't leave the hostel. This could very well be my favorite place I've ever been, all due to the airbrushed paintings on the walls depicting a grasshopper god receiving sacrifices from half naked women, looking like Shaft, or making the love. It was fantastic (I have a picture, but for some reason this damn thing won't let me put anymore pictures on this post. You'll see it later, I assure you).

A couple other thoughts:

Dutch is a strange sounding language. It's not angry like German, but there's still some of the gluttoral "huccch" sound to it. It sounds like how English might sound to chimpanzees, with some extra syllables thrown in for good measure.

Amsterdam has the best hobo populace on the planet. This is because they're high, and thus more docile, than any hobo community I've encountered. Most European hobos are drunk and surly, and most American hobos are drunk, surly, and in desperate need of psychiatic medicine. In Amsterdam there is no such problem, as alcohol is too expensive for them and their bodies are pumped full of cheap hash.

Basically, go to Amsterdam and get high and laid. You'll understand why the Dutch aren't a warlike people.

Enough Excitement-- It's Time for a Boring Post.

You know why I don't like communal living? It forces me to ask questions like "how did someone get pubic hair on the showerhead?" and "is that blood in the stool?" I don't want to think those sentences. I like to devote my inner monologue to creating witty rejoinders to hypothetical insults people may someday hurl in my direction. ...Hey, I may be a weird guy, but at least it's not my pube up on the showerhead.

I haven't done a whole lot since Oktoberfest besides keep a consistent level of inebriation, so as not to send my body a mixed message (I can't be pro-sobriety and in Europe at the same time, can I?). I did manage to go to class for the first time, though. I have class for the second time Monday. How are your midterms going, schmucks? Also, I tried surfing, which is unbelievably fun, slightly easier than you'd expect, and an excellant workout. Want to know what looks bad in a wetsuit? My junk.

In addition to "catching waves" (surfer lingo-- only fellow surfers and I will understand it. Yeah, I'm pretty cool now that I can stand on a moving board for almost three (3!) seconds straight). I also went and saw Chepstow, which is home to the statue in the above photograph. The statue comes complete with a big metal penis, which I believe I'm elbowing in that photo. Also, about five kilometers (those are like whacky European miles, to those of you who are morons and have never been to a day of school in your life) away from Chepstow was Tintern Abbey, a monastery founded in 1131. It's now in shambles, but very cool shambles-- visiters can climb up on the rocks and take pictures of everything, which is unusual over here. If I had tried to touch Stonehenge I'd have been arrested, neutered, and lobotomized. Also, there's signs to explain what the hell each room was for. For instance, this room...

... is where the religious officials molested their altar boys, a tradition that continues in the Christian community to this day.

Since I don't have a whole lot more to say at the moment, here's some media shiznatty (Lord, I'm so hip it hurts sometimes) that I've been enjoying.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrill, by Susanna Clarke. Incredibly good book about two magicians who rose to prominence during the Napoleonic Wars. If I remember correctly, it was 19,945 pages, so it kept me entertained for awhile.

A Long Way Down, by Nick Hornby. About four people who attempt suicide at the same spot in London, and then start hanging out. But, um, don't worry. I won't go find the place and commit suicide, because I've learned that if I'm feeling suicidal all I really need is a sandwich and a pickle spear.

A Spot of Bother, by Mark Haddon. The new book by the author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Overall, a very good piece of work, especially the parts where the old guy starts going batshit crazy (it reminded me of my parents). The only troublesome thing is that over the course of the first, I dunno, 180 pages, every single sentence is around the same length. 180ish pages of short, choppy sentences can get really grating. He could have done it for artistic reasons--as the family starts communicating more, the sentences become more complex-- but that doesn't justify it. Radiohead apparently makes all sorts of choices for the sake of "art," but they still sound like shit and act like pretentious bastards.

Adverbs, by Daniel Handler. This is an adult novel from the author of "Lemony Snicket's 'A Series of Unfortunate Events.'" It is also remarkably terrible. It tries to structure itself like Kurt Vonnegut (a large cast of characters, events that happen out of order, and all the pieces eventually falling together), but ends up a muddled, horrifyingly dull mess. Slightly redeemed by this conversation "What would happen if we had sex?" "I'd probably ejaculate." Sidenote: I've also read the last Lemony Snicket, but I'll talk to people about that on an individual basis.

Wicked, by Gregory Maguire, and also Wicked, the musical. The book is terrible-- while it raises some interestinng questions about the nature of/difference between good and evil, it has absolutely nothing to do with Oz, and easily could have been based in, well, Kansas. The damn witch doesn't even cast a spell until the last thirty pages of the book. Bullshit. The musical, however, improves on the book by using almost none of it as inspiration. It focuses on the relationship between Glinda and the Wicked Witch (which is a cool good/evil commentary that should have had more attention in the book). But Jesus is it corny. I mean, I know all musicals are, but Jesus. I especially enjoyed when the dumbasses in monkey suits ran out and did bad fake monkey gymnastics.

Two other quickies: 1) The new Weird Al album is god damn hilarious. I know most everyone refuses to acknowledge his glory, but how can you argue with an album that, on a parody of Usher's "Confessions pt. 2," has a line as funny as "FYI: it's not a cold sore." Now that's funny.

2) Arrested Development season 3. Absolutely brilliant show, even though it's apparent how much they were limited by budget constraints and by only having 13 episodes to tell the story. I will end this incredibly boring blog (sorry, I haven't done anything lately and it's 1:30 am) with my favorite quote of season three. Here's Gob's take on his relationship with his religious girlfriend-- "I’ve got this Christian girlfriend now, and she’s trying to get me to be a better man, and reconnect with my son, and I’m trying to get her to renounce God and fuck me, and I just want to prove to her that I’m worth it." With sentiments that sweet, how did this show fail to capture an audience?

Oktoberfest, Ho!

Want to know the best way to attend Oktoberfest, the world's largest beer festival? It can be accomplished in a few simple steps!

Step 1: Make a friend name Jamie.
Step 2: Have this conversation with her-- Jamie: "Dallas, do you want to go to Oktoberfest tomorrow?" Dallas: "Yes. Yes I do."
Step 3: Somehow cause things to magically fall together and go to Oktoberfest.

We decided at 2:00 pm Wednesday afternoon in the library (the library! with nary a drink to be found) that we were going to Munich on Thursday. Why not? Well, I guess there were reasons. We just took care of them. For instance, the hotel Jamie found was way too expensive for the two of us, so we found two more people, Alex and Jen, to come with us. More on them later. Also, I wasn't 100% signed up for classes, so I had to decide not to give a damn. That was a trying experience. Then we realized we didn't have a place to stay on Thursday night, just on Friday and Saturday night, so we had to make a pact to get drunk in the airport and sleep there.

After overcoming these incredibly arduous obstacles, we were ready to go. So go we did. We had a layover in Amsterdam, where I had a pint of Heineken and accidentally ordered a slice of tuna and sweetcorn pizza at Sbarros (note-- never, ever, ever try tuna and sweetcorn pizza), then landed in Munich and got drunk. Huzzah.

Here's a rundown of our time in Munich. I assure you, you'll find it incredibly informative.

Thursday
Late morning/early afternoon: Started to drink and showered. Being of the male gender (as I possess what my brother so masculinely calls a "peeny"), I was ready to go before the girls-- they had to put on make up so they'd look less like me. So I decided to go get a haircut. And you know, I actually received a decent one. Then I bought an entire chicken and ate it. No joke. It was a shitload of chicken.

Afternoon: Went to Oktoberfest.

Friday
Late morning/early afternoon: Woke up, started to drink (I probably didn't intake water from Friday morning to Sunday morning, except for a few times when I was desperate and stuck my head under a faucet), and showered. Also, I looked at my pictures to see just what the hell I did the night before. In case you're wondering, it looks like I drank a lot of booze, ate a lot of meat, and sang songs I didn't know the words to.

Afternoon: Went to Oktoberfest.

Saturday
See Friday.

Sunday
Arose after a whopping three hours of sleep and took a cab to the airport. Finally put something non-toxic in my body and eventually made my way back to Swansea.

Germany was a very interesting place, though. Almost everyone there spoke some English, and many spoke it fluently, which surprised me after my dealings with the asshole French. However, I wasn't a big fan of the German youth. I enjoyed everyone we met who was over 35 years old-- they were blue collar, friendly, and just ready to have a good time. The college age people were all dickhead frat boys with the same perm as a slutty high schooler in the 80s. It was ridiculous. Germany must constitute at least 79% of worldwide hair gel sales. The language barrier was a bit of a help there, though. One time a guy said something uncouth to one of the girls, and, being a gentlemen, I had to say, "hey. Um. Hey. Don't do that." In German, that must mean something along the lines of "my underwear is lined with live grenades and I'm a close personal friend of Bruce Lee's pissed off ghost. Back off, Perm Boy." At least I assume it meant that, because I didn't get my ass kicked, which is always a plus-- I have something of an aversion to physical pain.

Oh, here's some more about Alex. She smokes self-rolled cigarettes like a damn chimney and as a result will occasionally get tobacco stuck in her teeth. One time it looked like she had the entire state of Virginia in there. Also, she calls the female reproductive organ "meatflaps," and furthers U.S./European relations by making out with everybody see shes, sometimes violently-- I thought she was going to dry hump a Frenchmen through a wall on Saturday. And my God she snored unbelievably loudly the first night. It sounded like a bear cutting through a fridge with a chainsaw (query: how do you train the bear?).

More about Jen. After failing to add more minutes to her pay-as-you-go cell phone, she concluded her phone call to customer service by saying "well, what am I supposed to do? I'm in Germany and I don't speak no mutha-fuckin' German!" Then she spent five minutes yelling "shut the fuck up, Alex!" in the general direction of the sonic boom Alex's nostrils emitted. Also, when I asked her if she knew of anything else to do in Munich, her response was "well, there's probably a lot of Holocaust museums." Yes. And after your visit they give you a complimentary scrapbook entitled "Look What We Did!!"

The most unusual of the trip? Whilst in the taxi to the airport, Wham!'s opus, "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" came on the radio, and I was forced to remember when my older brother had that as his cell phone ring. This might not sound that odd, but being awake and still semi-drunk at 4:30 am in Munich and suddenly recalling my brother's giddy homosexual joy and flamboyant dance whenever he received a call struck me as peculiar.

And I got into my classes. So basically, the moral of this story is "if you want to skip registration and spend a few days drinking recklessly, do it. There are no consequences." I can't wait until I have kids to pass this information onto.

This Stuff Happened Awhile Ago

So this post is outdated by a decent amount of time, but I want to catch everything back up, so here it is. Here's a rundown of my last few days before leaving London:

Day 1: Severely, severly hungover (the day before, I drank a beer in St. Paul's Cathedral--how sweet is that?). Had a final and an utterly unwritten six-page essay due the next day. Watched The 40 Year Old Virgin and the entirety of Arrested Development season 3, wrote a paragraph of my essay, and went to bed.

Day 2: Got up, wrote 5 3/4 pages, didn't proofread it, decided not to study, passed test. Ate. Probably drank. Who knows?

Day 3: Went to Stonehenge and Bath. Stonehenge, I felt, was very impressive. I think aliens did it. There's no reason why people that long ago would've hauled heavy ass rocks (the audio guide said one of the biggest weighed as much as seven elephants) from Wales to Stonehenge. I have no reason why aliens would do it either, but that's the thing-- they're aliens. How the hell am I supposed to know what they think? I still can't figure out how Dane Cook got so popular. Plus, there's a military base in the area. Clearly this is enough evidence.

Bath is a very beautiful city. It's a "World Heritage Site," and for some reason this means that every building in the city must be constructed from the same material, namely bathstone (a kind of limestone). It's kind of a cream color, and at first its disconcerting to see an entire town consist of one color, but once you get used to it it's very pretty. Our tour guide, Tim (oddly enough, the same tour guide I had for Paris), told us that Johnny Depp has a house there and throws a party every year. Tim had a friend who attended one of these parties, and apparently, "he's very quiet."

Really, the only problem I had with Bath was that it's inhabitants insist on calling it "Baath," with the long "a" sound. This strikes me as very pretentious. Why is Bath a tourist attraction? Because Romans bathed there! Get over it, Bathians. Bathites?

Day 3: Got on the bus and went to Wales. Our completely outstanding bus driver told us we had "more shit than I've ever seen a group of people have." Good for us. Hooray for America. All in all, it was a pleasant ride (I drank a bottle of wine!) until Unbelievably Atrocious American Stereotype Laura got up and decided to karaoke at the front of the bus. She sounded garish, like a van crashing into a building full of people scratching forks across plates and shoving painful objects into cats' rectums. I apologized to the driver on behalf of America. Actually, I had to apologize for her the next night as well-- she's of Korean descent, so I keep trying to blame her on Asia, but it's not going very well.

As for my first impressions of Wales, well, it's gorgeous. I really like it. The people have all been very nice (although, to be fair, they're freshmen and I'm a pretty hairy 48-year-old, so they're probably either scared or taking pity), the bars are cheap and plentiful, it's fairly easy to get around, etc. Although I must say, I don't understand the Welsh language at all. It looks like someone headbutted a keyboard and said "there! That means... um, tree." Here's how "University of Wales Swansea" looks in Welsh-- "Prifysgol Cymru Abertawe." What's this "Prifysgol Cymru" crap, Wale-ians? Vowels are aeiou and sometimes y. Sometimes y, dammit.

Random story: My first night out here everybody thought I was Irish, due to my beard, which is red, like the mighty oak. Unfortunately, I can't do an Irish accent. So I met a guy named Scott and had him be my envoy-- we went up to groups of people and I had him say, "this is Dallas. He's Irish, mute, and tortured." Then I'd frown and look full of inner turmoil. It was meant to garner sympathy, but much like my attempt to blame Laura on Asia, it didn't work very well.

A Comprehensive Photo Review of London (Post 1/3 For Today)

I'm sure most of you are dying to know just exactly what London was like, so I'm giving you what you want. I would've posted this long ago, but my internet connection in London sucked and it wouldn't let me do it. Anyhoo, this first picture is the first beer I consumed in Europe. I purchased it approximately fifteen minutes after getting off the most horrendous flight in the entire world. It was warm, necessary, and completely delicious.



This second picture is how your narrator, an American male, looks in London. Beautiful, isn't it? Just plain beautiful. I'm not sure what did it to me-- perhaps its the fact that I'm so loud and boorish compared to the reserved, polite, and charmed-the-pants-off-me style of British men. Or maybe it had something to do with the copious amounts of alcohol consumed throughout my stay there.


Our third photo brings us to what is apparently an extremely popular "Celebritey" hangout. I waited outside this place for hours, excited about the possibility of rubbing elbows with my favorite celebrities, heroes like Lars "Durr!" Ulrich, Mel "There Won't Be Jews, Will There?" Gibson, and Robin "For the Love of Christ, Why Won't I Shut Up?" Williams. Oddly enough, I never saw a single movie star. Perhaps it's because they spelled the sign wrong. There was one guy who might've been Steve Guttenberg, but before I could ask for an autograph he peed on the side of the building and the police made him leave.


The different, and better, British urinals. Less splashback and no need to flush. Though, before you think the British are far more advanced than us, let me tell you that it did take me several tries to find a urinal devoid of pubic hairs to photograph. So Brits do share the inexplicable American problem of pubic shedding in restrooms. How does it happen? Whom does it happen to? Why is there so much of it? We may never know.


Finally, this last picture is just solid advice. I argue that it is just as relevent today, despite the fact that Churchill is dead and Hitler is kicking up his heels in Argentina (as conspiracy theorists have led me to believe).

See? Now you don't even need to travel to the United Kingdom. I bet you already feel like you've been there.

More posts coming later today to make up for my extended absence. The next will cover the serious debates over abortion and gay marriage, and why I think everyone should do both as much as possible.

You May Have Heard French People Are Assholes. This Is True.

Note: This post will reference people on the trip you do not know. I have included helpful adjectives before their names to aid your understanding.

First off, sorry for not posting in so long. It won't happen again, unless it does.

Second off, Paris is an amazing city. The highlights:
--The French Phallis (otherwise known as the Eiffel Tower). Much cooler than I expected, and much better than the Empire State Building in New York. It doesn't take nine years to get up there, it's much more impressive in the otherwise low-key Parisian sky line, and more iconic than our George Washington Monument phallis in D.C.
--Getting drunk underneath the French Phallis my second night there. Not only did I get to pee on Paris, but I was surrounded by a huge mass of people, drinking redonkulously cheap wine (I had two bottles, hooray!) and smoking self-rolled cigarettes someone gave me ("they're so much healthier than normal cigarettes!" was my defense). The combination of a heavy buzz and looking up and seeing the Eiffel Tower every ten minutes is pretty intense. Plus, at night, the Tower sparkles for ten minutes every hour, and we all got to make inappropriate and juvenile jokes about it blowing its load.
--The Louvre. So damn big, so much to see, and absolutely worth it. Dumb Bitch Vanessa (more on her later) told us all to skip the Mona Lisa, because it's "just a picture." Note: I did not skip the Mona Lisa. And it's not disappointing, unless you're an idiot.
--Notre Dame. Regardless of your faith, the human achievement of this building is unbelievable. It truly filled me with a sense of something greater than myself. It was almost enough to make me Catholic, if I could get over my aversion to molestation by priests. Churches in America should also be pointlessly large, made entirely out of stone, and adorned with thousands of intricate statues throughout. Churches today have enough money to do that stuff, right?

The Lowlights:
--Generally Cool Olivia getting alcohol poisoning the night we all drank underneath the Eiffel Tower. Semi-brief rundown of the story, since it's not all that funny: she doesn't usually drink and she didn't really have very much, but she had eaten sparingly that day and weighs around 42 pounds. She was very drunk but able to walk and converse during our quest to find a taxi to take us home. Shortly before we hailed a cab, however, she began vomiting in a trashcan and passed out face first in said trashcan, not to awake until morning. I picked her up by the arms and Smartass Girl I Worked With This Summer Jamie took her legs, and we shoved her into a cab (which she threw up in) and took her to the worst hospital of all time. Off and on the hallway lights didn't work, there was random medical equipment scattered throughout the hallways, and the population of the hospital appeared to consist of four nurses, one doctor, and a patient (Olivia). Today we discovered the hospital won't release her until tomorrow, so she will have to come back to London by herself (Increasingly Frustrated Jamie and I discovered this after failing to purchase tickets for the Metro [the man at the booth didn't know how to reload his ticket machine], getting ripped off by an asshole taxi driver [especially frustrating because I didn't know any virulent French epithets to sling in his direction], and getting lost in the courtyard of the massive hospital. I also lost myself in this courtyard the night before, after withdrawing some Euros so I could pay to taxi everyone back to the hotel. Want to know how to piss of a Frenchman? Come up to him in the middle of the night, sweaty and very drunk, and forget you're in France before asking "Se Habla Ingles?" Whoops.
--Full of Shit Vanessa. Just in general. She thinks she's fluent in French because she took it in high school, which is complete bollocks (British swear words rule). I took Spanish in high school and hurled the entirety of what I remember at some poor French bastard last night. But what was truly obnoxious, outside of her constant "I'm a lesbian from L.A." snobbery and impossibly doughy arms (seriously, you could sink your car keys into them as if they were Play-Doh), was the fact she insisted on talking to the nursing staff in broken French out of her phrasebook, purposefully ignorant of the fact the god damn nurse spoke English. Her synopsis of these conversations? "We are so lucky I know a lot of French." She completely reinforces my theory that murder should be legal if you can convince the cops to agree with you afterwards. Honestly, if I played five minutes of herbullshit to a police officer he'd (or she'd-- keep hoping, ladies) say "Oh, well then. You're free to go, and here's a key to the city for your service rendered."

Overall, Paris is an amaing city, but I could never live there, and I'm not feeling a huge hurry to go back. Though Paris and London are vastly different and obviously stand on their own, here's a quick comparison of the two. London is very reserved, presumably because all of it's citizens are dead inside. It is very clean, unbelievably quiet for a city so large, English-speaking, and has an incredible history. Paris on the otherhand, is incredibly vibrant and full of life. The people speak some crazy moon language and are slightly uglier (that's what happens when you start drinking when you're six), it smells like pee, has much more litter and graffiti, and many more outright assholes. Basically, London is like a steady, dependable friend you've had siince elementary school-- there's a certain amount of shared history and you always have a good time together. Paris is like some mysterious guy who is a riot to get drunk with, but the more time you spend with him you realize he's incomprehensible and kind of a dick.

A picture post tomorrow (hopefully)

Wherefore the Fuck Art Thou, Globe Theatre?

I kinda/sorta/quasi/pseudo got around by myself today! Well, okay, it was with somebody else's directions, but I made it there without screwing up. If not screwing up other people's work must be my legacy in life, I'm okay with it-- many others have done worse (I'm looking at you, Lars Ulrich).

Anyways, today we were to see the Globe Theatre. I was running late and unable to leave with the group, for reasons I'll mention later (it involves one ball point pen, two appendicectomies, and three pumas). I needed a shower for the general betterment of humanity, so I just grabbed directions and told the group I'd meet them there. Then, naturally, I realized I forgot something the second I reached the lobby, and had to climb up and down five flights of stairs again, and the shower was rendered moot. I really like saying, thinking, and typing the word "moot."

The Globe Theatre was amazing-- it's really not all that historical anymore, because the God damn Puritans closed all theatres in the 1600s and it was leveled for tenement housing or some such nonsense. But it's still damn cool. Though I obviously respect his brilliance, I have never been the biggest Shakespeare fan in my life (if you haven't read him, here's a brief synopsis-- "gobbledygook, gobbledygook, everybody dies"), but I really discovered a new respect for him today. The way they prepared for plays back then would probably bore most of you, so I'll wait until we're drunk together and you can't get away. But it was grueling, and the way his writing sublty helps his actors really made me respect the work he put into his plays.

Later in the evening we returned to the Globe, standing room tickets in hand, to see "Comedy of Errors." The way it was performed was downright hilarious-- the performers were all outstanding, and they delivered their lines so that complete morons (such as me, who almost misspelled "morons' just now) could follow the hot and sweaty toga action. I just enjoyed how slapsticky it was. It was as if Shakespeare decided to write the most critically acclaimed Bugs Bunny cartoon or Three Stooges episode ever.

Betwixt the two appearances at the Globe, we were supposed to go to the Tate Museum and see some modern art. This may have been the most asinine activity of my entire life. While there was some very impressive art in there, and I understand the majority of this takes more talent than my forefathers' shallow gene pool allows me, the absolute pretention of some artists continues baffle me. One asshole just signed a urinal. And he's in a museum. Another one was from an artist who, apparently, "explores the connection between sound and the visual," or something to that effect. Not only does this discriminate against my blind friend Rago, who I just made up, but it discriminates (in it's sucktitude) against people who aren't tools, like my kick ass class professor who always has his chest hair hanging out. Essentially, and by "essentially" I mean "entirely,"this exploration consisted of a little girl reading a book on camera. I wish I could make money off bullshit home videos. My favorite exhibit was just an orderly stack of bricks, which of course had a sign telling us not to get to close. What the hell was I going to do? They're bricks. I can probably find you a couple more if anything happens to them.

But the reason I was late to the Globe was because I booked another voyage to Stonehenge and Bath. To do this, I used one ballpoint pen and my refund money from the failed trip. This new one doesn't sound like it will be imaginary, so that's a plus. Oh, and after leaving the travel agency I saw two appendicectomies and three pumas.

Here's what my kind of friend Jon has to say about my upcoming trip:

His plan for me to touch Stonehenge: 'Skip past the single rope made form old Wonder Bread sacks and B-line it for Stonehenge. You might get arrested, I don't know. Play the retard card and see if that will get you off (not like that)."

On what to do in Bath: "Do dip your hands in the Baths at Bath. It is kind of cool to think the same water festooning there is the same water short little Romans used to have homosexual intercourse in thousands of years ago."

British Food is As Bland As This Simile

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Streets of London, I Urinated Upon Thee

Needless to say, I was very drunk last night. But this forces me to ask-- now that I've started the trend, do I need to pee on Paris and other big European (ha ha, "peein'") cities as well? In any case, I've marked my territory and should probably alert the Queen (royalty very rarely get drunk and urinate in the street-- something about it being "undignified," blah blah blah).

Speaking of royalty, today we toured the Parliament building. It is only open one month a year (um, this month), but it was an amazing display of Britain's history. They had 23-karat gold statues of ancient kings such as Richard I, who was all decked out in chain-mail armor and ready to murder him some savage non-Christian infidels. The history here is just so much more moving and grand than it is in America-- while we do have the killing non-Christians thing down pat, they also have thousand year old kings who fought in battles, while our national heros either have wooden teeth (George Washington), the gout (Benjamin Franklin), or push the populace a little further towards suicide (Kathy Griffin). Plus, the British have event after event and hero after hero for hundreds and hundreds of years. What did we do inbetween the Founding Fathers and FDR? True, William Howard Taft did get stuck in a bathtub, and that's pretty funny, but Henry the VIII decapitated six wives! That's simply super-neato. Anyways, to make my "speaking of royalty..." transition make sense, I'll stop meandering and get to the point. I never understood why England kept the royalty around, being as they have no real power and are essentially useless, like high school guidance counselers, those assholes who hands out towels for tips in bathrooms, or philosophy majors. The answer? Because it's really friggin' cool.

Other things:

They have different urinals here, and they kick ass. Much less splashback. Pictures will be posted as soon as I figure out how to do so.

In a thrilling duel betwixt two quarterbacks not good enough to play for the Detriot "Our City Makes Baby Jesus Cry" Lions (Charlie Batch and Joey Harrington, backups starting this game for Pittsburg and Miami, respectively), I'm going to go with Batch's Bitchin' Steelers. (Edit; when I wrote this last night, I for some reason thought Culpepper was missing the game as well, although there was nothing like that reported. I believe it had something to do with the it being two a.m. and me only having eight combined hours of sleep the two nights prior. Leave me alone).

The shower outside of my room, the only one I've found with more water options than "off" and "excruciatingly hot," apparently leaks through to the third floor and is taped off. So, what I do, as opposed to respecting the situation and obeying the rules, is plug the shower while I'm in there and bathe ankle deep in my own putrid filth. Then I towel off, unplug the drain, and scuttle off back to my room so I don't get caught. Also, this particular bathroom has a window looking directly into the shower, and a house across the way has a breathtaking view of my ample backside. The first day I closed the window, but now I leave it gaping open. These people pay a helluva lot of money to live here, and they deserve a free show.

"Welcome To Duluth, Minnesota"

...were the words of my smart-assed pilot. Some sort of wiring problem was discovered after about two hours of flight, necessitating a turnaround and emergency landing in Duluth. Because the Duluth airport is about as technologically advanced as Fluffy, my deaf and retarded dog, we were unable to deboard and were forced to stay on the plane for a total of around 11 hours. During this time I encountered many dangers: the Angry Old White Man (a threatening foe in any environment), the Idiotic Flight Crew (characterized by the "Just an update to tell you there's no new news" update), and the extremely off-putting seatmate.

My extremely off-putting seatmate was first played by Old British Woman with Small Seizures. As odd as it sounds, this actually helped me be calm-- not only did it put my situation as a chubby young male in perspecitive, but her husband helped her with her seizures in such a calm and loving manner, it was obvious he had been performing this duty for years and no longer thought twice about it. In the face of such good-natured love, especially while listening to the song "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens, it was hard to be mad...

...until I engaged Old British Woman with Small Seizures in conversation, and found out how much she hated the rich people in business class. Hey old lady! If you're so much better than the rich, how come you're going to die soon? Huh?

... or until she was moved to the business class she hates to much, only to be replaced by a new enemy-- Farty McBadjoke. I could tell when she released her noxious wind, wind that smelled vaguely of warm cheese, because she'd always try to compensate by engaging me in conversation (example: "These delays would be better if airline people didn't suck! HAHAHA!" Simply painful).

The best part of what appeared to be no more than a nine hour lube job? When the Ghostbusters showed up. You heard (um, read) me. Though they were wearing silver, Dr. Evil-esque jumpsuits and displayed little, if any, of Dan Akroid's trademark wit, they each carried something that looked eerily like the original Proton Pack.

A fixed aeroplane notwithstanding, after 11 hours on the flight, Northwest was no longer able to legally fly us to London, and we had to return to Minneapolis via bus (perhaps the Ghostbusters crossed the streams). Why couldn't we stay in Duluth? Because every hotel in town was full due to the gay pride festival. Is that not a giant kick in the ass/the best thing you have ever heard?

Ah well. To review my travels so far:

7:00 pm Saturday, Sept. 2nd-- Depart from Minneapolis.
7:00 pm Sunday, Sept. 3rd-- Depart from... Minneapolis. Fuck a duck.

And now... Another Fabulous Travel Moment:

While at lunch with my father before my first departure, I had the following conversation...

Dad: "How much cash are you taking to Europe with you?"

Me: "I have seven dollars on me."

Dad: "...Jesus Christ."

T-minus Some Amount of Time and Counting

With very little time left until I leave, tear-eyed and pucker bottomed, only one question remains:

Do I grow a sweet Europe beard or an awesome Europe beard?