Sorry, this is going to seem like a bit of a departure from the Italy adventure, but I've just got to publish these thoughts. Stay tuned for the night in Pisa after Italy took out the Germans, but here is some funny stuff to keep you happy for the moment.

Quick thoughts to bring a smile to your day:

1) I saw the greatest t-shirt when I was cruising alone down the streets of Paris last week. It was clearly made by some fashion guido, rather than the Spring Break wholesaler one would assume without having actually seen the quality of these threads, and the frog wearing it may or may not have understood the meaning of the message being broadcasting to one and all: “I Need Good Head.” Ce n’est pas très subtile, mon ami, but I speak for all mankind when I say, I feel ya buddy. We all feel ya.

No wonder the French loved Bill Clinton so much – they were on the same page vis-à-vis the difference between wants and needs.

2) Without a doubt, the hottest girl I got to know during my semester abroad en Suisse in the fall of 2004 was a Turkish bombshell with Greek, Persian and German blood running through her veins as well. Her name is Rüya, pronounced Ree-yuh, if I remember correctly -- which may not be the case, as I wasn’t focused on proper pronunciation so much as on how to diplomatically announce, “I can provide the green card.”

The only reason I bring this up now is because I recently received a reply email from Rüya after I informed her of my plans to visit Turkey on some later leg of this trip. To rendez-vous in such a far off place with a 5’11” beauty who speaks the language and has a lay of the Anatolian homeland could only be a good thing, and I crossed my fingers at the thought when I saw her name glaring at me, in all caps, in my UVa email inbox the other day.

“Hi Bayless!” it began. Exclamation point, good sign, good sign…

“It’s kind of funny, I actually don’t live in Turkey anymore.” Funny, I don’t really see the humor in that, Rüya. Keep the faith, Billy. Maybe she still lives in the area...

“I had the opportunity to do so, so I moved to New York!” Motherf****.

“Yeah, I’m not doing much, just some modeling.” ‘Not doing much, just some modeling in New York,’ you say? Should I take a number, or just quit while I’ve still got some of my dignity intact?

Coincidentally, Turkey dropped a few points on my To Do List this week.

But even without a person to meet up with in Ankara, I heard the capital is nothing but a concrete jungle/Ataturk shrine anyway. With no ability to converse in a place so dull, a solo traveler like myself wouldn’t have too much fun. Istanbul, though, is as attractive as ever in my mind, especially after I met a French journalist on my train to Pamplona that said I would need two to three weeks, minimum, to properly do Byzanti…um, I mean Constanti…no? Oh yeah, Istan…bullsh** is Turkey too dangerous to visit. Watch me.

Besides, I can’t wait to make the hajj to the Mecca of döner kebabs. I’ll be there, ready to stuff my face, armed with Immodium to confront the inevitable case of dia-RÜYA that I will get from the rack “lamb” roasting behind the counter in a part of the world not known for inventing sanitation.

3) This is where the comments aspect of the blog is useful. I am conducting a poll after my trip to Florence with Laura and Micah, Jamison’s lead guitarist. Two things: One, DO GIRLS KNOW ABOUT SHRINKAGE, yes or no? Seriously, this may seem like an issue of common sense, but you’d be surprised. Two, is the whole shoe size = correlation myth true, yes or no?

Like Diddy would say, “Vote or Die.” (Notice I wrote ‘would say,’ rather than ‘would do.’ It’s a lucky thing for him that we don’t always get what we wish for).

4) Back to Micah, a name his Baptist missionary parents chose because of the famous reference to the “Peace Prophet” in the Bible, (which is badass if you ask me).

He is a celebrity, and not just because he plays every Wednesday night at The Virginian in Charlottesville. Micah’s 15 minutes came back in the day, during the Reagan era, when he was just a little guy who wasn’t potty-trained. (Michah is 24 at the moment, and can hold his bladder for over 24 hours, an amazing feat which I witnessed in Florence).

Not only was Micah-tito the Huggies baby, but also, he was the freaking MICHELIN baby! He thinks the former is more impressive than the latter, a statement which I personally disagree with. But irrespective of how one ranks those two accolades, it doesn’t matter – Micah was the HUGGIES and MICHELIN baby!

I mean, why wouldn’t you exploit your child like that if you were a parent? If your kid’s cute, milk it! Hell, it’s not like that little mooch ain’t doing the exact same thing to his mommy! What goes around comes around.

I remember when my 15-year-old sister, Garland, was but a wee lad as well. She was one of the cutest kids ever, and not just because she looked like a boy with her afro curl job she had going on until her pre-teens. She just was. And I always said, “Mom, I’ve got two words for you and for Garland, two words that will pay for her college if you listen to me on this one: GAP. KIDS.”

And what do ya know, they didn’t listen, and now Garland is working three jobs with a kid and another on the way. Such a sad story...I’ve seen it a thousand times.

But back to Micah and parents milking it. His mother apparently has an idea that is on point like Fife and Tip. Get all the Michelin/Huggies baby together in present day, strap some diapers on ‘em, and film them drinking beers and just chillin’ like villains. I love it. Of course, I had to add my creative vision to it:

“Why don’t you do that, but also convince them once you are all AARP cardholders to do a third commercial with y’all, this one talking about the new line of diapers Huggies has released for seniors who can no longer keep their business in their bodies? Michelin … that may be a little more complicated, I guess.”

5) All right, Europe, it’s time to make a decision. You can keep holding out on deodorant, or you can keep holding out on A/C, but you can’t do both. You’ve got to pick one.

Do people in France and Italy just not smell the same thing that I smell? Walk into a train station, B.O. Sit on a subway, B.O. Definitely on the trains, B.O.

It’s because it’s summer, it’s because it’s hot, it’s because people sweat, true…

But it’s compounded by the fact that there’s no relief from the heat when indoors, and by the fact that no one over here has yet grasped the enormous power a stick of Mitchum deodorant possesses (does anyone else besides myself not absolutely love Mitchum’s slogan? So effective you can even skip a day. Perfect for a backpacker).

I don’t complain because I care about the stench of body odor – I actually think my own smells kinda good, just like how everyone finds the aroma of their own farts rather pleasant, whether they admit it publicly or not (but just your own, no one else’s…what is the reason for this phenomenon?). Simply put, I just feel bad for those in Europe who do care about body odor, and who are disgusted by it…because after I lost my dop kit in Paris over a week ago, I have put on deodorant exactly two times.

When I get older, I’m going to be a rich, rich man, because I’m going to open a slew of internet cafes across the street from every train station in Europe, and in them, I’m going to sell deodorant by the bushels. It’s a buyer’s market out there, folks.

Wait ... I am “older” now. All that meant in the dialect of adolescence was “out of college,” a.k.a. “get a job time.” Should that be a sign to me that I am wasting my life?

6) “Où est la gare?”

It’s a simple enough question. In French, it means, “Where is the train station?”

Say it to yourself: ooo-ay lah gair…

Alors, vous parlez un peu de français aussi maintenant, comme moi!

Except for one thing: You didn’t pronounce “gare” correctly.

Rule No. 1 when learning French: Don’t take any of my advice on how to pronounce things, because I will probably be wrong.

The way that I was saying it the night of the Italy-Ukraine game in Vevey, CH drew a lot of blank stares and uneasy silences, because instead of asking how to get to the train station, I was simply inquiring as to where the war was.

“Où est la guerre?” That is ooo-ay lah gair.

Picture if Peppy Le Peux came up to you when you were watching an Astros playoff game and blurted out in a French accent, “Excuse me sir, where is the war?”

I bet the directions you’d give him would be a little more extensive than “straight ahead two blocks and then take your first right,” which is what I finally discovered from the Swiss kid who understood my gaffe and started cracking up.

“La gare?” he repeated quizzically, not sure if it was a trick question, or if I had been living in a cave somewhere other than Afghanistan since 9/10/01.

I could see in his eyes that he wanted to hesitantly say “Irak...?” But then, eureka.

“Ahhhhhhh, où est la GARE?” he said in sudden realization that I was just a stupid tourist, rhyming it with “car” the second time around. “Alors…”

And he proceeded to direct me there. I found the train, albeit after a little embarrassment, and I will be sure to never make that same mistake again. But this was but one example in a litany of French moments which make me cringe. I love French, but French doesn’t love me. C’est très difficile.

And people wonder why I’m too bashful to really practice my French with native speakers.