I got served...and I sure didn't like it

Who here remembers the movie "You Got Served"? And by remember, I of course mean remember the commercials for it, because I am damn sure nobody I know actually saw the movie. You know, it was the one that looked like West Side Story, with the competitive dancing and music, except this one looked like utter pig feces instead of being a good film? Well, on Friday night I went to a club with my friend Kai, and I got served. And Kai got served. Hell, the whole damn place got served. And I don't think any of us were too happy about it.

Now, I've seen some bad dancing in my day. The absolute low point for me was when I witnessed a move I have subsequently dubbed the "Groin-steigen." It involved one woman sandwiched between two guys, and the girl will suddenly bend over so she rubs her ass and face in two groins simultaneously. She then jumps up and turns around, repeating the process. Just...just powerfully bad dancing...it is hard sometimes to even think abuot it...I'm going to need a moment to compose myself...Okay , I think I am better. Where was I? Oh, yes, the Finnish bad dancing. Well, this involved one guy getting out there and just being really herky jerky, and having his legs splayed out quite wide, like he was riding a horse the whole time.

Just when I mentioned that this first gentleman was one of the five worst dancers I had ever seen, another guy gets out on the floor who went over the top of the other guy on the shit-scale. This man was, and I don't use this word lightly, amazing. He essentially just stood there and twirled around over and over again, managing somehow never to get dizzy. He was a human metronome: regardless of what song came on, he never varied tempo.

But here is when things took a turn towards the bizarre and we all got served. The first guy (horse riding guy) looks over at this other guy and seem to grow angry that somebody is out-crapping him on the dance floor. I looked into his eyes, and his soul spoke to me. And it said, "Oh yeah asshole? You think that is some bad dancing, watch this!!" And he proceeded to turn it up another notch. So I had two guys duelling for the horrible dancing crown right in front of me, trying to out-serve the other. And you know what? It sucked. Bad enough to make me wonder if some sort of human rights violation didn't occur, because no human should ever have to witness such a thing.

How I got it on with a MILF, much to the chagrin of the people watching us

So while I was out in Ireland, I took a trip to what is reputed to be the oldest church on the North Side of the town. And below the ground are a series of crypts where, due to a unique combination of temperature and naturally existing minerals, the bodies have become mummified over time. Since this sounded pretty interesting to me, I decided to take the brief tour to see these bodies.

By the time the tour began, the group I was with consisted of myself and two couples (from Germany, I believe). Anyway, after showing us around the main tunnel we came to a vault with four visible mummies buried under the church. The most interesting one was actually a crusader buried near the back. Apparently when someone who participated in a crusade is buried, their legs are crossed to simulate, well, the cross. Interestingly enough, this guy was so tall (I would guess at least six and a half feet, probably more, which is amazing for the era he lived in) that he did not fit in the box, so they actually broke his legs to make him fit. Another tradition is for people to actually touch the finger of the dead crusader, and our tour guide actually offered us five the chance to do this.

Now, in most group situations, people are hesistant to take someone up on an offer. I, however, have no such problem doing zany stuff, so I was not going to miss out on the chance to rub up on some dead bodies with full church approval. I immediately volunteered and worked my way to the crusader in the back, stepping over the other three bodies to get there. I gazed down at this MILF (Mummy I'd Love to Feel), and then reached down and rubbed his finger.

At this point I walked back out of the vault, and as I had set the precedent, I anticipated that everyone else would follow suit. But it turns out I was wrong. When asked why they didn't want to go, the first couple said "Out of respect for the dead." The second couple echoed these sentiments. Great. So they think I'm disrespectful just because I'm goofing around with some dead bodies, huh? God, it's not like I was picking the bodies up and pretending to dance with them. I mean, I could have laid down next to one of them and said, "Man, this guy has the right idea. I'm beat and this looks comfy, so I think I'll just grab a power nap here for a bit. Could you turn out the light when you leave the vault, please?" Whatever guys...busting his damn legs when they put him in the box isn't disrespectful, but me touching his hand is? Dicks.

Sneaky sex that wasn't that...uh...sneaky

A few weeks ago I went to Ireland for a few days, and booked a bed in a hostel in downtown. I was particularly excited to stay here, as it was cheap and had, in the past, been used as a studio for people like Sinead O'Connor and U2. How cool was that? I could have the chance at some point, I figured, to use the same toilet as Bono. Or the Edge. Or those other two guys in the band that nobody knows the name of. I kid, I kid...it would certainly be an honor to whizz in the same toilet as the drummer and bassist for U2. Just think of all the jealous looks I'll get when I tell people about my connection to Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton! There no way I'll get nothing but blank stares when I namedrop those guys!

But within a day of staying at this hostel, I quickly realized why it had been abandoned by luminaries like Sinead and Bono: it sucky suck sucks. It was filthy, as the bathrooms were never quite entirely clean, and the showers had a generous layer of mold growing in them. I thought for a moment I had wandered onto the set for the Swamp Thing movie. It was also loud, since there was a touristy Irish bar next door with Riverdance-style dancers and a really bad pop-music soundtrack all night long. My window overlooked the alley that separated the bar from the hostel, and the sidedoor from the pub opened up right below me. So that was peaceful.

The most damning part, though, was the fact that there was no water pressure in this place. And I don't mean that in the exaggerated way most people do, like when the water softly cascades out of the head. No, I mean there literally wasn't water pressure; the toilets would rarely flush due to a lack of water in the tanks, so everything you used the can you got a nice little surprise in the bowl. In order to ward off the ill feelings this sight brought, I worked hard to convince myself that maybe someone was just eating Baby Ruths and drinking Mountain Dew while standing in the toilet stall, and unfortunately dropped them both in the tank. And I almost believed that was seeing was just candy bars and soda pop. Almost.

The water pressure situation also made the showers a horrible misapplication of the word. There was no "shower" of water issuing forth from the head (although I think a steady stream of curse words did shower out of my mouth while standing there). There was a steady dripping, which meant that you had to hold each body part under the drip for several minutes to wet, lather, and rinse, so that the entire operation took about 30 minutes for a "quick" wash. By the time I was out of there I was actually looking forward to a shower at my residence hall at Byng Place, a statement which absolutely shocked the other residents back in London.

To understand why this proclamation of a preference for Byng showers caused such a sensation, let me explain how a normal shower runs at Byng. When you first get in, you have to wait about two minutes for any hot water to come out at all. Bear in mind that the stalls for the shower are about two and half feet by two and a half feet square, which means that the shower is barely bigger across than I am, making the avoidance of this icy spray dicey indeed. After the water starts to heat up, things get even more interesting. You know how some fancy shower heads allow you to change the spray patterns, even giving you a random, or at least sequential, change in intensity and focus? Well, they wouldn't spring for something like that for us, so they apparently went for the next best thing: plumbing that makes the water vacillate wildly between Ice-Age coldness and lobster-boiling hotness. And just for fun, they make sure the water cuts out for minutes at a time, usually when you soap starting to get in your eyes or when you are late for class.

When I first started using the Byng showers, I thought it was sort of like gambling, because the temp and flow changes so much. But then I realized the situation was more like the exact opposite of the movie cliche in gambling movies. You know the one, where the guy is trying to argue why he can't lose because of his skill or his system. And the person trying to talk him out of it says they call it gambling for a reason, to which he responds with something along the lines of "It's not gambling if you know you are going to win." Matt Damon uses this sort of line in Rounders when he describes how the same group of guys make it to the Poker finals each year. Anyway, I was wrong about the Byng showers being like gambling, because it isn't gambling if you know you are going to lose. You just never hit the jackpot and have a relaxing hot shower there. So when those damnable showers out in Dublin got a real ripper of a tongue-lashing from me, they got a right dandy one from all the practice I've had yelling at the showers at Byng.

Honestly, the showers at my place in England are worse than post-Communist places I've been to. They rank well behind Turkey, Romania, Hungary and Estonia. Gandhi actually had a nice quote about England. He actually went to school in England, so someone once asked him what he, as a native of India, thought of English civilization. He replied that "I think it would be a good idea." To which I say, "Amen". That is why I am so happy right now, since I am just arrived in Finland on holiday, and just about to take a shower in a country where decent, civilized man can get some continuous hot water.

Oh, and to bring this whole post back to the topic of my trip to Ireland and to the title of this entry, the absolue low point of my trip came on a Saturday night. I thought things had reached their nadir when, while I was sitting alone on a bench by the side of the river, a man came up to me and struck up a conversation. Turns out he was attacked by a crazy guy and stabbed dozens of times, and ended up losing one eyeball during the assault. Turns out his attacker was a nutcase who stabbed people to death and even cut off their penises. Assuming his story was true, I thought that was as bad as my trip could get, because how can you get lower than hearing the story first-hand of a guy who lost one eye (and nearly his penis, apparently) to some crazy? Well, I found a way, damnit! I went back to the hostel to sleep that night, I was resting fine for until the girl in the bed below me (everyone was in bunk beds) decided to get, uh, cozy with her boyfriend from across the room. I was on this trip by myself, and this girl was part of a group of about four people. Lucky for me they decided to have the real sneaky sex in the middle of the night, which meant that the top bed where I was started to sway every so gently in the night. Inappropriate! I wasn't sure what to do, so I basically went into shock and acted like people getting bombed during wartime: I closed me eyes, stayed still, and prayed for merciful god to make it stop as quickly as possible.

In hindsight, though, I wish I was have leaned over my bed and said "One side, playboy! Make room for me chump, and I'll show you how a real man handles his business! Better grab a steno pad and takes notes, cause after tonight your lady friend is gonna be spoiled, and you're gonna have a hell of a lot to live up to."

I want to be a Princess...of crime!!

I've heard a lot of people bellyaching about the sissification of toys these days, and I have to admit that I have occasionally bemoaned the lamentable state of current playthings. As someone weened on the violence of He-Man, Thundercats, GI Joe, pro wrestling and the Transformers, I figured most current toys were making kids insufferable wimps. I have to admit, however, that I have been sadly misguided. Modern toys aren't making kids pansies; they are, rather, turning children into sophisticated criminals, which is a major step up from the brainless thuggery that was the hallmark of my old toys.

How else to explain the fact that Playmobil sells a bank counter set that can be bought alongside a getaway car? When I was a kid, if you played with GI Joe the worst that could happen was that you would end up joining the US military and helping to defend your country. If you watched He-Man or pro wrestling, you would likely end up hanging around fetish gay bars later in life, but that is perfectly fine. With these sets, though, you can't help but knocking over the nearest credit union when you grow up. Check out that bank set, one person clearly comes with a big black loot bag. Now look closely at some of the pics of the getaway car. It looks like Bizarro Miami Vice, where Crockett and Tubbs decided they had seen too much money being thrown around by the bad guys and decided to become crooked cops. One of them even comes with a gun! Hell yeah, crime pays playboy!

But I think my favorite set is the airport security checkpoint. I love how friendly those guys look, presumably because it is just a white lady coming through. Or maybe they are laughing about the dark-skinned guy they have locked up naked in one of their offices. I guess the airport racial profiling set comes out later. Let's hope it gets here before Christmas, then we can all practice how to get past airport security!

My presentation was the best one

In my class on problems of democracy, we periodically have to give presentations on readings we are assigned to. Two weeks ago I was part of a group that read a work, and we split it up into sections to present on individually. Now I normally hate sitting through most people's presentations, since they just sit at the front of the class and read off a sheet they printed off before class. So I try to be a little more engaging by getting up and writing diagrams on the board and talking without notes, because it allows me and the audience to visualize the points I'm trying to make better since it flows easier.

Anyway, before last week's class we had another "presentation" assigned, as well as a short paper to write about the readings. And being a person with horrible time management skills, I put off writing my paper until late the night before it was due, and consequently started to get really sleepy while writing it. No worries, I thought, I'll just wake up early and finish it. So I set the time on my alarm to wake up early and check it a few more time for good measure.

When I woke up the next morning, I woke up naturally, and thought to myself, "Wow, I feel especially rested! I feel like I slept quite a long time!" And there was a good reason for thinking that: I did sleep a long time. Here's the problem: I checked the time on my alarm, but never bothered to turn the alarm itself on. Splendid. So I have to crank this paper out, and end up getting to class about half an hour late (it's a three hour class), but just in time to see that the discussion is turning to the part of the article that I was supposed to cover. So when my professor asks about that section, I say "Well, it's easier if I can just sort of write up a diagram about what is going on." And I proceed to give a ten minute presentation on my subject, much like we all did the week before, and then return to my seat.

What became increasingly apparent, however is that there were no presentations this week, because nobody else was going up there. I didn't know this since I got there so late. Whoops.

So here it how it looked to the rest of the class. I show up half an hour late huffing and puffing, and then within two minutes the teacher asks the class a general question, and I essentially say "Move aside, teach! Let a real man handle this subject!" And then I grab the eraser, wipe all of her notes off the board, and then take over the class to give a lecture on religious reformation and its role in democractic societies.

On the upside, my presentation was the best one in class (of course, it is sort of a hollow victory, because it was the only one). On the downside, I looked like an insufferable ass for jumping up and giving a lecture instead of answering a short question from my seat like a normal person. I'm such a goober.

Pocatello hearts Guinness

I just got back from spending four days in Dublin, home to Guinness beer (among other things, but this story is about beer, so bear with me.) On Saturday I took the Guinness factory tour, a multimedia event that spreads out over 7 stories on a hill overlooking Dublin. About halfway through the tour I overheard two people say what I thought was the word Idaho. Moving in closer, I was more sure I heard them say Pocatello, and when I finally stood next to them, I distinctly heard one of them say his dad works for AMI. Naturally, I butt in and ask if they were talking about "the 'tello", and sure enough they were.

I really wonder what the odds are for something like that, for two complete strangers to bump into each other and start talking about a small town like Pocatello just as a third stranger from there happens by. And for all of it to go down in Dublin, in the middle of an incredibly crowded tourist attraction. The odds on something like this must be astronomical. Of course, I get "lucky" and hit the odds by being part of three people from stink-town Pocatello randomly meeting instead of something with comparable percentages like, oh, I don't know, the lottery!

This is, if nothing else, proof positive that God really exists. I mean, someone has to be out to get me, right?

"I hated and feared and loathed the North Atlantic with all my guts"

Everyone has, I'm sure, heard some variation on the terribly cliched joke about the old man telling people about how tough life was as a kid. The most popular beginning the the "ten miles through snow, uphill each way, every day for school" bit.

While reading the paper today, I found a guy who's life actually reads a bit like that. And he's only 35 years old. This guy is named Dom Mee, and he is a former Royal Marines Commando who is now a full-time adventurer.

And when I say "full-time adventurer", I should actually qualify that to read "semi-successful full-time adventurer." His planned adventures are awe-inspiring in scope, and awesomely funny when they fail. Four years he planned to row a boat from Japan to California. With just one other person. Huh? Have you ever tried to actually row a boat? It is hard as hell just trying to cross a lake, let alone the ocean. I can't imagine the sort of effort it would take to handle a craft large enough to handle oceanic swells, let alone the work it would take just to keep yourself from being pushed well of course by the waves. But he went for it. And he seemed to be doing well. Until a trawler rammed his boat and sank it.

His other adventures have equally disastrous results. He was hiking in the Arctic wilderness and was gored by a wild ox. He broke four ribs while kayaking and had to paddle the next 400 miles with a piercing pain in his side.

But his latest undertaking is the one that really took the prize for dubious planning. He planned on crossing the North Atlantic sea, by himself, in a 14 foot boat. Sounds kind of scary, but not too crazy, huh? Oh, I failed to mention that he had no engine, and instead planned on crossing the North Atlantic, from Newfoundland to England, entirely on kite-power. That is correct. He tied a big kite to his boat and planned to have it pull him all the way across the ocean.

Hey, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, part of the problem was that he planned to do it all in thirty days, and after 39 days he was barely a quarter of the way there, so food was starting to run low. Hey, you can survive for another 70 days without food in the middle of the ocean, right? Oh, and then there was the issue of the after-effects of four different freaking hurricanes that hit him. Whoops.

As he so calmly says, "This was the first attempt to conquer the ocean wth kite power." Hmm, I wonder why that is? That's like having someone in WWII saying, "This was the first attempt to conquer the Nazi war machine with paper swords." Good luck with that goofball.

The money quote is this: "I believe in God, but I don't believe God can help those who don't show their faith through their actions." Hey, I think God is trying to tell you something through his actions: Stop trying to cross the goddamn ocean in a glorified life raft tied to kite you fucking idiot!

Looks like I need to relax

So I went for a walk along Camden Canal today, intent on a visiting a few parks and such that I had been meaning to go to but had missed on prior walks. My first stop was at Camely St. Natural Park, a very small but nonetheless nice little spot just north of one of the main trainyards. I guess it is pretty hard to find any natural area in London, so I should really be thankful for any tiny slices of it I can find around here.

My next stop may seem a tad more macabre to some people. One of my favorite spots to visist whenever I travel somewhere is the cemetary. This habit actually started when I was living in Helsinki, and there was a boneyard just across the street from my dorms in central Helsinki. This ended up being a place I spent a lot of time at, as I took to taking walks over there, reading on the benches, and feeding the animals that frequented the spot. It had this great landscaping, with various levels that required going up and down stairs, and was filled with all manner of trees and bushes. Oh, and the monuments and headstones were beautifully made, while helped contribute to the haunting beauty of the place.

Anyway, so today I stopped by St. Pancras Gardens, while I was delighted to find was actually a the location of St. Pancras church as well as a small graveyard. And I was even more excited to see some of the people who were buried there or had connections to the place. Sir John Soane, famous London architect, was buried there, along with his family, in a monument he designed. It is, according to the plaque, only one of two Grade 1 monuments in London, whatever that means. Mary Wollstonecraft also appears to be buried there, though I would have to doublecheck the grave there. Oh, and they also have the Hardy Tree, which over the years has grown intertwined with several extra tombstones scattered around its stump It was so named because Thomas Hardy, one of my favorite authors, worked as an architectural assistant to renovations on the church. He was in charge of uprooting and moving the graves in an orderly fashion.

No wonder so many of his tales are so bleak.

Anyway, my last stop was back at Camden Market, the most popular market in London. I got there along the eastern bank of the Camden Canal, which is a side I had not been along before. And, I was a little surprised to find, it is probably the easiest place to buy drugs imaginable. There is no subtlety, no underhandedness about it. It smells like weed all over, because, well, people are smoking weed all over. One guy advertised having the best skunk weed ever. Okay then. I had at least three guys come up to me and try to sell me some dope. I must have looked really stressed out or something. Sorry guys, didn't mean to get your hopes up. I was just going for a Sunday walk before heading back to read the paper.

I miss the West

When people from outside the West find out I have a concealed weapons permit, they are, quite frankly, amazed. My region of the country has the reputation of ranking just behind Texas as the rootin-est, tootin-est, shootin-est, executin-est part of the US, and the fact that a seeminly sensible guy like me feels the need to be able to walk into Wal-Mart with a pistol tucked into my waistband makes them wonder. Not that I actually ever do walk around armed...but I could, and that alarms people. But just in case there is anybody out there that who questions the need to occasionally be armed while camping deep in the backwoods of the American West, I submit to you exhibit A, or as I like to call it, American Psycho:

Howald and three other men were at a campsite near Bernice when two dogs showed up, according to one of Howald's companions quoted in court documents.When the dogs would not leave the site, Howald allegedly shot at them, wounding a chocolate Lab.

He allegedly pursued the wounded Lab around the side of a trailer and then into the trees and shot at it a number of times, then came back to the campsite and got a chainsaw and severed the dog's head. Howald then allegedly drove to a campsite occupied by Mike and Brenda Sullivan of Butte and threw the severed head of their dog at them, saying "Here is your f------ dog back," according to the documents.

Oh, wait, it doesn't end there. After getting a second call to police from completely different people that this guy was pulling some car out of a ditch, the cops got a third call in the same night concerning his behaviour.

While officers were responding to these first two incidents, yet a third call came into the Sheriff's Department.

The caller reported that the occupants of an orange-colored vehicle and a blue-grey Chevy had thrown a beer bottle at the caller's son, according to the documents. When the caller approached the individuals, who were described in the documents by witnesses as "clearly intoxicated," to discuss the beer bottle incident, "they began to exchange heated words." Howald allegedly fired a shot when the man turned his back to walk away, according to the affidavit.

In the West, we historically have a term for people who shoot at people with their backs turned. And that term is "no good, low down cheatin' varmint."

So, let's check the scorecard, shall we? This guy, in just one evening, managed to get drunk, shoot some dogs, cut one of their heads off with a chainsaw, throw it some people, pull a car out of a ditch, throw a bottle at a kid and then shoot at his dad while his back is turned. Wow. You remember that old Army ad where they said they did more before breakfast than most people do all day? This guy gets more craziness in on one night than most people do in an entire lifetime. The last time I got drunk I think I managed to untie one of my shoes before deciding it wasn't worth the effort to untie the other one, so I just kicked it off with my foot before climbing into bed. Christ, I've got a lot to live up to. You've almost go to admire that sort of energy and motivation. Almost.

Honestly, that should be enough to convince anyone of the desire to be armed while camping in the West. But what's that you say? You still aren't convinced? You still aren't scared? Well then, how about if I told you that the Japanese mafia was controlling out weather and trying to kill us? You'd wouldn't be so tough then, would you, hiding behind your keyboard? You'd probably put down you laptop, stop looking for internet porn, pull the covers over you head and cry yourself to sleep from abject terror. And you know what? You'd be right too, because there is nothing you can do against the awesome and terrifying power of the Japanese weather mob. Think you're hot stuff? Fuck off, you're nothing compared the the Tokyo Typhoons. Think you're a big man? Piss off, you're rubbish under the foot of the Hokaido Hurricanes.

Because, according to the local Pocatello tv weatherman, that is exactly what is happening. Scott Stevens, who up until now seemed generally affable and benign, like most weathermen, has come out and boldly joined the ranks of the goddamn insane. He "theorizes" (and I use those air-quotes out of respect for all real theoriticians out there, none of whom likely read my blog) that he Japanese, in retaliation for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, have developed a weather super-weapon .

That sounds perfectly reasonable.

I honestly wish I could have witnessed this sort of meltdown on air.

Scott: It's going to be 101 tomorrow, which means a wrathful Apollo has finally come to wreak his vengeance upon a sorrowful earth. It looks like all our sins are finally coming to fruition. So, in conclusion, words are good. I like leprechauns.

Co-host: Uh, thanks Scott.


Of coures, they have, uh...um... decided to wipe out New Orleans with it. Yeah, that checks out. Because destitute black folks really had a lot to do with tactical decisions in WWII. Way to stick it to the man, Japan! White folks really hate it when you do shitty stuff to poor black people in America, because life really is too good for them as it is! You know who you guys should hook up? Bill Bennett, tv commentator, former Drug Czar, former Secretary of Education, author of "The Book of Virtues", and compulsive gambler. He recently had this to say:

"But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you
could, if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this
country, and your crime rate would go down," Bennett said.

So, Bill Bennett and Japan should hook up, because you guys would totally get along. Actually, I take that back, because you suck. Both of you. You suck and your sucky weather machine sucky sucks too. Why don't you guys stick to selling the used underpants of japanese schoolgirls in vending machines.

(Thanks to Gregg and Mandy for giving me the heads up on Scott Stevens. Oh, and thanks for nothing on the dog one, I found that at another site. Bastards.)