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)
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
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."
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."
Sunday, September 10, 2006
British Food is As Bland As This Simile
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Thursday, September 07, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
"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."
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."
Saturday, September 02, 2006
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?
Do I grow a sweet Europe beard or an awesome Europe beard?
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