Memories of Saturday Mornings Past

When I was but a young rock child living in Romania, we had no cartoons to watch.  A great uncle, Basalt, took pity on me and my fellow pebbles, and sent us many a VHS tape* containing hours and hours of nature programs.  Marty Stouffer's WIld America, PBS' Nature, and various Richard Attenborough narrated series entertained me when Romanian propaganda held no interest.  Now, in the fullness of time, one third of the way around the circle of life, Richard Attenborough entertains me yet again:



* Kind of like a DVD that only goes one way, youngsters.

In August

Frikkin' AUGUST.

How About That

Hey, how about that zuzuvela, or vuvuzela, or zuzuburu, or whatever? Reminds me of the Summer of Cicada (Brood X Edition). Or a swarm of angry bees.

Chicago via Monroe

It's 800-some miles to Monroe, we've got a full-ish tank of gas, one bag of baby carrots, twenty-seven cds, it's getting dark, and we don't have any sunglasses. Hit it.

Epic

The trip was epic. Just fucking EPIC. More details when my fogged over brain reboots.

Gogol Bordello at The National in Richmond, VA

I'm in Richmond, VA for the underdog world strike. Gogol Bordello is playing The National with Apostle of Hustle.* I'm with my brother (I should thank him for the ticket, and driving, paying for the hotel, paying for dinner, and the beer) and my cousin. After tonight, Richmond may refer to us as the Terrible Trio.** We're one beer in and three stares of dismay from our neighbors at this cafe for our Big City lingo, and by that I mean our prevalance for the words dude, shit, ballcock, fuck, fucking shit, and goddam fucking hell.

Quotes of Note:
"Richmond is sending me confusing messages with its strict No Segways policy along the waterfront, but also a clear endorsement of the Segway as a rental."

"A ballcock is a fine fellow.""
* To be remembered later.
** Apologies to Jolly Blackburn, but I've heard stories that indicate you might enjoy some of our coming exploits.

Stereotypes When Traveling

This is all based on my personal experiences while traveling, and mostly through Eastern Europe in the late '80s.

1: Americans are loud obnoxious pricks.
We are. If you're a normally vociferous person (like me), everyone will hear you coming. Chatting is fine, but keeping it barely audible is best. Think museum-level voices, but everywhere. If you hear someone speaking English but can't see them, they're probably a block away and American. Or hooligans.

2: Stay away from hooligans.
Seriously. You'll just end up dead, broken, or with more knowledge of the Spanish penal system than you'd like.

3: Tourists attract pickpockets.
This applies anywhere you travel. The best thing you can do is have good situational awareness, and keep your important documents in the safest pockets you have.

4: Bring toilet paper.
This is more of an Eastern European recommendation because those commies sure don't like their cornholes. Most of their tp could double as sandpaper. You may find yourself using a public toilet, wondering how did I get here without any toilet paper, and then you'll be sorry.

5: Bring cash.
Credit cards aren't as useful in Europe. This is changing, but slowly. My burser on my last trip only paid for hotel rooms and some train tickets with a credit card, everything else was cash. You can get foreign currency from your bank if you give them enough notice, you can usually get a decent rate, or a better rate than you'll get from a cambio overseas.

6: McDonald's is worse in Europe.
Ok, so the last time I went to a McD's in another country was Turkey in 1987, but still it was horrible. Fucking coffee flavored milkshakes instead of chocolate. No wonder they lost the war.

7: If your flight lands in the morning, stay awake until night.
Best way to get over jet-lag, no matter what hypochondriac punkbitches say about melatonin or seratonin pills.

8: Bring American condoms.
You know your favorite brand, you trust it, so why use some commie condom from a former Soviet republic? Those things probably wouldn't stop a cold, and you wouldn't know the good local brand anyway.

9: Frommer's.
Good enough for Eurotrip, good enough for you.

10: A few words about swimsuits.
It's Europe, you don't need a top, baby.

To Do List For July 2009

Memorize the lyrics to Red Dwarf
Memorize the lyrics to Puff the Magic Dragon
Memorize the lyrics to The Ballad of Big Snake and Mister Frog by John Bustine
Buy a plane ticket
Get two weeks off work
Finish another short story
Flog the quartermaster if he fails to bring enough sunscreen
Charge the cattle prod batteries, and the replacement batteries
Check the sights on my rifle collection
Flog the quartermaster if he fails to purchase enough ammunition for the rifle collection
Have the muleskinner check the animals
Keep up the healthy diet and Charles Atlas exercises
***Sent from my trusty short-wave radio***

Summer Expedition Plans?

My quartermaster just waltzed into my writing den and proposed a schedule that included planning sessions for a possible return to the land of buckthorn and honey weiss. I nearly cane-whipped Auswald for interrupting my thoughts. The sheer audacity of the man! I was betwixt a plot and a nap, nearly finished with a rough draft of my next novel, prior to the typing stage and he barges in all a-flutter over schedules and time tables! It's my expedition, is it not? It shall leave when I say and not a moment earlier nor later.

I should not be too hard on Auswald, his disturbance brought some fond memories to the forefront of my cognition and for that I shall have a sumptuous dinner made that he will serve me and enjoy most fragrant lovelies and an abundance of pungence. This meal will sate me and serve to enhance his savoring of whatever broth and noodles the cook prepares for the staff. I suppose I should have Auswald perform an inventory of the expedition's equipment and oil my armaments. I shall retire to my den and begun anew with my memoirs.

Thanksgiving 2008

My thanksgiving was going well until my brother turned on the news and we saw the reports of the horrific shit happening in Mumbai. I have been trying to write something but only get as far as the wailing and gnashing of teeth at the ridiculously stupid people in the world who think that senseless violence will help their cause.

I still don't have anything decent written, so I'll post a video instead:

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Mumbai Tragedy

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

Middle Ground

I know two people who act like all of their interactions must be as cordial as every interaction between Israel and Palestine. The only difference between these two friends of mine and that conflict is that my friends can work shit out, if only they would grow the fuck up.

Seriously, GROW THE FUCK UP.

Cooking with Helob: Tie-Fighter Peanut Sauce and Pasta

The cool thing about this recipe is that it requires only two things beyond the cooking implements: peanut butter and pasta. The even cooler thing about this recipe is that I am inventing it as I cook and blog at the SAME TIME. I have never been to Thailand but I have eaten lots of satay and had a friend from Bangkok in grade school. Nonetheless, I feel fully qualified to make a scrumptious meal. Please note that although I do own a cookbook, for the purposes of this trick, I will not be consulting it.

Ingredient list (constantly updated as I work my magic):
chunky peanut butter (64 oz jug)
San Giorgio spaghetti 8 degree (on sale!)
filtered DC tap water (trust me, the unfiltered shit will kill you and rob your corpse)
extra virgin olive oil (because I had it in the cupboard, a recurring theme in all my culinary experiments)
1 tablespoon Patak's Hot Curry Paste (concentrate for sauces, tomato & cumin)(half of all I had left, figured I might need more in the next week or so until I get paid again)
2 tablespoons Bombay Brand Ginger Paste (made form fresh ginger)(both this and the curry paste have been in my fridge for over a year, doled out into curries and spaghettis)
a couple shakes of seasoned salt (for good luck)
a couple of vigorous shakes of Pride of Szeged Hungarian Paprika (for good health)
a dash of ground sage (because it smelled appropriate to my most recent sense memory of peanut sauce)
a dash of ground mace (see above)
the unending scorn of one large tarantula with performance anxiety

Cook spaghetti as usual. Throw some olive oil into a sauce pan. Throw a few globs of peanut butter in, basically until you think you have enough for your sauce needs. Heat on low because peanut butter will hold heat for a while. When the peanut butter and oil mix easily with a spoon, toss in a heaping tablespoon of the curry paste. Then open your jar of ginger paste and clean off the brown bits around the edge from the last time you used it. Then give it a quick lick to check whether it has gone bad. Seems ok? Toss in a heaping tablespoon. Spoon out another, decide to check it again, realize that it has a bit of bite. Taste it again, thanking that practical anthropology course you slept through in college, realize that the bite is usual and that ginger paste is some potent shit and put the tablespoon back in the jar. Seal the jar, back away slowly. Stir this mixture. Then go ahead and season the mix to whatever color you like in a peanut sauce. Let sit on "Low" heat to keep it from congealing. Periodically glance over at your tarantula and wonder why she/he/it/spider won't eat any of the yummy crickets you bought for it/she/he/spider the other day. I think he/it/she/spider is codependent and spends all night moaning away and sobbing, "why aren't my crickets good enough for him?"

Take periodic taste tests to astound your senses with its interesting and surprisingly edible flavor and consistency. Under no circumstances should you add raspberry jelly but if you never have that urge, then you have seasoned the sauce properly. If you think it is getting a little thick, toss in some more olive oil. There may be a better ingredient to use, but it wasn't in my fridge or cupboard, so fuck it.

When the pasta is finally done, throw some of your concoction over the pasta and eat heartily, while reminding yourself that even though this might be some odd shit and in no real way related to authentic peanut sauce, at least it isn't FUCKING RAMEN.

Bleg? and Finders Keepers versus Cultural History

A friend of mine needs help with her dissertation. She needs people to take a survey about public opinion regarding the use of bones in Archaeology. If you have the time, please help her out by taking the survey. Please only fill out one survey and please be serious, it's only her future on the line.

I was flipping channels on the RSS the other day and I saw something on the Discovery feed about some people finding an estimated $500 Million in silver and gold coins. The discoverers, Odyssey Marine Exploration (OME), claim that the find was in international waters and refer to the wreck as the Black Swan. They are keeping the location secret for obvious reasons. The Spanish government is claiming that the coins must have come from one of their ships sunk some time in the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries. As an anthropology student, I found this situation to be an interesting ethical dilemma. There is a substantial dollar value associated with the find but there is also a substantial historical value. For the sake of argument, we will allow that OME found the wreck in international waters. We will also allow that it is definitely a Spanish ship. International salvage law is a little murky in this situation, if you'll pardon the pun, so let us also assume that international salvage law states that derelicts are the finder's. The UK's Merchant Shipping Act 1995 says that all property remains the property of the original owners. If the wreck were in British waters, I guess this would apply and the wreck would belong to the original owners. These owners are long dead and I don't know if the ownership would transfer down 2-400 years. This point is further muddied because the cargo may have been owned by someone else, the Spanish government for example. We have two sets of regulations that are allowing each side to claim the treasure as their own. OME did all the work in finding the wreck and deserve the fruits of their labor. Spain has a cultural heritage to protect and possible legal protections. The location of the wreck greatly influences the argument. At what point does a cultural heritage override a salvage right? Does twelve miles really matter?

In the US, we have NAGPRA. NAGPRA has been helping Native Americans regain their looted past. All federal agencies and institutions that receive federal funding, like Beloit College, are required to abide by the act. Complying with the act can take years and decades for some collections, simply because they are so damn large. These collections contain a fascinating wealth of information on cultures that the US did everything it could to destroy^*. The act allows for a period of study after a repatriation request, as long as the cultural connection can be established. 12 to 18,000 years is a long time and many cultures rose and fell in North America long before Columbus strolled along. Kennewick Man (KM) was found in less than ideal circumstances in Kennewick, Washington and has stirred up an endless controversy with several native nations claiming a cultural connection. There is a lot more to this controversy than that but I am interested in the border between a group's historical and mythological claims and the scientific community's claims. There is a lot to learn from KM because he is so old and so odd, for lack of a better term. I met one of the Army Corps of Engineers curators of KM when I was still in school and she was fascinated by the find and frustrated by the legal wranglings. The early period of human exploration of the New World is largely unknown. An almost complete skeleton can tell an archaeologist a lot about the context of its life,specifically about this period in human history. However, if the Umatilla's can claim that KM is an ancestor, then NAGPRA will require the remains be returned to the tribe. The Umatilla's claim may or may not be valid, I am not a judge nor am I an expert in their history or their legal case, but if it is should the scientists and researchers simply hand over such a valuable find without and adequate period of study? Where does the scientific value of a find override the cultural claims of a people?

* An issue for another time.

Failures Abound and Spirits Sag, Yet Hope Remains

While trekking to our destination yesterday, we encountered another well-equipped expedition. A large family group of Illinoian travellers was participating in a cartographic survey of the peninsula. My logistical director was acquainted with one of the porters in the other group. They had both attended explorer's university in their youth. I instructed my colleague to reaffirm this friendship and glean any information on the natural phenomenon of the area. We have yet to locate any further varieties of New Glarus, spotted or dappled, or any of the greater or lesser Sprecher's species.

The leader of the cartographic surveyors and I discussed the fascinating wildlife and the trophies I had hoped to triumphantly bring back to the museum, we enjoyed a light juniper beverage liberally spiked with gin and tonic. I expressed my disappointment with the local villagers' porting ability. They are rather weak of spirit. My compatriot feels that these trips are best left to family and then proceeded to describe his rather boring genealogy and the names of his descendants whom he had relegated to baggage and portage duty. The man had many faults but chief among them was a completely insufficient knowledge of firearms. Not everyone I meet is prepared for the difficulties of a life spent forging a solitary path through the wilds with only a team of local porters, a doctor, three nurses, two naturalists, a tracker and three horse thieves.

The logistical directer returned with some new knowledge of our earlier stated destination on the northern and eastern beaches. The region has been decimated by the drought and is no longer a fertile ground for man or animal. The water level has receded to the point that the beaches are covered in a mass of rotten vegetation and decaying fish. I have found the fish in this region to be rather poor in quality on the whole with the notable exception of the walled-eye fish, a curious piscine prevalent in much of the waters inland. Unfortunately, it is not much sport for a true explorer.

Today, we have resigned ourselves to a day of rest as our porters have become exhausted in the unusual heat. I am not normally disposed to such molly-coddling of my guides and muleskinners, but there are local sites in the southern peninsula which I plan to visit, with or without a full bar and ammunition selection.

One note of information that is startling and speaks volumes of the skill of our Doctor Chetworth P. Hunnicobble, none of our gangly local porters have yet fallen ill to the virulent ear ifnections this region has been known for in past travels. I am certain that the constitutions of these people would be barely capable of this trip were it not for the over-tender ministrations of Dr. Hunnicobble.

The Week Isn't Over Yet

I just received some pretty awful news. A friend's mom and grandmother were shot in a carjacking attempt just outside Nairobi. The Whites were stationed in the Congo when my parents were and their oldest son, Elijiah, and my younger brother and I would pal around. Being a diplomat is not all wine and cheese, relaxing by the pool, sitting in an air-conditioned office discussing the latest situation with some official, sometimes it involves assholes with assault rifles.

This post is all about lowering the level of decency on the Internets

Basically, the only way I could have reacted to this type of an assault on my professional life would be with professional pranksterism. If some bastard tried to commit a full court press, scorched earth campaign on my career, I would likely be totally fucked in that field. This would leave me with no alternatives left to pursue that career. I prefer to prove old sayings as the honest truth. Sayings like: "Never kick a man when he's down." "A man with nothing to lose has everything to gain." "Never leave an opponent with 1 hit point." "Never wash your colors with your whites."

For sake of argument, let's say I know someone who knows someone who got fucked over by a giant, swollen cobag. I would start by procuring the necessary items for lifestyle destruction:
1 Gallon smelly, yellow, coffee and asparagus urine
2 Boxes of fish filets
1 Stack of petri dishes
1 Set of keys to the cobag'z office (optional)
1 Set of plans to cobag'z office (available from your county, usually for a minimal fee)
50-100 Crickets
3 Pairs breeding mice

First, study the plans well. Take a tour of the office. Keep a sharp eye out for hidden, dusty corners and nooks. Pay particular attention to the placement of cameras and motion sensors.

Break in at night or, if possible just walk in like you own the place or are some sort of intern/lab aide. This is much easier then most people think. If you can walk in, visit every day at the same time for a week without doing anything.

Next week, visit the soon to be shithole. Bring crickets in a plastic bag with some paper towels. Release the crickets in storerooms and all over the basement. Locate the HVAC unit.

The next day release the mice in the basement.

The third day, put a couple still frozen fish filets in the vent of the HVAC. Wander into empty rooms and stick more frozen fish filets in various vents and make sure to leave one or two in the kitchen, to throw off those who might try clean up your revenge.

Make piss discs with the urine and petri dishes. Leave one or three on every section of carpet (any material that will absorb liquid) in the building. Preferably in lounge areas or staff offices. You may need to attempt this part on a holiday weekend. By now, you should have convinced the guard (if there is one) that you are indeed working on something and thus have ample reason to be there on a holiday.

Then repeat these steps in the motherfucker's house. If necessary obtain an orbital laser and a truckload of popping corn.

If you should feel any guilt, remind yourself that the cobag had it coming for being such a, well, such a fucking cobag.

The Great Sausage Fest of 2002

Its May of 2002 and I had just recently moved to Portland, Oregon and my brother wanted to come visit me from Eugene. He said he had a friend in town that could show us around and we could go have some drinks. We met up with my bro's friend outside a restaraunt, Fellini, which is associated with it's neighoring club, Satyricon. Fellini is known for the strong drinks, but the ones we were given were quite weak.

The Shanghai Tunnel was our next stop and I thought was alright because it had a vodka I liked. The vodka was a Polish style potato vodka and it is smooth as sipping whiskey. We had a couple drinks there and then wandered over to some other bar, the name of which escapes me. The bar was a little lame for me, being a strange mix of hipster and the burgeoning metro style. We had a few more drinks there and I remember them being twice as expensive as the Tunnel's.

It was now somwhere between 9 and 11 and I can not remember where we were, but the friend was talking about a girl he had recently started dating/seeing/screwing. He was not sure what was going on between them, but he was sure that she was hanging out with her gay friend, Todd. They were at some club. A perhaps short while later, the friend suggests that if we want to meet some chicks that really want to meet guys, we should go to this place he knows. He says that it is a little out of the way and will take a bit to walk there. We're all pretty drunk by this time and my brother and I say yes. Which sounded a lot like fuck yeah, but let's not split hairs.

We wander around for probably 45 minutes, but I can't really be sure. The friend says we are getting close and wants to explain something. He says that it is not exactly your average club. We keep walking and ask what he means. He is evasive. We are drunk and not worried. We get to this place and the bouncer looks at us like what the fuck are you doing here and that is when I notice the sign, 'The Three Sisters', and the black plastic drapes hanging in the doorway. Irealize that we are about to enter a strip joint and that it is probably a gay strip joint. This takes about five minutes to percolate through my mind, meanwhile the friend is negotiating with the bouncer. The friend says the cover is ten dollars for us. I inquire into the amount of supposed girls inside. Bouncer says there are girls inside. I am drunk and this jives with everything heard so far tonight so I say sure, lets go in.

Well, there was a girl inside. It happened to be the girl the firend was sort of dating and her gay friend, Todd. He introduced himself to me as Todd, Todd the Rodd. I shit you not. This precipitated a protracted argument between Todd and my attraction to women and overall not-gayness. It was pretty funny the next morning, but I'll get to that later. My bro and I are a little annoyed because there are no other women beside the one the friend was seeing. It was all just naked dudes and dudes putting dollars bills into naked dudes pouches. At least there was Pabst on tap. For the most part I sat and watched TV at the bar. This was and is the only bar where I have been happy to see a TV. The movie playing was 'Valentine' and the channel was USA and the bartender wanted to know what the hell I was doing there. I told him we had been duped by our friend into coming here because of all the hot, horny, lonely girls who come to look at cock. He said that they usually come in right before closing. I didn't believe him and tried to avoid getting my butt pinched too much. Ladies, I feel your pain, some dudes are just way too aggressive.

So, after a while, some ladies did come in and I went after them like a cruise missile. I started talking to one blonde and she fit the bill. She wanted to know why I was there and I told her the story about the friend and the girl and the supposed hordes of women. She said that she was a regular because she just wasn't meeting the right kinds of guys. We danced and talked and were generally hitting it off until the lights came on after half an hour. Her friends were pretty drunk and she said that hse ahad to take them home and I was a dumbass and with the sheer volume of penises running through my short term memory I forgot about my own and didn't ask for a number. I never saw her again.

Todd the Rodd disappeared and I never saw him again either, thank you very much, and we all started walking home. Still being drunk, I daydreamed that I was Nemesis Enforcer from the G.I. Joe movie and walked ahead of everybody and fought imaginary beasts with my giant claws and Cobra-la strength.

It turned out that the girl lived in the same building as the friend, so he got some. My bro and I were given the keys to the friend's apartment and told we could eat whatever. I went right to the porch and sat down to clear my head and my bro started cooking something. He comes out onto the porch and says that he found some food and hands me a plate of two cooked sausages. I thought he was being funny and started laughing. He asks what is so funny and starts eating and I said that I had seen way to much sausage that evening. My bro nearly choked on his, ahem, sausage. We both cracked up and ate our sausages and fell asleep on the friends futon.

The next morning the friend admitted that he mostly wanted to see the girl and hadn't expected there to be girls at the club. The girl said that I had made an impression on Todd. I asked her to explain to the guy that it was never going to happen. My bro ad the friend then ripped on me for a while. It was funny.

Thus ends the story of the Great Sausage Fest of 2002.