Monday, June 26, 2006
This is album cover material.
LOOK how clear this turned out! And take a closer look, at the shadow of a hand thrusting up the peace sign.
That ain't Richard Nixon's digits; those belong to my friend and Gentleman co-enthusiast, Jamison.
LOOK how clear this turned out! And take a closer look, at the shadow of a hand thrusting up the peace sign.
That ain't Richard Nixon's digits; those belong to my friend and Gentleman co-enthusiast, Jamison.
I couldn't think of a better group of guys to go to the show with.
Coop, if you're out there, you should have been with us. But don't worry, he's going to Bermuda this summer buddy
Coop, if you're out there, you should have been with us. But don't worry, he's going to Bermuda this summer buddy
I was going this crazy at just Culcha Candela, and I proved to be correct when, right after his picture, already full of vibes, I leaned over to the other three and said, "This band's got nothing on what's coming up."
What a day.
What a day.
This is die Burg, the castle of Abenberg. It's what makes this venue so beautiful.
It's a funny thought: this tower used to be the lookout point for invading armies; on June 23, it was the lookout point for something a little more mellow.
It's a funny thought: this tower used to be the lookout point for invading armies; on June 23, it was the lookout point for something a little more mellow.
I have a non-sexual man crush on the dj for Culcha Candela.
Think of a boy band who can't dance nearly as well, with six MC's who do everything from accapella to reggae to rapping, and a dj that holds all of it together, without taking a step away from that podium.
If anyone ever hears of these guys while traveling, GO SEE THEM. I doubt you'd be able to find any of their stuff in the States.
Think of a boy band who can't dance nearly as well, with six MC's who do everything from accapella to reggae to rapping, and a dj that holds all of it together, without taking a step away from that podium.
If anyone ever hears of these guys while traveling, GO SEE THEM. I doubt you'd be able to find any of their stuff in the States.
painting of the main act, Gentleman.
Me: "How many euros for this?"
Woman working: "Eight hundred."
Me: laughter
Me: "How many euros for this?"
Woman working: "Eight hundred."
Me: laughter
Hunter, Jamison, Billy, Chase.
On top of die burg (the castle) at the show. Literally, the stage is right beneath us.
On top of die burg (the castle) at the show. Literally, the stage is right beneath us.
Right now is the last time I'll have wireless internet for a while possibly, so I'm gonna get some pictures of the Gentleman show up.
There will be more to come, trust me.
This was shortly before entering the four-band Burg Open Air Fest, a reggae festival in Abenberg, Germany (population: not many).
I could have made some joke about this being a certificate for good manners on the Continent so far, but that's something my dad would have said, not me.
There will be more to come, trust me.
This was shortly before entering the four-band Burg Open Air Fest, a reggae festival in Abenberg, Germany (population: not many).
I could have made some joke about this being a certificate for good manners on the Continent so far, but that's something my dad would have said, not me.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The view from a field during my hike with Hunter and Breck. Check the waterfall next to that Swiss flag, mountainside.
Meet Spot Knapp, the tri-lingual dog.
Spot is, quite simply, the best dog ever. He has eyebrows. Do you understand how rare that is for dogs to have distinct, bushy eyebrows making them look all human?
Raised in a house which paired a Houston-raised man with a Texan-born/Swiss-raised/Spanish family woman...who live in the French-speaking region of Switzerland, in a town just oustide Lausanne called Morges.
Their family, all three kids included, can switch back and forth between all three languages like its nothing. Which means they speak to their dog in a pretty similarly scattered way.
It's always funny to think, then, that one dog may be "more cultured" than another dog, or "smarter" than another dog because, after all "he knows three languages. Woof."
Spot, a maison! A maison!
Spot is, quite simply, the best dog ever. He has eyebrows. Do you understand how rare that is for dogs to have distinct, bushy eyebrows making them look all human?
Raised in a house which paired a Houston-raised man with a Texan-born/Swiss-raised/Spanish family woman...who live in the French-speaking region of Switzerland, in a town just oustide Lausanne called Morges.
Their family, all three kids included, can switch back and forth between all three languages like its nothing. Which means they speak to their dog in a pretty similarly scattered way.
It's always funny to think, then, that one dog may be "more cultured" than another dog, or "smarter" than another dog because, after all "he knows three languages. Woof."
Spot, a maison! A maison!
Hunter, Breck Knapp and I practically descended this mountain through a huge series of these wooden, rope ladders like the one pictured below. Breck, a fellow native Houstonian, is my idol, as he lives just outside of / works in Geneva with three kids, a wife and a dog, and he gets to do this on the weekend.
The only thing is, he misses Astros games (though he claims "not to care about American sports") How is that possible?
The only thing is, he misses Astros games (though he claims "not to care about American sports") How is that possible?
In Switzerland, if you don't keep paying rent, essentially, on someone's grave site, they will physcially relocate your remains? Think about how much dough you'd have to have at death to land the penthouse suite?
It's always a little eery to me when I find cemeteries beautiful. It sounds like something Radiohead would sing about.
It's always a little eery to me when I find cemeteries beautiful. It sounds like something Radiohead would sing about.
watching World Cup games in outdoor plazas in the country of a team that is playing is the bomb diggity.
this is in Geneva with Hunter. Renting free bikes, swimming in the lake, riding around the Old City with all its hills and cobblestones and dead ends, and diving off the platform = good day. That, and Suisse won.
HOP LA SUISSE!
this is in Geneva with Hunter. Renting free bikes, swimming in the lake, riding around the Old City with all its hills and cobblestones and dead ends, and diving off the platform = good day. That, and Suisse won.
HOP LA SUISSE!
Even more publicity for Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition, this being some pretty old news that I just found out about.
ESPN.com, Page 2, Michael Davies' World Cup Blog.
Quite a charming caption.
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=davies/060617
ESPN.com, Page 2, Michael Davies' World Cup Blog.
Quite a charming caption.
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=davies/060617
And I don't mean Marky Mark, Ice Cube, or George Clooney.
This is supposedly the tomb that contains not one, not two, BUT ALL THREE of the wise men. As in the three kings. Are you kidding me? That's bold. I've heard of the whole every-altar-must-have-a-piece-of-dead-holy-person thing, but claiming all three of the wise men? I suspect that at this point, it's kind of like WWF wrestling was before the late 90's boom -- presented to the people as the truth, obviously a farce.
And yet, I pull out my camera. (It's pretty cool to think about it, you feel like you're in an Indiana Jones movie).
This is supposedly the tomb that contains not one, not two, BUT ALL THREE of the wise men. As in the three kings. Are you kidding me? That's bold. I've heard of the whole every-altar-must-have-a-piece-of-dead-holy-person thing, but claiming all three of the wise men? I suspect that at this point, it's kind of like WWF wrestling was before the late 90's boom -- presented to the people as the truth, obviously a farce.
And yet, I pull out my camera. (It's pretty cool to think about it, you feel like you're in an Indiana Jones movie).
One of the Cologne cathedral's buttresses...they're big into the three magii (are there two 'i's in magii? it's one of those questions that most people think they know, but are often wrong, like which direction each of the presidents face on the backs of their respective coins)
This is where I'm living when I grow up. Right across this little canal is Vondelpark, the most amazing park in Amsterdam. Where is the dinghy to go back and forth??
If I was dating a hot 18-year-old German girl from Cologne, a girl who loves Gentleman, lives in Charlottesville and speaks perfect English, I'd be smiling here, too.
Do you think I can get like five euros back from this Amsterdam hostel for seeing a mouse scoping out my dinner that I left in a bag on the floor?
GERMANS, GERMANY and the CONFEDERATE FLAG. an essay.
Last week, a survey was published in the Herald Tribune that showed European perceptions of threats to global stability.
Asked to rank the dangers posed by the U.S., Iran and China in descending order, we came out on top in almost every country.
I guess they don't believe that a country sitting atop the second-largest reserves of crude oil in the world could ever have alterior purposes for pursuing such an advanced nuclear program ... or maybe, they simply figure it would have been better had the South risen again.
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Take this truck, for example. Can we find a better hybrid of Germany and Redneck America?
You've got a blue collar man, working hard for his family, his God and his country, by God. And those Stars and Bars, now those colors don't run.
Then you've got a Mercedes-Benz hood ornament, reminding you that the driver probably has no idea of what his little grill decorator represents.
No explanation.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
But then you've got the other end of the spectrum, the Euros who are into fashion, but rock the Confederate flag shirts. They're not a hybrid blue collar type of crowd, they're more Euro if you catch my drift. They're pretty.
It was after my discovery of this subset that I stepped in and tried to do a little investigative reporting on the issue. I had just finished writing a 20-minute piece on my feelings about the amount of Confederate flags I've seen on my trip (a 20-minute piece that was subsuquently deleted, mysteriously, as I went to post it the morning of June 23), when I walked by a store that caught my eye. As I strolled in and began fingering the merchandise, I came upon a black t-shirt that said "Rebel" underneath a flapping, shredded Confederate battle flag.
Needless to say, after the grill-decorator and the idiot Texan (keep reading), I thought it was pretty funny to come across the under-publicized pillar of the Six Flags Theme Park chain again, so soon.
The black African and Indian immigrants running the shop cracked a blind that shed some light on the subject.
"Do you know what this flag stands for?" I asked the African dude.
"It is Eng-lond, yes?"
"No. It's the country that fought for slavery in the American Civil War," I clarified.
"Yes, but Eng-lond, too, mon. See? It says right dare: 'Rebel.'"
How the word "rebel" could serve as proof that it has an Anglo connection is beyond me, but the point is, the dude, black as night, had no idea what the history behind the garment really was.
I hesitated to use the swastika analogy, because of the dearth of concentration camps set up in Alabama, Georgia and Virginia, but it was the only thing I could think of to bring it home to the man.
In Germany, that gets people's attention.
"Dees lond fought FOR slavuhree?!" the man asked confusedly. "But it seh 'Rebel.'"
Again, not understanding what that word actually means to this guy.
After about a minute of this, he seemed to get it.
"Do you study history or somefing, mon?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did."
"Wow, mon, thanks fuh clarify-un, mon," he said as I made my move for the door -- the first time someone has ever been impressed that I chose to major in "I hope you want to be a teacher."
His Indian supervisor standing by the register wasn't too moved -- he was more interested in if I was going to actually buy the shirt than any history lesson I could provide.
But at least I got through to one German ... or one African guy living in Germany who may or may not have citizenship.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So the World Cup is about representing your country, right?
Why, then, would someone from The United States of America wear as a cape the flag of the defeated Confederate States of America?
This argument has always been so logical to me that it hurts, but it doesn't seem to work with folks set in their ways. "Southern pride," they say, which sounds like a dignified alternative to spitting out a mouthful of sour grapes.
("It was about states' rights" is my personal favorite).
Well, someone from the set-in-their-ways camp made his way over to Nuremberg for Team USA's third and final Cup game June 22, and we had words.
I don't know what possessed me to go looking for trouble, but I think it may have been related to the nasty case of Ghana-rea I had caught while watching Landon Donovan and the U.S. Chokers get schooled by Kofi Annan's boys. That, and I hate Confederate flags.
Walking down an alley outside of the pub where we had watched Ghana's 2-1 victory, about 10 meters away (I don't actually know how far that is, but I like to use the metric system when in Rome), I saw a backwards St. Louis Cardinals hat and a battle flag, waving in the wind as the cape-wearer trucked down the cobblestones, beer in hand.
"At the World Cup??" I grimaced internally.
As happens from time to time, the words just came out.
"TAKE THAT F****** CONFEDERATE FLAG OFF, DUDE! THAT'S ANOTHER COUNTRY'S FLAG -- THEY LOST!"
His reaction really surprised me, considering I expected to see a Spring Break "whoops" tattoo on his chest when he turned to confront the bleeding-heart Yankee calling him out.
The Son of the South had the arms-extended/"WHAT" reaction down perfectly.
(arms extended) "WHAT! WHAT!"
"I SAID, THAT IS ANOTHER COUNTRY'S FLAG! IT'S THE WORLD CUP; THE CONFEDERATES DIDN'T QUALIFY!"
(takes one step forward, still over ten meters away, arms extended again) "WHAT! WHAT!"
"I'M FROM TEXAS DUDE, WHAT FLAG AM I WEARING??"
(arms extended, but no "WHAT!" this time) "I'M FROM TEXAS, TOO, MOTHAF****!"
Wait for it....wait for it....
"WHAT!"
That was pretty much where it ended, because like the issue of states' rights, some stupid hick's choice of wardrobe isn't worth a fight to me...especially one that could lead to me getting killed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"WHAT!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
As if that was the only thing that pissed me off about the exchange, though. I deal with Confederate lovers all the time, from down home in Houston to an old friend who used to chill with us all the time, a Northern Virginian who sees dip and his CSA bandana as the final two strings left on his tenuous hold to being a "Southerner."
(He was born near San Francisco, and if you've never seen Northern Virginia, envision a REALLY big Starbucks, with people, rain, houses, schools, movie theaters and traffic ... and New Balance stores).
So in short, I'm used to 'em. They don't bother me as much as it may seem from what you've read, because I know deep down, 80% of Confederate flag-wavers are just trying to be cool, and would clearly never wish for a reversal of fortunes in the Civil War.
But the fact that this "WHAT" guy was from Texas, and was wearing a backwards St. Louis Cardinals hat -- now that really chaps my ass, as my dad would say.
The Cardinals??
WHAT?
Last week, a survey was published in the Herald Tribune that showed European perceptions of threats to global stability.
Asked to rank the dangers posed by the U.S., Iran and China in descending order, we came out on top in almost every country.
I guess they don't believe that a country sitting atop the second-largest reserves of crude oil in the world could ever have alterior purposes for pursuing such an advanced nuclear program ... or maybe, they simply figure it would have been better had the South risen again.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Take this truck, for example. Can we find a better hybrid of Germany and Redneck America?
You've got a blue collar man, working hard for his family, his God and his country, by God. And those Stars and Bars, now those colors don't run.
Then you've got a Mercedes-Benz hood ornament, reminding you that the driver probably has no idea of what his little grill decorator represents.
No explanation.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
But then you've got the other end of the spectrum, the Euros who are into fashion, but rock the Confederate flag shirts. They're not a hybrid blue collar type of crowd, they're more Euro if you catch my drift. They're pretty.
It was after my discovery of this subset that I stepped in and tried to do a little investigative reporting on the issue. I had just finished writing a 20-minute piece on my feelings about the amount of Confederate flags I've seen on my trip (a 20-minute piece that was subsuquently deleted, mysteriously, as I went to post it the morning of June 23), when I walked by a store that caught my eye. As I strolled in and began fingering the merchandise, I came upon a black t-shirt that said "Rebel" underneath a flapping, shredded Confederate battle flag.
Needless to say, after the grill-decorator and the idiot Texan (keep reading), I thought it was pretty funny to come across the under-publicized pillar of the Six Flags Theme Park chain again, so soon.
The black African and Indian immigrants running the shop cracked a blind that shed some light on the subject.
"Do you know what this flag stands for?" I asked the African dude.
"It is Eng-lond, yes?"
"No. It's the country that fought for slavery in the American Civil War," I clarified.
"Yes, but Eng-lond, too, mon. See? It says right dare: 'Rebel.'"
How the word "rebel" could serve as proof that it has an Anglo connection is beyond me, but the point is, the dude, black as night, had no idea what the history behind the garment really was.
I hesitated to use the swastika analogy, because of the dearth of concentration camps set up in Alabama, Georgia and Virginia, but it was the only thing I could think of to bring it home to the man.
In Germany, that gets people's attention.
"Dees lond fought FOR slavuhree?!" the man asked confusedly. "But it seh 'Rebel.'"
Again, not understanding what that word actually means to this guy.
After about a minute of this, he seemed to get it.
"Do you study history or somefing, mon?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did."
"Wow, mon, thanks fuh clarify-un, mon," he said as I made my move for the door -- the first time someone has ever been impressed that I chose to major in "I hope you want to be a teacher."
His Indian supervisor standing by the register wasn't too moved -- he was more interested in if I was going to actually buy the shirt than any history lesson I could provide.
But at least I got through to one German ... or one African guy living in Germany who may or may not have citizenship.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So the World Cup is about representing your country, right?
Why, then, would someone from The United States of America wear as a cape the flag of the defeated Confederate States of America?
This argument has always been so logical to me that it hurts, but it doesn't seem to work with folks set in their ways. "Southern pride," they say, which sounds like a dignified alternative to spitting out a mouthful of sour grapes.
("It was about states' rights" is my personal favorite).
Well, someone from the set-in-their-ways camp made his way over to Nuremberg for Team USA's third and final Cup game June 22, and we had words.
I don't know what possessed me to go looking for trouble, but I think it may have been related to the nasty case of Ghana-rea I had caught while watching Landon Donovan and the U.S. Chokers get schooled by Kofi Annan's boys. That, and I hate Confederate flags.
Walking down an alley outside of the pub where we had watched Ghana's 2-1 victory, about 10 meters away (I don't actually know how far that is, but I like to use the metric system when in Rome), I saw a backwards St. Louis Cardinals hat and a battle flag, waving in the wind as the cape-wearer trucked down the cobblestones, beer in hand.
"At the World Cup??" I grimaced internally.
As happens from time to time, the words just came out.
"TAKE THAT F****** CONFEDERATE FLAG OFF, DUDE! THAT'S ANOTHER COUNTRY'S FLAG -- THEY LOST!"
His reaction really surprised me, considering I expected to see a Spring Break "whoops" tattoo on his chest when he turned to confront the bleeding-heart Yankee calling him out.
The Son of the South had the arms-extended/"WHAT" reaction down perfectly.
(arms extended) "WHAT! WHAT!"
"I SAID, THAT IS ANOTHER COUNTRY'S FLAG! IT'S THE WORLD CUP; THE CONFEDERATES DIDN'T QUALIFY!"
(takes one step forward, still over ten meters away, arms extended again) "WHAT! WHAT!"
"I'M FROM TEXAS DUDE, WHAT FLAG AM I WEARING??"
(arms extended, but no "WHAT!" this time) "I'M FROM TEXAS, TOO, MOTHAF****!"
Wait for it....wait for it....
"WHAT!"
That was pretty much where it ended, because like the issue of states' rights, some stupid hick's choice of wardrobe isn't worth a fight to me...especially one that could lead to me getting killed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"WHAT!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
As if that was the only thing that pissed me off about the exchange, though. I deal with Confederate lovers all the time, from down home in Houston to an old friend who used to chill with us all the time, a Northern Virginian who sees dip and his CSA bandana as the final two strings left on his tenuous hold to being a "Southerner."
(He was born near San Francisco, and if you've never seen Northern Virginia, envision a REALLY big Starbucks, with people, rain, houses, schools, movie theaters and traffic ... and New Balance stores).
So in short, I'm used to 'em. They don't bother me as much as it may seem from what you've read, because I know deep down, 80% of Confederate flag-wavers are just trying to be cool, and would clearly never wish for a reversal of fortunes in the Civil War.
But the fact that this "WHAT" guy was from Texas, and was wearing a backwards St. Louis Cardinals hat -- now that really chaps my ass, as my dad would say.
The Cardinals??
WHAT?
Cologne, the city where Gentleman is from, and its massive massive massive cathedral, of which I've been to the top. How's that screen down below for a big screen?
<-- This is the REAL Hot Dog Man...check out to see if anyone else may be hiding in that suit.So there was supposed to be another column on SIOnCampus.com about my time at the World Cup, but my editor wouldn't run it. I guess it wasn't really about the World Cup....but then again, when has anything I've ever written at the Cav Daily actually fit in the section it ran in?
(Case in point: I wrote a Sports game column about Tom trying to sneak a buddy into the GT game by walking in tandem in his hot dog suit: http://www.cavalierdaily.com/CVArticle_print.asp?ID=25209&pid1367, but then wrote about Big Time Ballard's no-hitter in Life: http://www.cavalierdaily.com/CVArticle_print.asp?ID=26886&pid1438).
So after spending a significant amount of time writing this, I'm just going to put in on the blog so that my mommy can write me an email reassuring me about my bright future as a writer!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Bayless Parsley
University of Virginia
Sports Illustrated On Campus (VOID)
The Real Hot Dog Man
Last week, I paid over $400 to see Team USA get rolled by the Czech Republic in the Stadion Gelsenkirchen, and it wasn’t too much fun. Five days later, I paid $0 to watch a 1-1 draw with Italy from the streets of Kaiserslautern, and it was about as fun as fun can be.
I may have gotten a C in ECON 201, but this cost-benefit analysis is one even a history major like me can compute with ease. Until Team USA gets run from the tournament, I’m watching the World Cup on the streets – for free.
Next up is the death match with Ghana, and I’ll be in the streets of Nuremberg, decked out as always in full costume, ready to rock. After two tremendous showings in the Halloween-like party that is the World Cup, you know Hot Dog Man (World Cup Edition) is going to keep it real.
That’s how the real Hot Dog Man would have wanted it, after all.
That man is sitting at home right now, just outside of Philadelphia, wishing he could be where six of his best friends have been for the past two weeks: Europe. We’re living it up on a graduation trip four years in the making, and the dude everybody loves, Thomas Raymond Kuklinski, can only read about it in the emails we send state-side.
Known to some as plain old Tom, and by others as good old TK, it was he who dropped $100 on eBay to buy a six-foot hot dog suit in December 2003 … not yours truly. Initially finding little to no use for the foam-and-felt pullover in his day-to-day life, it wasn’t long before Tom got the gears turning.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. But when life gives you a foam-and-felt representation of amalgamated animal byproducts, you wear it to all of UVa’s home basketball games, and go by the name of “Hot Dog Man” when doing so.
At least that’s what Tom thinks.
Standing tall at 6’5”, Hot Dog Man never missed a game after his debut against Maryland near the end of the 2004 season. Co-founder of the rag-tag Virginia student fan club known as “Team Halloween,” which varied in size from just Tom, to Tom plus 20 other costumed maniacs, Hot Dog Man even appeared at a few Cavalier football and baseball games during his time in the suit.
By the time we graduated in May 2006, Hot Dog Man was a minor celebrity at UVa, capable of creating a minor stir.
That is the story of the real Hot Dog Man.
It’s only out of respect for him that I make sure to always include the words “World Cup Edition” in parentheses when discussing my nom de guerre.
Racked by a mountain of debt from some hefty student loans, and coupled with the fact that he leaves for South Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer in mid-July, Tom had to tap out in the late stages of planning for Germany 2006. But before we left Charlottesville for good, he handed me something very special to his heart.
“I want you to wear the hot dog suit at the World Cup,” he told me. “For me. And take pictures. I want to see Hot Dog Man appear in as many famous European spots as possible.”
“Your wish is my command, Hot Dog Man,” I said, clutching the suit that is now worth infinitesimally more than the $90 plus $10 shipping and handling TK spent on it some two and a half years ago.
He had no idea what he had gotten that suit into.
The reception I got from fans across the world during my debut in Gelsenkirchen was impressive; the Hot Dog Mania I encountered in Kaiserslautern was Beckham-esque. Hot Dog Man (World Cup Edition) was the toast of K-Town.
There were the longtime fans: “Hey, hot dog guy!” an American dude yelled early in the afternoon. “Again!”
Then, there were the inquisitive children: “Do you eat yourself?” an eight-year-old troublemaker asked, cracking himself up to his heart’s delight.
The inevitable paparazzi: “Stand right there, Hot Dog Man. Look into the camera,” a Fox Sports photographer requested kindly as my friend and I posed with staged smiles. “Come on, man! Look excited!” (We then started screaming “U-S-A!” at the top of our lungs and having forced spasms).
And finally, there were the hordes of beautiful woman: “Meesta Veenah! Meesta Veenah!” a pretty young frauline screamed from a few meters away. “Can I take a peek-chah vis you?” (Access granted – anything for my fans).
What better way to pour one out for a homey left behind than to set him up for the next time we all take a trip to the world’s greatest Halloween party? Back-to-back Cup appearances for Meesta Veenah would all but lock up his spot in the World Cup Costume Hall of Fame.
That will be four years from now in South Africa, a place TK should know well after two-and-a-half years spent in the Peace Corps. Before the opening whistle of Team USA’s World Cup run blows in June 2010, look for Hot Dog Man on the streets of Cape Town, Johannesburg or Pretoria, rocking out and posing for photos. But don’t be fooled by the pictures from Germany; he won’t look like me this next time around. That’s because during South Africa 2010, the toast of the Cup will be the real Hot Dog Man, with his loyal deputy standing by his side.
But before that day comes, that loyal deputy will be representing Team Halloween’s leader in Nuremberg.
SISTERS AVAILABLE FOR DATING:
Before I forget, (this has nothing to do with traveling and it was taken in April at an Astros game), I just want to say that I have two beautiful sisters.
Elizabeth, on the left, is 23, lives in Corpus, has a solid job with Frito Lay, and enjoys men, country music, chest hair and speaking Spanish.
Garland, on the inset, is fif-teen go-ing on six-teen, I don't know the rest of the song to finish the pun, but she's 15 and about to start driving. She is a cheerleader, a hurdler, and likes the show '24,' as well as a boy at Strake named Joey Brooks. But it's okay, because I'm still taking offers.
Before I forget, (this has nothing to do with traveling and it was taken in April at an Astros game), I just want to say that I have two beautiful sisters.
Elizabeth, on the left, is 23, lives in Corpus, has a solid job with Frito Lay, and enjoys men, country music, chest hair and speaking Spanish.
Garland, on the inset, is fif-teen go-ing on six-teen, I don't know the rest of the song to finish the pun, but she's 15 and about to start driving. She is a cheerleader, a hurdler, and likes the show '24,' as well as a boy at Strake named Joey Brooks. But it's okay, because I'm still taking offers.
I'm busting down barriers and stereotypes on my tour of Germany. Texan Hot Dog Men are not racist, contrary to popular belief. I have tons of colored friends..just look at the evidence!
"Benedictum! Benedictum!"
I don't really know what that means, but these Italian kids must have -- they were chanting it as they walked down the street, blessing all those who passed in front of them.
So I haven't been to Mass yet...but I got blessed by two of the current popes. And you thought tracing the apostolic line of succession was tricky during the Avignon era? A pope with dreads is going to have a hard time remembering things, especially with chronology. So good luck finding out which one really is the rock upon which Jesus built his church.
I don't really know what that means, but these Italian kids must have -- they were chanting it as they walked down the street, blessing all those who passed in front of them.
So I haven't been to Mass yet...but I got blessed by two of the current popes. And you thought tracing the apostolic line of succession was tricky during the Avignon era? A pope with dreads is going to have a hard time remembering things, especially with chronology. So good luck finding out which one really is the rock upon which Jesus built his church.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Okay so I know there are small children who may skim this blog for reasons of relation, and I thought about whether or not this was okay to post it. But it's a set of external boobs that she wears around, and then has the nerve to get pissed at dudes who are walking by drunk, clearly intent on some grabbage.
In other words, this is just like your kid seeing the closet room at a dept. store, and laying eyes on some of those female mannequins who always seem to come with nipples in this country (see above photo of Jamison at the Cologne airport).
In other words, this is just like your kid seeing the closet room at a dept. store, and laying eyes on some of those female mannequins who always seem to come with nipples in this country (see above photo of Jamison at the Cologne airport).
Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition is a lot more toned and physically attractive than the 6'5" original version who can't even grow new hair on his head anymore. I just wanted to show that I am more versatile than just soccer.
Yes...I am so hot right now I can't even stand it.
Yes...I am so hot right now I can't even stand it.
I'm only a flag-waver during the World Cup and ... that's it. So the hat upon this man's head gave us a bond, a real bond.
And I know we're hovering around .500. Well, we're also hovering around the wild card, Joe Lemire, so shut up.
And I know we're hovering around .500. Well, we're also hovering around the wild card, Joe Lemire, so shut up.
I mean, there's really no comparison as to which dorm is the greatest of the past 15 years at UVa. We have Ryan Zimmerman, D'Brickashaw Ferguson, Uncle Phil from "The Fresh Prince's" real nephew, Jamaar, Hot Dog Man, Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition, and people named Phil Jackson and Seth Green. And Robert Downey! Then, when you see a former Humphreysite randomly in K-Town (Germans really use that for Kaiserslautern; check out white pants guy's shirt), you've gotta get a group photo.
HUMPHREYS
HUMPHREYS
It was at about this time that Hunter went to the potty for the 36th time in the past 12 hours. Four syllables: I-MMO-DI-UM. (Along with Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition, he didn't go to the only good game the USA played the whole Cup. It's probably good that I didn't go, because I just think a giant hot dog suit standing in front of the Italians would have turned a heated exchange into a heated brawl).
Please, tell me why we do not have this size foosball in America. It is amazing, better than big chess, the specialty of European parks and Colorado summer resort towns.
Kaiserslautern.
This was Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition's greatest performance of the cup. But Chase represented our country probably the best, by celebrating the HQ's of American corporate domination station.
This was Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition's greatest performance of the cup. But Chase represented our country probably the best, by celebrating the HQ's of American corporate domination station.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
White pants man, even with beer spilled on him, cannot resist the charm of Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition
�Never BP
�Never BP
WORLD CUP, USA vs. ITALY
So I missed the first five minutes of the second half …. AND I JUST NOW FOUND OUT THAT WE PLAYED TWO MEN DOWN THE ENTIRE 48 MINUTES!!!!
I thought it was 10 on 10 the entire time, and we were a man down???
WOW THAT CHANGES MY OPINION OF THAT GAME.
Let’s just say it’s lucky that I didn’t get a ticket to it. Jamison comes back to the hotel, still steaming from the treatment he received from those goddamn Italians. Every time he stood up in the section full of cigarette-smoking, anorexic fashion slaves clad in red leather, he literally got yanked down into his seat by the American flag tied to his neck.
If that had happened to Hot Dog Man, there would have been fists thrown.
Drew just came back, telling the same story.
What is the deal with people who sit down during big time sporting events? World Series, Astros fans are sitting in the 12th inning. World Cup, Italian fans are sitting in the 85th minute.
STAND UP YOU FREAKING PATHETIC LAZY BI-OTCHES. There is seriously nothing that gets my blood pumping more than people SITTING at games that have the word “world” in them. “World” in a sporting event means “stand.” Punto.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jamison, I know your girlfriend is hot. But you’re sleeping like five feet away from me. Loft does NOT equal sound-proof barrier. I can hear you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And I can still hear you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Still have ears. (this is like fifteen minutes after the first comment).
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before I forget, I've got something I need to get off my shoulders.
DON’T WEAR WHITE PANTS IF YOU’RE A GUY. END OF STORY.
So this story is a classic. Have you ever done something by accident, and then in trying to make up for it, committed another accident even worse than the original?
Of course you have. We all have. But I did it tonight, and it was really uncomfortable.
Hunter and I were watching the first half in some bar, and I had a big beer mug in my right hand. This is important for later; remember the words “big” and “mug.”
Italy took the early lead; we tied it a few minutes later – and that’s when I made mistake No. 1.
I spasmed so hard when that first goal went in that half my beer went flying into the air. It landed on two German dudes; one cool, the other not so much.
It was the latter that didn’t appreciate the free shower. And why was that exactly?
Because the man was wearing white pants. White.
Two things for anyone who thinks they would have also been upset had they been in his position: 1) Don’t wear white pants if you’re a dude. Ever. 2) Don’t wear white pants if you’re a dude, and you’re going to a bar to watch the World Cup in Germany, especially if you’re going to throw a hissy fit when some American dude in a six-foot hot dog suit spills his beer on them after his team scores their first goal of the tournament.
So he was upset, to put it frankly.
Naturally, I wanted to smooth it over. What better way to do so than to tap glasses for a cheers?
So I held up my mug, the German version of passing the peace pipe. It took all that the guy had to not spit in my face, but he manned up, realized it was an honest mistake rooted in enthusiasm for sports, and raised his glass to mine.
But he had a tall, skinny glass, not a big mug.
It’s kind of like a Hummer getting in a wreck with a Kia. The Hummer is gonna win that one every time.
The chunk of glass I took out of his cup was probably the size of a small apple. Nothing says “I’m sorry” like a beer full of glass shards, right?
It’s like, could something more inopportune please happen at that moment? Other than slipping as I go to clink glasses, and spilling my entire beer on his white pants, I can’t really think of anything worse. The look on his face told me all I needed to know, so I quickly bought him a new beer to make up for it.
But what are the odds, seriously?
Unbelievable. I’m just glad he didn’t crack me in the face.
(Happy ending: We were friends by the end of the half).
So I missed the first five minutes of the second half …. AND I JUST NOW FOUND OUT THAT WE PLAYED TWO MEN DOWN THE ENTIRE 48 MINUTES!!!!
I thought it was 10 on 10 the entire time, and we were a man down???
WOW THAT CHANGES MY OPINION OF THAT GAME.
Let’s just say it’s lucky that I didn’t get a ticket to it. Jamison comes back to the hotel, still steaming from the treatment he received from those goddamn Italians. Every time he stood up in the section full of cigarette-smoking, anorexic fashion slaves clad in red leather, he literally got yanked down into his seat by the American flag tied to his neck.
If that had happened to Hot Dog Man, there would have been fists thrown.
Drew just came back, telling the same story.
What is the deal with people who sit down during big time sporting events? World Series, Astros fans are sitting in the 12th inning. World Cup, Italian fans are sitting in the 85th minute.
STAND UP YOU FREAKING PATHETIC LAZY BI-OTCHES. There is seriously nothing that gets my blood pumping more than people SITTING at games that have the word “world” in them. “World” in a sporting event means “stand.” Punto.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jamison, I know your girlfriend is hot. But you’re sleeping like five feet away from me. Loft does NOT equal sound-proof barrier. I can hear you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And I can still hear you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Still have ears. (this is like fifteen minutes after the first comment).
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before I forget, I've got something I need to get off my shoulders.
DON’T WEAR WHITE PANTS IF YOU’RE A GUY. END OF STORY.
So this story is a classic. Have you ever done something by accident, and then in trying to make up for it, committed another accident even worse than the original?
Of course you have. We all have. But I did it tonight, and it was really uncomfortable.
Hunter and I were watching the first half in some bar, and I had a big beer mug in my right hand. This is important for later; remember the words “big” and “mug.”
Italy took the early lead; we tied it a few minutes later – and that’s when I made mistake No. 1.
I spasmed so hard when that first goal went in that half my beer went flying into the air. It landed on two German dudes; one cool, the other not so much.
It was the latter that didn’t appreciate the free shower. And why was that exactly?
Because the man was wearing white pants. White.
Two things for anyone who thinks they would have also been upset had they been in his position: 1) Don’t wear white pants if you’re a dude. Ever. 2) Don’t wear white pants if you’re a dude, and you’re going to a bar to watch the World Cup in Germany, especially if you’re going to throw a hissy fit when some American dude in a six-foot hot dog suit spills his beer on them after his team scores their first goal of the tournament.
So he was upset, to put it frankly.
Naturally, I wanted to smooth it over. What better way to do so than to tap glasses for a cheers?
So I held up my mug, the German version of passing the peace pipe. It took all that the guy had to not spit in my face, but he manned up, realized it was an honest mistake rooted in enthusiasm for sports, and raised his glass to mine.
But he had a tall, skinny glass, not a big mug.
It’s kind of like a Hummer getting in a wreck with a Kia. The Hummer is gonna win that one every time.
The chunk of glass I took out of his cup was probably the size of a small apple. Nothing says “I’m sorry” like a beer full of glass shards, right?
It’s like, could something more inopportune please happen at that moment? Other than slipping as I go to clink glasses, and spilling my entire beer on his white pants, I can’t really think of anything worse. The look on his face told me all I needed to know, so I quickly bought him a new beer to make up for it.
But what are the odds, seriously?
Unbelievable. I’m just glad he didn’t crack me in the face.
(Happy ending: We were friends by the end of the half).
"This is a f*** s*** town! Yes?"
I love meeting people from other countries who speak almost no English .... save for what they see on movies and hear on Tupac albums.
Case in point: Last night, after arriving in Kaiserslautern at 10:30 p.m., mas o menos, Drew and I started the hike to our hotel.
We got lost.
After about an hour of walking in the dark, trying to figure out how to find the needle in the haystack, we see an RV approaching, and stepped into the middle of the road to stop the driver for directions.
He had gotten lost, too.
So we organized a barter: They give us a ride to our hotel, we give them our map so they can get to theirs. Deal.
Here is a rough transcript of our conversation:
Italy guy: "Is there party in dis town?"
Me: "Nah, man. It's pretty dead."
Italy guy: "This is a f*** s*** town! Yes?"
Me: "Yeah man! F***! S***! Good!"
Italian guys: (laugther) "Yes!"
I love meeting people from other countries who speak almost no English .... save for what they see on movies and hear on Tupac albums.
Case in point: Last night, after arriving in Kaiserslautern at 10:30 p.m., mas o menos, Drew and I started the hike to our hotel.
We got lost.
After about an hour of walking in the dark, trying to figure out how to find the needle in the haystack, we see an RV approaching, and stepped into the middle of the road to stop the driver for directions.
He had gotten lost, too.
So we organized a barter: They give us a ride to our hotel, we give them our map so they can get to theirs. Deal.
Here is a rough transcript of our conversation:
Italy guy: "Is there party in dis town?"
Me: "Nah, man. It's pretty dead."
Italy guy: "This is a f*** s*** town! Yes?"
Me: "Yeah man! F***! S***! Good!"
Italian guys: (laugther) "Yes!"
Friday, June 16, 2006
Journey to Gentleman:
A Tale of One Man’s Quest for the Ultimate Musical Experience.
I AM THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW.
http://www.journeytojah.de/ will tell you why.
June 23, 2006. Where will you be?
Most likely not with me, because that will be the day that I am in Abenberg, DE, getting my GROOVE on at the Burg Open Air Festival, a four-band reggae set headlined by the living legend himself, Gentleman.
Please, tell me you haven't heard of him. I love hearing that, because I take pride in being remembered by you kinds of people as the person who introduced you to your new favorite band.
When Bob Marley said that those crazy baldheads were gonna chase us right outta town, he just didn't know that a white German dude with a buzzed head who learned English in Jamica and therefore has the patois down pat would one day be the best reggae artist on earth.
Oh Lord how tings gwon fi change in dis day and age. Seen?
Excuse me for my excitement, but it all makes sense if you know the story:
Gentleman has been my favorite artist since September 2004 (no, I don't remember the exact day), when I was introduced to him as a student studying abroad in Geneva. I quickly became an addict.
That November, after blowing two opportunities to see him play in Switzerland (sold out before I made a move!), I was able to score a ticket to a five-band reggae/hip hop festival in the western German town of Saarbrücken (which I passed tonight, ironically enough). Seven hours, one train, zero friends along for the ride.
Pure dedication.
So I'm at the show. I'm trying to converse, no one speaks English, I just keep lining up for beer as I wait for the opening acts to do their obligatory sets and make way for Mr. Gentleman, himself.
The bands keep playing, I keep getting back in line, and the cycle continues.
Throughout the opening acts, I would hear periodic announcements in German: "Einz, viel schpeiden oberstrausse eneiden geiden schpitzer Gentleman nie hier dach schtumpen die wehr Gentleman haus dies."
I understand two words in that paragraph, and neither is written in italics.
Guess, then, what my reaction was to that same announcement, like five times in a row.
"WHOOO! Gen-tull-MUN! Whoo! Whoo."
Even though I completely fabricated all that German you read above, here is a real translation of the forgery:
"Gentleman is not playing tonight. His keyboardist is sick. I repeat, Gentleman is not playing tonight."
I found this out three bands in, when some kids who spoke English came up and asked me if I had any bud. Does the phrase “knifed in the stomach” mean anything to you?
This was all news to me about an hour after it became news to the rest of the dejected concert-goers, who couldn't understand why I was so excited about something so tragic.
And tragic it was, for me especially. The make-up dated promised by the MC running the festivities was on a Wednesday (school) night; not exactly around the corner from my pad a Genève.
My solution was to get back in that line.
I didn't stop drinking until I woke up, slumped against the back wall, the show over, me not remembering the last two bands that played.
And keep in mind, I don’t black out -- ever. It’s just not my thing. I honestly can count the number of times it has happened, lifetime, on one hand. And that night, I blacked out, hardcore.
Despair drove me to the precipice; 1 euro beer and no one to talk to drove me beyond.
Startled by the feel of an empathetic-looking German girl shaking me out of my stupor, then asking me a whole bunch of questions in a language very similar to Martian, I stumbled out of the arena, pissed as all hell that I'd taken the trek to Saar-freaking-brücken for NOTHING. As soon as I got back to my room at the Heartbreak Hotel, I went to bed and dreamed of a time when Gentleman’s keyboardist didn't get sick, or maybe a time where his keyboardist got sick and he, gasp, got replaced for a show!
The dream never materialized, not that semester at least, which was crushing considering the star power Gentleman wields east of the Atlantic (German TRL, anyone?) vs. west of it (just Google it; reggae ain’t coming up). “No way the man ever plays in the U.S.” I thought to myself with resignation, shoulders slumped. And if you don’t count California, that is true.
Flash forward to November 2005. I've been gearing up for months in preparation for this Jamaica trip I'm about to take with my roommate Jamison and his family. We've known since August, when I randomly discovered the fact on a late-night Google search, that Gentleman is to headline a festival in Ocho Rios December 17 -- in fact, when Jamison found out the exact dates that we'd be vacationing there, he wrote on a Post-It Note stuck to my door, "Jamaica dates: Dec. 15-Jan. 3. This means Gentleman!"
(ring, ring)
“Hallo?” came a grating, Jamaican voice on the other end.
“Hello, I’m calling to see about getting tickets to the Gentleman festival at Island Village next month..”
“Show fi cancelled, mon,” the voice said, caring very little that he had cut me off in mid-thought. “No show. Dey say he fi play January 21st, mon, at ah deef-rent location, mon.”
How about “knife twisting in my stomach?”
Flash forward to last semester. Gearing up for another trip, this one to Europe at the end of college. A quick check to journeytojah.de, and … playing in a festival right outside Nuremberg, the day after USA-Ghana is held there?
Pinch me.
The only problem was how we were going to get the tickets, because in Western Europe, PayPal and credit cards are just too easy. So is the idea of a will call window.
That meant two things: 1) I needed to wire the money, which is a little unnerving when you’re spotting five other heads and there’s no guarantee it even goes through for like ten days. 2) I needed a German address for the tickets to be mailed.
My girl at the Bank of Texas, Felicia Ellis, hooked it up on the transfer – not only did it successfully go through, but she waved the fee. That’s why Felicia Ellis is my girl.
And in the smallest of worlds stories, Jamison’s girlfriend, Laura, is from Germany, and has an older brother with an address in Cologne. Cologne, as in the hometown of a reggae singer named Gentleman.
The transfer worked, the mail worked. Now we have to sit back, wait, and hope that the keyboardist's immune system works.
Stay posted.
A Tale of One Man’s Quest for the Ultimate Musical Experience.
I AM THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW.
http://www.journeytojah.de/ will tell you why.
June 23, 2006. Where will you be?
Most likely not with me, because that will be the day that I am in Abenberg, DE, getting my GROOVE on at the Burg Open Air Festival, a four-band reggae set headlined by the living legend himself, Gentleman.
Please, tell me you haven't heard of him. I love hearing that, because I take pride in being remembered by you kinds of people as the person who introduced you to your new favorite band.
When Bob Marley said that those crazy baldheads were gonna chase us right outta town, he just didn't know that a white German dude with a buzzed head who learned English in Jamica and therefore has the patois down pat would one day be the best reggae artist on earth.
Oh Lord how tings gwon fi change in dis day and age. Seen?
Excuse me for my excitement, but it all makes sense if you know the story:
Gentleman has been my favorite artist since September 2004 (no, I don't remember the exact day), when I was introduced to him as a student studying abroad in Geneva. I quickly became an addict.
That November, after blowing two opportunities to see him play in Switzerland (sold out before I made a move!), I was able to score a ticket to a five-band reggae/hip hop festival in the western German town of Saarbrücken (which I passed tonight, ironically enough). Seven hours, one train, zero friends along for the ride.
Pure dedication.
So I'm at the show. I'm trying to converse, no one speaks English, I just keep lining up for beer as I wait for the opening acts to do their obligatory sets and make way for Mr. Gentleman, himself.
The bands keep playing, I keep getting back in line, and the cycle continues.
Throughout the opening acts, I would hear periodic announcements in German: "Einz, viel schpeiden oberstrausse eneiden geiden schpitzer Gentleman nie hier dach schtumpen die wehr Gentleman haus dies."
I understand two words in that paragraph, and neither is written in italics.
Guess, then, what my reaction was to that same announcement, like five times in a row.
"WHOOO! Gen-tull-MUN! Whoo! Whoo."
Even though I completely fabricated all that German you read above, here is a real translation of the forgery:
"Gentleman is not playing tonight. His keyboardist is sick. I repeat, Gentleman is not playing tonight."
I found this out three bands in, when some kids who spoke English came up and asked me if I had any bud. Does the phrase “knifed in the stomach” mean anything to you?
This was all news to me about an hour after it became news to the rest of the dejected concert-goers, who couldn't understand why I was so excited about something so tragic.
And tragic it was, for me especially. The make-up dated promised by the MC running the festivities was on a Wednesday (school) night; not exactly around the corner from my pad a Genève.
My solution was to get back in that line.
I didn't stop drinking until I woke up, slumped against the back wall, the show over, me not remembering the last two bands that played.
And keep in mind, I don’t black out -- ever. It’s just not my thing. I honestly can count the number of times it has happened, lifetime, on one hand. And that night, I blacked out, hardcore.
Despair drove me to the precipice; 1 euro beer and no one to talk to drove me beyond.
Startled by the feel of an empathetic-looking German girl shaking me out of my stupor, then asking me a whole bunch of questions in a language very similar to Martian, I stumbled out of the arena, pissed as all hell that I'd taken the trek to Saar-freaking-brücken for NOTHING. As soon as I got back to my room at the Heartbreak Hotel, I went to bed and dreamed of a time when Gentleman’s keyboardist didn't get sick, or maybe a time where his keyboardist got sick and he, gasp, got replaced for a show!
The dream never materialized, not that semester at least, which was crushing considering the star power Gentleman wields east of the Atlantic (German TRL, anyone?) vs. west of it (just Google it; reggae ain’t coming up). “No way the man ever plays in the U.S.” I thought to myself with resignation, shoulders slumped. And if you don’t count California, that is true.
Flash forward to November 2005. I've been gearing up for months in preparation for this Jamaica trip I'm about to take with my roommate Jamison and his family. We've known since August, when I randomly discovered the fact on a late-night Google search, that Gentleman is to headline a festival in Ocho Rios December 17 -- in fact, when Jamison found out the exact dates that we'd be vacationing there, he wrote on a Post-It Note stuck to my door, "Jamaica dates: Dec. 15-Jan. 3. This means Gentleman!"
(ring, ring)
“Hallo?” came a grating, Jamaican voice on the other end.
“Hello, I’m calling to see about getting tickets to the Gentleman festival at Island Village next month..”
“Show fi cancelled, mon,” the voice said, caring very little that he had cut me off in mid-thought. “No show. Dey say he fi play January 21st, mon, at ah deef-rent location, mon.”
How about “knife twisting in my stomach?”
Flash forward to last semester. Gearing up for another trip, this one to Europe at the end of college. A quick check to journeytojah.de, and … playing in a festival right outside Nuremberg, the day after USA-Ghana is held there?
Pinch me.
The only problem was how we were going to get the tickets, because in Western Europe, PayPal and credit cards are just too easy. So is the idea of a will call window.
That meant two things: 1) I needed to wire the money, which is a little unnerving when you’re spotting five other heads and there’s no guarantee it even goes through for like ten days. 2) I needed a German address for the tickets to be mailed.
My girl at the Bank of Texas, Felicia Ellis, hooked it up on the transfer – not only did it successfully go through, but she waved the fee. That’s why Felicia Ellis is my girl.
And in the smallest of worlds stories, Jamison’s girlfriend, Laura, is from Germany, and has an older brother with an address in Cologne. Cologne, as in the hometown of a reggae singer named Gentleman.
The transfer worked, the mail worked. Now we have to sit back, wait, and hope that the keyboardist's immune system works.
Stay posted.
Amsterdam.
Hey, who am I?
"Ah hoop den hag den loop da joop da woop da hop en hop den haag den hoop roopy joopy!"
I'm someone who speaks Dutch!
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I only have three words of wisdom for anyone adventurous enough to travel to the land of "Everyone and their mother, and most likely father as well, speaks English" (also known as Amsterdam).
RENT.
A.
BIKE.
Rent a bike! I've now been there four times, and I'm only now figuring this out. You will have a much better time cruising around those canals on an old-school beach cruiser than you will sitting in some sketch coffee shop thinking to yourself that you are cool because you're sitting in some sketch coffee shop in, like, Amsterdam, duuuude.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
And people think Americans are provincial and arrogant, because.......?
So now's the part of the story where I tell you about Boo Boo Drew's classic encounter with Joe Pakistani, who was working the register at one of the many Candy Land type restaurants in the main tourist area of the city. It wasn't intentional indifference by any means -- you've got to give him a little bit of a break, ya know? But still. Just read.
DISCLAIMER: Drew claims that he knew the entire time the man really did speak English, that he was just messing. So this is to inform the masses that my take on the situation may have been totally warped. I, personally, don't believe that. But even if I'm wrong, there is still humor in this story, because that would mean that Joe Pakistani has the dryest wit I've ever seen .... (to be able to keep a straight face throughout the entire encounter takes will power).
scene: Drew standing at the counter of Snack Shop, Pakistani cashier staring at him, blank faced.
Drew: "Do you speak English?"
Joe Pakistani: "No."
Drew: (without any hesitation whatsoever, almost as if Joe Pakistani had actually answered in the affirmative) "Can I get a submarine and a chocolate milkshake please?"
Joe Pakistani: "Six and a half euros, please."
(Drew hands man money, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, not considering the fact that a man who claims not to speak English handled his order flawlessly and stated the price in an impeccable accent)
Joe Pakistani: (about three seconds later, all the while staring at Drew, straight faced) "Why when I say I don't speak English do you speak English?"
WOW. I've heard some spots blown in my life, but never by a cashier like that!! Oh man I almost peed in my pants, which would have been uncomfortable.
Hey, who am I?
"Ah hoop den hag den loop da joop da woop da hop en hop den haag den hoop roopy joopy!"
I'm someone who speaks Dutch!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I only have three words of wisdom for anyone adventurous enough to travel to the land of "Everyone and their mother, and most likely father as well, speaks English" (also known as Amsterdam).
RENT.
A.
BIKE.
Rent a bike! I've now been there four times, and I'm only now figuring this out. You will have a much better time cruising around those canals on an old-school beach cruiser than you will sitting in some sketch coffee shop thinking to yourself that you are cool because you're sitting in some sketch coffee shop in, like, Amsterdam, duuuude.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
And people think Americans are provincial and arrogant, because.......?
So now's the part of the story where I tell you about Boo Boo Drew's classic encounter with Joe Pakistani, who was working the register at one of the many Candy Land type restaurants in the main tourist area of the city. It wasn't intentional indifference by any means -- you've got to give him a little bit of a break, ya know? But still. Just read.
DISCLAIMER: Drew claims that he knew the entire time the man really did speak English, that he was just messing. So this is to inform the masses that my take on the situation may have been totally warped. I, personally, don't believe that. But even if I'm wrong, there is still humor in this story, because that would mean that Joe Pakistani has the dryest wit I've ever seen .... (to be able to keep a straight face throughout the entire encounter takes will power).
scene: Drew standing at the counter of Snack Shop, Pakistani cashier staring at him, blank faced.
Drew: "Do you speak English?"
Joe Pakistani: "No."
Drew: (without any hesitation whatsoever, almost as if Joe Pakistani had actually answered in the affirmative) "Can I get a submarine and a chocolate milkshake please?"
Joe Pakistani: "Six and a half euros, please."
(Drew hands man money, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, not considering the fact that a man who claims not to speak English handled his order flawlessly and stated the price in an impeccable accent)
Joe Pakistani: (about three seconds later, all the while staring at Drew, straight faced) "Why when I say I don't speak English do you speak English?"
WOW. I've heard some spots blown in my life, but never by a cashier like that!! Oh man I almost peed in my pants, which would have been uncomfortable.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
HOT DOG MAN
gets a little pub.
Just so you know, this is a story loosely based on a script written by me, which you can find below. I mean, how can they not include the chants?!
“U.S. Blues”
Willkommen nach Deutschland!
The place where American soccer comes to die.
I spent $440 of my own hard-earned money to hop the pond for my first ever World Cup match, and all I got in return was this lousy bumper sticker.
That and a chance to watch Team USA get schooled by the Czechs, who did it for free. “Domination” does not sufficiently describe the beating we took on Monday before a crowd of 52,000. When the smoke cleared, Bruce Arena’s jokers were lucky to have lost by just a hat trick.
Three goals to nil – not since one of my purple Nexium meds broke open in my mouth last month have I had to swallow such a bitter pill.
Right now, sitting in my hotel in the nothing German town of Gelsenkirchen, I’m feeling pretty red, white and blue indeed.
It’s this nasty case of World Cup Fever I’ve got that’s to blame. It’s contagious; it’s nearly incurable; and if not treated, I’ve heard it can be deadly. In the past 24 hours, a fair-weather U.S. soccer fan who could name less than half of our own starters has been transformed into a diehard U.S. football fanatic, one who second-guesses our formations and substitution patterns like an old soccer sage.
Of course, I never would have caught the Fever in the first place had I not invested so much of myself emotionally into yesterday’s opener against the Czech Republic.
There’s something about wearing a costume to a World Cup match that just forces you to raise your game as a fan. You’ve put yourself in the spotlight, after all, so it makes sense that people would expect more out of you than the next guy. The same rule applies to any sporting event, really: When you choose to wear a costume, you’d better be ready to get rowdy and stay rowdy, or else you’re going to look like a complete fool.
The problem with this, of course, is that when your team gets destroyed, and your ridiculous costume is forcing you to put on a happy face, it’s not much fun.
Especially when it’s 96 degrees in the shade, and you’re wrapped in a bun. Literally.
People with a satellite dish and an affinity for German television may have seen the Hot Dog Man yesterday, covered in an American flag, dancing a jig in the streets of Gelsenkirchen, but the rest of you will simply have to visualize.
Picture a six-foot American wearing a six-foot hot dog suit made of foam and felt – bun, frank and wavy line of mustard included. With an eight-inch hole near the top for my head, a U.S. flag fastened around my neck as a cape, and another U.S. flag – this one a bandana – meant for my head, I fit in well with the pre-World Cup Halloween-like party atmosphere. There was an Uncle Sam, a Captain America, a pair of girls wearing U.S. flags as bath towels, and about a million other costumes incorporating the Stars and Stripes.
But Hot Dog Man: World Cup Edition was a star among stars. Not even my own mother, nor any girl I’ve ever dated, has taken that many pictures of me in one day.
“You didn’t think hot dogs were German, did you?!” I would exclaim to intrigued passersby who paused for photo-ops with this raving madman drenched in sweat. “They invented the frank; WE came up with the bun! God bless the U.S.A.!”
Toby Keith would have shed a tear at the sight.
I am typically pretty wary of flag-wavers and overt displays of patriotism, but yesterday, I was ready to go to war. The red, the white, the blue, the stars, the stripes, the “Don’t Tread on Me” flags … for about three hours, I could say with the utmost degree of sincerity that I was proud to be an American. Check out some of the chants of which I was a hearty participant:
(Sung to the tune of “If You’re Happy and You Know it”) -- “You can shove your Pavel Nedved up your a**! You can shove your Pavel Nedved up your a**! You can shove your Pavel, you can shove your Pavel, you can shove your Pavel Nedved up your a**!”
(Sung to the tune of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” by Frankie Valli) – “Da-Mar-cus BEAS-ley, he plays for P-S-V! DaMarcus BEAS-ley, he came to Ger-ma-ny! DaMarcus BEAS-ley, he plays for the red, white and bluuuuue!”
(My personal favorite, sung to the tune of “I Got a Dollar” from “The Little Rascals”) -- “No-body likes us! No-body likes us! No-body likes us, we don’t care!”
American creativity: Brilliant.
American soccer: Not brilliant.
Until the latter can catch up to the former, I’m going to be singing the U.S. Blues for quite some time. I’ve got World Cup Fever, and winning is the only cure.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
HOT DOG MAN
World Cup Edition, 2006
Tom, I'm sorry.
For all the amazing memories which you have provided us with as Hot Dog Man at Virginia sporting events, my tribute appearance to the one and only Thomas Raymond Kuklinski was without a doubt the shining moment of the suit.
That's a kick in the balls, isn't it?
All day, I was posing for photographs, speaking into video cameras, and explaining the reason for why I would subject myself to a sauna-like experience all day, when hot dogs had no apparent connection to either soccer or the United States of America.
Soccer? Okay fine, there's absolutely zero connection to soccer. But the US-and-A? I mean, people, come on, you didn't think hot dogs were invented in GERMANY, did you? They can create the nuclear bomb, but they can't think of making the bun the same size as the frank.
Einstein, Schmeinstein.
"America! F*** yeah!"
"America! F*** yeah!"
same quote as above (Have you seen the movie?)
No description necessary.
Lord, this man is fat. Land of the free, home of the obesely brave!
When Elvis impersonators gush over how cool your costume is, you know you've picked a winner. Thanks, Tom, for making the rash decision while drunk one night to throw down on eBay for a $90 hot dog suit, plus $10 shipping and handling. Best hundo you ever spent.
Rey Mysterio, after George Bush's amnesty plan goes into effect.
Ordinary men are capable of cannibalism -- this shot proves the absurdity of objective morality.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Gelsenkirchen, Germany. Five hours before the opening kick for Team USA.
I don't care what you say. I'm convinced that all these national songs the Czechs keep singing are actually just collections of noises that follow a set meoldic pattern, and that no real words are being enunciated.
"Rah ya boo booh, nah nah, HEY HEY! Rah na na na bee bee, bah bah, HEY HEY!"
This Texan don't speak no Czech, but he knows that these guys are just drunk and trying to make everyone think they have spirit.
Myself, Hunter, Chase, Drew, Jamison and Robbie ... we can't come back with anything except to sing the theme song from "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." That and a nice little chant I heard last night from a pair of Ohio State meat heads, directed at some belligerent Brits:
"If it wasn't for the YANKS, we'd all be speaking GERMAN!!!"
True dat, my friends. True dat.
But since our lovely hosts, who continue to speak German even after going 0-for-2 on European landmass domination, wouldn't really appreciate hearing that one too much, we try to reference "Da Ali G Show" instead.
"U-S-and-A! U-S-and-A!"
It just sounds funnier to say it like Borat, everyone's favorite fake Kazakh, but the meaning is still the same: The Yanks are going on a rampage tonight, and there ain't enough Czechs and Balances in the world to stop us from showing the world who the real Republic is.
If this was a story about baseball, football, basketball or pretty much any other sport that I watch more than once every four years, I'd go on to talk about the actual players who I think will show me something tonight. But this is soccer, a sport I played for 14 straight years, but a sport that I neglect more than my car's engine, 4,000 miles after its most recent Jiffy Lube sojourn.
Outside of Landon Donovan, DeMarcus Beasley, Kasey Keller, Bobby Convey, Somethingsomething Enyewu, Claudio Reyna and Brian McBride, I couldn't name one player on the U.S. side.
As for our opponents, who weren't on the cover of the SI I bought in Newark, they remain a complete mystery to me -- but they still suck. I know the obvious two: Pavel Nedved (was this guy not in the NHL in the lat 90's??) and Milan Baros. And then I'm spent, aside from the too-good-to-be-true rumor that the Czech goalie has a surname of Cech (pronounced Czech). If it's not a lie, expect a pun-making frenzy in the headlines of competing English language newspapers tomorrow.
"Football" is a funny thing. In 95% of the world, it is sport -- that's why Euros refuse to add an 's' to their general term for competitive athletic activity. The Beautiful Game, besides having the best marketing phrase since DeBeers convinced us all the Diamonds are Forever, is living proof that men don't have to be lumberjacks to be men.
So you like to gel your hair before exercising? Fine, as long as you've got some punch in that left foot. And your friends tell me that you tend to act like a little girl when you get a boo boo on the field. But if you can run for 90 minutes, you're fit enough for me.
Because the rest of the world sees masculinity as faux-hawks, Capri pants and Gucci sunglasses, 281ers, Californians and South Floridians would feel right at home on the streets of Germany this month.
Maybe THIS is where I could finally test out my prototype for an idea that is going to make me a rich man someday. Even though I hear that Jack Bauer is himself sporting a S.A.M.P. (Socially Acceptable Man Purse), the idea of an entire line of S.A.M.P.s hasn't generated too much interest in Texas, even though every guy secretly wishes it were socially acceptable to carry a small bag capable of holding phones, money, cameras and hackey sacks when he leaves the house.
But these Eurotrash soccer lovers aren't gonna be able to resist the idea of it. And once that happens, it's only a matter of time before the rage hops the pond, and the S.A.M.P. makes me a Bill-y-onnaire.
Nearly five hours to kickoff, it's only a matter of time before I get dressed for success in preparation for my first ever international sporting event. American flag bandana, American flag cape ... and a six-foot hot dog suit are what I'm wearing to the game.
This is a story of six friends, all recently graduated from UVa, who came to Germany together to celebrate the end of an era. Five of us bought tickets to the opener, and the sixth, Robbie, stumbled home this morning at 10 a.m., broke, drunk and tired, and armed with a mysterious free ticket given to him at a bar by his new British friend -- whose name Robbie cannot remember. (Robbie is now sleeping in his room, and may just snooze through the game entirely).
But not all of our comrades could make the journey overseas, the most glaring absence standing at six-feet, five-inches tall.
Tom Kuklinski, a.k.a. TK, a.k.a. Naked Tom, a.k.a. Tall Tom, a.k.a. Crazy Tom, a.k.a. E-School Tom, a.ka. Big Purple ... a.k.a. Hot Dog Man. He answers to them all. And because my right-hand man from all UVa sports couldn't make the trip with us, I'm pourin' one out for my homey today when I put on his famous foam suit with the felt mustard stripe winding down the center.
I'm about five inches shorter than Hot Dog Man, which will make me look more like a real hot dog, and less like a hot dog with two Popsicle sticks shoved into one end of the frank. After I post this, I'm taking a shower, brushing my teeth, and getting my dog on.
Then I'm hitting the streets of Gelsenkirchen, where a party is sure to await.
And finally, I will see what it's like to be TK, if only for a day.
The suit made the trip all the way across the Atlantic with me as a memorial not only to Tom, but to all my Virginia boys who couldn't be here. Wes, Dave, Bino, Ruby, Yea I Know Sully, Jamaar...this dog's for you guys.
So watch for me on ESPN, or ABC, or whatever channel is covering it in America. I'm giving 50-50 odds that I get some face time.
Until then, let's go U-S-and-A. It is niiiiiiiiiiice.
(Gotta watch Da Ali G if you're trying to understand that last sentence).
I don't care what you say. I'm convinced that all these national songs the Czechs keep singing are actually just collections of noises that follow a set meoldic pattern, and that no real words are being enunciated.
"Rah ya boo booh, nah nah, HEY HEY! Rah na na na bee bee, bah bah, HEY HEY!"
This Texan don't speak no Czech, but he knows that these guys are just drunk and trying to make everyone think they have spirit.
Myself, Hunter, Chase, Drew, Jamison and Robbie ... we can't come back with anything except to sing the theme song from "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." That and a nice little chant I heard last night from a pair of Ohio State meat heads, directed at some belligerent Brits:
"If it wasn't for the YANKS, we'd all be speaking GERMAN!!!"
True dat, my friends. True dat.
But since our lovely hosts, who continue to speak German even after going 0-for-2 on European landmass domination, wouldn't really appreciate hearing that one too much, we try to reference "Da Ali G Show" instead.
"U-S-and-A! U-S-and-A!"
It just sounds funnier to say it like Borat, everyone's favorite fake Kazakh, but the meaning is still the same: The Yanks are going on a rampage tonight, and there ain't enough Czechs and Balances in the world to stop us from showing the world who the real Republic is.
If this was a story about baseball, football, basketball or pretty much any other sport that I watch more than once every four years, I'd go on to talk about the actual players who I think will show me something tonight. But this is soccer, a sport I played for 14 straight years, but a sport that I neglect more than my car's engine, 4,000 miles after its most recent Jiffy Lube sojourn.
Outside of Landon Donovan, DeMarcus Beasley, Kasey Keller, Bobby Convey, Somethingsomething Enyewu, Claudio Reyna and Brian McBride, I couldn't name one player on the U.S. side.
As for our opponents, who weren't on the cover of the SI I bought in Newark, they remain a complete mystery to me -- but they still suck. I know the obvious two: Pavel Nedved (was this guy not in the NHL in the lat 90's??) and Milan Baros. And then I'm spent, aside from the too-good-to-be-true rumor that the Czech goalie has a surname of Cech (pronounced Czech). If it's not a lie, expect a pun-making frenzy in the headlines of competing English language newspapers tomorrow.
"Football" is a funny thing. In 95% of the world, it is sport -- that's why Euros refuse to add an 's' to their general term for competitive athletic activity. The Beautiful Game, besides having the best marketing phrase since DeBeers convinced us all the Diamonds are Forever, is living proof that men don't have to be lumberjacks to be men.
So you like to gel your hair before exercising? Fine, as long as you've got some punch in that left foot. And your friends tell me that you tend to act like a little girl when you get a boo boo on the field. But if you can run for 90 minutes, you're fit enough for me.
Because the rest of the world sees masculinity as faux-hawks, Capri pants and Gucci sunglasses, 281ers, Californians and South Floridians would feel right at home on the streets of Germany this month.
Maybe THIS is where I could finally test out my prototype for an idea that is going to make me a rich man someday. Even though I hear that Jack Bauer is himself sporting a S.A.M.P. (Socially Acceptable Man Purse), the idea of an entire line of S.A.M.P.s hasn't generated too much interest in Texas, even though every guy secretly wishes it were socially acceptable to carry a small bag capable of holding phones, money, cameras and hackey sacks when he leaves the house.
But these Eurotrash soccer lovers aren't gonna be able to resist the idea of it. And once that happens, it's only a matter of time before the rage hops the pond, and the S.A.M.P. makes me a Bill-y-onnaire.
Nearly five hours to kickoff, it's only a matter of time before I get dressed for success in preparation for my first ever international sporting event. American flag bandana, American flag cape ... and a six-foot hot dog suit are what I'm wearing to the game.
This is a story of six friends, all recently graduated from UVa, who came to Germany together to celebrate the end of an era. Five of us bought tickets to the opener, and the sixth, Robbie, stumbled home this morning at 10 a.m., broke, drunk and tired, and armed with a mysterious free ticket given to him at a bar by his new British friend -- whose name Robbie cannot remember. (Robbie is now sleeping in his room, and may just snooze through the game entirely).
But not all of our comrades could make the journey overseas, the most glaring absence standing at six-feet, five-inches tall.
Tom Kuklinski, a.k.a. TK, a.k.a. Naked Tom, a.k.a. Tall Tom, a.k.a. Crazy Tom, a.k.a. E-School Tom, a.ka. Big Purple ... a.k.a. Hot Dog Man. He answers to them all. And because my right-hand man from all UVa sports couldn't make the trip with us, I'm pourin' one out for my homey today when I put on his famous foam suit with the felt mustard stripe winding down the center.
I'm about five inches shorter than Hot Dog Man, which will make me look more like a real hot dog, and less like a hot dog with two Popsicle sticks shoved into one end of the frank. After I post this, I'm taking a shower, brushing my teeth, and getting my dog on.
Then I'm hitting the streets of Gelsenkirchen, where a party is sure to await.
And finally, I will see what it's like to be TK, if only for a day.
The suit made the trip all the way across the Atlantic with me as a memorial not only to Tom, but to all my Virginia boys who couldn't be here. Wes, Dave, Bino, Ruby, Yea I Know Sully, Jamaar...this dog's for you guys.
So watch for me on ESPN, or ABC, or whatever channel is covering it in America. I'm giving 50-50 odds that I get some face time.
Until then, let's go U-S-and-A. It is niiiiiiiiiiice.
(Gotta watch Da Ali G if you're trying to understand that last sentence).
Friday, June 09, 2006
"I stunk up the room????"
Apparently, the answer is yes. I'm not gonna lie -- I'm a little hurt. I've been called a lot of names in my life, heard a lot of insults, been the victim of a lot of jokes. Short, shrimpy, skinny, bird-legged, girly handwriting, turtle look-a-like, pigeon-toed, obnoxious, short-tempered, loud, insensitive...I've heard all of these many times.
But being told I can't sleep on the couch at my buddy's place in London because, allegedly, the maid thinks I "stunk up the room."
All right, so I didn't take a shower yesterday after playing soccer in the park and getting sweatier than Richard Simmons. And I didn't take a shower today, either ... yet. (I still have two hours until midnight). But there is NO WAY I could have smelled so bad that the maid had to fan out the room and leave the doors open to air it out. These allegations are completely unfounded.
I hope.
Apparently, the answer is yes. I'm not gonna lie -- I'm a little hurt. I've been called a lot of names in my life, heard a lot of insults, been the victim of a lot of jokes. Short, shrimpy, skinny, bird-legged, girly handwriting, turtle look-a-like, pigeon-toed, obnoxious, short-tempered, loud, insensitive...I've heard all of these many times.
But being told I can't sleep on the couch at my buddy's place in London because, allegedly, the maid thinks I "stunk up the room."
All right, so I didn't take a shower yesterday after playing soccer in the park and getting sweatier than Richard Simmons. And I didn't take a shower today, either ... yet. (I still have two hours until midnight). But there is NO WAY I could have smelled so bad that the maid had to fan out the room and leave the doors open to air it out. These allegations are completely unfounded.
I hope.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Why I feel the need to take this trip...and why it's not as scary as it seems to all my relatives.
By Bayless Parsley
June 8, 2006. London, England. Jamison’s house.
"My life is my life, and I only got one life to live. I&I live it upright, regardless of the circumstances." – "My Life," Warrior King.
Bob Marley may have been wrong in his belief that former Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I (previously known as Ras Tafari) was the risen Christ, sent to loosen the seven seals of the Apocalypse, but he was dead on about something else: One good thing about music is that when it hits, you feel no pain.
Art has an uncanny ability to inspire, and music is the art form which fuels my passions better than 93 grade gasoline. There’s something about a song that can just take control of your heart, your soul, your mind … especially when you’re listening to conscious lyrics, words that deal with issues a little weightier than bling, bitches and "two-tone Fode Explorah’s."
All spring, ever since I picked out a random CD at Waterloo called "Conscious Decisions II," that is how I felt about "My Life."
For me – especially in the years since I have ceased to find much comfort in the Catholic faith – reggae music has been my primary source of inspiration. Not because I substituted one dogma for another (I am anything but a Rastafarian; my buddy Tom loves Cat Stevens, but Allah knows he ain’t a member of the Islamic ummah. I think TK may be about 0-for-his existence on answering calls to prayer, let alone clueless as to which direction he’d turn if told to face Mecca). It’s not as black-and-white as a Johnny Damon-level switching of sides. Essentially, the theme of blind adherence/no questions asked that I associate with growing up a papist has been replaced largely by Marley’s personal stance: "Who feels it knows it, Lord." ("Running Away," Exodus).
With so much sway over the direction in which my own philosophies have gone the past five years, reggae is more along the lines of my moral compass – or maybe a flickering, yet constant, beam of light perpetually shining through the fog clouding my life’s harbor.
And my guess is that nearly 99 percent of you are chuckling to yourselves right now.
"Ooooh, Bayless (head shaking, the unmistakable trace of a smirk lingering on your grill). Are you a RASTA? Irie, MON! Bahaha. You are too much, I tell ya."
You’re laughing at the idea that an upper-middle class, white, wannabe hippie who definitely does NOT believe in Tafari’s divinity could identify so strongly with an art form composed by blacks, for blacks (or so you assume). Music that you instinctively associate with a litany of keywords, none of which should appeal to a baldhead resident of Leave it to Beaver Land, USA … like myself.
If you’ve made it this far down the page, then there’s a chance you may be able to dig a little deeper, just enough to peel away the thin layer of stereotypes that lay wedged in the creases of your brain – stereotypes that only become more and more embedded with each thud of that hypnotic one drop bass beat. To understand what I’m talking about, you’ve got to transcend the images of dreadlocks, ganja and Bob Marley’s mug.
Reggae music is not about dreads and ganja and the Tuff Gong. It’s about livication, respect and giving thanks and praise for all of creation. But more importantly, it’s about your own inner convictions, not the Baltimore Catechism and a "How To" manual on getting to Zion. It’s about living your life, and living it upright, regardless of the circumstances.
In other words, who feels it, knows it.
Today, my first full day on the other side of the Atlantic, I began Day One of the rest of my life. The script that guided me for these past 22 years got chucked out the window somewhere over Bangor, Maine. In a way, "I’m Wayne Brady, bitch" – because from now on, I’m in the improv business.
Whose Life Is It Anyway?
My life is my life, and I’ve only got one of them to live. That’s why I’m taking this trip, rather than immediately going corporate, or filling the void with a job that I hate, or immediately plunging into law school so I can finally "learn how to think" according to my father, The Bob. Hence, the indefinite return date, arbitrarily set for Dec. 20, which is translated into "whenever I feel like it … or run out of money" – flexibility made possible by a paltry $50 fee to change my reservation.
Robert Nesta Marley was 27 when he touched down in London to start a chapter of his life called "Catch a Fire," a name taken from the 1973 album – produced in London – that led a poor, mulatto, Rastafarian Jamaican to international stardom. I’m 22 and fresh out of college, also trying to start a new chapter, and I just touched down in the Grey City as well. Coincidence? Perhaps.
People love to ask me if I’m a grown up all of the sudden, as if a piece of sheepskin with my first, middle and last names calligraphied on it could change me into a responsible adult overnight. My answer: I have no job, no mutual funds and no mortgage. In short, I’m not any more grown up today than I was last month.
But I’m not a kid anymore, either (otherwise I wouldn’t be able to pay for this trip with my own coin). And I’ll spend my time over here trying to figure out what kind of balance between the two that I want my life to have.
That’s why I named this blog "Hitting the Snooze Button … On Life," so I can keep on livin’ the dream until then – even if it is only for five more minutes.
But in the meantime, I&I will live the dream upright, regardless of the circumstances.
By Bayless Parsley
June 8, 2006. London, England. Jamison’s house.
"My life is my life, and I only got one life to live. I&I live it upright, regardless of the circumstances." – "My Life," Warrior King.
Bob Marley may have been wrong in his belief that former Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I (previously known as Ras Tafari) was the risen Christ, sent to loosen the seven seals of the Apocalypse, but he was dead on about something else: One good thing about music is that when it hits, you feel no pain.
Art has an uncanny ability to inspire, and music is the art form which fuels my passions better than 93 grade gasoline. There’s something about a song that can just take control of your heart, your soul, your mind … especially when you’re listening to conscious lyrics, words that deal with issues a little weightier than bling, bitches and "two-tone Fode Explorah’s."
All spring, ever since I picked out a random CD at Waterloo called "Conscious Decisions II," that is how I felt about "My Life."
For me – especially in the years since I have ceased to find much comfort in the Catholic faith – reggae music has been my primary source of inspiration. Not because I substituted one dogma for another (I am anything but a Rastafarian; my buddy Tom loves Cat Stevens, but Allah knows he ain’t a member of the Islamic ummah. I think TK may be about 0-for-his existence on answering calls to prayer, let alone clueless as to which direction he’d turn if told to face Mecca). It’s not as black-and-white as a Johnny Damon-level switching of sides. Essentially, the theme of blind adherence/no questions asked that I associate with growing up a papist has been replaced largely by Marley’s personal stance: "Who feels it knows it, Lord." ("Running Away," Exodus).
With so much sway over the direction in which my own philosophies have gone the past five years, reggae is more along the lines of my moral compass – or maybe a flickering, yet constant, beam of light perpetually shining through the fog clouding my life’s harbor.
And my guess is that nearly 99 percent of you are chuckling to yourselves right now.
"Ooooh, Bayless (head shaking, the unmistakable trace of a smirk lingering on your grill). Are you a RASTA? Irie, MON! Bahaha. You are too much, I tell ya."
You’re laughing at the idea that an upper-middle class, white, wannabe hippie who definitely does NOT believe in Tafari’s divinity could identify so strongly with an art form composed by blacks, for blacks (or so you assume). Music that you instinctively associate with a litany of keywords, none of which should appeal to a baldhead resident of Leave it to Beaver Land, USA … like myself.
If you’ve made it this far down the page, then there’s a chance you may be able to dig a little deeper, just enough to peel away the thin layer of stereotypes that lay wedged in the creases of your brain – stereotypes that only become more and more embedded with each thud of that hypnotic one drop bass beat. To understand what I’m talking about, you’ve got to transcend the images of dreadlocks, ganja and Bob Marley’s mug.
Reggae music is not about dreads and ganja and the Tuff Gong. It’s about livication, respect and giving thanks and praise for all of creation. But more importantly, it’s about your own inner convictions, not the Baltimore Catechism and a "How To" manual on getting to Zion. It’s about living your life, and living it upright, regardless of the circumstances.
In other words, who feels it, knows it.
Today, my first full day on the other side of the Atlantic, I began Day One of the rest of my life. The script that guided me for these past 22 years got chucked out the window somewhere over Bangor, Maine. In a way, "I’m Wayne Brady, bitch" – because from now on, I’m in the improv business.
Whose Life Is It Anyway?
My life is my life, and I’ve only got one of them to live. That’s why I’m taking this trip, rather than immediately going corporate, or filling the void with a job that I hate, or immediately plunging into law school so I can finally "learn how to think" according to my father, The Bob. Hence, the indefinite return date, arbitrarily set for Dec. 20, which is translated into "whenever I feel like it … or run out of money" – flexibility made possible by a paltry $50 fee to change my reservation.
Robert Nesta Marley was 27 when he touched down in London to start a chapter of his life called "Catch a Fire," a name taken from the 1973 album – produced in London – that led a poor, mulatto, Rastafarian Jamaican to international stardom. I’m 22 and fresh out of college, also trying to start a new chapter, and I just touched down in the Grey City as well. Coincidence? Perhaps.
People love to ask me if I’m a grown up all of the sudden, as if a piece of sheepskin with my first, middle and last names calligraphied on it could change me into a responsible adult overnight. My answer: I have no job, no mutual funds and no mortgage. In short, I’m not any more grown up today than I was last month.
But I’m not a kid anymore, either (otherwise I wouldn’t be able to pay for this trip with my own coin). And I’ll spend my time over here trying to figure out what kind of balance between the two that I want my life to have.
That’s why I named this blog "Hitting the Snooze Button … On Life," so I can keep on livin’ the dream until then – even if it is only for five more minutes.
But in the meantime, I&I will live the dream upright, regardless of the circumstances.
It was quite a day for the Red, White and Blue.
First, I'll use the words uttered about a discredited opponent by a famous Texas governor. Abu Musab Al Zarqawi, if you can hear me from the depths of your 72-virgin sandwich: "Adios, mofo."
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/5059494.stm
(Although, for non-Texans, I should note that the name of the governor being quoted is Rick Perry, not George W. Bush. And you thought "Bring it on" was good.)
Second, Who needs Tonya Harding's henchmen when we've got a Czech player on CIA payroll to do the sabotage for us?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/world_cup_2006/teams/czech_republic/5060552.stm
In a way, you could liken Nedved's injury to free trade agreements with Third World nations. Advantage, America.
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Meanwhile, it was not such a great day for the national pastime of the Red, White and Blue.
Until I read the final paragraph of this story (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2474291), the question that just would not quit popping into my head was, "Who the hell is Jason Grimsley?"
So I checked his stats, figuring he must be a newbie. But he'd been in the league since throwing 18.1 innings for the Phillies in '89. In his 17th season in the bigs, Grimsley had managed to win two awards:
1) "The Stealth Bomber Award" ... He was able to pitch from the era before I even remember baseball until after I graduated from college, yet I had never once heard the man's name. No way there's anyone else even close to having that kind of tenure that I haven't at least heard of.
2) (And this is kind of linked to No. 1) "The Worst Good Player of All Time/The Best Terrible Player of All Time" ... Grimsley was able to stay in the Major Leagues from George Bush 41's term to George Bush 43's second and final term while not ever being good at baseball. The man's career ERA is 4.77. In the 17 years, here is a breakdown of his earned run average range:
3.00 or less - N/A
3.00 to 4.00 - 6 times; never more than two years in a row
4.00 to 5.00 - 4; including a 4.88 mark through 28.2 IP this season
5.00 to 6.00 - 5!
6.00 or more - 2 times in a row, from 1995-96. No way in hell the man thought after his 6.08 year that the following season, not only would he shatter his personal best in innings pitched with 130.1, but he'd demolish his personal worst ERA with a healthy 6.84.
No wonder this man was anonymous. Or was he??
It was then that I read Jayson Stark's piece on the new cover boy for human growth hormone: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=stark_jayson&id=2474247
He answered the question in red in the first paragraph.
THE ALBERT BELLE CORKED BAT GUY IS THE NEW FACE OF PERFORMANCE ENHANCING DRUGS IN BASEBALL????
Turns out Grimsley won three awards. The final part of the triumvirate was, "Baseball Player Equivalent to the Guy Who Acted Alongside George Clooney in 'Goodnight, And Good Luck.'" In other words, he's the ultimate guy who everyone (who likes baseball) knows...only they don't know his name. Other people in this category include the really old D.A. from "Law & Order," the black president from 24/Pedro Cerrano/Prudential Insurance guy, and the Maryland sniper.
How far you've come, Jason. From pitching for nearly two decades on the highest level with AAA stuff, to crawling through the AC vents en cherche de la bat d'Albert, to this, getting busted by the feds for HGH and then ratting out other baseball players.
Really nice form, buddy. Real nice.
First, I'll use the words uttered about a discredited opponent by a famous Texas governor. Abu Musab Al Zarqawi, if you can hear me from the depths of your 72-virgin sandwich: "Adios, mofo."
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/5059494.stm
(Although, for non-Texans, I should note that the name of the governor being quoted is Rick Perry, not George W. Bush. And you thought "Bring it on" was good.)
Second, Who needs Tonya Harding's henchmen when we've got a Czech player on CIA payroll to do the sabotage for us?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/world_cup_2006/teams/czech_republic/5060552.stm
In a way, you could liken Nedved's injury to free trade agreements with Third World nations. Advantage, America.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, it was not such a great day for the national pastime of the Red, White and Blue.
Until I read the final paragraph of this story (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2474291), the question that just would not quit popping into my head was, "Who the hell is Jason Grimsley?"
So I checked his stats, figuring he must be a newbie. But he'd been in the league since throwing 18.1 innings for the Phillies in '89. In his 17th season in the bigs, Grimsley had managed to win two awards:
1) "The Stealth Bomber Award" ... He was able to pitch from the era before I even remember baseball until after I graduated from college, yet I had never once heard the man's name. No way there's anyone else even close to having that kind of tenure that I haven't at least heard of.
2) (And this is kind of linked to No. 1) "The Worst Good Player of All Time/The Best Terrible Player of All Time" ... Grimsley was able to stay in the Major Leagues from George Bush 41's term to George Bush 43's second and final term while not ever being good at baseball. The man's career ERA is 4.77. In the 17 years, here is a breakdown of his earned run average range:
3.00 or less - N/A
3.00 to 4.00 - 6 times; never more than two years in a row
4.00 to 5.00 - 4; including a 4.88 mark through 28.2 IP this season
5.00 to 6.00 - 5!
6.00 or more - 2 times in a row, from 1995-96. No way in hell the man thought after his 6.08 year that the following season, not only would he shatter his personal best in innings pitched with 130.1, but he'd demolish his personal worst ERA with a healthy 6.84.
No wonder this man was anonymous. Or was he??
It was then that I read Jayson Stark's piece on the new cover boy for human growth hormone: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=stark_jayson&id=2474247
He answered the question in red in the first paragraph.
THE ALBERT BELLE CORKED BAT GUY IS THE NEW FACE OF PERFORMANCE ENHANCING DRUGS IN BASEBALL????
Turns out Grimsley won three awards. The final part of the triumvirate was, "Baseball Player Equivalent to the Guy Who Acted Alongside George Clooney in 'Goodnight, And Good Luck.'" In other words, he's the ultimate guy who everyone (who likes baseball) knows...only they don't know his name. Other people in this category include the really old D.A. from "Law & Order," the black president from 24/Pedro Cerrano/Prudential Insurance guy, and the Maryland sniper.
How far you've come, Jason. From pitching for nearly two decades on the highest level with AAA stuff, to crawling through the AC vents en cherche de la bat d'Albert, to this, getting busted by the feds for HGH and then ratting out other baseball players.
Really nice form, buddy. Real nice.
Why I Love Technology
By Bayless Parsley
1) It's 3 in the morning, London time, and I'm watching Game 1 of the NBA Finals, live on Sky Sports 2.
Why I Hate Technology
By Bayless Parsley
1) It's 3 in the morning, London time, and I'm really really tired, and all five of my friends fell asleep over five hours ago, but I'm watching Game 1 of the NBA Finals, live on Sky Sports 2.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(The ABC announcers just said that Dirk used to watch Finals games as a 13-year-old in Germany, "often in the middle of the night." It's now almost 4...I feel young Dirk's pain)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Can someone please explain to Terrell Owens the meaning of the letters, "PR"? Because right now, T.O. is sitting down by the floor in his new city, Dallas, wearing the jersey of Shaquille O'Neal, who happens to play for the other team. If I'm the most hated man in the NFL, and half of the people who are paying to see me play next year probably view me with more suspicion than Hillary does Bill after a 3 a.m. return from a "night out with the boys," I'm not gonna go with the Shaq jersey in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, in Dallas. Don't even try to qualify it with, "I'm really good friends with Shaq, and blood is thicker than water." Really, Terrell? Let me guess: you're both African-American, you're both good at sports, therefore you're "cousins." Because that's about the strength of your relation. If you came to a Rockets playoff game after signing on to be David Carr's new favorite target (that never gets the ball thrown to him because the quarterback is looking up at the sky), and you were wearing a Heat jersey, I would become the second fan in three years to get charges filed against him for throwing a cup of beer at an insane professional athlete next to an NBA court. Don't even pretend like the Mavericks hat turned to the side can cover your bases.
By Bayless Parsley
1) It's 3 in the morning, London time, and I'm watching Game 1 of the NBA Finals, live on Sky Sports 2.
Why I Hate Technology
By Bayless Parsley
1) It's 3 in the morning, London time, and I'm really really tired, and all five of my friends fell asleep over five hours ago, but I'm watching Game 1 of the NBA Finals, live on Sky Sports 2.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(The ABC announcers just said that Dirk used to watch Finals games as a 13-year-old in Germany, "often in the middle of the night." It's now almost 4...I feel young Dirk's pain)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Can someone please explain to Terrell Owens the meaning of the letters, "PR"? Because right now, T.O. is sitting down by the floor in his new city, Dallas, wearing the jersey of Shaquille O'Neal, who happens to play for the other team. If I'm the most hated man in the NFL, and half of the people who are paying to see me play next year probably view me with more suspicion than Hillary does Bill after a 3 a.m. return from a "night out with the boys," I'm not gonna go with the Shaq jersey in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, in Dallas. Don't even try to qualify it with, "I'm really good friends with Shaq, and blood is thicker than water." Really, Terrell? Let me guess: you're both African-American, you're both good at sports, therefore you're "cousins." Because that's about the strength of your relation. If you came to a Rockets playoff game after signing on to be David Carr's new favorite target (that never gets the ball thrown to him because the quarterback is looking up at the sky), and you were wearing a Heat jersey, I would become the second fan in three years to get charges filed against him for throwing a cup of beer at an insane professional athlete next to an NBA court. Don't even pretend like the Mavericks hat turned to the side can cover your bases.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
It's four hours from gametime, and I still haven't even packed. You can thank Dave Golombos for that -- instead of getting prepared for the craziest journey of my life by packing and getting some rest, I've let my Catholic guilt complex take over. The reggae box set I've been talking about making for the past year only came to fruition because of the sad face DG made when the end of the semester came and went without its release.
Five discs, 92 songs. "Load 'em Dave" better be happy with DJ Never BP's (that's me) "This is Reggae Music." (But we're even; I finally realized that I actually never paid up on the $10 I put on Roger for an eighth Cy Young last season).
More to come....but it won't be from this side of the Atlantic.
Five discs, 92 songs. "Load 'em Dave" better be happy with DJ Never BP's (that's me) "This is Reggae Music." (But we're even; I finally realized that I actually never paid up on the $10 I put on Roger for an eighth Cy Young last season).
More to come....but it won't be from this side of the Atlantic.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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