July 2002

I watched his special about the war on drugs last night on ABC. It was pretty gutsy considering the number of retards that are against even discussing anything other than fighting drug use. I had read an interview with Stossel a few years ago and learned how he was a favorite of Ralph Nader until he realized that personal responsibility was more important than government protection in a lot of cases.

Last night’s special was spectacular. A judge and a police chief both said in interviews that legalization was the next logical step, since the 30-year drug war wasn’t accomplishing anything. And what drug special would be complete without a segment on Amsterdam? Though they didn’t have a lot of time to spend on the coffee shopes they showed a heroin room in the basement of a church, which was pretty cool.

When I was a freshman, my friends started drinking, one by one, at their respective colleges. I guess I felt hurt because we had previously been opposed to it as a group. The reasons given to me for their change of mind pertained to the lame-ass drunk culture in high school. Sure, it didn’t exactly smarten up in college, but it wasn’t the end-all be-all that it was years before. I was the last hold out because I’m notoriously resistant to change, but I eventually learned to lossen up a little. If there was one specific event it be traced to is New Year’s Eve in Richmond and Jeff’s old house, boy was that a blast.

So it goes with marijuana. After hearing “just say no” for years and years and learning how smoking pot will push you right over the edge into a heroin freefall, it’s understandable that learning the truth is hard. I hate the lame pot-inspired shit I see just as much as anyone else with a brain does. Seeing Jim Doutrich slither around Triangle HQ in his flannel clad pseudo-stupor made me want to vomit almost more than his hippie music did. But appearances aside, the truth is that nicotine is only slightly less addictive than heroin or cocaine, alcohol is just as debilitating, and that legalization as merely an option to explore makes a lot of sense. The people that dubbed marijuana a “gateway drug” weren’t working with a full set of data, since my friends haven’t moved on to harder drugs and successful enough to avoid being labelled drug addicts.

I guess for me it comes down to questions expressed best by interviewees on Stossel’s show: Why is it Robert Downey Jr. is constantly imprisioned for nothing more than altering his state of mind, and people who abuse alcohol get sent to the Betty Ford clinic? Some are criminals and others are victims? It just doesn’t make sense, especially when you consider that any type of abuser doesn’t cause harm to anyone but themselves. And don’t start giving me that horseshit about PCP-riddled hooligans who go shooting up liquor stores for a fix. The image isn’t a realistic one, and even if it was they wouldn’t be so desparate if the price were lowered by legalizing it. But it isn’t even a realistic assumption since most drug users are lethargic, just like most drinkers I know.

I finally saw Minority Report today and it was really good, possibly even dvd worthy. The only problem I had with it was how incensed I got about the advertising. It wasn’t so much the movie that got me as what I heard other people saying about it, more specifically about the personalized advertising. I can agree with the anti-ad mongers that personalized ads could get really annoying. But when their tirades descend into how advertising is evil and obtrusive and a violation of our rights, I have to disagree and think about how advertising really doesn’t make me mad at all.

Think about it: everyone has different tastes. Some prefer the serene countryside or a beach to the city. Some prefer classical music to japanese noise core. Some people would probably prefer living in a padded cell than seeing a Gap ad every now and then.

Also, consider the fact that the same people who dislike advertising are the same type of people who consider grafitti to be an artform. What about advertising? Doesn’t that have the same makings of an artform? Both are trying to convey a message, so why is the message that happens to be selling a product any less real? It’s not, especially since selling a product or idea is much, much harder than appealing to fellow dimwits with that tired and overdone “f—- the man” rhetoric.

I rather like advertisements. When jingles stick I don’t go on immediate shopping sprees; Circut City circulars don’t send me into a tizzy; and the only thing I can’t look past in an ad is improper spelling.

I think the only reason that some people are so anti-advertising is because they’re either a) so weak-minded that they’re incapable of resisting its “evil temptations” or b) so pompous that they want to protect those they think are so weak-minded. As for me, I choose to look on the bright side of advertising and see it as better than blank walls everywhere. I’m able to ignore the sales pitch of most ads; I see them as company-sponsored artwork. In addition, I find most ads more pleasing to the eye than a lot of the things I see at museums. Especially that hack Marcel Duchamp (don’t get me started on him).

Saturday night started at 8:10 p.m. when Dia and I were 15 minutes late picking up Matt. I made the journey down Broad Street just in time to get them into Polly Esther’s by the half price 9:00 p.m. cut-off time. I drove to meet Chris and Lisa as promised, but half an hour late. The plan was to meet there and sub it in since We took the subway to the club and arrived around 9:30, we found Matt already six drinks on his way to a night of sitting in a booth looking stoned. Chris and Lisa copied him exactly, except for the looking stoned part. Dia and I danced nonstop — alright onestop — once there was suitable cover on the dance floor. Sean and Fulp arrived at 11:15 or so and we danced right past the time when Chris and Lisa took Matt with them back to their place. Sometime after that Fulp gave us a ride to my van, and I followed him and Sean to Party Guy’s place in Chestnut Hill. Dia and I only stayed there a little bit since it was getting late and figured our way up to the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then home at around 2:30 a.m. My dad had said earlier that week that he might “stop by the club” on his way back from Atlantic City, but I didn’t think he would actually do it; I should know better than to doubt him. There was a message from him on my voicemail saying he was at the club. I think I would have liked to see him in his American flag hammer pants, even if it would have been a little weird.

Alright, I will editorialize just a bit. From now on, I’m leaving the club outings to the professionals. Matt realized he got too drunk too quickly, and in his defense he thought he was going to see Culture Club the live band. I dont know why Chris and Lisa came. Monika didn’t meet us outside, Ross didn’t meet us later, Rob was tired from having his way with Bridget’s horse and called it a night before it even started. Tomas did show up but only just after we left apparently, as he claimed later in a not-so-drunken e-mail. Geof and Al were both wise to not show interest in the affair from the start, even if only one of them doesn’t need to go out and meet people.

I’m hoping the Full Frontal outing goes smoother; and it should since I’m not making the same mistake twice. No more invitation e-mails. And not only because Tomas was rude enough to e-mail everyone. The only people I ever plan on inviting again are those I see around at earlier functions, the rest be damned.

Hello to my first Canadian visitor. You suck.

Just sitting here watching The Daily Show with Hager, who’s staying the night to avoid his 3-hour (on average) commute. Out of curiosity stemming from my extreme tracker, I decided to do a search for my name. Lo and behold I come across a picture of my team for the advertsing class I took, complete with that incompetent, lazy, asshole of a Spaniard known as Luis Gonzalez. I don’t know what bothered me more: when he skipped our first presentation for a mini-vacation to the homeland, when he didn’t get any work done on said vacation because he “forgot [his] laptop power supply”, or when he did absolutely nothing for our final project. I did the only thing I could do and gave him the worst review I’ve ever given anyone. I really didn’t think it would amount to much, but when Jenn Lamothe — and even Luis himself — substantiated my claims he failed the course, plain and simple. He was at least honest, I have to give him that much; but I’m sure he had no idea Prof. Kwak would actually flunk him. Serves him right though. It made me feel a hell of a lot better once I saw his grade on the class roster.

Speaking of web surfing, my ET tells me that I’m one of the hotspots when you search for “Chris Duffy porn.” I’m sure halfhonk will love to hear about this.

It’s just been threatened a little more. I just watched the ban of partial birth abortions pass on C-SPAN. Pretty scary stuff hearing religious zealots call in to preach their word of God shit. I’m not exactly in favor of partial birth abortions since they are pretty gruesome and largely unnecessary, but it’s the first step on a slippery slope to a ban on all abortions.

So I think the scariest part of the whole affair is watching the Republicans talk as if they’ll stop here with the ban on this one procedure. They know damn well they’re planning a march right across Roe v. Wade into a woman’s discussions with her doctor.

Also of note were several occasions when abortion opponents cited the number of children killed due to abortion in general — something like 42 million children killed. That is a large number … but to me that doesn’t say we should mourn them, but be glad they’re not taking up space. It directly contradicts the statement that “there are a large number of families who are just waiting to adopt these children” that I’ve heard so many times before. That’s bullshit. Even if a large number of these babies wouldn’t be kept by their 17-year-old redneck parents, there are simply too many left over to be adopted — and “leftovers” are exactly what they would be. George Carlin was right: Most middle-class, white families don’t want to be a part of interracial adoptions. At best, the claim that 42 million children would be happily adopted is way off base. I’d take it a step further and suggest that most of them would also be malnourished, unhappy, and substance abusers instead of in heaven with baby Jesus. Unless they weren’t baptized on the way to the garbage pail, in which case their souls are burning in eternal hellfire.

Went to Red Lobster last night in King of Prussia of all places. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we couldn’t even use the turnpike because some idiots had to go and die on it. Inconsiderate punks. Took us about an hour and a half to get there on the backroads, but as soon as we did it was all you can eat crab legs and the third plate of refills were just about ready. Geof and Ben even made it, though Geof was slacking in his crab eating duties. Ben’s said he was hip to helping me make a talking vagina of my own, which arose from his slight disappointment that he’s known not for that but for being the “chicken brain” guy. For those of you who don’t know, he showed one of his testicles to three frat guys and they kicked his ass. There’s more to it than that but I simply can’t do it justice, and Ben would rather not be known by that story besides.

I knew getting this crazy thing was a bad idea, but now I’m really freaked out. Not many unknown people hit my site with a search engine since I don’t discuss anything timely, but when someone gets to Bobby Loves Ducks by searching for “Linda Sarnoski” there’s something amiss. I don’t know just how bad it could be or if I’ll ever find out for sure, but mentioning my former boss at Aramark probably wasn’t a good idea. Note to self….

I’m not sure what this says, but I’m pretty sure it’s foreign for “My potential future son in law is a real fatty.” Dia’s mom was the subject of a story about how some Serbs can be successful if they work as hard as Dia and Kari have. I imagine the state paper toned down the part about how success is measured by escaping the hell hole that is Serbia, but it’s still pretty interesting that my photo is included in a Hungarian rag.

I don’t know exactly what the text says, but there sure is a lot of it. The second picture is Dia’s sister, Kari, and their parents.

So Al got a job at Merck, which I found out last night when I made an appearance at production night — Lord knows I’ve got nothing better to do. I’m heading out soon for dinner and a movie with Dave and Tara after a long day of web surfing and washing nine dishes. Dia’s host mom, Sandy, is coming tomorrow but only for two hours for some reason. So it looks like this will be a relaxing weekend; probably for the best considering the next two weekends will be chock full of partying. Which reminds me: the Polly Esther’s and Culture Club outing is taking place on Saturday instead of Sunday. I’ll have to remind Ross to e-mail everyone a notice, and I know Dia has a few people she wants to invite as well. Looks like I’m going to use up all my discount coupons in one night.

I had this really good friend up through middle school before we went to different high schools. About the start of my junior year of high school, around 93-94 I guess, we just stopped hanging out. Pretty sad that I let things slip away like that, especially since we went to hockey camp together, had the same interests and hobbies, and I vacationed in Hilton Head with his family for a few summers. Our phone numbers were pretty much the same too except that mine was 5004 and his was 4005; we even each had a sister named Lauren.

I saw him once before he left for college at Boston University, and then that was it. Now he’s like the general manager or something for a hockey farm team. I want to send him an e-mail to see what he’s doing, I’m just afraid that he’ll think I’m trying to mooch free hockey tickets or something. Note to self: do NOT mention hockey tickets unless they are mentioned to you first, and then just say NO.

I think I’ll just send him a damn e-mail right now. It won’t be as long or detailed as the one he sent me some time ago, but it’ll at least be better than putting pants on.

Also, it’s good to keep in touch with the only person who can vouch for my story that we met a celebrity: Amanda Bearse, aka Marcy Darcy from Married with Children. We were in a Hilton Head pool one summer well after the posted hours when she came out and screamed at us (clucked was more like it) to turn of the radio, which wasn’t even all that loud, or she’d call the cops on us. She clucked some more then turned of the radio herself, and we didn’t bother turning it back on again. The bitch called the cops anyway, because they showed up ten minutes later and kicked us out. We had only just spotted her the day before in that very same pool, and after an hour of whispering and pointing we finally asked her point blank if she was Ms. Bearse and she confirmed it. We had no idea then that she was so petty.

It’s not as interesting as I thought it was, the old letters I had posted on my wall sophomore year. One is a cute letter from The O’Connell Group to me and the suitemates telling us that Matt was all settled in at Penn State, and another is the Nately’s Whore enemies list, but most aren’t all that interesting to anyone else and I can look at them anytime I want.

One that is interesting is the note that I got because I posted my hypothetical “period chart” on my front door. The girls wrote that, “there are some decent, self respecting women who don’t appreciate the vulgar signs you display on your door. If you have any respect for yourselves or women please refrain from such degrading signs.” They wrote their note on the copy of mine which they ripped in half, so I printed out a new one and posted them back on the door side-by-side. The girl eventually knocked on the door, invited herself in, and they proceded to confront us about it. Funny thing though, she didn’t have much to say once I pointed out that my sister, mom, and then-girlfriend didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and that maybe her feminism could have been better spent attacking something else other than an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper. The funniest part was that about five minutes earlier my RA came in and warned us that “some bitch” was on the warpath and was planning on taking it to the RD. Of course nothing ever came of her stupid complaints.

I take back the “stupid cow” comment from two posts ago. Ms. Brown is apparently nothing more than a little hot headed, something to which I can relate. She just sent me another e-mail saying, “But I changed it anyway-thanks…”. So while her initial mistake was pretty stupid, she gets props for giving a brother a listen.

I’m bored out of my mind now. Until today, I had Dia as my cohort in laziness — running errands, watching movies and television, and busying ourselves with tidying and eating all day long — almost three weeks of togetherness. Now I see something funny on television or read something interesting and I barely catch myself before shouting, “Hey Dia” to the empty room.

I’ve got a few job leads out there. I’m putting off calling Howard Hoffman at the Wall Street Journal since I don’t actually know how I’d phrase, “I interviewed with you over a month ago and you’re ‘still deciding’?” and “Why haven’t you even contacted the references I mailed you?” without using the words bitch, ass-rape, and suicide bombing. I’ll call them before I’m done this post because I’m all riled up now.

I also got another job lead on Tuesday when I was in MacAlister faxing the News Gleaner about another pagination job (thanks Geof). I bumped into Glen Muschio and he told me that this company ETC (which stands for something different every week apparently) was looking for a video editor after all their co-op prospects decided to take jobs at Unisys for more money instead. Glen said that I might even be able to parlez my way into a full-time job doing all sorts of design stuff. It would only pay about $12.50 an hour to start, but I’d gladly take it to work for the company that was allegedly selected to redesign Epcot Center in Disney World. How would Geof and Matt put it? Oh yeah: BOO-YAH! Well, I e-mailed the guy this morning and we’ll see how it plays out.

This is all going on while the digital press division of Vertis, the company my dad works for, is deciding where I’d fit in at their Princeton office. So right now it’s just a giant race to see who gets the pleasure of a decent, hardworking, deeply thoughtful and considerate guy like myself (they could be reading this, you know).

Okay, just called the WSJ and Mr. Hoffman wasn’t there. I’ll have to muster up enough courage to call him again later today, and then tomorrow morning if he still doesn’t answer. I thought I was pretty charming at our two-hour interview last month but maybe I was mistaken. I have learned that the position I was applying for is no longer a temporary summer job, but a full-time gig instead. “So since my chances to wow you this summer have pretty much flown out the window, I’d at least like to have the chance to interview again,” was how I put it on his voicemail. We’ll see how it pans out, though I can feel my dream job slipping away.

Some of the reviews on Rotten Tomatoes have me wondering who the hell let some of these clowns write reviews while Chris Puzak is losing his soul to the man. One “reviewer’, Luanne Brown, reviewed K-19 and referred to Kathryn Bigelow as “commander and chief” of the movie. Being the grammarian I am, I e-mailed her a quick correction and she sends me this:

Well-that may be the way it’s supposed to be but it really doesn’t make any
sense. Does it? Thanks, though. Luanne

She must not have a very good editor and chief. Stupid cow.

Finally got my Pa. drivers license. Funny thing is, I’ve got two outstanding tickets in Md. which have been assiged a court date, both of which I’ve already missed. Will wonders never cease?

It did afford me the opportunity to finally list myself as an organ donor which is super sweet; the MVA didn’t really specify when I could have chosen it until I finally asked, by which time it was too late. David Cross is absolutely right, not being an organ donor is one of the most selfish, evil things an inconsiderate prick can do.

I also registered to vote in the upcoming elections: the Libertarian party just got a new member. I know Geof thinks they’re a bunch of selfish assholes, and he may be right, but it’s also about giving less money to the federal government so smaller organizations can run some of the operations instead. There’s just too much bureaucracy eating up all the money.

Matt, and everyone else who couldn’t get their asses in gear for last night’s impromptu festivities, has a chance to make it up to the rest of us. Next friday, the 26th, we’re heading back into the big, bad city for a night at Polly Esthers. Last time we went for Ross’ birthday I worked my magic on the bartender and she gave me a free drink and 6 passes for $$ off admission on our next visit. Well, that time has come since Dia’s rarin’ to go, Ross is always up for a night of girly drinks, Mullen needs some new material for his online party journal and Sean is finally off his personal wagon. So we’ll at least start the night out there, then maybe work our way down to the South Street Diner. If we get drunk enough we could even end up on the floor of the now-empty 250 N. 32nd Street since I still have a set of keys and I haven’t gotten my $2,000 deposit back yet. Ross will probably send out an e-mail about it next week but you heard it here first, so lay out your party dresses now. To keep the phone calls at bay, I aim to be there around 9:30 p.m. for now. See you with ‘fros on.

That treasonous bastard got me to postpone my mad 4 mex shenannigans last night so he could join me tonight, now I find out that he can’t make it tonight either. Note to self: everyone in the Army is untrustworthy and should never be counted on for anything but gay sex. Good thing the evening wasn’t centered on Matt, and we’ll have just as much fun without one Mr. T. V. Dandruff.

Went to Lisa’s grandmother’s beach house this weekend, which sleeps like three and a half people, but we made it work somehow. Greg got the double bed, but I got to give Chris a taste of my award-winning snoring, so it was even more lopsided than it could have been.

We waited out traffic at the Olive Garden, and without even trying I was able to put some of my moves on the engaged waitress; you could tell she wanted the Bob. Once we were under way the Betabrite was in full effect. The most memorable part of that bit of the trip were the three guys that tailed us all the way to our street in Ocean City. I think it was less due to the messages we were sending them than the fact that we gave him cover while we both sped along at 78 mph. At least we got to tell them off the entire way there. Cowards.

Saturday was absolutely perfect. I didn’t get any sunburn at all, the waves were great for riding as Greg can attest to as well, and we built our own one-hole putt putt course on the beach with obstacles and stuff that we played around with and finally destroyed. For dinner, we got supplies from superfresh and had veggieburgers, corn on the cob and watermelon. Later that night we played real mini golf, and Dia and I tied for the lead. Greg was only one point behind us, Lisa was some more points back, but at least Chris lost with a score of 69. In my excitement at his score I opened myself to being mocked by some boardwalk rats. I’ve got to work on my lunging-at-strangers impulse in the future because it really would have taken that piece of shit by surprise.

Sunday was pretty much just driving back, though we spent a good amount of quality time at the house first. Been a long time since I played Rummikub and it’s probably for the best since I suck at it.

Today it was back to running errands and lounging around the house in my boxers. I miss the weekend, hopefully we’ll be able to do it again real soon.

This is a poem that Chris sent out over Broadcast, a computer messaging service which worked using the Apple Chooser and was the best one available at the time for any platform. For anyone that had the extension in their computer — and that included pretty much everyone — a three line text message accompanied by an icon would pop up in the background on your screen. Chris (Grendel) authored “Untitled #1” so that each of the five of us living in the Myers Hall suite had to send part of the poem, which was a request for Marathon players to join up. And if you don’t know what Marathon was, you simply don’t know anything about computer gaming in the mid-90’s.

“[Grendel - Satan’s Pimp]
You wake up late for school, man you don’t want to
go. Join up for Marathon and get slaughtered by the
ho! You gotta fight! For your right! To Marathon!

[nately’s whore dogg]
My name is nately, and I’m all that! Join up now and
you’ll meet my Gatt! Impressin’ the ladies cause ain’t
no one better than me! Who’s down with nately?

[Chiron-Perpetrator]
Every last homey! I’m a 187 on the info highway!
I’m still kicking ass cause I’m dying my way! All the
harcore mo’fo’s say ho!

[Jerry-Curl Newman]
Ho! People reunning scared from da Marathon masta’!
Sophomore’s gettin’ hurt while the freshman die
fasta’. Dying all the time, scared of the ho…

[Richie Mitch Ghetto Bitch]
Let me see that Tootsee roll! Marathon homies join
up now for a game, Nately’s Whore gonna give you a
lesson in pain. Word!”

We really didn’t think the whole thing through, since only eight people could play at a time, and there were way too many people joining up to be included in our three empty slots. Seems like all this happened years ago, which it should because it was. Now Mitch Steinberg is living south of Philly with his fiance, Jen. Patrick Boyle (Newman) is living in Alexandria, Va. alone but is at least out of his parents house. And Ron Kralik (Chiron) is living on the opposite side of the beltway from Pat and has a girlfriend, which is scary considering his tendency to play air bas while singing “doo doo doo”. Lord knows he’s not living with her since that would require Ron to stop pretending he’s Catholic (since I’d never met any Catholic racists before, but as far as racists go Ron’s pretty harmless).

Here it is kids, unedited and authored 12 Jan 1996, 15:02 EST, which was a Friday incidentally. I’m assuming Jeffy didn’t have many classes that day. Maya Angelou had better watch out…. Still no sign of “I want to be Boba Fett”, which was rumored at the time to be a work in progress.

“I want to be a SnowTrooper
So I can blow away people who don’t use pooper scoopers
It really sucks when doggies doo doo in the snow
I just BLOWS
You step in it and don’t know
‘Cus it’s buried in the snow
I just want a Snow Trooper assault rifle
So people know I’m no trifle
I could stand in the road
And speak in morse code
And just take my fucking rifle and blow
Away all the morons in Richmond who can’t handle a little snow!!!!
‘Cides…
They look SOOOOO COOOOOLLLLL!”

You know those guys, the one’s who “accidentally” leave nude photos of themselves where other people can get them? Well, it certainly doesn’t seem so far-fetched anymore. I just picked up my digital camera so I could put my laptop away, after all I’m pretty tired after having a few people over for a largely vegan dinner and a game of Settlers. Then it hit me: I left my camera out where anybody could pick it up and start scrolling through the pictures. Normally, this would not be a problem since I’m not really a private person unless I’m crying for some reason, which happens only rarely (unless it’s a Shawshank Redemption marathon, but this is too many tangents). But this time was different, since I was home alone the other day and bored out of my mind with a camera nearby; as luck would have it, I took two pictures of myself urinating and never deleted them from memory. I seriously hope no one was browsing my latest shots. I probably would have heard the scream from the other room, but there’s always the chance that some poor soul was able to swallow the urge to vomit and is trying to purge his memory with kitchen utensil as I write this. All I can say is that they’re deleted now! (Especially since I can take a few more any time I want.) Which I would never do again!

I’ll be posting the previously mentioned works of genius later tonight since Al will be here soon and I’d like to make sure I get a few up without any interruptions. For now I’ll just say that I was depressed when I started to think about hanging up my memories from over the years. The dorms were pretty sweet, where people decorated their rooms to entice passersby in the hall. Living at 250 N. 32nd St. was nicer than my second place all the way at 37th and Hamilton, since there were people stopping by all the time because of the convenient location. All the way up in Levittown where I can count the number of potential visitors on one hand, it seem pointless decorating my room where only I would see it. I know this sounds way too whiny, so I’ll just skip to the point about how once I got started hanging up stuff from over the years, it brought back a lot of great memories. Al’s here, more later.

It feels good to be sitting in my place, finally unpacked and decorated, connected with cable and internet, Dia asleep in the other room, ready for another day of entertaining guests.
My grandparents visited today; after the micro-tour and hoagies, I taught everyone how to play hearts since they had tried to figure it out on the computer without much success. I’m pretty sure at least Pop gets it now, Grandmom will likely forget it before she has a chance to play again.

Al and Mary are coming tomorrow around 3 p.m., and Greg sometime later in the evening. I wish more people could come visit but most of the people I know don’t have cars. Greg could give Chris and Lisa a ride, but dammit they work so damn late dammit all. Damn damn damn. Oh well, it’s their loss they don’t get to see my new palace.

Actually, it’s not so much the palace that’s worth seeing as my shrine to room decorations, from my middle school stylings to dorm life with Grendel and Nately’s Whore (that’s me). I’ve finally unpacked every single decoration that’s ever graced my walls and doors, and not only that but I’ve taped it all up in my room. For those of you who are interested, stay tuned: in the coming weeks I plan on transcribing some of the more artistic creations right here. That’s right folks, original Puzaks will be hung in this humble literary gallery alongside Jeff Gidlund’s reknowned Snowtrooper poem and an original screenplay by Alex Toth. I assure you that you won’t be disappointed. Even rarer will be some early critiques of Puzak’s “Nately Era” works and an original handwritten O’Connell letter circa 1997. Stay tuned, you won’t want to miss this. Unless of course you’re unfamiliar with the people mentioned or hate Chris Puzak. Then you’ll be bored to tears.

Amsterdam was a really interesting mix of classiness and filth. Our hotel was in the Red Light District, which was really cool since we were out pretty late the last night at the Banana Bar. That was after we saw a show at the Casa Rossa. I won’t go into the details here other than that I really need to talk to Steve about the postcard we had written for him at the bar. It’s not your average postcard, that’s for sure, but I’m sure that Alex and Jeff would appreciate it if I left out just exactly how it’s different and what else we did at said bar. We also went into a few sex shops (though the kind that had little booths in the hallway were scary once we saw that people actually used them for a few minutes at a time) and the sex museum — three entire floors of pictures, statues, artifacts, and animatronic nudes. Now before Chris and Geof get all up in my face about my lack of culture let me say that we saw the Anne Frank house and took a canal tour as well. The most interesting thing besides the canals were the amenities afforded to cyclists, like their own lanes and parking garages. Yet another reason for hippies to rejoice in Amsterdam.

The train ride to Prague was only four hours long, but since we arrived at 10 p.m. Alex was worried about losing our hotel room. Apparently, the guy he spoke with didn’t inspire much confidence that he’d hold our room if given a chance to give it to someone else, in other words the guy was a dick on the phone and confirmed it later when he couldn’t control some rowdy guests on our last night there. But back to our late arrival: We were so worried about losing the hotel room that we took the first cab we could find, and even though we felt pretty good about avoiding the flat rate and thought we could tell that he was taking the shortest route, we got raped for $21 for a trip we ended up walking the next day in about 15 minutes. The nights at Hotel Kafka were cool enough despite being on the attic floor, and the place served a pretty decent breakfast to boot. One night some Germans stayed up pretty late, but we still got a good night’s sleep at least. The third night, however, was pretty bad; after the German’s got things kicked off, some British took it through the rest of the night. The aforementioned dickhead didn’t think we deserved a discount or refund, so after paying $60 for the room that night, Alex woke up, complained and woke Jeff up, and Jeff and he got me up too, resulting in a total lack of sleep in preparation for our last day in Prague. Lex even walked to the police station to see what they could do, but no one was there.

Anyway, Prague is hailed as one of Europe’s greatest cities, and it was certainly interesting, even if it was the most American we had been to thus far. It was a nice change from being alienated, although it got a little tiresome seeing McDonald’s and the Red Bull extreme sport exhibitions everywhere we looked. More importantly, though, was the excess of towers in the city. We probably started with the coolest one, Prague’s Powder Tower, but each one was interesting in its own right. One which we didn’t get to go inside due to dwindling currency was the new broadcasting station tower; this particular tower had baby sculptures all over it. Powder Tower had photographs of all the other towers taken by this guy named Sitensky or something, I’ll have to look for it on Amazon because my photos won’t do anything we saw much justice. I managed to send off five postcards to Geof on behalf of the Triangle crew, Lisa & Chris, Dia, Grandmom & Pop, and what’s left of my family in Davidsonville. The last tower we went to was a miniature Eiffel Tower, constructed by the guy who suggested to Eiffel himself to stretch out the base of his tower. I got some pics from the hall of mirrors next to the mini Eiffel. We had dinner one night at the Radegash restaurant on the advice of a 71-year-old guy who had eaten there with his Czech friend. Like most places we ate, it turned out to be really cheap and not too touristy. Only problem was that once again like most places we ate, the water was more expensive than the beer. If there was ever a worse time to switch from soda to water…. Late one night in this fine city we went to a strip joint that was actually a front for a brothel. Let’s just say that any interested parties should read the postcard I sent Lisa, after all this is a family blog. Alex left five seconds after we entered the joint, calling it “sketchy” and telling us we could find him back at the hotel. Getting back to Lisa’s postcard: Lisa, I forgot your address was in my iPod, so I sent yours and Dia’s to the loving arms of The Triangle. Remind me to fetch them there. Thanks, dollface.

The night train to Vienna was one of the coolest travel experiences I’d had up to that point, since I’d never been on a sleeper car before. It wasn’t actually the most comfortable sleep I’d ever had, since we were woken up every two hours or so and it was hot as hell when the train stopped moving, but it was at least better than sitting for 10 hours which is what we were expecting. Since we were able to sleep at least a little bit that night, were were able to function at least somewhat normally the next day. We found a hostel just west of the city’s center that had a room for three available. Of course, Jeff’s voice was totally gone from being sick and drinking vodka, so he sat in the shade while Alex and I pumped change into a phone booth and tried hotels and hostels all over the city until we finally found it. Even though it was a crappy little room in some chick’s apartment, it was a good home base for a day, especially in Vienna where it was only $5 for an all-day city transit pass and plenty of stops to use it on. We saw Schloss Shonbrun that evening and all of the palace-type furniture, decorations, and paintings inside. The castle also had a hedge maze (with two more in the growing phase), and a parlor way up on top of the hill overlooking the city. Jeff spent most of this day, the day before, and the day to come using hand gestures to communicate. Austria was also Euro-land, and our fist chance to play with Europe’s latest funny money; it was also the first time we didn’t have to use complicated conversions to figure out how much we were spending. We bummed over to St. Stephen’s churs the next day after locking our packs at the train station. The catacombs and tower of this chursch were its highlights, even though most of it was built after the nazis thoroughtly trashed it. There was a museum at the nearby palace, but I skipped it to sit and read teh WAll Street Journal and my book, “Ringworld”. Most of our time in Austria was spent on public transportation, but it was a pretty full experience in terms of authentic food and confirmed by the fact that it was the only country from which I got a full set of Euros. Each country designed it’s own version of the coins’ backsides, and so I later got a collector’s book in Amsterdam to organize the coins I got my mitts on.

Everyone was worried we wouldn’t find a hotel, so Billy walked us over to the Jordan where he had stayed a few days earlier. Good thing we hadn’t made any reservations other than the first hotel in Warsaw, since Steve neglected to mention that there were two days of wedding; all our reservations would have been a day off. The Jordan had a room for one night, so we took it and bought train tickets fro the next day’s night train. That was our pattern for the rest of the trip. Alternate hotel nights and train nights so we could spend two days in each city, give or take a few hours. Our time in Krakow was spent at St. Mary’s church (one tower is taller than the other) and its famous altar, the tower in the same square, and the castle south of old town. We didn’t get to see any of the castle’s exhibits since it had closed by the time we got there, but we did get to see the Dragon’s Den caves and we bumped into Stephanie, and Albert and Luisa (the “social chess” couple). We mainly at our meals on the square, which was definitely a touristy place, but twice we ran into the Knupps there and there was always something to see at least. Our last meal in Krakow, for instance, we were visited by an old lady who evidently wanted my soda, a guy collecting money for his travelling violin trio, and brat who wanted me to buy a fundraiser thing, and a near encounter with some Polish version of a goddamn Avon rep. Not all the meals were like that, none of them were actually, but there was always something to look at in the square. Then next Joe Satriani was in the square two nights in a row, playing the same three songs over and over again to the same amount of applause each time — absolutely incredible that people could buy into that type of shit, literally too: he had some CD for sale in his guitar case. Unfortunately, I didn’t know “Your mom blows goats” in Polish.

In a nearby town were the salt mines, probably the coolest thing I saw all trip. As soon as I saw the brochure picture for the mines at the hotel, I knew I wanted to see it more than the castle. On UNESCA’s top list of natural resource wonders or some shit, the Wieslica Salt Mines are over 200 km of undergroudn caverns. We took 380 steps to teh first level of the caverns, then walked .2 km of the top three levels, including a cathedral, post office, concert hall, the site of the world’s longest underground bungee jump, and tatues of famous Polais leaders. I got a salt block and a salt charm for Dia as souvenirs, and a good thing to since none of my pictures came out.

We got to the designated meeting point for our van trip at around 10:45, “better be early just in case,” we figured. It would have been a good plan if Steve hadn’t lied to get us there in time. So we were already tired of sitting by the time our teensy weensy 15-person van arrived; all vehicles are small in Europe, even the 18-wheelers are adorable. You’d have to see it to get my meaning, hopefully Lex’s picture will illustrate it better. There was so little leg room that most people had to sit sideways. Fortunately I secured a seat in the back with all the bags so I could extend my legs straight into the aisle. I only knew the immediate Knupp family before the wedding, but after drinking and eating and drinking and partying and drinking and dancing, I know everyone a little more more now. That night there was a feast and some vodka, then the next morning it was Uno on the grass in the town square until almost wedding time. Steve came over and hung out in our hotel room before the wedding, which meant a lot. He mentioned that he was more nervous than he thought he would be, which is understandable. His visit was almost as cool as the fact that we all got to sit right across from him at the reception. Still sad I couldn’t be the best man, but Alex has become a better friends over the past five or six years since they’ve been in Beantown together. Anyway, the wedding was a blast. The church part took about an hour, which is much longer than the “quick ceremony” Steve described, and that wasn’t including the role playing part….

It started with the “bargaining for the bride with vodka” part of the cremony. We all walked over in the hot-ass sun with our suits on and had to use bottles of vodka to convince the neighbor to move his tractor and let us pass, then the brother to let us in the door. Gosia’s dad was really emotional about the whole thing, but I guess losing his only daughter to the U.S. is a big thing. Then again, I didn’t break down and cry and I’m losing my good friend over here. So he can kiss it. The play-acting bargaining thing was kind of fun, until I realized how hot and sweaty I was getting during the whole thing, then it just got irritating. The important players all got to take a carriage ride, and the locals who had cars drove over to the chapel, so that left those of us in neither category to walk back the way we came. I had a shitload of vodka at the reception that followed the boring vow part, enough to defend the honor of the American contingent. After partying from 4 p.m. until 4 a.m. straight, we went to sleep pretty fast. Then it was up at 2 p.m. the next day for the second party. This one was a little tamer, since most everyone was sick of partying, and ended a lot sooner since Steve and Gosia had to catch a plane for their honeymoon in Crete. Everyone left shortly afterward and I hit my first Internet cafe just to say “hi” to everyone. Then it was Uno in the room until bedtime so we wouldn’t miss the bus back to civilization. The bus ride back wasn’t nearly as fun as the way down, though the Uno game helped a little, but at least it was only a third of the length of the trip from Warsaw. It was somewhat scary going on our own again — at least for me — and there was less camaraderie on the bus without Steve there or the anticipation of a wedding.

I arrived in London with a daypack filled with all my valuables and a book (“Fast Food Nation”, the Drexel librarian let me renew even though my library card expirec when I graduated) and some beef jerky. What can I say, packing my frame pack for the trip gave me a little camping nostalgia. I met Alex in the terminal for our connecting flight to Warsaw. After a quick visit to the Wink Wink Nudge Nudge slot machine for a photo op, we hopped on LOT airlines where I gave up my aisle seat to chill with Lex. Up until this point it had been sheer anticipation and now it was time to actually travel, especially since we bought our tickets two months prior. All of a sudden it hit me that we were going to be in the middle of a foreign country with no one but ourselves, at least after the wedding. At WAW, we were thrust into the middle of taxi hell as a herd of drivers tried to sway us to use them. One guy followed us to the bathroom, the money exchange stand, and even the parking lot. Lex and I foolishly clinged to the notion that we could get to our hotel using only public transportation without knowing any Polish whatsoever. Soon after failing to locate our hotel on the small transit map, we hailed our own taxi and made the 20 minute drive to our hotel on Dluga (“Long in Polish”, also the name of the street of our next hotel as well; creepy) Street for the next two nights. We had dinner at an outdoor cafe, Jeff arrived at the hotel later that night, and we went to bed in preparation of our full day before our rendezvous wtih the Knupps at their real hotel. Our first full day in Poland was more about getting used to overcoming communication barriers and getting caught up with with eachother’s stories than sightseeing, though we certainly did a lot of that too. We saw some tower that Stalin built, which had some soccer exhibition incorporated into it (stupid soccer, we just wanted the damn tower) as well as a car museum that Lex and Jeff got really into. The highlight of that museum was most certainly the guard who took sips from his 40 which was hidden behind the ATM. (You better believe I got a picture of said guard and his 40.) We also saw the tomb of the unknown soldier, an Outsiders exhibit on loan from London, and a Polish folk art museum. I bought some groceries for 25 Zloty (pronounced “zwot”, not “zlotney” as I found out later), which was about seven dollars. The total was confirmed yesterday when I opened my credit card bill, the strong dollar kicks ass.

More on that later, but for now here are the posts that have been sitting in queue for over a week.