Dear Amanda,
We were meant to be together. Allow me to explain.
Last night, at about 1:00am, I sat there, bleary eyed and fatigued, watching a History Channel presentationon Braveheart's Scotland. I was listening contently to the parade of distinguished, gentleman-scholars, whensuddenly you appeared; you, a brown haired, blue eyed apparition, speaking of Medieval fortifications inyour smokey, sultry, subtly southern-accented voice.
Frankly, dear, I have never been so turned on by adiscussion of castle masonry. Apparently, you're American, and earned a PhD inhistory from Stirling University in Scotland, whereyou now teach. What dedication you must have had,earning joint doctorates in history and HOTNESS!
Amanda, darling, my love for you is as wide as theScottish battle line at Falkirk, and as deep as thewalls at Bothwell Castle. For you, I would swim theRiver Forth in the middle of winter; I would chargethe English lines at Bannockburn wearing nothing butmy claymore; I would declare my love from every peakin the Highlands!
We have so much in common. You enjoy candle lit dinners, walks along the beach, and researching the Balliol Dynasty, just like I do! I once visitedStirling, and I never would have left if I had known a vixen-historian like you was going to show up in a few years.So, can I take you out to dinner sometime? Maybe wecould meet halfway; in Iceland, perhaps? Think of the great time we'll have! We can alternate between making-out and discussing the impact of the Murry clanon Scotland's political infrastructure... it'll be great!
Truly yours,
Peter
Friday, February 1, 2008
Friend Visitation Rights
Friend Visitation Rights
Dear friends, there is treachery afoot. In this land of John Locke inspired government, where we proclaim an individual's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of property (the fact that the founding fathers changed the last word to “happiness” isn't fooling anybody; I mean, isn't “happiness” a piece of dirt you can call your own anyway?), our proprietary rights are being suppressed and threatened as we speak! As I write these very words, the guiding principals of our republic our being menaced by those who would seek to deny us the very rights that constitute the fabric of our great country.
I refer, of course, to that most insidious of social anarchists... the romantic interloper. It is you, romantic interloper, who monopolizes our friends' time, and deprives us of the pleasure that their presence brings us; it is you, who tears asunder the labors of extended platonic friendship with your sweet nothings and appalling attentiveness! Well, NO MORE, romantic interloper! We will no longer have our rights be denied! Anne Marie and I have decided that a resolution must be drafted to keep our rights, those privileges guaranteed to us by the Constitution and natural law, from being degraded any further. All of our friends with significant others will be required to sign the following document:
WHEREAS, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, Peter and Anne Marie have declared their inalienable rights to persons with whom they claim amicable relations
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie have provided overwhelming evidence in support of the claim that they maintained amicable relations with said persons well before romantic interloper entered into relations with them; evidence of these amicable relations include weekend outings to local nightspots, sporting event attendance, and the occasional night of board games
WHEREAS, The Bill Of Rights guarantees security of person and possessions
WHEREAS, the supreme court verdict in the case of “Cheryl Lamkin Vs. The New Boyfriend Of My Best Friend, Who Takes Up All Of Her Time So That She Can't Like, Hang Out At The Mall With Me Anymore, And Stuff” supports the proprietary claim of Peter and Anne Marie
WHEREAS, Peter And Anne Marie demand visitation rights with their attached friends a minimum of one weekend per month
WHEREAS, this document applies to all romantic interests, including casual, steady, serious, and yes, even THE ONE
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie assert that, one weekend a month spent with them will certainly not strain friend's relations with romantic interloper, and will still allow plenty of time for mushy stuff like kissing, holding hands, and calling each other pet names
THEREFORE, it is declared that Peter and Anne Marie have the right to demand at least one weekend of visitation with their friends per month, and that they posses all rights pertaining to such visits, such as the right to consume alcoholic beverages with them, watch movies with them, etc.
Copies of this legally binding document will be distributed among our friends,
Peter
Dear friends, there is treachery afoot. In this land of John Locke inspired government, where we proclaim an individual's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of property (the fact that the founding fathers changed the last word to “happiness” isn't fooling anybody; I mean, isn't “happiness” a piece of dirt you can call your own anyway?), our proprietary rights are being suppressed and threatened as we speak! As I write these very words, the guiding principals of our republic our being menaced by those who would seek to deny us the very rights that constitute the fabric of our great country.
I refer, of course, to that most insidious of social anarchists... the romantic interloper. It is you, romantic interloper, who monopolizes our friends' time, and deprives us of the pleasure that their presence brings us; it is you, who tears asunder the labors of extended platonic friendship with your sweet nothings and appalling attentiveness! Well, NO MORE, romantic interloper! We will no longer have our rights be denied! Anne Marie and I have decided that a resolution must be drafted to keep our rights, those privileges guaranteed to us by the Constitution and natural law, from being degraded any further. All of our friends with significant others will be required to sign the following document:
WHEREAS, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, Peter and Anne Marie have declared their inalienable rights to persons with whom they claim amicable relations
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie have provided overwhelming evidence in support of the claim that they maintained amicable relations with said persons well before romantic interloper entered into relations with them; evidence of these amicable relations include weekend outings to local nightspots, sporting event attendance, and the occasional night of board games
WHEREAS, The Bill Of Rights guarantees security of person and possessions
WHEREAS, the supreme court verdict in the case of “Cheryl Lamkin Vs. The New Boyfriend Of My Best Friend, Who Takes Up All Of Her Time So That She Can't Like, Hang Out At The Mall With Me Anymore, And Stuff” supports the proprietary claim of Peter and Anne Marie
WHEREAS, Peter And Anne Marie demand visitation rights with their attached friends a minimum of one weekend per month
WHEREAS, this document applies to all romantic interests, including casual, steady, serious, and yes, even THE ONE
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie assert that, one weekend a month spent with them will certainly not strain friend's relations with romantic interloper, and will still allow plenty of time for mushy stuff like kissing, holding hands, and calling each other pet names
THEREFORE, it is declared that Peter and Anne Marie have the right to demand at least one weekend of visitation with their friends per month, and that they posses all rights pertaining to such visits, such as the right to consume alcoholic beverages with them, watch movies with them, etc.
Copies of this legally binding document will be distributed among our friends,
Peter
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 5)
See London, I See France (Pt. 5) "If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"
Dear friends,
I invite you to once again don your flowing white robes, and join me as we frolic in the rose hued fields of memory.
When we last parted, I was stepping onto the train that would take me from Normandy to Paris. Having survived a couple of visits to Paris previously, I hoped that this one would not prove to be my demise. Why the trepidation? There is madness in the world, and that madness is Paris. Frankly speaking, while some cities are a cultural smorgasbord, Paris is a cultural orgy. Whenever approaching Paris, I fear that I may be transformed into some hideously obsessed fiend of the arts, wandering empty side streets, mumbling about post-impressionism when anyone asks me what I want on my baguette.
With a cautious mind, I arrived at Saint Lazare Station, and made my way over to Gare du Nord, where I was going to be meeting Joern's train. Many of you have probably heard me talk about Joern before, but for those who have not the pleasure, a brief introduction is in order: Joern is Germany's foremost expert on the American Civil War. I am allowed to declare him as such, because I have also issued a declaration declaring my right to declare such things... and to speak in something akin to the twisted tongue of Orwellian un-speak, apparently.
Anyway, I arrived at Gare de Nord, and immediately began to indulge in the voyeuristic sport of watching train station reunions. Paris is the perfect place to do this, because as we all know, the French have very few qualms about making out in public... and whatever qualms they may have are immediately sent to their doom at Place de la Concorde when they appear.
I wasn't sure what platform Joern was arriving on, but was drawn to a certain one by a large group of Gendarmes (Translation: "Guys with big guns") gathering there. I figured this must certainly be Joern's train, and indeed, upon closer inspection of the sign, it was. Joern's train was set to arrive in a few minutes... via Belgium. Of course, when Joern arrived a few minutes later, I asked him, "Joern, what's up with the Germans always coming to Paris through Belgium?" Joern, being the knowledgeable guy that he is, knew the answer of course, and explained to me that it's simply a very pleasant route, and it's popularity hasn't waned since World War One. So, there you have it.
Under cloudy skies, we set off to find the street of Pierre Dupont, where Ellie had taken up residence. Yes, in fact, this is the same Ellie that appeared in part one of this travelogue in London. I see Ellie all over the place, because... well, that's how she rolls, right Ellie? In fact, Ellie was going to be spending the semester in Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and just happened to arrive in Paris at the right time to offer lodging to her freeloading American friend, Peter (Thanks, Ellie!).
It began to rain, and we wandered around on La Rue De Strasbourg in the 10th District, asking anybody and everybody if they knew where Pierre Dupont was. We didn't have much luck until we flagged down a businessman who was about to run across the street. I bellowed, "EXCUSEZ MOI, MONSIEUR!" and he came back to respond. The gentleman not only gave us directions, but pulled a map out of his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes explaining them. Very nice. Clearly, since the American media keeps telling me that French people hate us, it must have been the presence of Joern, the German, that prompted this random act of kindness... right Joern : ) ?
We eventually found our way to Ellie and Nick's place (Nick is Ellie's roomate), and discovered they had a trendy little cafe right next door that was stocked with all the libations a good cafe should have.
Ellie's Apartment! Any place where Ellie sets up residence is an intriguing and cool place to hang out, because Ellie's intrigue and coolness wears off on it. Add to this her cool friends, and I never wanted to go bed at night... and often, did not until the early hours of the morning. I think the first night I was up until about 4:30 before finally conceding to my fatigue, despite the fact that I wanted to keep conversing.
Needless to say, when I attempted to get up at 8:30 the next morning, it took several tries. I eventually got to Joern's hotel, and was invigorated by the cheerful good morning of the desk manager, clearly the most peppy man in Paris. When Joern had checked in the day before, he had thought we were checking in together, and had quoted us the price of "Vingt-Neuf Euros!" On seeing that I was leaving, he made sure to inform us excitedly, "Pas vingt-neuf Euros! Juste vingt-cinq Euros!" Joern and I nodded and smiled. "Pas vignt-neuf! Vignt cinq!"
After I took some uppers to get me going, and chased them down with some whiskey, Joern and I headed off to Pere LaChaise cemetary.
Here are some highlights from Paris:
Pere LaChaise: Pere LaChause is the final resting place of most legendary Frenchmen and Frenchwomen except Zola, Rousseau, and the other folks in the Pantheon. Of course, there is also the occasionally rock star, like Jim Morrison. All you have to do to find Jim Morrison's grave is locate the spot in the cemetery where you're surrounded by security guards. Apparently Jim gets all the security because a bust of him that was located at his grave was stolen some years ago; well, that and the fact that Chopin fans, for example, don't tend to get rowdy and destroy stuff as much as Morrison fans... unless of course you play them the second piano concerto, at which point all hell breaks loose. We wandered around the cemetery for hours, and that is to say, we saw about ten percent of it.
La Place de la Bastille: The location of the most famous monument in Paris that doesn't exist now pays homage to its past notoriety in an unusual way; instead of getting imprisoned there for political dissidence, you can imprison yourself in your own vices! The place is filled with trendy bars, restaurants, and S&M chambers erected in memory of the Marquis de Sade.
That guy that yelling in the street: Joern and I were wandering down the street near La Place de la Republique discussing the Republican party's departure from traditional conservatism, as one does, when a man suddenly yelled, "I HATE GEORGE BUSH!". The ensuing conversation went something like this:
PETER: Um, okay.
YELLING MAN: I HATE GEORGE BUSH!
PETER: Okay.
YELLING MAN: Do you have any American cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: That's too bad, because it would be nice thing for you to give me an American cigarette.
PETER: Yes, I suppose it would be.
YELLING MAN: Have you tried French cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: You know what you should do? You should buy some French cigarettes and bring them back to your friends.
PETER: Most of them don't smoke either.
YELLING MAN: Oh. Good day.
PETER: Good day.
The vestiaire at the Louvre: If you're an American and you speak a foreign language, people will be impressed. If you're an American and you speak French, people may just think you're from another planet. The conversations tend to go like this:
PETER: Bonjour, monsieur. J'ai besoin de mon sac a do.
EMPLOYEE: Bonjour. You speak French?
PETER: I try.
EMPLOYEE: But you are not French?
PETER: No.
EMPLOYEE: Are you Quebecois?
PETER: No, I'm American.
EMPLOYEE: American?! Why do you speak French?
PETER: Because it's "la belle langue"; I was born to speak it.
At this point, another couple of museum employees arrive, and hear the other employee and I speaking French. They begin talking amongst themselves
"Ah, he speaks French! Is he Quebecois?"
"No, he's American."
"American?! Why does he speak French?"
Yes, folks, you can be Dutch, speak five languages, and nobody will bat an eye, but if you're an American and you can speak anything besides English, you're some sort of fascinating anomaly : ) .
The vestiaire at Le Musee de Picasso: The collective surprise that I spoke French, and yet, was not from Quebec, also led to an extended conversation at this museum's coat-check. As it turned out, the gentleman working behind the counter had been to Madison! He had liked the city, and asked me to remind him what sort of products our state specilizes in. I told him we make nipple products. Uh...... yeah, there's another one for the books. As you probably guessed, I was trying to say "dairy products". Alas!
Well, that's all for now. Next, we'll be off to the Med!
Peter
Dear friends,
I invite you to once again don your flowing white robes, and join me as we frolic in the rose hued fields of memory.
When we last parted, I was stepping onto the train that would take me from Normandy to Paris. Having survived a couple of visits to Paris previously, I hoped that this one would not prove to be my demise. Why the trepidation? There is madness in the world, and that madness is Paris. Frankly speaking, while some cities are a cultural smorgasbord, Paris is a cultural orgy. Whenever approaching Paris, I fear that I may be transformed into some hideously obsessed fiend of the arts, wandering empty side streets, mumbling about post-impressionism when anyone asks me what I want on my baguette.
With a cautious mind, I arrived at Saint Lazare Station, and made my way over to Gare du Nord, where I was going to be meeting Joern's train. Many of you have probably heard me talk about Joern before, but for those who have not the pleasure, a brief introduction is in order: Joern is Germany's foremost expert on the American Civil War. I am allowed to declare him as such, because I have also issued a declaration declaring my right to declare such things... and to speak in something akin to the twisted tongue of Orwellian un-speak, apparently.
Anyway, I arrived at Gare de Nord, and immediately began to indulge in the voyeuristic sport of watching train station reunions. Paris is the perfect place to do this, because as we all know, the French have very few qualms about making out in public... and whatever qualms they may have are immediately sent to their doom at Place de la Concorde when they appear.
I wasn't sure what platform Joern was arriving on, but was drawn to a certain one by a large group of Gendarmes (Translation: "Guys with big guns") gathering there. I figured this must certainly be Joern's train, and indeed, upon closer inspection of the sign, it was. Joern's train was set to arrive in a few minutes... via Belgium. Of course, when Joern arrived a few minutes later, I asked him, "Joern, what's up with the Germans always coming to Paris through Belgium?" Joern, being the knowledgeable guy that he is, knew the answer of course, and explained to me that it's simply a very pleasant route, and it's popularity hasn't waned since World War One. So, there you have it.
Under cloudy skies, we set off to find the street of Pierre Dupont, where Ellie had taken up residence. Yes, in fact, this is the same Ellie that appeared in part one of this travelogue in London. I see Ellie all over the place, because... well, that's how she rolls, right Ellie? In fact, Ellie was going to be spending the semester in Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and just happened to arrive in Paris at the right time to offer lodging to her freeloading American friend, Peter (Thanks, Ellie!).
It began to rain, and we wandered around on La Rue De Strasbourg in the 10th District, asking anybody and everybody if they knew where Pierre Dupont was. We didn't have much luck until we flagged down a businessman who was about to run across the street. I bellowed, "EXCUSEZ MOI, MONSIEUR!" and he came back to respond. The gentleman not only gave us directions, but pulled a map out of his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes explaining them. Very nice. Clearly, since the American media keeps telling me that French people hate us, it must have been the presence of Joern, the German, that prompted this random act of kindness... right Joern : ) ?
We eventually found our way to Ellie and Nick's place (Nick is Ellie's roomate), and discovered they had a trendy little cafe right next door that was stocked with all the libations a good cafe should have.
Ellie's Apartment! Any place where Ellie sets up residence is an intriguing and cool place to hang out, because Ellie's intrigue and coolness wears off on it. Add to this her cool friends, and I never wanted to go bed at night... and often, did not until the early hours of the morning. I think the first night I was up until about 4:30 before finally conceding to my fatigue, despite the fact that I wanted to keep conversing.
Needless to say, when I attempted to get up at 8:30 the next morning, it took several tries. I eventually got to Joern's hotel, and was invigorated by the cheerful good morning of the desk manager, clearly the most peppy man in Paris. When Joern had checked in the day before, he had thought we were checking in together, and had quoted us the price of "Vingt-Neuf Euros!" On seeing that I was leaving, he made sure to inform us excitedly, "Pas vingt-neuf Euros! Juste vingt-cinq Euros!" Joern and I nodded and smiled. "Pas vignt-neuf! Vignt cinq!"
After I took some uppers to get me going, and chased them down with some whiskey, Joern and I headed off to Pere LaChaise cemetary.
Here are some highlights from Paris:
Pere LaChaise: Pere LaChause is the final resting place of most legendary Frenchmen and Frenchwomen except Zola, Rousseau, and the other folks in the Pantheon. Of course, there is also the occasionally rock star, like Jim Morrison. All you have to do to find Jim Morrison's grave is locate the spot in the cemetery where you're surrounded by security guards. Apparently Jim gets all the security because a bust of him that was located at his grave was stolen some years ago; well, that and the fact that Chopin fans, for example, don't tend to get rowdy and destroy stuff as much as Morrison fans... unless of course you play them the second piano concerto, at which point all hell breaks loose. We wandered around the cemetery for hours, and that is to say, we saw about ten percent of it.
La Place de la Bastille: The location of the most famous monument in Paris that doesn't exist now pays homage to its past notoriety in an unusual way; instead of getting imprisoned there for political dissidence, you can imprison yourself in your own vices! The place is filled with trendy bars, restaurants, and S&M chambers erected in memory of the Marquis de Sade.
That guy that yelling in the street: Joern and I were wandering down the street near La Place de la Republique discussing the Republican party's departure from traditional conservatism, as one does, when a man suddenly yelled, "I HATE GEORGE BUSH!". The ensuing conversation went something like this:
PETER: Um, okay.
YELLING MAN: I HATE GEORGE BUSH!
PETER: Okay.
YELLING MAN: Do you have any American cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: That's too bad, because it would be nice thing for you to give me an American cigarette.
PETER: Yes, I suppose it would be.
YELLING MAN: Have you tried French cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: You know what you should do? You should buy some French cigarettes and bring them back to your friends.
PETER: Most of them don't smoke either.
YELLING MAN: Oh. Good day.
PETER: Good day.
The vestiaire at the Louvre: If you're an American and you speak a foreign language, people will be impressed. If you're an American and you speak French, people may just think you're from another planet. The conversations tend to go like this:
PETER: Bonjour, monsieur. J'ai besoin de mon sac a do.
EMPLOYEE: Bonjour. You speak French?
PETER: I try.
EMPLOYEE: But you are not French?
PETER: No.
EMPLOYEE: Are you Quebecois?
PETER: No, I'm American.
EMPLOYEE: American?! Why do you speak French?
PETER: Because it's "la belle langue"; I was born to speak it.
At this point, another couple of museum employees arrive, and hear the other employee and I speaking French. They begin talking amongst themselves
"Ah, he speaks French! Is he Quebecois?"
"No, he's American."
"American?! Why does he speak French?"
Yes, folks, you can be Dutch, speak five languages, and nobody will bat an eye, but if you're an American and you can speak anything besides English, you're some sort of fascinating anomaly : ) .
The vestiaire at Le Musee de Picasso: The collective surprise that I spoke French, and yet, was not from Quebec, also led to an extended conversation at this museum's coat-check. As it turned out, the gentleman working behind the counter had been to Madison! He had liked the city, and asked me to remind him what sort of products our state specilizes in. I told him we make nipple products. Uh...... yeah, there's another one for the books. As you probably guessed, I was trying to say "dairy products". Alas!
Well, that's all for now. Next, we'll be off to the Med!
Peter
How I Reached Fourth Base
Dear friends,
I'm happy to announce that after many years spent trying to reach second base, and countless more years trying to simply locate third, I bypassed them both and went strait to fourth base with my cousin. Uhhhhh.....
By Fourth Base, of course, I mean the name of the bar on National Avenue in Milwaukee that we were hanging out in with Tim, my cousin, a few weeks ago. Tim was in Milwaukee on business, and invited us to come wander the city with him, rustling up whatever trouble was to be found on a Wednesday night... and trouble, thy name is whiskey. Usually I don't make a habit of partying on weeknights, but it just so happens that Wednesday nights are when I usually stay home, hit the bottle, and brood away the night anyway; so, I figured, why not just go out and brood with company?
Wandering around Milwaukee on a weeknight isn't the only way I've entertained myself in the past week; I've also dug a couple of holes that I'm quite proud of. My parents needed a couple of trees replaced in their backyard, and they called on me to get the job done. For some reason, perhaps because I did a large portion of it after dark, I could not shake the feeling that I was engaged in some nefarious activity; the only thing missing was frost on the ground, a body wrapped in an oriental rug, and me, mumbling the lyrics to some obscure country music song about deceit and betrayal.
Several weeks after the capture of Al Zarqawi, while talking heads endlessly discuss the significance of the event, I am still haunted by one nagging question; Mary Kay, or Avon? Anyone who saw the post-mortem photos of the man knows that, apparently, the cosmetic industry is alive and booming in post-Saddam Iraq. Personally, my guess is Mary Kay, because while Avon can do wonders to compliment a face that still exists, only Mary Kay sells the foundation that can erase the effects of a bomb blast in close proximity. Obviously, the fact that the Mary Kay syndicate is extending into Iraq should come as no surprise to us. As we speak, the streets of Baghdad are probably clogged with pink Cadillac Devilles, clad in aftermarket armor.
This begs the question, since the ranks of Mary Kay are difficult to infiltrate in the United States, how much more difficult are they to infiltrate in Iraq? What do you suppose it costs just to get in the door? The head of an Avon salesperson in a burlap sack? I predict that the Fedayeen Al Mary Kay will emerge as the new force to be reckoned with in Iraq.
Regards,
Peter
I'm happy to announce that after many years spent trying to reach second base, and countless more years trying to simply locate third, I bypassed them both and went strait to fourth base with my cousin. Uhhhhh.....
By Fourth Base, of course, I mean the name of the bar on National Avenue in Milwaukee that we were hanging out in with Tim, my cousin, a few weeks ago. Tim was in Milwaukee on business, and invited us to come wander the city with him, rustling up whatever trouble was to be found on a Wednesday night... and trouble, thy name is whiskey. Usually I don't make a habit of partying on weeknights, but it just so happens that Wednesday nights are when I usually stay home, hit the bottle, and brood away the night anyway; so, I figured, why not just go out and brood with company?
Wandering around Milwaukee on a weeknight isn't the only way I've entertained myself in the past week; I've also dug a couple of holes that I'm quite proud of. My parents needed a couple of trees replaced in their backyard, and they called on me to get the job done. For some reason, perhaps because I did a large portion of it after dark, I could not shake the feeling that I was engaged in some nefarious activity; the only thing missing was frost on the ground, a body wrapped in an oriental rug, and me, mumbling the lyrics to some obscure country music song about deceit and betrayal.
Several weeks after the capture of Al Zarqawi, while talking heads endlessly discuss the significance of the event, I am still haunted by one nagging question; Mary Kay, or Avon? Anyone who saw the post-mortem photos of the man knows that, apparently, the cosmetic industry is alive and booming in post-Saddam Iraq. Personally, my guess is Mary Kay, because while Avon can do wonders to compliment a face that still exists, only Mary Kay sells the foundation that can erase the effects of a bomb blast in close proximity. Obviously, the fact that the Mary Kay syndicate is extending into Iraq should come as no surprise to us. As we speak, the streets of Baghdad are probably clogged with pink Cadillac Devilles, clad in aftermarket armor.
This begs the question, since the ranks of Mary Kay are difficult to infiltrate in the United States, how much more difficult are they to infiltrate in Iraq? What do you suppose it costs just to get in the door? The head of an Avon salesperson in a burlap sack? I predict that the Fedayeen Al Mary Kay will emerge as the new force to be reckoned with in Iraq.
Regards,
Peter
Dear Angelic Brewing Company
Dear Angelic Brewing Company,
Last month I dined in your establishment, and although I was generally pleased with the food and the service, my sense of patriotism was deeply offended by the Un-American treatment I received concerning my side order.
Knowing that you are renowned for your cheese fries, I thought, what better way to compliment my order than to have some cheese put on the fries that were coming with my burger. I made this request, with all intentions of paying any monetary penalties that it may incur, and was promptly told that "No, they can't do that."
They can't do that? Am I underestimating the simplicity of cheese/fry unification here, or something? Now, I know you have the fries, because they came with my burger, and I know you have the cheese, because you offer cheese fries on your menu; what is the disconnect that makes it impossible to put some cheese onto my fries?
Frankly speaking, Angelic Brewing Company, I would become even more incensed by this affront were it not for the fact that I know this incident is symptomatic of a larger, more insidious "can't do" attitude that is infecting many citizens of this nation.
Did Lewis and Clark decide they couldn't do the voyage of discovery because the trip would be kind of long? I think not. Did our boys in World War II decide they couldn't fight because the war was against two superpowers on separate fronts? Of course not! They took Iwo Jima, and secured cheese fries for the free world.
In a day when American values are being threatened and attacked in various parts of the world, and terrorists seek to deny us those very staples of American junk food that make us unique, I find it unbelievable that you would deny one of its citizens one of the most American foods in existence. In truth, Angelic Brewing Company, when you deny me cheese fries, the terrorists win.
Sincerely,
Peter
Last month I dined in your establishment, and although I was generally pleased with the food and the service, my sense of patriotism was deeply offended by the Un-American treatment I received concerning my side order.
Knowing that you are renowned for your cheese fries, I thought, what better way to compliment my order than to have some cheese put on the fries that were coming with my burger. I made this request, with all intentions of paying any monetary penalties that it may incur, and was promptly told that "No, they can't do that."
They can't do that? Am I underestimating the simplicity of cheese/fry unification here, or something? Now, I know you have the fries, because they came with my burger, and I know you have the cheese, because you offer cheese fries on your menu; what is the disconnect that makes it impossible to put some cheese onto my fries?
Frankly speaking, Angelic Brewing Company, I would become even more incensed by this affront were it not for the fact that I know this incident is symptomatic of a larger, more insidious "can't do" attitude that is infecting many citizens of this nation.
Did Lewis and Clark decide they couldn't do the voyage of discovery because the trip would be kind of long? I think not. Did our boys in World War II decide they couldn't fight because the war was against two superpowers on separate fronts? Of course not! They took Iwo Jima, and secured cheese fries for the free world.
In a day when American values are being threatened and attacked in various parts of the world, and terrorists seek to deny us those very staples of American junk food that make us unique, I find it unbelievable that you would deny one of its citizens one of the most American foods in existence. In truth, Angelic Brewing Company, when you deny me cheese fries, the terrorists win.
Sincerely,
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Hmmm, interesting stuff. Check it out.
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Fellow Americans,
The debate concerning illegal immigrants in this country continues to rage. Legislation is constructed by our lawmakers to deal with the issue, only to be floored when it causes a backlash of protests and demonstrations in the streets. Clearly, this issue needs resolution, but even more clearly, we must face the fact that immigrants coming over the border should be a secondary concern to an even more insidious immigration problem that is growing in America with every passing year.
It is time we stem the tide of illegal newborn entering this country.
Every year, thousands upon thousands of newborns find there way into the maternity wards of America, entirely lacking proper documentation, green cards, or even simple identification. They proceed to put untold strain upon the health care system of this country, costing taxpayers millions of dollars annually.
Certainly, we are a nation made up of immigrants, but our ancestors were immigrants who respected the language and culture of the country they were coming to. These newborns enter the country with precious little English skill, unable to express themselves on even the most basic level in our language. They are content to “goo” and “ga” with those of their own type while making no effort to learn the language of the country they live in.
In addition, our immigrant ancestors made an effort to assimilate with those around them as quickly as possible; as newborns grow, they make no effort to assimilate, seeming content to form "playgroups" with their own kind instead, amusing themselves with bizarre traditions such as trying to hammer square pegs into round holes.
The threat that these newborns pose to our country is not only cultural, it is economic as well. Most newborns make little effort to find gainful employment, and as a result, it is estimated that each one will cost Americans 400,000 dollars by they time they are eighteen. Often, in addition to not having the drive to seek employment, they do not even have the basic motor skills required to do so; anyone who has ever witnessed one of these freeloaders spending time trying grab the fingers of their caretakers, or swinging their chubby legs around in the air as if trying to pedal an invisible bicycle, must realize that this is not a skilled workforce waiting to happen.
We have pleaded and petitioned the government to put a stop to this madness, but our pleas have fallen on deaf ears. As a result, the members of the Minuteman Project have decided that we will forestall our duties of guarding the border with Mexico, and instead, take up positions in the hospitals and maternity wards of this great land. No harm will come to the newborns; rather, we will simply corral them, and turn them over to be processed by the INS. Together, we can help put an end to the problems that these illigal immigrant newborns cause.
God Bless America,
Richard Sam Houston Smith
President, Minuteman Project of America
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Fellow Americans,
The debate concerning illegal immigrants in this country continues to rage. Legislation is constructed by our lawmakers to deal with the issue, only to be floored when it causes a backlash of protests and demonstrations in the streets. Clearly, this issue needs resolution, but even more clearly, we must face the fact that immigrants coming over the border should be a secondary concern to an even more insidious immigration problem that is growing in America with every passing year.
It is time we stem the tide of illegal newborn entering this country.
Every year, thousands upon thousands of newborns find there way into the maternity wards of America, entirely lacking proper documentation, green cards, or even simple identification. They proceed to put untold strain upon the health care system of this country, costing taxpayers millions of dollars annually.
Certainly, we are a nation made up of immigrants, but our ancestors were immigrants who respected the language and culture of the country they were coming to. These newborns enter the country with precious little English skill, unable to express themselves on even the most basic level in our language. They are content to “goo” and “ga” with those of their own type while making no effort to learn the language of the country they live in.
In addition, our immigrant ancestors made an effort to assimilate with those around them as quickly as possible; as newborns grow, they make no effort to assimilate, seeming content to form "playgroups" with their own kind instead, amusing themselves with bizarre traditions such as trying to hammer square pegs into round holes.
The threat that these newborns pose to our country is not only cultural, it is economic as well. Most newborns make little effort to find gainful employment, and as a result, it is estimated that each one will cost Americans 400,000 dollars by they time they are eighteen. Often, in addition to not having the drive to seek employment, they do not even have the basic motor skills required to do so; anyone who has ever witnessed one of these freeloaders spending time trying grab the fingers of their caretakers, or swinging their chubby legs around in the air as if trying to pedal an invisible bicycle, must realize that this is not a skilled workforce waiting to happen.
We have pleaded and petitioned the government to put a stop to this madness, but our pleas have fallen on deaf ears. As a result, the members of the Minuteman Project have decided that we will forestall our duties of guarding the border with Mexico, and instead, take up positions in the hospitals and maternity wards of this great land. No harm will come to the newborns; rather, we will simply corral them, and turn them over to be processed by the INS. Together, we can help put an end to the problems that these illigal immigrant newborns cause.
God Bless America,
Richard Sam Houston Smith
President, Minuteman Project of America
The Circle Shall Remain Unbroken
Dear Friends,
Scientists tell us that during the big bang (the scientific phenomenon; not the dvd your friend got for their bachelor/bachelorette party), horrific, atrocious, and (add equally ill fitting adjectives here) amounts of gravity ripped matter apart and caused it to expand over a rather large distance... the known reaches of the universe, to be exact. Regrettably, the known reaches of the universe continue to expand today, constantly frustrating our efforts to use "known reaches of the universe" as a consistent unit of measure. Anyway, I digress...
According to scientists, nothing could withstand the awesome power of this cataclysmic gravitational pull, except one thing... the female dance circle.
With all our knowledge of physics, thermodynamics, and ergonomics, we have still yet to discover a force that can pull apart a circle of girls who "just want to go out and have a good time dancing together". Certainly, this in not caused by any lack of effort. For many years, guys have been trying to figure out how to talk to that cute girl who is shaking it on the dance floor with her friends, and have found themselves dashed like bugs against the most impenetrable substance known to man.
Once the circle is formed, it shall remain unbroken. The only hope of penetrating a female dance circle is to await the moment when one of them leaves the circle to get a drink or go to the bathroom. It is at this time that the breach must be immediately exploited, lest the girls close the circle again, shutting their solar system off from all external forces.
Cockroaches and girls in dance circles are the only things capable of surviving an all-out nuclear war. Einstein once said that "World War Three will be fought with sticks and stones." I disagree; World War Three would be fought with dance-off competitions by all the girls who happened to be in dance clubs when Armageddon arrived. The winning tribe in these competitions would gain possession of the world's last remaining resources... namely, food, water, and tube tops.
Regards,
Peter
Scientists tell us that during the big bang (the scientific phenomenon; not the dvd your friend got for their bachelor/bachelorette party), horrific, atrocious, and (add equally ill fitting adjectives here) amounts of gravity ripped matter apart and caused it to expand over a rather large distance... the known reaches of the universe, to be exact. Regrettably, the known reaches of the universe continue to expand today, constantly frustrating our efforts to use "known reaches of the universe" as a consistent unit of measure. Anyway, I digress...
According to scientists, nothing could withstand the awesome power of this cataclysmic gravitational pull, except one thing... the female dance circle.
With all our knowledge of physics, thermodynamics, and ergonomics, we have still yet to discover a force that can pull apart a circle of girls who "just want to go out and have a good time dancing together". Certainly, this in not caused by any lack of effort. For many years, guys have been trying to figure out how to talk to that cute girl who is shaking it on the dance floor with her friends, and have found themselves dashed like bugs against the most impenetrable substance known to man.
Once the circle is formed, it shall remain unbroken. The only hope of penetrating a female dance circle is to await the moment when one of them leaves the circle to get a drink or go to the bathroom. It is at this time that the breach must be immediately exploited, lest the girls close the circle again, shutting their solar system off from all external forces.
Cockroaches and girls in dance circles are the only things capable of surviving an all-out nuclear war. Einstein once said that "World War Three will be fought with sticks and stones." I disagree; World War Three would be fought with dance-off competitions by all the girls who happened to be in dance clubs when Armageddon arrived. The winning tribe in these competitions would gain possession of the world's last remaining resources... namely, food, water, and tube tops.
Regards,
Peter
Dear Friends,
Every once in awhile an event occurs that reinforces the ironic duality of human existence, and fills me with the glee of knowing I once again have an appropriate situation in which to use the phrase, “ironic duality of human exexistence".
The latest event involves our very own Anne Marie, and several unsolicited calls from a stranger named Steve. Now, being that Anne Marie is DJ AM, the legendary clearinghouse for all local party information, and very often, the source of those parties, the fact that she is getting calls from strangers is no surprise; the surprise in this matter is that Steve is a resident of a Dane County Correctional Facility.
DJ AM and I were hanging out on Saturday night, and she had just explained this series of bizarre calls to me, when suddenly she received another! You pick up the phone, a recording kicks in saying that it's a no charge call from a Dane County Correctional Facility, and then Steve announcing himself. Unfortunately, Steve didn’t stay on the line when I answered, “Hello, this is Anne Marie”. In light of these continued calls, I feel the need to address Steve directly. No, I don’t have his e-mail address, but we’ll just assume that Steve has moved on to monitoring the e-mail of all of Anne Marie’s friends, and will, therefore, read it while he’s perusing one of our accounts.
Dear Steve,
The phone calls have to stop, man. Now, you may not think my words have any cred here, but believe me, I know what you’re going through. I’ve seen the world from the inside of prison walls, and it’s not pretty. Okay, so, I saw the world from the inside of Oak Hill, a minimum security facility that didn’t have walls, but that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say here, is that I know how you feel, and believe me, Steve, I am the last one to doubt the true connection you can have with somebody when you’re flipping through the phone book and suddenly find that your finger has alighted on the eight point, times new roman font of that special someone’s name. I mean, who am I to doubt that love, one of the most powerful forces in this world, would be unable to connect two people in spite of the miles, sealed entrances, reinforced steel quadrant dividers, county jailers, and prison bars that separate them. Having said this Steve, I’ve got to tell you, Anne Marie just isn’t into you.
Now, as I see it, there a few possibilites as to why you feel the need to continue calling our good friend:
1. The Correctional System Has Failed You:
Yes, perhaps the correctional system has failed to correct you, and you've hit rock bottom so many times that you think the only thing that can save you anymore is the love of a good woman.
2: You're Having An Existential Crisis:
That's right Steve, maybe you've become a Taosit and started doubting the reality of your own existence. After picking up a copy of the "Tao Te Ching" from from the prison library, you're convinced that that the only way to concretely prove your existence to yourself is to find your polar opposite... the wonderfully virtuous Anne Marie.
3. You've Heard Stories About "The Virgin Vault"
Yes, Steve, it's true that Anne Marie did live in the all female Regina dorm at Edgewood, ironically titled "The Virgin Vault", and there have probably been stories about this mythical place circulating around prisons for the past decade. Sorry to dissapoint you, but despite the fact that Anne Marie was a Regina girl, she's wasn't that sort of Regina girl. No matter what you may have heard about the place, only about sixty percent of the girls who live, or have lived there, are into convincts.
Anyway, Steve, what I'm trying to say is, no matter how many "STV&AM" license plates you manufacture as gifts for her in the prison shop, she's not going to be into you, so you might as well stop calling.
Sincerely,
Peter
Every once in awhile an event occurs that reinforces the ironic duality of human existence, and fills me with the glee of knowing I once again have an appropriate situation in which to use the phrase, “ironic duality of human exexistence".
The latest event involves our very own Anne Marie, and several unsolicited calls from a stranger named Steve. Now, being that Anne Marie is DJ AM, the legendary clearinghouse for all local party information, and very often, the source of those parties, the fact that she is getting calls from strangers is no surprise; the surprise in this matter is that Steve is a resident of a Dane County Correctional Facility.
DJ AM and I were hanging out on Saturday night, and she had just explained this series of bizarre calls to me, when suddenly she received another! You pick up the phone, a recording kicks in saying that it's a no charge call from a Dane County Correctional Facility, and then Steve announcing himself. Unfortunately, Steve didn’t stay on the line when I answered, “Hello, this is Anne Marie”. In light of these continued calls, I feel the need to address Steve directly. No, I don’t have his e-mail address, but we’ll just assume that Steve has moved on to monitoring the e-mail of all of Anne Marie’s friends, and will, therefore, read it while he’s perusing one of our accounts.
Dear Steve,
The phone calls have to stop, man. Now, you may not think my words have any cred here, but believe me, I know what you’re going through. I’ve seen the world from the inside of prison walls, and it’s not pretty. Okay, so, I saw the world from the inside of Oak Hill, a minimum security facility that didn’t have walls, but that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say here, is that I know how you feel, and believe me, Steve, I am the last one to doubt the true connection you can have with somebody when you’re flipping through the phone book and suddenly find that your finger has alighted on the eight point, times new roman font of that special someone’s name. I mean, who am I to doubt that love, one of the most powerful forces in this world, would be unable to connect two people in spite of the miles, sealed entrances, reinforced steel quadrant dividers, county jailers, and prison bars that separate them. Having said this Steve, I’ve got to tell you, Anne Marie just isn’t into you.
Now, as I see it, there a few possibilites as to why you feel the need to continue calling our good friend:
1. The Correctional System Has Failed You:
Yes, perhaps the correctional system has failed to correct you, and you've hit rock bottom so many times that you think the only thing that can save you anymore is the love of a good woman.
2: You're Having An Existential Crisis:
That's right Steve, maybe you've become a Taosit and started doubting the reality of your own existence. After picking up a copy of the "Tao Te Ching" from from the prison library, you're convinced that that the only way to concretely prove your existence to yourself is to find your polar opposite... the wonderfully virtuous Anne Marie.
3. You've Heard Stories About "The Virgin Vault"
Yes, Steve, it's true that Anne Marie did live in the all female Regina dorm at Edgewood, ironically titled "The Virgin Vault", and there have probably been stories about this mythical place circulating around prisons for the past decade. Sorry to dissapoint you, but despite the fact that Anne Marie was a Regina girl, she's wasn't that sort of Regina girl. No matter what you may have heard about the place, only about sixty percent of the girls who live, or have lived there, are into convincts.
Anyway, Steve, what I'm trying to say is, no matter how many "STV&AM" license plates you manufacture as gifts for her in the prison shop, she's not going to be into you, so you might as well stop calling.
Sincerely,
Peter
Dear Black Eyed Peas
Dear Black Eyed Peas,
When we first met, I knew we were different, but wasn't it those very differences that spiced up our relationship? I was more than willing to find a way that we could both be happy with each other and still have our own lives, and you seemed just as determined in the beginning.
Whatever happened? I tried to call you, but only got the answering machine, no doubt because you're out again, as you are every night, trying to cause the earth to spin off its axis due to massive booty gyration. Did you ever think about what this obsession with swaying posteriors may be doing to our relationship? For a year I put up with you asking me where the love was twenty times a day, even when the love was sitting right in front of you waiting for you to grab it. And now this? What I'm trying to say is, Black Eyed Peas, it's over.
We're just too different, and have lifestyles that can never be reconciled. Now, I like to party just as much as anybody else, but frankly, sometimes I'm not in the mood, and I can't stand the thought of arriving home after an exhausting day at work, having you incessantly chanting "LET'S GET IT STARTED" in my ear. Maybe I don't want to get it started; have you ever thought about that? Maybe instead of getting it started, I want to shut it down. Is that so wrong? Can't we do that a couple of nights a week? I mean, nobody's on twenty four hours a day, are they? What if I just want to stay home and rent a video? Why can't we do that anymore? Are you going to let this juvenile obsession with getting it started ruin our relationship?
Where does this obsession with getting it started come from? And what is it that you're so gung ho about getting started, anyway? You never seem to be able to articulate that! Have you ever thought that maybe whatever it is you're trying get started is already started, and you're missing it because you're still busy trying to start something up that's already in motion?
Well, you'll have plenty of time to get it started now, because we're over.
Peter
When we first met, I knew we were different, but wasn't it those very differences that spiced up our relationship? I was more than willing to find a way that we could both be happy with each other and still have our own lives, and you seemed just as determined in the beginning.
Whatever happened? I tried to call you, but only got the answering machine, no doubt because you're out again, as you are every night, trying to cause the earth to spin off its axis due to massive booty gyration. Did you ever think about what this obsession with swaying posteriors may be doing to our relationship? For a year I put up with you asking me where the love was twenty times a day, even when the love was sitting right in front of you waiting for you to grab it. And now this? What I'm trying to say is, Black Eyed Peas, it's over.
We're just too different, and have lifestyles that can never be reconciled. Now, I like to party just as much as anybody else, but frankly, sometimes I'm not in the mood, and I can't stand the thought of arriving home after an exhausting day at work, having you incessantly chanting "LET'S GET IT STARTED" in my ear. Maybe I don't want to get it started; have you ever thought about that? Maybe instead of getting it started, I want to shut it down. Is that so wrong? Can't we do that a couple of nights a week? I mean, nobody's on twenty four hours a day, are they? What if I just want to stay home and rent a video? Why can't we do that anymore? Are you going to let this juvenile obsession with getting it started ruin our relationship?
Where does this obsession with getting it started come from? And what is it that you're so gung ho about getting started, anyway? You never seem to be able to articulate that! Have you ever thought that maybe whatever it is you're trying get started is already started, and you're missing it because you're still busy trying to start something up that's already in motion?
Well, you'll have plenty of time to get it started now, because we're over.
Peter
Gentlman Prefer Being Blond
Dear friends,
I categorically deny ever bleaching my hair. I categorically deny ever sticking any foreign substance in my hair besides shampoo, conditioner, and the occasional wad of gum when I was five.
In light of this, what on God's green earth is going on with my hair? Suddenly, I've started fielding questions about the red highlights, and all-together auburn coloring of my hair! At first I laughed it off, and then looked in the mirror to discover that I've gone platinum blond! Okay, maybe not platinum blond, but my hair is usually black; maybe not as not as black as Edgar Allen Poe's soul, but still pretty black. It's been that way for years, so imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair turning chestnut brown. Woah.
Of course, I searched my mind, my soul, and my shampoo for answers as to what may be causing this strange anomaly, and in the end, I found my answer; my hair has been bleached by the massive amount of rays I've been catching the past month. Yes, that's right, folks, as we all know, it's been incredibly warm and sunny here the last month, and I must have soaked up more of those rays than I realized. It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Okay, so I guess since we haven't seen the sun in two months, it's not that. Another possibility is that the high tension wires I live by are gradually causing my DNA to mutate; changes that will culminate in me being cast out from normal society, and force me to take refuge with other mutants who have suffered the same fate... and had their hair change color too.
Of course, my mind was occupied by this plethora of possibilities for several days, until I recently discovered that a bottle of hydrogen peroxide was missing from the bathroom... a bottle that looks just like the spray bottle I occasionally use on my hair. Ummmmmm, yeah. Dang.
In unrelated news, we are all celebrating the release of the film "Hostel", which will probably have the positive effect of increasing the paranoia that many Americans already feel towards foreign travel. I haven't seen the film, but apparently it involves American backpackers traveling to Slovakia in search of amorous adventures, only to find themselves being locked up and tortured.
Let me set things straight, friends, I was in Slovakia for a whole five days last summer, and I was only tortured once. I forgot to pay the twenty-five cent usage fee for the shower. Anyway, by all means, travel to Slovakia, and encourage your friends to do the same! It's cool! And not all of us go there looking for love; I was looking for surplus Soviet plutonium.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shopping for hats,
Peter
I categorically deny ever bleaching my hair. I categorically deny ever sticking any foreign substance in my hair besides shampoo, conditioner, and the occasional wad of gum when I was five.
In light of this, what on God's green earth is going on with my hair? Suddenly, I've started fielding questions about the red highlights, and all-together auburn coloring of my hair! At first I laughed it off, and then looked in the mirror to discover that I've gone platinum blond! Okay, maybe not platinum blond, but my hair is usually black; maybe not as not as black as Edgar Allen Poe's soul, but still pretty black. It's been that way for years, so imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair turning chestnut brown. Woah.
Of course, I searched my mind, my soul, and my shampoo for answers as to what may be causing this strange anomaly, and in the end, I found my answer; my hair has been bleached by the massive amount of rays I've been catching the past month. Yes, that's right, folks, as we all know, it's been incredibly warm and sunny here the last month, and I must have soaked up more of those rays than I realized. It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Okay, so I guess since we haven't seen the sun in two months, it's not that. Another possibility is that the high tension wires I live by are gradually causing my DNA to mutate; changes that will culminate in me being cast out from normal society, and force me to take refuge with other mutants who have suffered the same fate... and had their hair change color too.
Of course, my mind was occupied by this plethora of possibilities for several days, until I recently discovered that a bottle of hydrogen peroxide was missing from the bathroom... a bottle that looks just like the spray bottle I occasionally use on my hair. Ummmmmm, yeah. Dang.
In unrelated news, we are all celebrating the release of the film "Hostel", which will probably have the positive effect of increasing the paranoia that many Americans already feel towards foreign travel. I haven't seen the film, but apparently it involves American backpackers traveling to Slovakia in search of amorous adventures, only to find themselves being locked up and tortured.
Let me set things straight, friends, I was in Slovakia for a whole five days last summer, and I was only tortured once. I forgot to pay the twenty-five cent usage fee for the shower. Anyway, by all means, travel to Slovakia, and encourage your friends to do the same! It's cool! And not all of us go there looking for love; I was looking for surplus Soviet plutonium.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shopping for hats,
Peter
I Do It All For The Cookie
Dear friends,
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
I Do It All For The Cookie
Dear friends,
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
The Worksong Revival
Hmmm, this is fascinating stuff. Check it out.
Peter
Ben Miller
Associated Press
12/22/2005
CLEVELAND OHIO-
Located in a corporate park near Cleveland, SUPRATEC is a prime example of the rapid transition this country's economy has been making to the service sector industry.
In the corner of an enormous open hall filled with row upon row of cubicles, lies the desk of Bill Henderson, an employee of SUPRATEC since the late eighties, and manager of TEAM 4, which includes all of the employees who work in the first ten rows of this corporate megalopolis. Even Henderson, who says he likes his job, admits finding his workplace a bit monotonous from time to time. "You know, it's nothing big, I mean, it's a job, right? It's supposed to be a little monotonous, from time to time. But I kind of liked that regularity, you know? That's why I wasn't sure what was going on when this started," he says, gesturing to his sector of the floor, where throaty voices rise up in unison. "I thought it was somebody's birthday or something like that, at first, but the words sounded a little too melancholy for that."
As if on cue, a voice suddenly rises up to a thunderous throaty yell: "I'M GONNA TELL GOD ALL MY TROUBLES WHEN I GET HOME, I'M GONNA TELL HIM THE ROAD WAS ROCKY WHEN I GET HOME".
"I researched it to find out what was going on," Henderson continues, "and it turns out they're singing old, African American work songs, just like the slaves used to. The article I read said work songs were dead, but..." he leaves the rest of sentence unfinished, gesturing to the rows of cubicles where the song continues.
When asked where this new tradition was started, SUPRATEC employees refer to Skip Severson, and cubicle #267, where he plies his trade. Most of the songs, which are largely sung in call and response form, originate from this cubicle. Severson has been an employee at SUPRATEC for two years, and is quick to explain how he was inspired, "I was down at my local library, since I can't afford to buy books or CDs on my crappy paycheck, and I came across this album of old worksongs. I mean, sure, I'm a college educated Caucasian guy from Ohio, but they really spoke to me. One day I was just singing under my breath while I was working at the copy machine, and lo and behold, Jack, who works over there, picked up the verse and started singing it back. It was inspiring. It just snowballed from there. Soon, our whole section was singing."
Asked about how these songs, many of which were written in the 19th century, ring true with young, college educated workers in the 21st century, Skip says, "It's not surprising at all, really. I mean, the slaves that sang these songs had been torn away from to the lush beauty of Africa to be brought to America and worked to death under the hot sun on plantations. I'm from Lancaster County, and was ripped away from my home by the promise of a great job in the city, only to find myself stamping reports all day under the ungodly glow of these fluorescent lights. What the hell was I thinking? We're the same, those slaves and me. They sang these songs with the hope of liberation and... excuse me... DON'T KNOW WHAT MY MOTHER WANTS TO STAY HERE FUH, DIS OLD WORLD AIN'T NO FRIEND TO HUH," Skip sings, passing on the next verse to the rest of the office, where it's loudly repeated. "Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yeah... they sang these songs with hope for liberation and freedom, just like us.
Though clearly feeling oppressed and vexed, Skip expresses hope for the future, citing a book that was recently written entitled "Uncle Tom's Cubicle", that has raised awareness across American concerning the plight of corporate workers. Until liberation comes, Skip intends on continuing the work song revival, "As long as there is tyranny and slavery, there will be worksongs. All that we can hope is that our own great emancipator is being raised up as we speak," he says, pointing to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hanging on his cubicle wall.
"OUR FATHER, WHO IS IN HEAVEN, WHITE MAN OWE ME ELEVEN PAY ME SEVEN, THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE, IF I HADN'T TOOK THAT, I WOULDN'T HAD NONE".
Ben Miller reporting
Peter
Ben Miller
Associated Press
12/22/2005
CLEVELAND OHIO-
Located in a corporate park near Cleveland, SUPRATEC is a prime example of the rapid transition this country's economy has been making to the service sector industry.
In the corner of an enormous open hall filled with row upon row of cubicles, lies the desk of Bill Henderson, an employee of SUPRATEC since the late eighties, and manager of TEAM 4, which includes all of the employees who work in the first ten rows of this corporate megalopolis. Even Henderson, who says he likes his job, admits finding his workplace a bit monotonous from time to time. "You know, it's nothing big, I mean, it's a job, right? It's supposed to be a little monotonous, from time to time. But I kind of liked that regularity, you know? That's why I wasn't sure what was going on when this started," he says, gesturing to his sector of the floor, where throaty voices rise up in unison. "I thought it was somebody's birthday or something like that, at first, but the words sounded a little too melancholy for that."
As if on cue, a voice suddenly rises up to a thunderous throaty yell: "I'M GONNA TELL GOD ALL MY TROUBLES WHEN I GET HOME, I'M GONNA TELL HIM THE ROAD WAS ROCKY WHEN I GET HOME".
"I researched it to find out what was going on," Henderson continues, "and it turns out they're singing old, African American work songs, just like the slaves used to. The article I read said work songs were dead, but..." he leaves the rest of sentence unfinished, gesturing to the rows of cubicles where the song continues.
When asked where this new tradition was started, SUPRATEC employees refer to Skip Severson, and cubicle #267, where he plies his trade. Most of the songs, which are largely sung in call and response form, originate from this cubicle. Severson has been an employee at SUPRATEC for two years, and is quick to explain how he was inspired, "I was down at my local library, since I can't afford to buy books or CDs on my crappy paycheck, and I came across this album of old worksongs. I mean, sure, I'm a college educated Caucasian guy from Ohio, but they really spoke to me. One day I was just singing under my breath while I was working at the copy machine, and lo and behold, Jack, who works over there, picked up the verse and started singing it back. It was inspiring. It just snowballed from there. Soon, our whole section was singing."
Asked about how these songs, many of which were written in the 19th century, ring true with young, college educated workers in the 21st century, Skip says, "It's not surprising at all, really. I mean, the slaves that sang these songs had been torn away from to the lush beauty of Africa to be brought to America and worked to death under the hot sun on plantations. I'm from Lancaster County, and was ripped away from my home by the promise of a great job in the city, only to find myself stamping reports all day under the ungodly glow of these fluorescent lights. What the hell was I thinking? We're the same, those slaves and me. They sang these songs with the hope of liberation and... excuse me... DON'T KNOW WHAT MY MOTHER WANTS TO STAY HERE FUH, DIS OLD WORLD AIN'T NO FRIEND TO HUH," Skip sings, passing on the next verse to the rest of the office, where it's loudly repeated. "Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yeah... they sang these songs with hope for liberation and freedom, just like us.
Though clearly feeling oppressed and vexed, Skip expresses hope for the future, citing a book that was recently written entitled "Uncle Tom's Cubicle", that has raised awareness across American concerning the plight of corporate workers. Until liberation comes, Skip intends on continuing the work song revival, "As long as there is tyranny and slavery, there will be worksongs. All that we can hope is that our own great emancipator is being raised up as we speak," he says, pointing to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hanging on his cubicle wall.
"OUR FATHER, WHO IS IN HEAVEN, WHITE MAN OWE ME ELEVEN PAY ME SEVEN, THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE, IF I HADN'T TOOK THAT, I WOULDN'T HAD NONE".
Ben Miller reporting
Au Contraire, My Dear Fellow
Dear friends,
Living as I do, in a small town, I am often privy to the types of small town charms that cause people to reminisce about yesteryears, and often, realize why they moved out of their small towns and into the city.
I was recently in the local drug store, and was witness to this exchange between a fairly cantankerous older gentleman, and one of the pharmacists; it went something like this:
Gentleman: "What's taking so long?"
Pharmacist: "You just have to be patient, sir."
Gentleman: "Why can't he hurry up?"
Pharmacist: "Sir, you'll have your order shortly.
Gentleman: "I can't believe this service!"
Pharmacist: "Just settle down please, sir".
Gentleman: "I can't believe this! Maybe he could go a little faster if he cut his hair!"
The man then went on to tell the pharmacist that, by golly, they were going to be run out of business once the Walgreen's is completed. Overall, a rather charming exchange. Oh, and it's also important to note that the guy who found himself on the receiving end of this abuse had really long hair.... about an inch longer than mine.
After witnessing this unprovoked attack on the speed of long haired people everywhere, I feel the need to respond and reveal that, au contraire, my dear fellow, ample historical evidence contradicts your assertion. History is full of speedy, long haired people.
1. Samson: This Old Testament bone crusher used the power and speed he gained from his extensive locks to kill a thousand Philistines... in one battle... with a random jawbone he found lying on the ground. Yikes.
2. Mercury: This speedy dude was the messenger for the gods until he went into retirement and started making brawny American cars instead. Knowing Zeus's temper, and his affection for hurling lightening bolts when he didn't get his way, it is safe to assume that Mercury was very, very fast.
3. Florence Griffith Joyner: Flo Jo toasted competition on the track with long hair flying in the breeze, even managing to keep her six inch, glittery fingernails intact. 'Nuff said.
4. Yngwie Malmsteen: Molten shards of triplet-laced guitar riffs fly from this man's guitar. If you actually know who this guy is, than you may have, at some time, been subjected to one of Peter's soliloquies on guitar shredders. Many apologies.
5. Jesus Christ: Jesus managed to emerge from the tomb a mere three days after his death, and that was including a stop-over in Hades. A lot of people try to come back from the dead and never work it out; Jesus did it in three days. That's fast.
Speaking of drug stores, what's up with greeting card selection these days? Hallmark is aspiring to give every card such a personal touch that they are starting to squeeze one particular genre of card right out of the market; the ambivalence filled have-to-send-it card. I mean, What card do we buy for that person who we're not particularly fond of, but are contractually required to buy a Christmas card for due to outdated social imperatives? They don't fall under the category of being a friend, relative, wife, husband, or object of torrid obsession, so what are we supposed to do? Do we really want to send them a card bursting with more saccharine than my sugar free Bubble Yum? I don't think so. A letter writing campaign will follow briefly.
Well, the results concerning how many times to say thank you to somebody when they open two consecutive doors for you have come in, and there are several suggestions I received to choose from.
1. Give a robust "Thank You!" the first time, and then a mumbled "Thank you" the second time. This is probably how I do it most of the time.
2. Give a robust "Thank You!" in English after the first door, and another robust "Thank You!" in a foreign language after the second door. You choose the language, but be warned, simply switching accents does not count.
3. Give a robust "Thank You!" after the first door, kick the person, and then run off laughing. Um, yeah, you might not want to make a habit of this one.
Warm regards,
Peter
Living as I do, in a small town, I am often privy to the types of small town charms that cause people to reminisce about yesteryears, and often, realize why they moved out of their small towns and into the city.
I was recently in the local drug store, and was witness to this exchange between a fairly cantankerous older gentleman, and one of the pharmacists; it went something like this:
Gentleman: "What's taking so long?"
Pharmacist: "You just have to be patient, sir."
Gentleman: "Why can't he hurry up?"
Pharmacist: "Sir, you'll have your order shortly.
Gentleman: "I can't believe this service!"
Pharmacist: "Just settle down please, sir".
Gentleman: "I can't believe this! Maybe he could go a little faster if he cut his hair!"
The man then went on to tell the pharmacist that, by golly, they were going to be run out of business once the Walgreen's is completed. Overall, a rather charming exchange. Oh, and it's also important to note that the guy who found himself on the receiving end of this abuse had really long hair.... about an inch longer than mine.
After witnessing this unprovoked attack on the speed of long haired people everywhere, I feel the need to respond and reveal that, au contraire, my dear fellow, ample historical evidence contradicts your assertion. History is full of speedy, long haired people.
1. Samson: This Old Testament bone crusher used the power and speed he gained from his extensive locks to kill a thousand Philistines... in one battle... with a random jawbone he found lying on the ground. Yikes.
2. Mercury: This speedy dude was the messenger for the gods until he went into retirement and started making brawny American cars instead. Knowing Zeus's temper, and his affection for hurling lightening bolts when he didn't get his way, it is safe to assume that Mercury was very, very fast.
3. Florence Griffith Joyner: Flo Jo toasted competition on the track with long hair flying in the breeze, even managing to keep her six inch, glittery fingernails intact. 'Nuff said.
4. Yngwie Malmsteen: Molten shards of triplet-laced guitar riffs fly from this man's guitar. If you actually know who this guy is, than you may have, at some time, been subjected to one of Peter's soliloquies on guitar shredders. Many apologies.
5. Jesus Christ: Jesus managed to emerge from the tomb a mere three days after his death, and that was including a stop-over in Hades. A lot of people try to come back from the dead and never work it out; Jesus did it in three days. That's fast.
Speaking of drug stores, what's up with greeting card selection these days? Hallmark is aspiring to give every card such a personal touch that they are starting to squeeze one particular genre of card right out of the market; the ambivalence filled have-to-send-it card. I mean, What card do we buy for that person who we're not particularly fond of, but are contractually required to buy a Christmas card for due to outdated social imperatives? They don't fall under the category of being a friend, relative, wife, husband, or object of torrid obsession, so what are we supposed to do? Do we really want to send them a card bursting with more saccharine than my sugar free Bubble Yum? I don't think so. A letter writing campaign will follow briefly.
Well, the results concerning how many times to say thank you to somebody when they open two consecutive doors for you have come in, and there are several suggestions I received to choose from.
1. Give a robust "Thank You!" the first time, and then a mumbled "Thank you" the second time. This is probably how I do it most of the time.
2. Give a robust "Thank You!" in English after the first door, and another robust "Thank You!" in a foreign language after the second door. You choose the language, but be warned, simply switching accents does not count.
3. Give a robust "Thank You!" after the first door, kick the person, and then run off laughing. Um, yeah, you might not want to make a habit of this one.
Warm regards,
Peter
The Hills Are Alive.... With the Sound of Jingling Pockets
Dear friends,
Considering it my civic duty, I try to always keep one of my fingers fixed firmly on the pulse of this country's pop culture... and apply generous use of the defibrillator of hipness when it flat-lines. This is one of those times.
Since the collapse of the boy band wave, our country has, tragically, lived without the passion, inspiration, and catharsis that men with girly voices, singing canned, refried, rehydroginated lyrics provide us with. Who is there now to give a voice to our basest, most incomplex feelings with over processed vocals than the artist currently known by the name of Homer's favorite beer?
I, like everyone, mourned the loss of our boy bands while dabbing my eyes in front of my N-Sync poster; but then I sat down and realized that the boy band revolution (for it surely was a revolution) was simply missing a few vital elements, and I set out to find a sound that would once again electrify the airwaves.... and I am happy to announce that I found it.
The wave of future is LEDERHOSEN CLAD BOY BANDS! Yes, friends, can't you hear the sound of jingling pockets just as you say it? What led to this epiphany? Well, I had the pleasure of attending a concert by the Von Trapp Children Singers at the Stoughton Opera House a couple of months ago, and they lit the place on FIYAHHH! Which is probably why they wear fire retardant leather lederhosen, to ward of the conflagration caused by their dynamism.
QUICK DISCLAIMER: Despite the fact that I seem to have participated in an inordinate number of Sound of Music related activities (The Sound of Music Tour in Salzburg, The Von Trapp Children Singers, a visit to the Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont, etc.) I am not really a Sound of Music fanatic, and will rarely be heard singing the tunes... except when I'm randomly inspired while frolicking around in mountain pastures. I may, or may not have been spotted doing that once, and will certainly not admit it to anybody unless confronted with solid evidence... or given a few drinks. Anyway, the fanatic is somebody in my family. Can you guess who? That's right, it's my brother Andrew!
Just kidding of course; Andrew's more of a My Fair Lady type of guy (smile). It's my mom.
Anyway, back to my point; LEDERHOSEN CLAD BANDS ARE THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE! Of course, a vocal group singing pseudo German songs wouldn't be complete without girls in it as well, so we'll have them wear female lederhosen to maintain uniformity. Okay, there's no such thing, and that's bordering on French, Pigalle cabaret territory there, so maybe we'll just let them wear antique, pseudo German dresses.
Besides a drastic change in attire, these bands will also trade in saccharine, pre-fab modern tunes, for saccharine, pre-fab, pseudo traditional folk tunes, allowing them to capitalize on the hugely untapped geriatric demographic. Seriously, many seniors are so busy ripping on all modern day rock-and-or-roll that they would start throwing their wallets up on stage when confronted by a bunch of cute kids in pseudo traditional outfits, singing pseudo traditional songs.
Anybody want in on this with me? It's a goldmine. I start the search for my superstars tomorrow.
Randomly yours,
Peter
Considering it my civic duty, I try to always keep one of my fingers fixed firmly on the pulse of this country's pop culture... and apply generous use of the defibrillator of hipness when it flat-lines. This is one of those times.
Since the collapse of the boy band wave, our country has, tragically, lived without the passion, inspiration, and catharsis that men with girly voices, singing canned, refried, rehydroginated lyrics provide us with. Who is there now to give a voice to our basest, most incomplex feelings with over processed vocals than the artist currently known by the name of Homer's favorite beer?
I, like everyone, mourned the loss of our boy bands while dabbing my eyes in front of my N-Sync poster; but then I sat down and realized that the boy band revolution (for it surely was a revolution) was simply missing a few vital elements, and I set out to find a sound that would once again electrify the airwaves.... and I am happy to announce that I found it.
The wave of future is LEDERHOSEN CLAD BOY BANDS! Yes, friends, can't you hear the sound of jingling pockets just as you say it? What led to this epiphany? Well, I had the pleasure of attending a concert by the Von Trapp Children Singers at the Stoughton Opera House a couple of months ago, and they lit the place on FIYAHHH! Which is probably why they wear fire retardant leather lederhosen, to ward of the conflagration caused by their dynamism.
QUICK DISCLAIMER: Despite the fact that I seem to have participated in an inordinate number of Sound of Music related activities (The Sound of Music Tour in Salzburg, The Von Trapp Children Singers, a visit to the Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont, etc.) I am not really a Sound of Music fanatic, and will rarely be heard singing the tunes... except when I'm randomly inspired while frolicking around in mountain pastures. I may, or may not have been spotted doing that once, and will certainly not admit it to anybody unless confronted with solid evidence... or given a few drinks. Anyway, the fanatic is somebody in my family. Can you guess who? That's right, it's my brother Andrew!
Just kidding of course; Andrew's more of a My Fair Lady type of guy (smile). It's my mom.
Anyway, back to my point; LEDERHOSEN CLAD BANDS ARE THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE! Of course, a vocal group singing pseudo German songs wouldn't be complete without girls in it as well, so we'll have them wear female lederhosen to maintain uniformity. Okay, there's no such thing, and that's bordering on French, Pigalle cabaret territory there, so maybe we'll just let them wear antique, pseudo German dresses.
Besides a drastic change in attire, these bands will also trade in saccharine, pre-fab modern tunes, for saccharine, pre-fab, pseudo traditional folk tunes, allowing them to capitalize on the hugely untapped geriatric demographic. Seriously, many seniors are so busy ripping on all modern day rock-and-or-roll that they would start throwing their wallets up on stage when confronted by a bunch of cute kids in pseudo traditional outfits, singing pseudo traditional songs.
Anybody want in on this with me? It's a goldmine. I start the search for my superstars tomorrow.
Randomly yours,
Peter
Where's the love? Oh, I know where
Greetings, friends,
It is once again late in the night, and once again time to ponder those things which one can only ponder when the weight of fatigue invites us to forgo the clunky trappings of coherence, and allow a true stream of conscious to pour forth from our intellects.
Although many questions traverse my mind on a regular basis, one in particular has been weighing heavily on my conscience in the years since the Black Eyed Peas released their philosophically complex, and deeply moving track expressing the sentiment that all of us feel when we see our favorite on-screen character get dumped; "Where's The Love".
Well, friends, I am happy to announce that while I have not yet divined the answer as to why medium drinks are often called medium even though they are the smallest available beverage, I have discovered where the love is; IT'S ON STATE STREET, ON HALLOWEEN, IF YOU'RE DRESSED AS FUNKY ABRAHAM LINCOLN! Yes, yours truly dressed up as Mr. Lincoln this year, complete with some accessories to bring our 16th President up to the modern age... or, I should say, the disco age.
Frankly speaking, friends, I got more random drunk girl hugs down on State Street that night than I have ever gotten in my entire life combined. I mean, did Abe himself get this much attention from the girls when he was alive? If so, how did he ever get around to running the war, abolishing slavery, saving the union, etc? We've all heard of beer goggles, right? Well, apparently, when girls drink, Abe suddenly becomes the sexiest man of any age; they just can't get enough of running their fingers over that stove pipe hat.
When not being randomly hugged by drunk girls, I was often caught on the receiving end of a certain speech, delivered promptly after an intro sounding something like, "HEEEEEY! AAABE LINCOLN! I GOT A SPEEECH FOR YA!" The articulation was generally much more slurred than this particular font allows me to express. So, can you guess what speech it was? THAT'S RIGHT! LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS! "With malice towards none, with charity towards all, let us seek to bind up this nations wounds..." YEP! THAT ONE!
Okay, so it wasn't the Second Inaugural, and in fact, I was going to give twenty dollars to anybody who was able to quote me anything but the first two lines of the Gettysburg Address, but it never happened.
I am disappointed to say that I escaped State Street without either irritated eyes or puncture wounds from tasers. Apparently I left just a bit too early.
In other news, I recently played the high roller and bought myself some raffle tickets. I usually try to avoid any sort of gambling adventures since losing everything in Atlantic City back in '49; but these tickets were being sold by a pre-schooler who did not readily appear to have any three hundred pound gorillas at her beck and call to break my thumbs, so I figured I was safe. The fabulous array of prizes ranged from gift certificates, to complimentary rounds of golf, to dinners at fancy restaurants. I won the Finding Nemo blanket. Yes, that's right. If you wonder why everyone around you seems to be seething in jealousy these days, it's because I, Peter Groth, made off with the true prize of the Oregon Pre-School Raffle, and they're stuck with the dregs.... namely, gift certificates to L'Etoile. While they're dining on their uppity French cuisine, I'll be keeping warm in twenty-five square feet of Disney licensed cuddliness. Ha! Suckers!
Here's a question to ponder while staring at your ceiling in cold sweats during those sleepless nights of existential angst:
Exactly how many times is one supposed to say "Thank You" if someone graciously holds two consecutive doors for you? I always feel that one thank you is insufficient once the second door is breached, but two makes me feel like a broken record. Is there any protocol for this sort of thing? Could I maybe say "Thank" as I pass through the first door that is being held open for me, and "You" as I pass through the second door? Your ideas concerning this matter would be appreciated.
Randomly yours,
Peter
It is once again late in the night, and once again time to ponder those things which one can only ponder when the weight of fatigue invites us to forgo the clunky trappings of coherence, and allow a true stream of conscious to pour forth from our intellects.
Although many questions traverse my mind on a regular basis, one in particular has been weighing heavily on my conscience in the years since the Black Eyed Peas released their philosophically complex, and deeply moving track expressing the sentiment that all of us feel when we see our favorite on-screen character get dumped; "Where's The Love".
Well, friends, I am happy to announce that while I have not yet divined the answer as to why medium drinks are often called medium even though they are the smallest available beverage, I have discovered where the love is; IT'S ON STATE STREET, ON HALLOWEEN, IF YOU'RE DRESSED AS FUNKY ABRAHAM LINCOLN! Yes, yours truly dressed up as Mr. Lincoln this year, complete with some accessories to bring our 16th President up to the modern age... or, I should say, the disco age.
Frankly speaking, friends, I got more random drunk girl hugs down on State Street that night than I have ever gotten in my entire life combined. I mean, did Abe himself get this much attention from the girls when he was alive? If so, how did he ever get around to running the war, abolishing slavery, saving the union, etc? We've all heard of beer goggles, right? Well, apparently, when girls drink, Abe suddenly becomes the sexiest man of any age; they just can't get enough of running their fingers over that stove pipe hat.
When not being randomly hugged by drunk girls, I was often caught on the receiving end of a certain speech, delivered promptly after an intro sounding something like, "HEEEEEY! AAABE LINCOLN! I GOT A SPEEECH FOR YA!" The articulation was generally much more slurred than this particular font allows me to express. So, can you guess what speech it was? THAT'S RIGHT! LINCOLN'S SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS! "With malice towards none, with charity towards all, let us seek to bind up this nations wounds..." YEP! THAT ONE!
Okay, so it wasn't the Second Inaugural, and in fact, I was going to give twenty dollars to anybody who was able to quote me anything but the first two lines of the Gettysburg Address, but it never happened.
I am disappointed to say that I escaped State Street without either irritated eyes or puncture wounds from tasers. Apparently I left just a bit too early.
In other news, I recently played the high roller and bought myself some raffle tickets. I usually try to avoid any sort of gambling adventures since losing everything in Atlantic City back in '49; but these tickets were being sold by a pre-schooler who did not readily appear to have any three hundred pound gorillas at her beck and call to break my thumbs, so I figured I was safe. The fabulous array of prizes ranged from gift certificates, to complimentary rounds of golf, to dinners at fancy restaurants. I won the Finding Nemo blanket. Yes, that's right. If you wonder why everyone around you seems to be seething in jealousy these days, it's because I, Peter Groth, made off with the true prize of the Oregon Pre-School Raffle, and they're stuck with the dregs.... namely, gift certificates to L'Etoile. While they're dining on their uppity French cuisine, I'll be keeping warm in twenty-five square feet of Disney licensed cuddliness. Ha! Suckers!
Here's a question to ponder while staring at your ceiling in cold sweats during those sleepless nights of existential angst:
Exactly how many times is one supposed to say "Thank You" if someone graciously holds two consecutive doors for you? I always feel that one thank you is insufficient once the second door is breached, but two makes me feel like a broken record. Is there any protocol for this sort of thing? Could I maybe say "Thank" as I pass through the first door that is being held open for me, and "You" as I pass through the second door? Your ideas concerning this matter would be appreciated.
Randomly yours,
Peter
Ha! You Must Jest!
Dear Friends,
Pardon the haughty laughter that is drifting through this e-mail and tickling your follicles, but I have not been able to contain myself since, earlier in this very night, I was accused of something so erroneous that I paused to contemplate whether there is a clone of of myself, an anti-Peter if you will, running around with the sole purpose of misrepresenting me.
Upon further reflection, I realized that even if this were the case, which it very well may be, the person in question (we shall call him "nameless one") who accused me has known me so long, and has enjoyed making a mockery of the very things I hold dear to my heart for so long, that it is impossible to attribute this accusation to a chance encounter with an anti-Peter snorting crack and watching pro-wrestling, or something like that. In fact, the very familiarity with which this person is acquainted with me is what has made this accusation all the more shocking, and left me laughing haughtily since it was made, several hours ago. Prepare yourselves, friends, for the rancorous accusation you are about to hear may leave such a humorous residue on your mind, that it will take everything in you not to laugh at inappropriate moments for the rest of the week. Here it is:
"Peter, you're just going to see that film because of the chick in it."
Mwah ha ha! Pardon me again! Every time I repeat this accusation its ferocious humor grows! Yes, that's right! The nameless one accused me of seeing a film exclusively because I would be basking in the presence of a pretty female's celluloid representation for two hours! Mwah ha! I feel no need to get defensive on this issue, rather, I will let the evidence testify like a prophet from the Good Book, and testify it shall!
How dost thou misread me, nameless one? Let me count the ways!
1. In video store selection! You, nameless one, have wracked up an unprecedented record of critically panned video rentals, all in the name of finding a hot chick to look at onscreen. How bad have some of these films been? All of them together would get less than one half of a cumulative star! If Roger Ebert had six hands, he would have given these movies five thumbs down... and saved one for popcorn, of course. Did I sit by and watch you make these choices? No! Why if I had done so, I would have considered it a crime against the very artistic merit I adore, and lo, the rocks would have cried out in my place! I did not remain silent, I pleaded with compelling arguments from the depth of my being against the film you desired to subject yourself too! I praised the glories of script, plot, and acting, in an effort to pull you back from the dark side, but did you listen nameless one? No!
2. In my own film selection! I am a fan of the obscure and the critically acclaimed. I enjoy pointing out that half of all action films today are based on Kurosawa's "The Seven Samurai". In fact, who was it that told you "The Last Samurai" smacked of Kurosawa, even before the critic told you? It was me, nameless one! Who was it that told you "City of Angels" was based on a German film called "Wings of Desire"? ALSO ME, NAMELESS ONE! Is it not for this affection that I hold for critically acclaimed, and often foreign films, that you mock me so often? Who mentions, every time we see an image of somebody playing chess with the grim reaper, that it is a satire of a scene from "The Seventh Seal", a Swedish film of Bergman, from 1957? YES! ME, ME, ME, NAMELESS ONE! I don't look for films that have hot girls in them, I look for films that have a two inch layer of dust ON THEM!
3. In levels of cinematic voyeurism! Do you, nameless one, think that I would spend eight dollars and twenty-five cents, simply to have the celluloid representation of a comely young woman glowing in front of me for two hours? THERE ARE COMELY YOUNG WOMEN IN REAL LIFE, NAMELESS ONE! PERHAPS YOU SHOULD CHECK IT OUT SOMETIME! Why, I saw several today, and I wasn't even looking for them! Do you think I, a home schooled son of a pastor, and former balloon sculptor, would need to pay eight dollars just to see a lovely.... um, okay, we're not going to take that train into the terminal. Anyway, there are lovely girls everywhere, nameless one! I don't need to go to the cinema to see them!
SUCH IS PETER, NAMELESS ONE!
Pardon the rant, but when someone who is so close to me launches such a ridiculous accusation at me, I take it as a personal affront, and prepare to defend my name in public! Why? Because I try to never entertain self-delusions concerning me, whether they are held by myself or others; the one exception would be that one where I've retired to Provence, and spend all of my time writing Pulitzer Pize winning novels, while my girlfriend, a former French model who has given up her career to drape herself over me full time, stands behind me rubbing my back; that delusion is beautiful, and I'm not giving it up, enlightened self awareness be damned.
All the best,
Peter
Pardon the haughty laughter that is drifting through this e-mail and tickling your follicles, but I have not been able to contain myself since, earlier in this very night, I was accused of something so erroneous that I paused to contemplate whether there is a clone of of myself, an anti-Peter if you will, running around with the sole purpose of misrepresenting me.
Upon further reflection, I realized that even if this were the case, which it very well may be, the person in question (we shall call him "nameless one") who accused me has known me so long, and has enjoyed making a mockery of the very things I hold dear to my heart for so long, that it is impossible to attribute this accusation to a chance encounter with an anti-Peter snorting crack and watching pro-wrestling, or something like that. In fact, the very familiarity with which this person is acquainted with me is what has made this accusation all the more shocking, and left me laughing haughtily since it was made, several hours ago. Prepare yourselves, friends, for the rancorous accusation you are about to hear may leave such a humorous residue on your mind, that it will take everything in you not to laugh at inappropriate moments for the rest of the week. Here it is:
"Peter, you're just going to see that film because of the chick in it."
Mwah ha ha! Pardon me again! Every time I repeat this accusation its ferocious humor grows! Yes, that's right! The nameless one accused me of seeing a film exclusively because I would be basking in the presence of a pretty female's celluloid representation for two hours! Mwah ha! I feel no need to get defensive on this issue, rather, I will let the evidence testify like a prophet from the Good Book, and testify it shall!
How dost thou misread me, nameless one? Let me count the ways!
1. In video store selection! You, nameless one, have wracked up an unprecedented record of critically panned video rentals, all in the name of finding a hot chick to look at onscreen. How bad have some of these films been? All of them together would get less than one half of a cumulative star! If Roger Ebert had six hands, he would have given these movies five thumbs down... and saved one for popcorn, of course. Did I sit by and watch you make these choices? No! Why if I had done so, I would have considered it a crime against the very artistic merit I adore, and lo, the rocks would have cried out in my place! I did not remain silent, I pleaded with compelling arguments from the depth of my being against the film you desired to subject yourself too! I praised the glories of script, plot, and acting, in an effort to pull you back from the dark side, but did you listen nameless one? No!
2. In my own film selection! I am a fan of the obscure and the critically acclaimed. I enjoy pointing out that half of all action films today are based on Kurosawa's "The Seven Samurai". In fact, who was it that told you "The Last Samurai" smacked of Kurosawa, even before the critic told you? It was me, nameless one! Who was it that told you "City of Angels" was based on a German film called "Wings of Desire"? ALSO ME, NAMELESS ONE! Is it not for this affection that I hold for critically acclaimed, and often foreign films, that you mock me so often? Who mentions, every time we see an image of somebody playing chess with the grim reaper, that it is a satire of a scene from "The Seventh Seal", a Swedish film of Bergman, from 1957? YES! ME, ME, ME, NAMELESS ONE! I don't look for films that have hot girls in them, I look for films that have a two inch layer of dust ON THEM!
3. In levels of cinematic voyeurism! Do you, nameless one, think that I would spend eight dollars and twenty-five cents, simply to have the celluloid representation of a comely young woman glowing in front of me for two hours? THERE ARE COMELY YOUNG WOMEN IN REAL LIFE, NAMELESS ONE! PERHAPS YOU SHOULD CHECK IT OUT SOMETIME! Why, I saw several today, and I wasn't even looking for them! Do you think I, a home schooled son of a pastor, and former balloon sculptor, would need to pay eight dollars just to see a lovely.... um, okay, we're not going to take that train into the terminal. Anyway, there are lovely girls everywhere, nameless one! I don't need to go to the cinema to see them!
SUCH IS PETER, NAMELESS ONE!
Pardon the rant, but when someone who is so close to me launches such a ridiculous accusation at me, I take it as a personal affront, and prepare to defend my name in public! Why? Because I try to never entertain self-delusions concerning me, whether they are held by myself or others; the one exception would be that one where I've retired to Provence, and spend all of my time writing Pulitzer Pize winning novels, while my girlfriend, a former French model who has given up her career to drape herself over me full time, stands behind me rubbing my back; that delusion is beautiful, and I'm not giving it up, enlightened self awareness be damned.
All the best,
Peter
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 4)
I See London, I See France... (Pt. 4) "Buck Naked On The Beach"
Dear friends, it is once again time for a self-indulgent, sentimental recounting of Peter's European wanderings, viewed through the rose hued filter of his memory. Yes, there has once again been a rather significant lapse between the last installment ("Lead Me To Leeds"), and the one you currently viewing with trembleing hands and a palpitating heart; okay, so more than likely, you're actually saying, "What? Has Peter still not finished this travel series? Is he too busy getting high to finish it, or something? Uggghhh, I can't believe there's another crappy installment to this thing. Well, I suppose reading the first paragraph wouldn't kill me... although, it just might."
Yes, as you can see, I try to hold no pretentious delusions concerning what my readership may be thinking. Anyway, it has been some time since the last entry, and it has led me to reflect on what this constant stringing out may mean. Am I regretting the fact that this travel-log will ever end? Have I developed a kindred bond with all of you that I fear will be lost once the last segment ends? Have I been spending too much time eating Twinkies instead of writing? The possibilities are endless.
It's time to start the next segment, but before that, I need to address one more issue that is pertinent to this series of loosely connected, rambling anectdotes. It may appear that by titeling this segment "Buck Naked On the Beach", I am conforming to the degraded, commercialized sensibilities of the modern media, and embracing the public's thirst for the spectacle of wanton, lewd behavior, which their pseudo puritanical upbringings make so utterly appealing. In light of this, I feel it to be my personal and public responsibility to issue this clear response:
GUILTY ON ALL ACCOUNTS.
Yes, my friends, as much as I may sometimes seem to be a relic of the age when gentleman kept pairs of finely crafted dueling pistols on their mantels, and fostered torrid love affairs consisting entirely of impassioned stolen glances, I am not oblivious to current cultural trends, and the boost in circulation that the occasional flash of skin can give to a publication. So, let it be known, from this point forward, that there shall be no base desire I refuse to appeal to, no FCC obscenity regulation that I do not interpret liberally, and no lascivious experience which I fail to cull for all of its salacious literary material.
Well, when we left off last time, I was leaving Leeds and about to embark on a train trip to France. The destination was Normandy, which meant that I would be taking a train from Leeds to London, London to Paris, and then Paris to Caen. So, I grabbed one last spot of tea, and jumped onto the train down to London, where I then took the tube to Waterloo Station.
Waterloo Station is one of those really cool, really gigantic train stations that are made for cinematic arrivals, departures, and ultimatums:
"It's either me or Jean-Luc, and don't bloody well think you'll be able to walk back into my life if you leave now."
"Oh, Charles!"
"Oh Edith!"
"Oh Charles!"
Or something like that.
I finally boarded the train and was a bit shocked to find that, well, the Eurostar is a train. I guess I half expected it to be some sort of bullet shaped, glowing, MAGLEV equipped orb, hovering above a launch track ready to take me to Planet Paris. It is fairly normal, except in the fact that it goes under the English Channel, of course. I was also dissapointed that the tunnel section itself was not equipped with pulsating tracked lighting (you know, the type that make you feel like you're travling through a time machine? That would have been cool, but probably would have upset the passengers who were doing everything they could to avoid thinking about the fact that they were under the Channel).
After emerging out of the tunnel into France, I decided to hit the diner car to see if there were any darkly dressed, mysterious, brooding women with whom I could strike up a fatal conversation. Finding none, I decided to get something to eat, and said, "Hello" to the woman at the counter, only to have a polite "Bonjour!" said back to me. Ah ha! The great quandry of when to speak to the Eurostar staff in English, and when in French had been solved! English on the England side, French on the France side; but I still am not sure what's appropriate in the middle of the tunnel.
Strangely enough, on the way back to my seat, I seemed to pass through one car that was made up of francaphones, and another which was made of anglaphones. Curious, eh?
I arrived in Paris and once again got my bearings about where they hide the Metro in relation to "Les Grandes Lignes". Upon finding it, I discovered that no automatic ticket machine would take my credit card, and I would be required to yell at the tellers through one of those windows which, since the age of Napoleon, have been reinforced to withstand cannon fire.
I was about to do this, when I was suddenly approached by a very friendly, and very attractive Parisian woman who gave me a free all-day ticket. I then offered to be her personal gigolo for the evening in exchange for the price of the ticket (About five dollars, which is what I usually pull down when I'm working the street), but she said it wasn't necessary.
So, I got to St. Lazare Station and jumped on a train to Caen.
Caen, for those of you who I haven't yet bludgeoned with France stories, is the city where I spent my study abroad progrom in 2001, and so, carries a lot of sentimental value. When I reached the station, and stepped out onto the street, the memories truly came flooding back.
Let's pause for a moment to observe them all.
Yes, it was all there, the city, the station, the drug users who like to hang out around the station at night... it was all there. After a few minutes, Suja, my host mom from my study abroad days, came to pick me up; and yes, to answer the question that you are all wanting to ask, Suja is the daughter of Karlheinz Stockhausen!
Driving through the city at night was fantastic, seeing the cathedral and town hall all lit up, and spotting the many random places I had been lost on the first two days I had been there back in 2001.
The next day, we went blackberry picking in the hedgerows of Normandy! I put an exclamation point there, beause it seems to be something you would read about in a ninteenth century novel, but it's true my friends, even today, you can randomly drive around on ancient sunken roads through Les Pays d"Auge (Caen's countryside playground), through adorable little villages, and randomly pick blackberries off of the hedges.
I found myself on a hillside next to a country lane, facing an 11th century church, looking out across the patched landscape of hedgerows. What did I think? "Wow, this is so picturesque it's obscene". That's what I thought.
Eventually, we were drawn into a cow pasture by the mother lode of berries the bovines had been guarding. The cows did not seem to care much about my presence, or at least, failed to vary the their moos enough so I could actually tell.
Pleasant conversation was had by all. At one point, Suja asked me if there were certain things you couldn't do in the U.S. after traveling to Europe. I responded that "One cannot give one's breasts to the Red Cross for six months after traveling to Europe." Suja and Cosima (her daughter) errupted in laughter, just like all of you are doing right now; particularly the ones who already know that when I screw up in French, I often tend to screw up in big, and rather vulgar ways.
What I had meant to say was, "On ne peut pas donner de sang (blood) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." What I actually said was, "On ne peut pas donner de seins (breasts) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." Alas!
I spent the next few days hanging around Caen, happy to be back in my old digs. That weekend, I had a couple of adventures; first of all, I decided to go hang out at Dakota, our favorite student bar. I was pleased to find that it's pretty much the way we left it; the smoke is still there, the random pictures of airplanes are still there, and most importantly, there's still a garish neon sign advertising Adelscott Beer on the wall.
A short description of Adelscott is in order. Adelscott is the house beer at Dakota, and also happens to contain whisky malt, which translates to mean it messes you up quickly, particularly when you're six foot five, and spend a good half your day walking, as I was fond of doing here in 2001. Peter + walking all the time + no American chili cheese dogs = easy to intoxicate, and it usually only took two glasses of this stuff before I felt slightly tired and dopey.
So, intent on tasting the sweet nectar of Adelscott on my lips once again, I took a seat at the bar. The conversation went something like this:
PETER: Hi, can I have an Adelscott, please.
BARTENDER: We don't have Adelscott anymore.
I looked behind me in confusion at the neon Adelscott sign still affixed to the wall.
PETER: Uh, can I have a cider then.
BARTENDER: We don't have cider.
I sat there in shock for a moment.
PETER: What's the house beer?
BARTENDER: Amstel.
PETER: Oh, I guess I'll have one of those then, please.
The bartender gave me my beer, but then refused to take my money. I was about to launch into a monologue about "my money not being good here anymore!", but realized I had given her pounds instead of Euros. Whoops. So, yes, drink selection has changed a bit at Dakota, but I'm happy to say, it's still full of roudy students.
After beer time, it was KEBAB TIME at Corn d'Or, Caen's legendary kebab stand! This is the place I used to go all the time when the university's cafeteria workers were on strike, or after I had been out making merry at night, and well... whenever I was hungry. As far as I know, Corn d'Or never closes. One night, after having trekked back from Campus B north of the city, I discovered that the place was still open at 3:30 in the morning on a weekday! Yes, my friends, that is Corn d'Or's committement to bringing kebab goodness to famished youth. What was I doing wandering around at 3:30am on a weekday? Probably looking for a brawl, as I often do.
Eventually, Sunday arrived, my last day in Caen, and I had lunch over at the house of the De La Hougue family. They were the family I stayed with for the first week I was in Normandy in 2001. Bernadette, a freind of the family (who I had met before), was going out to the channel with a German exchange student of hers, so Catherine De La Hougue called her to ask if I could go along. While she was on the phone with Bernadette, she called to me, "Petair? Tu aimes te baigner?" (Do you like to swim?). Unfotunately I heard, "Tu aimes les beignets?" (Do you like doughnuts?). So, of course, I promptly responded, "I love doughnuts!" Catherine looked a bit confused, and I eventually realized my mistake.
So, Bernadette and her student arrived, and we went wandering out to Houlgate, a wonderful little seaside Norman town filled with large, English looking brick houses. I had determined from the beginning of my visit that I was going to have swim in the channel, because the chilly green waves called to me... "Peter! Jump on in! It's not too cold! Snicker, snicker, snicker. Yeah, that's right! Jump on in! Tee hee hee!" English Channel waves are sneaky like that.
I was all set to go, but discovered there was no changing room, and I was, unfortunately, the only one who didn't already have my suit on. I asked Bernadette about it:
PETER: Bernadette? Is there a changing room around here?
BERNADETTE: No, but you can just change on the beach. That's what Michel does.
PETER: Uh, right here?
BERNADETTE: Yes, you can just put the towel around you while you do it.
PETER: Uh, really?
Now, as you all know, towels do not generally come in "Peter Size"; in fact, a towel that is "Peter Size", is usually just called a living room rug, and is found in the home furnishings department of your favorite store. The towel I was carrying with me at the beach was definitely not sized for me, and so, I was aware of the possibility that an attempt to change with it wrapped around my waist may simply result in the beach-goers around me getting a little more American than they bargained for that day. Thoughts of the consequences overwhelmed me! I mean, the innocent minds of the world still hadn't recovered from the Janet Jackson incident at the Super Bowl, so what sort of therapy would those poor souls have to endure if Peter Groth showed off a little upper thigh?!
I thought about explaining this to Bernadette, as well as explaining the long-dormant puritanical scruples which are awakened in an American whenever they're about to do something really naughty (like change into their swimsuit with a towel wrapped around them on the beach), but the English Channel looked too inviting; so I threw caution, and my clothes, to the wind, and changed right there on the beach.
Illicit, eh? Cue the cabaret music while you enjoy that mental image, although, be warned, it may be hazerdous to your health.
I departed Normandy the next day, ready to gorge myself on the cultural smorgasboard that is Paris!
Next up "Part 5: Paris: If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"
Tangentally yours,
Peter
Dear friends, it is once again time for a self-indulgent, sentimental recounting of Peter's European wanderings, viewed through the rose hued filter of his memory. Yes, there has once again been a rather significant lapse between the last installment ("Lead Me To Leeds"), and the one you currently viewing with trembleing hands and a palpitating heart; okay, so more than likely, you're actually saying, "What? Has Peter still not finished this travel series? Is he too busy getting high to finish it, or something? Uggghhh, I can't believe there's another crappy installment to this thing. Well, I suppose reading the first paragraph wouldn't kill me... although, it just might."
Yes, as you can see, I try to hold no pretentious delusions concerning what my readership may be thinking. Anyway, it has been some time since the last entry, and it has led me to reflect on what this constant stringing out may mean. Am I regretting the fact that this travel-log will ever end? Have I developed a kindred bond with all of you that I fear will be lost once the last segment ends? Have I been spending too much time eating Twinkies instead of writing? The possibilities are endless.
It's time to start the next segment, but before that, I need to address one more issue that is pertinent to this series of loosely connected, rambling anectdotes. It may appear that by titeling this segment "Buck Naked On the Beach", I am conforming to the degraded, commercialized sensibilities of the modern media, and embracing the public's thirst for the spectacle of wanton, lewd behavior, which their pseudo puritanical upbringings make so utterly appealing. In light of this, I feel it to be my personal and public responsibility to issue this clear response:
GUILTY ON ALL ACCOUNTS.
Yes, my friends, as much as I may sometimes seem to be a relic of the age when gentleman kept pairs of finely crafted dueling pistols on their mantels, and fostered torrid love affairs consisting entirely of impassioned stolen glances, I am not oblivious to current cultural trends, and the boost in circulation that the occasional flash of skin can give to a publication. So, let it be known, from this point forward, that there shall be no base desire I refuse to appeal to, no FCC obscenity regulation that I do not interpret liberally, and no lascivious experience which I fail to cull for all of its salacious literary material.
Well, when we left off last time, I was leaving Leeds and about to embark on a train trip to France. The destination was Normandy, which meant that I would be taking a train from Leeds to London, London to Paris, and then Paris to Caen. So, I grabbed one last spot of tea, and jumped onto the train down to London, where I then took the tube to Waterloo Station.
Waterloo Station is one of those really cool, really gigantic train stations that are made for cinematic arrivals, departures, and ultimatums:
"It's either me or Jean-Luc, and don't bloody well think you'll be able to walk back into my life if you leave now."
"Oh, Charles!"
"Oh Edith!"
"Oh Charles!"
Or something like that.
I finally boarded the train and was a bit shocked to find that, well, the Eurostar is a train. I guess I half expected it to be some sort of bullet shaped, glowing, MAGLEV equipped orb, hovering above a launch track ready to take me to Planet Paris. It is fairly normal, except in the fact that it goes under the English Channel, of course. I was also dissapointed that the tunnel section itself was not equipped with pulsating tracked lighting (you know, the type that make you feel like you're travling through a time machine? That would have been cool, but probably would have upset the passengers who were doing everything they could to avoid thinking about the fact that they were under the Channel).
After emerging out of the tunnel into France, I decided to hit the diner car to see if there were any darkly dressed, mysterious, brooding women with whom I could strike up a fatal conversation. Finding none, I decided to get something to eat, and said, "Hello" to the woman at the counter, only to have a polite "Bonjour!" said back to me. Ah ha! The great quandry of when to speak to the Eurostar staff in English, and when in French had been solved! English on the England side, French on the France side; but I still am not sure what's appropriate in the middle of the tunnel.
Strangely enough, on the way back to my seat, I seemed to pass through one car that was made up of francaphones, and another which was made of anglaphones. Curious, eh?
I arrived in Paris and once again got my bearings about where they hide the Metro in relation to "Les Grandes Lignes". Upon finding it, I discovered that no automatic ticket machine would take my credit card, and I would be required to yell at the tellers through one of those windows which, since the age of Napoleon, have been reinforced to withstand cannon fire.
I was about to do this, when I was suddenly approached by a very friendly, and very attractive Parisian woman who gave me a free all-day ticket. I then offered to be her personal gigolo for the evening in exchange for the price of the ticket (About five dollars, which is what I usually pull down when I'm working the street), but she said it wasn't necessary.
So, I got to St. Lazare Station and jumped on a train to Caen.
Caen, for those of you who I haven't yet bludgeoned with France stories, is the city where I spent my study abroad progrom in 2001, and so, carries a lot of sentimental value. When I reached the station, and stepped out onto the street, the memories truly came flooding back.
Let's pause for a moment to observe them all.
Yes, it was all there, the city, the station, the drug users who like to hang out around the station at night... it was all there. After a few minutes, Suja, my host mom from my study abroad days, came to pick me up; and yes, to answer the question that you are all wanting to ask, Suja is the daughter of Karlheinz Stockhausen!
Driving through the city at night was fantastic, seeing the cathedral and town hall all lit up, and spotting the many random places I had been lost on the first two days I had been there back in 2001.
The next day, we went blackberry picking in the hedgerows of Normandy! I put an exclamation point there, beause it seems to be something you would read about in a ninteenth century novel, but it's true my friends, even today, you can randomly drive around on ancient sunken roads through Les Pays d"Auge (Caen's countryside playground), through adorable little villages, and randomly pick blackberries off of the hedges.
I found myself on a hillside next to a country lane, facing an 11th century church, looking out across the patched landscape of hedgerows. What did I think? "Wow, this is so picturesque it's obscene". That's what I thought.
Eventually, we were drawn into a cow pasture by the mother lode of berries the bovines had been guarding. The cows did not seem to care much about my presence, or at least, failed to vary the their moos enough so I could actually tell.
Pleasant conversation was had by all. At one point, Suja asked me if there were certain things you couldn't do in the U.S. after traveling to Europe. I responded that "One cannot give one's breasts to the Red Cross for six months after traveling to Europe." Suja and Cosima (her daughter) errupted in laughter, just like all of you are doing right now; particularly the ones who already know that when I screw up in French, I often tend to screw up in big, and rather vulgar ways.
What I had meant to say was, "On ne peut pas donner de sang (blood) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." What I actually said was, "On ne peut pas donner de seins (breasts) a la croix rouge pour six mois apres avoir voyager en europe." Alas!
I spent the next few days hanging around Caen, happy to be back in my old digs. That weekend, I had a couple of adventures; first of all, I decided to go hang out at Dakota, our favorite student bar. I was pleased to find that it's pretty much the way we left it; the smoke is still there, the random pictures of airplanes are still there, and most importantly, there's still a garish neon sign advertising Adelscott Beer on the wall.
A short description of Adelscott is in order. Adelscott is the house beer at Dakota, and also happens to contain whisky malt, which translates to mean it messes you up quickly, particularly when you're six foot five, and spend a good half your day walking, as I was fond of doing here in 2001. Peter + walking all the time + no American chili cheese dogs = easy to intoxicate, and it usually only took two glasses of this stuff before I felt slightly tired and dopey.
So, intent on tasting the sweet nectar of Adelscott on my lips once again, I took a seat at the bar. The conversation went something like this:
PETER: Hi, can I have an Adelscott, please.
BARTENDER: We don't have Adelscott anymore.
I looked behind me in confusion at the neon Adelscott sign still affixed to the wall.
PETER: Uh, can I have a cider then.
BARTENDER: We don't have cider.
I sat there in shock for a moment.
PETER: What's the house beer?
BARTENDER: Amstel.
PETER: Oh, I guess I'll have one of those then, please.
The bartender gave me my beer, but then refused to take my money. I was about to launch into a monologue about "my money not being good here anymore!", but realized I had given her pounds instead of Euros. Whoops. So, yes, drink selection has changed a bit at Dakota, but I'm happy to say, it's still full of roudy students.
After beer time, it was KEBAB TIME at Corn d'Or, Caen's legendary kebab stand! This is the place I used to go all the time when the university's cafeteria workers were on strike, or after I had been out making merry at night, and well... whenever I was hungry. As far as I know, Corn d'Or never closes. One night, after having trekked back from Campus B north of the city, I discovered that the place was still open at 3:30 in the morning on a weekday! Yes, my friends, that is Corn d'Or's committement to bringing kebab goodness to famished youth. What was I doing wandering around at 3:30am on a weekday? Probably looking for a brawl, as I often do.
Eventually, Sunday arrived, my last day in Caen, and I had lunch over at the house of the De La Hougue family. They were the family I stayed with for the first week I was in Normandy in 2001. Bernadette, a freind of the family (who I had met before), was going out to the channel with a German exchange student of hers, so Catherine De La Hougue called her to ask if I could go along. While she was on the phone with Bernadette, she called to me, "Petair? Tu aimes te baigner?" (Do you like to swim?). Unfotunately I heard, "Tu aimes les beignets?" (Do you like doughnuts?). So, of course, I promptly responded, "I love doughnuts!" Catherine looked a bit confused, and I eventually realized my mistake.
So, Bernadette and her student arrived, and we went wandering out to Houlgate, a wonderful little seaside Norman town filled with large, English looking brick houses. I had determined from the beginning of my visit that I was going to have swim in the channel, because the chilly green waves called to me... "Peter! Jump on in! It's not too cold! Snicker, snicker, snicker. Yeah, that's right! Jump on in! Tee hee hee!" English Channel waves are sneaky like that.
I was all set to go, but discovered there was no changing room, and I was, unfortunately, the only one who didn't already have my suit on. I asked Bernadette about it:
PETER: Bernadette? Is there a changing room around here?
BERNADETTE: No, but you can just change on the beach. That's what Michel does.
PETER: Uh, right here?
BERNADETTE: Yes, you can just put the towel around you while you do it.
PETER: Uh, really?
Now, as you all know, towels do not generally come in "Peter Size"; in fact, a towel that is "Peter Size", is usually just called a living room rug, and is found in the home furnishings department of your favorite store. The towel I was carrying with me at the beach was definitely not sized for me, and so, I was aware of the possibility that an attempt to change with it wrapped around my waist may simply result in the beach-goers around me getting a little more American than they bargained for that day. Thoughts of the consequences overwhelmed me! I mean, the innocent minds of the world still hadn't recovered from the Janet Jackson incident at the Super Bowl, so what sort of therapy would those poor souls have to endure if Peter Groth showed off a little upper thigh?!
I thought about explaining this to Bernadette, as well as explaining the long-dormant puritanical scruples which are awakened in an American whenever they're about to do something really naughty (like change into their swimsuit with a towel wrapped around them on the beach), but the English Channel looked too inviting; so I threw caution, and my clothes, to the wind, and changed right there on the beach.
Illicit, eh? Cue the cabaret music while you enjoy that mental image, although, be warned, it may be hazerdous to your health.
I departed Normandy the next day, ready to gorge myself on the cultural smorgasboard that is Paris!
Next up "Part 5: Paris: If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"
Tangentally yours,
Peter
The Great Potholes of the Soul
Dear Friends,
As the ice and snow have begun to recede on this Valentine's Day, revealing enormous, Volkswagon sized potholes, we pause to contemplate the great potholes of our souls, and the best way to fill them.
1. Stuff
Stuff's popularity continues to explode, with sales of stuff increasing exponentially all over the globe. Stuff continues to dominate as the most popular method for finding metaphysical contentment. So, buy Stuff and fill your pothole with that.
2. Find your true codependent love
A high quality co-dependent relationship is sometimes hard to find; but fear not, if you find one that's bordering on functional, just nourish it with plenty of mutual distrust, jelously, and static cling. You'll be Klingons in no time.
3. Find your Skoal mate
Yes, friends, if you haven't yet found a soul mate, just find yourself a Skoal mate. Nothing promotes spiritual kinship with another soul like chewing the chaw. So, find your Skoal mate and fill your pothole with Teebaccy juice.
4. Chocolate
There are two things in the universe capable of unconditional agape love; God, and chocolate. So, next time you feel unloved or unwanted, just open up that wrapper, because chocolate doesn't care if we have baggage, committment issues, or neurosis; it just wants to love us with all the chocolatey goodness it can.
Of course, if these don't work, one can always try friendship, religion, true love, meditation, volunteering, activism, random acts of kindness, etc, etc; but I would only use these as a last resort (grin).
Have a great Valentine's Day!
Don Pedro
As the ice and snow have begun to recede on this Valentine's Day, revealing enormous, Volkswagon sized potholes, we pause to contemplate the great potholes of our souls, and the best way to fill them.
1. Stuff
Stuff's popularity continues to explode, with sales of stuff increasing exponentially all over the globe. Stuff continues to dominate as the most popular method for finding metaphysical contentment. So, buy Stuff and fill your pothole with that.
2. Find your true codependent love
A high quality co-dependent relationship is sometimes hard to find; but fear not, if you find one that's bordering on functional, just nourish it with plenty of mutual distrust, jelously, and static cling. You'll be Klingons in no time.
3. Find your Skoal mate
Yes, friends, if you haven't yet found a soul mate, just find yourself a Skoal mate. Nothing promotes spiritual kinship with another soul like chewing the chaw. So, find your Skoal mate and fill your pothole with Teebaccy juice.
4. Chocolate
There are two things in the universe capable of unconditional agape love; God, and chocolate. So, next time you feel unloved or unwanted, just open up that wrapper, because chocolate doesn't care if we have baggage, committment issues, or neurosis; it just wants to love us with all the chocolatey goodness it can.
Of course, if these don't work, one can always try friendship, religion, true love, meditation, volunteering, activism, random acts of kindness, etc, etc; but I would only use these as a last resort (grin).
Have a great Valentine's Day!
Don Pedro
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 3)
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 3), Lead Me to Leeds
Hello friends!
It's once again time for some pretentious, self-indulgent reminiscing about Europe that may, or may not, be worthy of the written word.
We left off with my random, but all-together pleasant transit around London in the middle of the night. After arriving back at my room around 3:30am, I slept for the few fitful hours that one can after the city's pulse has infected one's bloodstream, and then got up to go catch a train at King's Cross Station; which, by the way, was the station I had spent three hours getting back from several hours before. Ahhhh, the irony.
Apparently, I had not gotten enough sleep during the night to really get myself lost again, so the trip to King's Cross Station went off without a hitch.
Random Sidebar: Interestingly, Bouddica, a queen of indigenous peoples who led a revolt against the Roman occupiers of England, is rumored to be buried beneath Platform 10 at King's Cross Station. However, I know for a fact that this is completely wrong. Bouddica is buried beneath Platform 9. Jimmy Hoffa is buried beneath Platform 10.
So, I boarded the train, my mind dripping with nostalgia for those days in our own country when I could have donned a pair of knickers, and boarded a steam engine for a weekend in the big city. Absent-minded visions like this are probably the reason why so many of us Americans get our luggage stolen on trains.
After an enjoyable train ride through the countryside, I arrived at Leeds in the late morning. Fortunately, Olly caught me at the train station before I could randomly wander off into the city asking where the Eiffel Tower is (grin).
Olly, for anyone who doesn't know, is one of the interns who I tore up the town with while I was in DC; and by "tore up the town", I mean, we plundered every free event available in the city, and dined at places where you buy dinner by the pound.
So, the first thing Olly and I did was look for a place to eat. Knowing my penchant for all things old and crusty, Olly directed us to the oldest pub in Leeds, and I proudly had my picture taken in front of the sign declaring its agedness. 387 old things down, 500,345,657,376,756,456,436 to go.
Anyway, the fish and chips I had were the best I ever tasted. Apparently, Leeds makes fish and chips in a different way than the rest of England.
After stuffing ourselves at the pub, we went for walk around the city, and guess what we saw? A Salvation Army Band! Perhaps I am the only one who has never seen a genuine Salvation Army Band, but I had wanted to see one from the moment I first heard "Life In a Northern Town". Apparently, as Olly explained to me, playing music is the primary thing the Salvation Army does in England. Interesting.
We took the bus back towards Olly's house, which is a little ways outside the city, and then walked down a country lane to get there.
A few words should be said of this country lane; it's bordered by trees and bushes on one side, and a scenic pasture on the other; the bushes yield a harvest of ripe berries, and there's even a stone fence that runs along it. In other words, it is ideal pastoral scene that Americans want to see when they go to rural England, and Olly could make a fortune off the place if he would be willing to put up with buses full of American tourists.
The next day we took the train to York, and checked out the cathedral there, which happens to be the biggest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe. The stained glass windows were of particular interest, because several of them were paid for by store owners and artisans who were able to fit a bit of advertising into the glass.
For example, a window containing a scene from the Garden of Gethsemane also had a note in the lower right hand corner saying, "Arty's Roast Mutton is Delicious". And a window portraying the great flood also advertised, "Quincy's Big and Tall Armour Shack".
After the cathedral, we went downtown and visited The Shambles, a group of medieval buildings that are gradually collapsing in towards each other across the street, so much so, that two people standing in the windows of the houses facing each other could easily shake hands.
The sight of these charming, albeit collapsing edifices, led me to the conclusion that crumbling English towns tend to look much more charming than your average American Midwestern town when it's crumbling; not to say that I haven't been to some rust-belt locales with charm.
That night we headed back to Leeds, and I packed up to leave for Normandy the next day.
Many thanks to Olly and his family for such a warm welcome!
Next up: Part 4, "Buck Naked on the Beach".
Peter
Hello friends!
It's once again time for some pretentious, self-indulgent reminiscing about Europe that may, or may not, be worthy of the written word.
We left off with my random, but all-together pleasant transit around London in the middle of the night. After arriving back at my room around 3:30am, I slept for the few fitful hours that one can after the city's pulse has infected one's bloodstream, and then got up to go catch a train at King's Cross Station; which, by the way, was the station I had spent three hours getting back from several hours before. Ahhhh, the irony.
Apparently, I had not gotten enough sleep during the night to really get myself lost again, so the trip to King's Cross Station went off without a hitch.
Random Sidebar: Interestingly, Bouddica, a queen of indigenous peoples who led a revolt against the Roman occupiers of England, is rumored to be buried beneath Platform 10 at King's Cross Station. However, I know for a fact that this is completely wrong. Bouddica is buried beneath Platform 9. Jimmy Hoffa is buried beneath Platform 10.
So, I boarded the train, my mind dripping with nostalgia for those days in our own country when I could have donned a pair of knickers, and boarded a steam engine for a weekend in the big city. Absent-minded visions like this are probably the reason why so many of us Americans get our luggage stolen on trains.
After an enjoyable train ride through the countryside, I arrived at Leeds in the late morning. Fortunately, Olly caught me at the train station before I could randomly wander off into the city asking where the Eiffel Tower is (grin).
Olly, for anyone who doesn't know, is one of the interns who I tore up the town with while I was in DC; and by "tore up the town", I mean, we plundered every free event available in the city, and dined at places where you buy dinner by the pound.
So, the first thing Olly and I did was look for a place to eat. Knowing my penchant for all things old and crusty, Olly directed us to the oldest pub in Leeds, and I proudly had my picture taken in front of the sign declaring its agedness. 387 old things down, 500,345,657,376,756,456,436 to go.
Anyway, the fish and chips I had were the best I ever tasted. Apparently, Leeds makes fish and chips in a different way than the rest of England.
After stuffing ourselves at the pub, we went for walk around the city, and guess what we saw? A Salvation Army Band! Perhaps I am the only one who has never seen a genuine Salvation Army Band, but I had wanted to see one from the moment I first heard "Life In a Northern Town". Apparently, as Olly explained to me, playing music is the primary thing the Salvation Army does in England. Interesting.
We took the bus back towards Olly's house, which is a little ways outside the city, and then walked down a country lane to get there.
A few words should be said of this country lane; it's bordered by trees and bushes on one side, and a scenic pasture on the other; the bushes yield a harvest of ripe berries, and there's even a stone fence that runs along it. In other words, it is ideal pastoral scene that Americans want to see when they go to rural England, and Olly could make a fortune off the place if he would be willing to put up with buses full of American tourists.
The next day we took the train to York, and checked out the cathedral there, which happens to be the biggest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe. The stained glass windows were of particular interest, because several of them were paid for by store owners and artisans who were able to fit a bit of advertising into the glass.
For example, a window containing a scene from the Garden of Gethsemane also had a note in the lower right hand corner saying, "Arty's Roast Mutton is Delicious". And a window portraying the great flood also advertised, "Quincy's Big and Tall Armour Shack".
After the cathedral, we went downtown and visited The Shambles, a group of medieval buildings that are gradually collapsing in towards each other across the street, so much so, that two people standing in the windows of the houses facing each other could easily shake hands.
The sight of these charming, albeit collapsing edifices, led me to the conclusion that crumbling English towns tend to look much more charming than your average American Midwestern town when it's crumbling; not to say that I haven't been to some rust-belt locales with charm.
That night we headed back to Leeds, and I packed up to leave for Normandy the next day.
Many thanks to Olly and his family for such a warm welcome!
Next up: Part 4, "Buck Naked on the Beach".
Peter
The Visigoth Anti-Defamation League
Dear friends, allies, and fellow pike weilding barbarian hordes of the lower steppes,
This year is happy year, for we celebrate 1,647th anniversary of Visigoth uprising! But in truth, friends, it is a difficult time to be a Visigoth. It used to be that every time I was out around town running errands, and someone discovered I am Goth, horrible visions of burnings, lootings, and barbarians on the march passed through their mind. This all pleased Alaric very much.
But now? Great Hannibal! Every time I mention that I am Goth, somebody asks me if I listen to something called The Cure? What is this Cure? And what ailments can I use it for? Is it an ointment I can rub on the stump where my finger used to be after a particularly fierce battle with the Romans?
Then, the next day, someone tells me that I must go to the Cistern Coffee Shop, because there would be a large meeting of Goths there on Saturday night. Truly, my heart lept within me, for I have been searching for my brothers in arms for many years.
Imagine my shock when I discovered a room full of Goths wearing dark make-up and reciting poetry that made Alaric think that life is not so good. Is this what civilisation has done to my once proud barbarian horde?
Really, friends, these disgruntled make-up wearing youngsters are the greatest threat to the Visigoth legacy since flamboyant gothic architecture; I mean, flamboyant?! Gothic?! These two words never go together!
You doubt me? Well, yes, I admit, one time these words did go together. It was at Alaric's birthday party last year. Alaric's brother, Vladic, dressed up as sissy roman emporer and danced around fire for five hours. This made Alaric laugh very heartily. HA HA HA! Yes, like that, a hearty laugh fitting of a barbarian.
Anyway, back to flamboyant gothic architecture. Would Visigoths take two hundred years to build church, and fill it with frilly towers and elegant bas-relief (Alaric has been using his retirement lately to study art)? I think not! Visigoths would take mountain, set it out on plain, and carve out church with bare hands in ten days! Not that we build many churches.
Back to Goths. I fear that these young, tragically depressed quarter staffs are the greatest threat to Visigoth reputation in many years.
I know, I know; wife always tell me, "Alaric? Why are you so hard on Goths? They have many things in common with you! They are very depressed, just like you were, and paint their faces just like you too!"
Yes, Goths say they are very depressed. Visigoths know what it's like being depressed. Visigoths sometimes got very depressed too, thinking that life was sucking so much, and that getting up to face a new day as a Visigoth was more sucking than we could handle.....
SO WE DESTROYED THE ROMAN EMPIRE THAT MADE LIFE SUCK!!!!!
Also, we Visigoths do paint our faces sometimes....
WITH THE BLOOD OF OUR ENEMIES!!!!!
Yes, my friends, I miss the days when the mention of the word Visigoth would cause people to recoil in horror from me. So, I come to you, as one who has often plundered your lands and run off with your womens, asking you to please join the Visigoth Anti-Defemation League, and help keep the legacy of the Visigoth alive for the next generation.
Sincerely,
Alaric I - Posthumous President of the Visigoth Anti-Defemation League
This year is happy year, for we celebrate 1,647th anniversary of Visigoth uprising! But in truth, friends, it is a difficult time to be a Visigoth. It used to be that every time I was out around town running errands, and someone discovered I am Goth, horrible visions of burnings, lootings, and barbarians on the march passed through their mind. This all pleased Alaric very much.
But now? Great Hannibal! Every time I mention that I am Goth, somebody asks me if I listen to something called The Cure? What is this Cure? And what ailments can I use it for? Is it an ointment I can rub on the stump where my finger used to be after a particularly fierce battle with the Romans?
Then, the next day, someone tells me that I must go to the Cistern Coffee Shop, because there would be a large meeting of Goths there on Saturday night. Truly, my heart lept within me, for I have been searching for my brothers in arms for many years.
Imagine my shock when I discovered a room full of Goths wearing dark make-up and reciting poetry that made Alaric think that life is not so good. Is this what civilisation has done to my once proud barbarian horde?
Really, friends, these disgruntled make-up wearing youngsters are the greatest threat to the Visigoth legacy since flamboyant gothic architecture; I mean, flamboyant?! Gothic?! These two words never go together!
You doubt me? Well, yes, I admit, one time these words did go together. It was at Alaric's birthday party last year. Alaric's brother, Vladic, dressed up as sissy roman emporer and danced around fire for five hours. This made Alaric laugh very heartily. HA HA HA! Yes, like that, a hearty laugh fitting of a barbarian.
Anyway, back to flamboyant gothic architecture. Would Visigoths take two hundred years to build church, and fill it with frilly towers and elegant bas-relief (Alaric has been using his retirement lately to study art)? I think not! Visigoths would take mountain, set it out on plain, and carve out church with bare hands in ten days! Not that we build many churches.
Back to Goths. I fear that these young, tragically depressed quarter staffs are the greatest threat to Visigoth reputation in many years.
I know, I know; wife always tell me, "Alaric? Why are you so hard on Goths? They have many things in common with you! They are very depressed, just like you were, and paint their faces just like you too!"
Yes, Goths say they are very depressed. Visigoths know what it's like being depressed. Visigoths sometimes got very depressed too, thinking that life was sucking so much, and that getting up to face a new day as a Visigoth was more sucking than we could handle.....
SO WE DESTROYED THE ROMAN EMPIRE THAT MADE LIFE SUCK!!!!!
Also, we Visigoths do paint our faces sometimes....
WITH THE BLOOD OF OUR ENEMIES!!!!!
Yes, my friends, I miss the days when the mention of the word Visigoth would cause people to recoil in horror from me. So, I come to you, as one who has often plundered your lands and run off with your womens, asking you to please join the Visigoth Anti-Defemation League, and help keep the legacy of the Visigoth alive for the next generation.
Sincerely,
Alaric I - Posthumous President of the Visigoth Anti-Defemation League
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 2)
I See London, I See France... (Pt. 2) - "The Coronation Spoon!"
Hey everyone!
I realize that it has been awhile since Part 1 of this tale was sent out, a shrewd move on my part designed to build anticipation expectation up to such an outrageous level that I can't help but fail to fulfill it. Why is this a good thing? I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea while I was delaying the release of Part 2.
Okay, in reality, I was busy eating turkey leftovers for the past week and a half, and as a result of that certain chemical in the bird, have been nearly comatose since Thanksgiving Day. Yes, that's my excuse.
Anyway, here I am, live and.... er, I mean, in digitized literary form, and twelve point black font. Hmmm, doesn't quite have the same ring.
At the end of Part 1, I was at my hotel in Earl's Court (southwest London), sleeping off a nasty case of temporal whiplash. Well, I did eventually wake up, and felt wild and crazy enough to buy an unlimited subway pass and go wandering.
My first stop that evening was the Tower of London, where I began to hatch my plan to commit a truly hideous crime, like walking on the grass near Buckingham Palace, to get myself locked up in the Tower for a few days. Regrettably, the status level of criminal activity required for free admission to the tower of London has been increasing the last few centuries. Let's just say that the last man held at the Tower of London was a Nazi war criminal. So, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not have the opportunity to refer to "that time I was locked in the Tower of London".
It was getting near nightfall, so I wandered over to Trafalgar Square, and then Picadilly Circus, where I saw half the population of the earth. Okay, so maybe it wasn't half, but I'm willing to guess it was one eighth... yes, packed indeed.
I stayed in London for a total of four days. The following are some highlights:
1. The Imperial War Museum:
This place promises "All the war you can handle, or your money back." Or, at least, it should. The UK has been in a lot of wars.... yes, a lot of wars, and as a result, this museum is quite extensive, having displays on everything from the Boer War, to WWII, to the British Invasion; the latter of these conflicts, of course, having the best soundtrack.
The Imperial War Museum is a truly impressive, even boasting a recreated World War I trench, and an interactive exhibit called the Blitz Experience, and no, it does not replicate that moment when you've had too much to drink and discover you can't see, but rather, is a quite convincing replica of London under bombardment.
The eerily realistic World War I trench reinforced what I already knew; that at six foot five, I would have been screwed in a trench that was about six feet, three inches deep, unless, of course, I had developed a fondness for walking like Quasimodo. Food for thought.
Anyway, I highly recommend the Imperial War Museum, because it's a fascinating place, and a fitting tribute to the British fighting man.
2. The Tower of London:
Yes, I finally resigned to buying myself a ticket, and very much enjoyed the Tour of "La Tour" (tee hee hee) first started by William the Conquerer way back when. Regrettably, Guillaum was not in that day, so I was unable to visit with him; but I enjoyed the storytelling of the Yeoman Warder, who made it his duty to frighten all of the children in the group with stories of imprisonment, torture, and all around unpleasantness.
Eventually, the tour ended, and I decided to take a good look at the family jewels, --insert perverted jokes here-- And frankly, I was stunned by the shere shininess of them all. I haven't seen that many shiny objects since I got a bag of chocolate coins last Christmas.
The collection contained lots of crowns, sceptors, and one outrageously ornate spoon. THE CORONATION SPOON! I stared at this spoon for some time, wondering what in the world it was used for. Is it used to serve the Coronation Punch from the Coronation Punch Bowl, or something like that?
Drawing on my limited knowledge of Monarchical affairs, I have come to one conclusion; the Coronation Spoon must serve the same purpose that Excalibur did in Arthurian Legend, so that the true chosen leader of England is discovered by seeing who can balance the Coronation Spoon on their nose. Granted, not quite as dramatic as pulling a sword from a stone, but effective, all the same.
3. Saint Paul's Cathedral:
Sir Christopher Wren understood light like a talented director, and it shows in this magnificient structure. And if the structure doesn't impress you, Nelson and Wellington are in the basement! That's right, folks! Nelson and Wellington, in the crypt! The two British heroes of the Napoleonic Wars are right there.
For a little amusement, try standing by Wellington's tomb, quietly mumbling in French with a disgruntled voice about the Little General and the glory of the old empire.
4. Grenwich:
Here, one can visit the the charming town, as well as the Royal Observatory, which is located on a large hill overlooking the city. The park on the hill is a great place to have a picnic overlooking London, or drink oneself into a stupor and fall asleep on one of its many benches. I tried the former, and not the latter, but I'm sure its quite charming as well. After dinner, I amused myself with repeatedly jumping over the Grenwhich Mean timeline, which is, literally, a line eminating from the Royal Observatory.
5. Parliment:
Remarkably, the chambers of parliment are even slightly smaller than they look on C-Span (no I did not just admit to watching C-Span), which results in you being in a perfect position to hurl masked insults at your opponents, like "I believe the gentleman is becoming tired and emotional", which apparently, is the same as calling somebody a drunk.
6. Getting Lost In London in the Middle of the Night:
On my last night in London, I had a splendid dinner with my friend Ellie, and a couple of her cool friends up in northeastern London; Islington, to be exact.
Then, I discovered that it was about 1:30 in the morning, and the only way I was going to get back, all the way across London, was by riding the night buses... and to find a night bus, I had to go to King's Cross station. Of course, King's Cross immediately set off alarms in my head, because pretty much every tour book I've ever read says to stay away from King's Cross at night.
However, I was heartened, because it wasn't night, it was 1:30 in the morning. So, I put on my sternest and most intimidating stare (don't laugh, I really do have one.... okay, I don't), and then set off towards the station. I was sure it would be fine as long as I didn't wander on to any small, poor lit roads.... which, I did, of course, almost immidiately.
Eventually, I found my way back to the station, and then attempted to translate the schedule into language I could understand. I really needed some sort transportational Rosetta Stone for this part, but lacking one, I made do.
I discovered a bus that went to Victoria (generally, in the right direction), and hopped on. Well, about 45 minutes later, I arrived at the station, and discovered that (thanks to a very friendly station employee) that I needed to pick up a different bus back at Hyde Park Corner. So, I jumped on a bus and made my way back there.
However, once I caught the bus there, I somehow ended up going the wrong direction, and after some minutes, discovered that I was in Piccadilly Circus (the opposite direction of may hotel).
Frustrated at my inability to find my way back to the hotel, I got off the bus, curled up into the fetal position, and started sucking on my thumb. I mean, why not sleep in the gutter and just pick up the subway in a few hours?
Well, I finally decided that I didn't really want to sleep in the gutter, and hopped on a bus back to Hyde Park Corner, and eventually got back to my hotel, at about 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. I have to say, it was one of the best times I've ever had getting lost (grin!), and actually gave me the chance to see a large part of the city in the wee hours of the morning.
Ironically, after a few hours of sleep, I had to catch a train..... at King's Cross Station! However, it was much easier with the tube runnning.
Next up: "Lead me to Leeds!"
Peter
Hey everyone!
I realize that it has been awhile since Part 1 of this tale was sent out, a shrewd move on my part designed to build anticipation expectation up to such an outrageous level that I can't help but fail to fulfill it. Why is this a good thing? I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea while I was delaying the release of Part 2.
Okay, in reality, I was busy eating turkey leftovers for the past week and a half, and as a result of that certain chemical in the bird, have been nearly comatose since Thanksgiving Day. Yes, that's my excuse.
Anyway, here I am, live and.... er, I mean, in digitized literary form, and twelve point black font. Hmmm, doesn't quite have the same ring.
At the end of Part 1, I was at my hotel in Earl's Court (southwest London), sleeping off a nasty case of temporal whiplash. Well, I did eventually wake up, and felt wild and crazy enough to buy an unlimited subway pass and go wandering.
My first stop that evening was the Tower of London, where I began to hatch my plan to commit a truly hideous crime, like walking on the grass near Buckingham Palace, to get myself locked up in the Tower for a few days. Regrettably, the status level of criminal activity required for free admission to the tower of London has been increasing the last few centuries. Let's just say that the last man held at the Tower of London was a Nazi war criminal. So, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not have the opportunity to refer to "that time I was locked in the Tower of London".
It was getting near nightfall, so I wandered over to Trafalgar Square, and then Picadilly Circus, where I saw half the population of the earth. Okay, so maybe it wasn't half, but I'm willing to guess it was one eighth... yes, packed indeed.
I stayed in London for a total of four days. The following are some highlights:
1. The Imperial War Museum:
This place promises "All the war you can handle, or your money back." Or, at least, it should. The UK has been in a lot of wars.... yes, a lot of wars, and as a result, this museum is quite extensive, having displays on everything from the Boer War, to WWII, to the British Invasion; the latter of these conflicts, of course, having the best soundtrack.
The Imperial War Museum is a truly impressive, even boasting a recreated World War I trench, and an interactive exhibit called the Blitz Experience, and no, it does not replicate that moment when you've had too much to drink and discover you can't see, but rather, is a quite convincing replica of London under bombardment.
The eerily realistic World War I trench reinforced what I already knew; that at six foot five, I would have been screwed in a trench that was about six feet, three inches deep, unless, of course, I had developed a fondness for walking like Quasimodo. Food for thought.
Anyway, I highly recommend the Imperial War Museum, because it's a fascinating place, and a fitting tribute to the British fighting man.
2. The Tower of London:
Yes, I finally resigned to buying myself a ticket, and very much enjoyed the Tour of "La Tour" (tee hee hee) first started by William the Conquerer way back when. Regrettably, Guillaum was not in that day, so I was unable to visit with him; but I enjoyed the storytelling of the Yeoman Warder, who made it his duty to frighten all of the children in the group with stories of imprisonment, torture, and all around unpleasantness.
Eventually, the tour ended, and I decided to take a good look at the family jewels, --insert perverted jokes here-- And frankly, I was stunned by the shere shininess of them all. I haven't seen that many shiny objects since I got a bag of chocolate coins last Christmas.
The collection contained lots of crowns, sceptors, and one outrageously ornate spoon. THE CORONATION SPOON! I stared at this spoon for some time, wondering what in the world it was used for. Is it used to serve the Coronation Punch from the Coronation Punch Bowl, or something like that?
Drawing on my limited knowledge of Monarchical affairs, I have come to one conclusion; the Coronation Spoon must serve the same purpose that Excalibur did in Arthurian Legend, so that the true chosen leader of England is discovered by seeing who can balance the Coronation Spoon on their nose. Granted, not quite as dramatic as pulling a sword from a stone, but effective, all the same.
3. Saint Paul's Cathedral:
Sir Christopher Wren understood light like a talented director, and it shows in this magnificient structure. And if the structure doesn't impress you, Nelson and Wellington are in the basement! That's right, folks! Nelson and Wellington, in the crypt! The two British heroes of the Napoleonic Wars are right there.
For a little amusement, try standing by Wellington's tomb, quietly mumbling in French with a disgruntled voice about the Little General and the glory of the old empire.
4. Grenwich:
Here, one can visit the the charming town, as well as the Royal Observatory, which is located on a large hill overlooking the city. The park on the hill is a great place to have a picnic overlooking London, or drink oneself into a stupor and fall asleep on one of its many benches. I tried the former, and not the latter, but I'm sure its quite charming as well. After dinner, I amused myself with repeatedly jumping over the Grenwhich Mean timeline, which is, literally, a line eminating from the Royal Observatory.
5. Parliment:
Remarkably, the chambers of parliment are even slightly smaller than they look on C-Span (no I did not just admit to watching C-Span), which results in you being in a perfect position to hurl masked insults at your opponents, like "I believe the gentleman is becoming tired and emotional", which apparently, is the same as calling somebody a drunk.
6. Getting Lost In London in the Middle of the Night:
On my last night in London, I had a splendid dinner with my friend Ellie, and a couple of her cool friends up in northeastern London; Islington, to be exact.
Then, I discovered that it was about 1:30 in the morning, and the only way I was going to get back, all the way across London, was by riding the night buses... and to find a night bus, I had to go to King's Cross station. Of course, King's Cross immediately set off alarms in my head, because pretty much every tour book I've ever read says to stay away from King's Cross at night.
However, I was heartened, because it wasn't night, it was 1:30 in the morning. So, I put on my sternest and most intimidating stare (don't laugh, I really do have one.... okay, I don't), and then set off towards the station. I was sure it would be fine as long as I didn't wander on to any small, poor lit roads.... which, I did, of course, almost immidiately.
Eventually, I found my way back to the station, and then attempted to translate the schedule into language I could understand. I really needed some sort transportational Rosetta Stone for this part, but lacking one, I made do.
I discovered a bus that went to Victoria (generally, in the right direction), and hopped on. Well, about 45 minutes later, I arrived at the station, and discovered that (thanks to a very friendly station employee) that I needed to pick up a different bus back at Hyde Park Corner. So, I jumped on a bus and made my way back there.
However, once I caught the bus there, I somehow ended up going the wrong direction, and after some minutes, discovered that I was in Piccadilly Circus (the opposite direction of may hotel).
Frustrated at my inability to find my way back to the hotel, I got off the bus, curled up into the fetal position, and started sucking on my thumb. I mean, why not sleep in the gutter and just pick up the subway in a few hours?
Well, I finally decided that I didn't really want to sleep in the gutter, and hopped on a bus back to Hyde Park Corner, and eventually got back to my hotel, at about 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. I have to say, it was one of the best times I've ever had getting lost (grin!), and actually gave me the chance to see a large part of the city in the wee hours of the morning.
Ironically, after a few hours of sleep, I had to catch a train..... at King's Cross Station! However, it was much easier with the tube runnning.
Next up: "Lead me to Leeds!"
Peter
Suit Jacket Evolution
Dear friends, and fellow curiosos,
I was at the Monona Terrace a couple of Sundays ago, fussing myself up (apparently that's an old equivalent to getting pimped out) for a wedding, and discovered the fascinating curiosity that is my suit jacket's pocket.
On the outside, my pocket appears to be completely normal, like the one in which I could carry my usual supply of half eaten candy bars, melted sticks of gum, and smack.... okay, not that last one.
However, my pocket, in reality, isn't a functioning pocket at all. I can't open it! Imagine that, a non-functioning pocket!
Well, as usual, my curiosity got the best of me, and I started to wonder how I ever ended up with a suit jacket that has a non-functioning pocket? I was determined to have this question answered, and took the liberty of inviting two experts over to debate the nature of my nonfunctional pocket. Below is the transcript of the enlightening conversation that ensued:
Peter: Good evening everyone. I would like to begin tonight's living room debate by introducing our guest experts. On my right is Dr. Cindy Fellows, a professor of evolutionary biology at Stanford University; she has been published in countless scientific journals, and is also the author of the book, "Evolution: What Part of It Don't You Creationists Understand?" Welcome Dr. Fellows.
Dr. Fellows: Thank you Peter, it's my pleasure to be here.
Peter: On my left is Dr. John Masters, the chief scientist at the Institute for Creation Research in London, England; he has been widely published in many creationist and religious journals, and has also authored the book, "Creationism: It's About God, Stupid", his rebuttal to attacks on his theories by evolutionists. Thank you for being here, Dr. Masters.
Dr. Masters: It's a great pleasure, Peter.
Peter: Well, let's get to the subject of our debate tonight (Peter produces his suit jacket from underneath the table). Let's start with you, Dr. Fellows. What can you tell me about my jacket?
Dr. Fellows: Well, Peter, this is a truly fascinating specimen. It appears to be from the last ten million years; perhaps, from the Retro-Euro Chic period.
Peter: That's exactly right. What can you tell me about the pocket.
Dr. Fellows: Hmmm, yes, this is a perfect example of suit jacket evolution. Clearly, your suit jacket originally had large pockets in it that were conducive to it's survival on the Primordial plains millions of years ago. You see, this jacket would have easily found an owner because of it's large, roomy pocket space, allowing the wearer to stash large chunks of meat and other sustenance for the trip back to the tribe's camp. The suit jacket clearly evolved these large pockets because of the attractiveness it would have given it. This suit jacket, in turn, made the wearer, who would return to camp with large amounts of meat in his pockets, very desirable for procreation among the females of the tribe.
Dr. Masters: That simply isn't right.
Peter: Why did the pockets cease to function.
Dr. Fellows: Well, clearly, the suit jacket arrived at a point where it realized that its pockets were no longer necessary to its survival; probably when it entered into a symbiotic relationship with Peter's suit pants.
Dr. Masters: (groans)
Dr. Fellows: Yes, once suit jacket met up with suit pants on the primordial plain, suit jacket realized that the spacious carrying capability of suit pants was more than enough for both of their load carrying needs; therefore, suit jacket's functional pockets gradually closed up from lack of use over several evolutionary cycles. You see, this pocket is just like the human appendix; present, but serving no purpose anymore.
Peter: What's your take, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Well, Peter, your suit jacket is clearly the product of intelligent design, and was most certainly crafted by a loving God in the image of His own suit jacket, just as God lovingly crafted you, Dr. Fellows, and myself in His own image. There is absolutely no way that something of this efficient complexity could have randomly evolved by itself. Concerning the pockets, I would contend that just because something does not readily serve a purpose in our own eyes does not mean that there couldn't be some undiscovered purpose.
Dr. Fellows: What purpose could Peter's appendix serve, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Well, for just one example, Peter could take his appendix out, put it in a jar, and display it on his desk at his place of work. This would serve the purpose of really grossing people out, and also lead them to question Peter's sanity.
Dr. Fellows: (audible groan)
Dr. Masters: But it's not just that. Have you ever considered that the suit jacket's pockets were created by God simply for cosmetic purposes? I don't find it unreasonable at all to think that God just wanted to make the suit jacket look good, and therefore, make Peter look good while he is wearing it.
Dr. Fellows: Are you implying that God wants to get Peter laid?
Dr. Masters: Dear heavens! Is that what it's always about with you evolutionists? Sex, Sex, Sex!
Dr. Fellows: Yes.
Dr. Masters: Well, alright then.
Dr. Fellows: Dr. Masters, you have nearly made my argument already. There is only one explanation for why Peter's suit jacket retained it's appearance of having pockets, and that is for reproductive success. The desire for a meat-providing male is deeply ingrained in every female of our species. When Peter shows up to a wedding reception or a party wearing his suit jacket, all the girls in the room look at it and subconsciously think to themselves, "Wow, there is a guy who can carry some meat. I really should go talk to him" Therefore, Peter's suit jacket is increasing Peter's chances for reproductive success, and as a byproduct, insuring that itself will survive as a hand-me-down with Peter's offspring for generations to come.
Peter: Would you like to respond, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Yes, Peter, I would. Have you ever seen a suit jacket without pockets, Dr. Fuller? It would look ridiculous!
Dr. Fuller: That's because evolutionary biology has ingrained that propensity in us.
Dr. Masters: Can't we simply accept the fact that God loves us all, and has created things that are pleasing to us, just for that reason? There are plenty of beautiful things in the world that do not necessarily serve a utilitarian purpose, and Peter's suit jacket is one of those things.
Peter: It appears that we're out of time. I thank you both for being here tonight.
Dr. Fellows: It was my pleasure, Peter.
Dr. Masters: A pleasure, indeed, Peter
Peter: Would you care to care to examine my suit jacket a little closer over a cocktail, Linda?
Dr. Fellows: (smiling flirtatiously) Only if you promise to wear it.
Peter: Ohhhh... I will.
I was at the Monona Terrace a couple of Sundays ago, fussing myself up (apparently that's an old equivalent to getting pimped out) for a wedding, and discovered the fascinating curiosity that is my suit jacket's pocket.
On the outside, my pocket appears to be completely normal, like the one in which I could carry my usual supply of half eaten candy bars, melted sticks of gum, and smack.... okay, not that last one.
However, my pocket, in reality, isn't a functioning pocket at all. I can't open it! Imagine that, a non-functioning pocket!
Well, as usual, my curiosity got the best of me, and I started to wonder how I ever ended up with a suit jacket that has a non-functioning pocket? I was determined to have this question answered, and took the liberty of inviting two experts over to debate the nature of my nonfunctional pocket. Below is the transcript of the enlightening conversation that ensued:
Peter: Good evening everyone. I would like to begin tonight's living room debate by introducing our guest experts. On my right is Dr. Cindy Fellows, a professor of evolutionary biology at Stanford University; she has been published in countless scientific journals, and is also the author of the book, "Evolution: What Part of It Don't You Creationists Understand?" Welcome Dr. Fellows.
Dr. Fellows: Thank you Peter, it's my pleasure to be here.
Peter: On my left is Dr. John Masters, the chief scientist at the Institute for Creation Research in London, England; he has been widely published in many creationist and religious journals, and has also authored the book, "Creationism: It's About God, Stupid", his rebuttal to attacks on his theories by evolutionists. Thank you for being here, Dr. Masters.
Dr. Masters: It's a great pleasure, Peter.
Peter: Well, let's get to the subject of our debate tonight (Peter produces his suit jacket from underneath the table). Let's start with you, Dr. Fellows. What can you tell me about my jacket?
Dr. Fellows: Well, Peter, this is a truly fascinating specimen. It appears to be from the last ten million years; perhaps, from the Retro-Euro Chic period.
Peter: That's exactly right. What can you tell me about the pocket.
Dr. Fellows: Hmmm, yes, this is a perfect example of suit jacket evolution. Clearly, your suit jacket originally had large pockets in it that were conducive to it's survival on the Primordial plains millions of years ago. You see, this jacket would have easily found an owner because of it's large, roomy pocket space, allowing the wearer to stash large chunks of meat and other sustenance for the trip back to the tribe's camp. The suit jacket clearly evolved these large pockets because of the attractiveness it would have given it. This suit jacket, in turn, made the wearer, who would return to camp with large amounts of meat in his pockets, very desirable for procreation among the females of the tribe.
Dr. Masters: That simply isn't right.
Peter: Why did the pockets cease to function.
Dr. Fellows: Well, clearly, the suit jacket arrived at a point where it realized that its pockets were no longer necessary to its survival; probably when it entered into a symbiotic relationship with Peter's suit pants.
Dr. Masters: (groans)
Dr. Fellows: Yes, once suit jacket met up with suit pants on the primordial plain, suit jacket realized that the spacious carrying capability of suit pants was more than enough for both of their load carrying needs; therefore, suit jacket's functional pockets gradually closed up from lack of use over several evolutionary cycles. You see, this pocket is just like the human appendix; present, but serving no purpose anymore.
Peter: What's your take, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Well, Peter, your suit jacket is clearly the product of intelligent design, and was most certainly crafted by a loving God in the image of His own suit jacket, just as God lovingly crafted you, Dr. Fellows, and myself in His own image. There is absolutely no way that something of this efficient complexity could have randomly evolved by itself. Concerning the pockets, I would contend that just because something does not readily serve a purpose in our own eyes does not mean that there couldn't be some undiscovered purpose.
Dr. Fellows: What purpose could Peter's appendix serve, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Well, for just one example, Peter could take his appendix out, put it in a jar, and display it on his desk at his place of work. This would serve the purpose of really grossing people out, and also lead them to question Peter's sanity.
Dr. Fellows: (audible groan)
Dr. Masters: But it's not just that. Have you ever considered that the suit jacket's pockets were created by God simply for cosmetic purposes? I don't find it unreasonable at all to think that God just wanted to make the suit jacket look good, and therefore, make Peter look good while he is wearing it.
Dr. Fellows: Are you implying that God wants to get Peter laid?
Dr. Masters: Dear heavens! Is that what it's always about with you evolutionists? Sex, Sex, Sex!
Dr. Fellows: Yes.
Dr. Masters: Well, alright then.
Dr. Fellows: Dr. Masters, you have nearly made my argument already. There is only one explanation for why Peter's suit jacket retained it's appearance of having pockets, and that is for reproductive success. The desire for a meat-providing male is deeply ingrained in every female of our species. When Peter shows up to a wedding reception or a party wearing his suit jacket, all the girls in the room look at it and subconsciously think to themselves, "Wow, there is a guy who can carry some meat. I really should go talk to him" Therefore, Peter's suit jacket is increasing Peter's chances for reproductive success, and as a byproduct, insuring that itself will survive as a hand-me-down with Peter's offspring for generations to come.
Peter: Would you like to respond, Dr. Masters?
Dr. Masters: Yes, Peter, I would. Have you ever seen a suit jacket without pockets, Dr. Fuller? It would look ridiculous!
Dr. Fuller: That's because evolutionary biology has ingrained that propensity in us.
Dr. Masters: Can't we simply accept the fact that God loves us all, and has created things that are pleasing to us, just for that reason? There are plenty of beautiful things in the world that do not necessarily serve a utilitarian purpose, and Peter's suit jacket is one of those things.
Peter: It appears that we're out of time. I thank you both for being here tonight.
Dr. Fellows: It was my pleasure, Peter.
Dr. Masters: A pleasure, indeed, Peter
Peter: Would you care to care to examine my suit jacket a little closer over a cocktail, Linda?
Dr. Fellows: (smiling flirtatiously) Only if you promise to wear it.
Peter: Ohhhh... I will.
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 1)
I See London, I See France... Pt. 1 - Off to London
Dear friends,
This is the story how Peter did venture forth to wander in early September, and in the process of venturing, found many fascinating, pleasing, and yes folks, even titillating things (I only say this to this to draw in those who are simply perusing their e-mail accounts for racy dialogue).
Once again, this accounting comes with a preambulatory warning, if you have a weak back, are on any medication, or have a heart condition, please close this e-mail any time you start feeling weird/nauseous/really enraged. Just as before, if at any time you feel as if you are stuck to your aunt's plastic covered couch watching a comatose inducing slide show, please close this e-mail.
Sometime earlier this year, I decided that I would do some traveling, and once again fly as high as a kite on that cultural bender known as Europe. I would see all there was to see, and suck the living marrow out of the bones of this intellectually rich continent (please ignore any implications of cannibalism). I know what you're saying, "Peter, with a continent as vast as Europe, how did you expect to suck it all in during the course of two weeks?" And I say exactly, which is why I planned on three weeks (smile).
Plans were made, tickets were purchased, diplomatic immunity was sought after (but not granted), and soon, it was one day before my trip, and I was stomping on my backpack trying to fit everything in.
Since I hadn't traveled with my backpack in three years, I was a bit out of practice. Even after I got the hang of it, I discovered I would only be able to bring that which was necessary.
Regrettably, I had to leave my easel at home, so no recreating Renoirs in the Louvre for me. Likewise, the large block of marble with with I was going to copy the Venus de Milo had to be left home as well.
There was also another problem; somehow I had missed the fact (until a day before) that Travelocity had me changing airports in New York.... with only a two hour buffer.... during the Republican National Convention.... during rush hour. Yes, the people at United thought that this was completely nuts, as did I, but Travelocity didn't want to help me out. Fortunately, United came through eventually and put me on an earlier flight to New York.
So, everything was okay; although, did I ever mention that I don't really sleep on planes? I don't know if it's the noise, the drink carts running into my knees, or simply that fact that I must fold myself in two simply to fit into coach class, but I don't tend to sleep on planes. So, I didn't plan on sleeping during the journey.
The flight went fine, although, in an effort to placate the man in the seat next to me, who thought that the flight attendant was ignoring him and was getting quite agitated, I was forced to make a beer run to the back of the plane. Yes, my first airborne beer run ever. The ensuing conversation with the flight attendant went something like this,
Peter: Hi, can I get a beer please?
Attendant: No, you can't.
Peter: (somewhat shocked expression)
Attendant: Just kidding! You should have seen your face.
Peter: Yeah, I've been told I wear a great expression of shock.
Attendant: What can I get you?
Peter: Miller Lite, please. It's for the guy sitting next to me.
Attendant: Sure it is!
Peter: No, really, it is.
Attendant: How about a Heineken, instead?
Peter: Actually, I'll take one of those too. No, really, I honestly do need the Miller Lite for the guy next to me.
Attendant: Oh, okay then, here you go.
Yes, he was one of the wittiest flight attendants I've ever run into. Regrettably, my attainment of Heineken only ticked off the guy next to me even more, because the attendant who he thought was ignoring him had told him there weren't any.
Alas, I digress.
So, I arrived in London in the morning, found my hotel near Earl's Court, and hit the sack for a few hours, knowing that I would very well get myself lost in the coming days, and that I would simply be more lost if I was tired as well.
Next up: Pt.2, The Coronation Spoon!
Peter
Dear friends,
This is the story how Peter did venture forth to wander in early September, and in the process of venturing, found many fascinating, pleasing, and yes folks, even titillating things (I only say this to this to draw in those who are simply perusing their e-mail accounts for racy dialogue).
Once again, this accounting comes with a preambulatory warning, if you have a weak back, are on any medication, or have a heart condition, please close this e-mail any time you start feeling weird/nauseous/really enraged. Just as before, if at any time you feel as if you are stuck to your aunt's plastic covered couch watching a comatose inducing slide show, please close this e-mail.
Sometime earlier this year, I decided that I would do some traveling, and once again fly as high as a kite on that cultural bender known as Europe. I would see all there was to see, and suck the living marrow out of the bones of this intellectually rich continent (please ignore any implications of cannibalism). I know what you're saying, "Peter, with a continent as vast as Europe, how did you expect to suck it all in during the course of two weeks?" And I say exactly, which is why I planned on three weeks (smile).
Plans were made, tickets were purchased, diplomatic immunity was sought after (but not granted), and soon, it was one day before my trip, and I was stomping on my backpack trying to fit everything in.
Since I hadn't traveled with my backpack in three years, I was a bit out of practice. Even after I got the hang of it, I discovered I would only be able to bring that which was necessary.
Regrettably, I had to leave my easel at home, so no recreating Renoirs in the Louvre for me. Likewise, the large block of marble with with I was going to copy the Venus de Milo had to be left home as well.
There was also another problem; somehow I had missed the fact (until a day before) that Travelocity had me changing airports in New York.... with only a two hour buffer.... during the Republican National Convention.... during rush hour. Yes, the people at United thought that this was completely nuts, as did I, but Travelocity didn't want to help me out. Fortunately, United came through eventually and put me on an earlier flight to New York.
So, everything was okay; although, did I ever mention that I don't really sleep on planes? I don't know if it's the noise, the drink carts running into my knees, or simply that fact that I must fold myself in two simply to fit into coach class, but I don't tend to sleep on planes. So, I didn't plan on sleeping during the journey.
The flight went fine, although, in an effort to placate the man in the seat next to me, who thought that the flight attendant was ignoring him and was getting quite agitated, I was forced to make a beer run to the back of the plane. Yes, my first airborne beer run ever. The ensuing conversation with the flight attendant went something like this,
Peter: Hi, can I get a beer please?
Attendant: No, you can't.
Peter: (somewhat shocked expression)
Attendant: Just kidding! You should have seen your face.
Peter: Yeah, I've been told I wear a great expression of shock.
Attendant: What can I get you?
Peter: Miller Lite, please. It's for the guy sitting next to me.
Attendant: Sure it is!
Peter: No, really, it is.
Attendant: How about a Heineken, instead?
Peter: Actually, I'll take one of those too. No, really, I honestly do need the Miller Lite for the guy next to me.
Attendant: Oh, okay then, here you go.
Yes, he was one of the wittiest flight attendants I've ever run into. Regrettably, my attainment of Heineken only ticked off the guy next to me even more, because the attendant who he thought was ignoring him had told him there weren't any.
Alas, I digress.
So, I arrived in London in the morning, found my hotel near Earl's Court, and hit the sack for a few hours, knowing that I would very well get myself lost in the coming days, and that I would simply be more lost if I was tired as well.
Next up: Pt.2, The Coronation Spoon!
Peter
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