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.