Who let us out of America?

Who let us out of America?

So, you might have read Jessa's picturesque account of our 5-year anniversary trek across Europe, and you might have a vague idea of the food we ate and the champagne we drank and the 700 dachschunds we saw along the way.

But what about this?:

                                                             hurt my back to sit on this thing . . .



Some people snap pics of the Louvre, and some people snap pics of the loo. What about that toilet scrubber on the left? Who's that for? I'm all about being nice for the next guy and giving a good solid flush, but let's be serious . . . I should probably clean MY toilet before I start scrubbing for La Maison Expeensaive.


So, I wanted to avoid being this guy:

                                "I'm standing under this giant cell tower, but my reception is still terrible.  
                                                       At least 'Murica has AT&T . . . and nachos . . . where the nachos?."





But I also knew I couldn't be this guy:

                                                            "No, Mr. Connery cannot come to the phone right now. 
                                                                                          Can I take a message?"






So, I decided that I would combat the fact that I could not speak any other languages by learning just enough . . . to apologize.

It seemed like a great plan.  "Je suis désolé. Je ne parle pas français. Est-ce correct si je parle anglais?" (I'm sorry. I do not speak French. Is it okay if I speak English?).  They would be so overjoyed at my effort and the sincere acknowledgement that I was inept at being a local, that they would welcome me with open [English-speaking] arms and accommodate my humble request.

As we neared any maitre d', cashier, blanket-sized-map salesman, etc., I would be mumbling my mantra to myself quietly . . . prepping for the moment when I was given the floor for my little soliloquy, "Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . . Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . . Mi dispiace. Non parlo italiano . . ." 

Then, the moment would come . . . I would be addressed in a flurry of what sounded to me like "Gooblidy gopp jop, himple du bop."

                                                                    "wu . . . er, . . . I, uh . . ."



Lucky for me, Jessa had adamantly refused to even try speaking any other languages, so this is the point where she would come intervene like someone might do when Grampa gets loose and starts trying to talk about Korea without his pants on.

                                                              "We want all the mustard."



"Ohhhh! You want mustard! We thought maybe he was hurt or needed a fresh set of underpants. Yes, here is the mustard."

I know what you're all thinking.  "Jessa's not blonde." Just try to pretend.

So, between my pity-inducing attempts to converse, and Jessa's no-nonsense, cut-to-the-chase approach, we were fed, watered and provided over-priced shelter and useless artifacts of memorabilia throughout Spain, Italy and France.

We went to several different cities (Barcelona, Rome, Florence, Venice, Paris, London).
Venice was pretty cool.  You could get squired around town in a boat by the Hamburglar.

Well, aren't these little guys cute?:

Or at least, they were . . .

Jamon Iberico - a specialty of Barcelona

Ah, Rome.  The sheer beauty of wonderfully preserved ancient architecture.  The Colosseum . . . Vatican City . . . The Pantheon . . . and shouldn't you just take a second to marvel at those beautiful arches?:

                                          

                      You've never lived 'til you've battled gladiator-style in the balls at the Pantheon Play Place

              In Rome, you have to arrive pretty early to get an audience with the Pope . . . and with Ronald McDonald






Florence! Tuscany.  We would have been remiss if we were to pass through this land of wine and not sample the fruits of the vine.  Who has two thumbs and loves Chianti? . . .














This guy:

                                         They were fresh out of fava beans at EVERY winery . . . oh, yes, I asked





In Paris, the stereotype was absolutely true.  EVERYone was on the move toting baguettes at all hours of the day (especially morning).  Jessa and I would be dining al fresco, and I would occasionally shout "Go!", and, at any given moment we could spot at least one person somewhere, within sight, trotting down the street with baguette in hand (or bag).

                                                 Baguette Steve and his black market boulangerie








Okay . . . at the risk of sounding like a typical American schmuck, somewhere in the air between Paris and London, Jessa and I began to . . . breathe easier.  There was a sort of comfort in the fact that the flight attendants (while quite snotty) were barking at us and feigning interest in our drink orders IN ENGLISH!  It started to dawn on us that we no longer had to cross our fingers and kiss our rabbits' feet prior to every transaction in hopes that it would produce a desired result. We were freakin' excited to touch down in Harry Potter's backyard.

London! Big Ben . . . Westminster Abbey . . . The London Eye . . . The London Bridge . . . Buckingham Palace!

So, the first thing we did was the first thing that ANYone would do when visiting London:










WE ATE INDIAN FOOD!

 . . . and it was my favorite thing that we did the entire trip.  That doesn't discount any of the other places we visited and things that we did . . . I just love . . . Indian . . . food.

In summary, this was an amazing trip.  We experienced so many new cultures, cuisines and different types of human-waste receptacles.  We toured ancient ruins, ate cuttlefish cooked in its own black ink, accidentally took a stroll through a topless beach, looked for hunchbacks at Notre Dame Cathedral (saw a girl with a mild case of scoliosis, but that was as close as it got) . . . it was a blast.

It was a great way to celebrate our 5-year anniversary, and I wouldn't trade the memories for anything.  A few more pics to send us out:


Jessa gets quizzical in Venice (when she doesn't know I'm taking pictures):

Apparently, Schwamnkopf means "Squarepants" in French:

Whu?! They don't have these back in the states:

                        mega disappointment . . . these are actually just the Nacho Cheese flavor, in disguise . . .





Whoa, check it out. They now have "Pope-Vision" at the Vatican:

                                                                     Just like when Bono performs

Lists

Because I Like Lists . . .

There is some part of human nature that drives us all to seek out absolutes and to share what we believe to be definitive statements.

"I like Vlasic Polish Dill Pickles in a 24 oz. can.  I happen to think they're incredible.  Wait . . . but are there better pickles out there?  What if I would like another pickle even more? Excuse me, strangers on [insert internet forum here], which pickle is the absolute best?! I have to know!!"

user with childish name 1:  "For my money, it does not get any better than Claussen Kosher Mini Dills in a 20 oz. jar.  They're the best, and all other pickles can rot in hell for all I care."

user with ambiguously erotic name 1:  "Claussen?!! What, were you raised on a pig farm in Albuquerque?  You must be joking.  I use Claussen pickles to scrape bird dung from my windshield.  If I want a pickle that doesn't taste like octopus urine, I drive 145 miles to the nearest Flying J. truckstop and buy a room temperature jar of Mt. Olive Kosher Dill Spears (if they're within 10 feet of a cooler, they're garbage).  I leave the jar in my backseat for 2 days to allow the sun to bleach the brine, then I sprinkle them with cracked pepper and laugh at all of the other losers out there choking down inferior pickles and trying not to barf. LONG LIVE MT. OLIVE!!"

teenager with 1970s classic rock band reference name:  "I've tried them all.  I've had some great pickles, and I've had some fermented cucumbers that I later discovered were just spoiled, but I am somewhat of a 'pickspert' and I have diligently (oh yes . .  I did) created the following list of the 5 best pickles in the United States and Canada:

1.     Wendy's sliced hamburger dills (these are the cream of the crop; I always take a ziplock bag with me to the nearest franchise and harvest all of the unused slices I can find rummaging in the dumpster if they forget to lock it)
2.     Vlasic Bread & Butter (sweet with a touch of mellow oak; pairs nicely with Ritz crackers)
3.     Mezzetta Jalapeño slices (so I realize these aren't pickles, but they should be)
4.     Del Dixi Baby Dills (whoa . . . so good when you're drunk at 2am, and you just NEED a good pickle)
5.     Movie Theater Pickle (any of them; you know the ones - the size of a femur and soggy on the inside . . . heaven help me, they're fantastic)"

Okay, that was a bit of a hyperbolic example, but you've seen the type.  We can't just like things anymore; we need to RANK them.  It even appears in security questions for online accounts.  According to my bank, the secret combination of "favorite movie", "best friend" and "least favorite elementary school teacher" creates an imprint so distinctly me, that no other human being can match my identity. You might find a way to snag my Social Security number, but there's no chance of divining my affinity for the cinematic excellence that is 'The Shawshank Redemption.'  Seriously . . . I would follow Morgan Freeman's voice off of a cliff.  He just sounds SO sincere . . .

That being said, I often find myself contemplating my favorite songs, movies, burgers, shapes of ice cubes, spots in my living room to stand while watching football, etc., and I can't help but want to document the degrees to which I enjoy these things in some hierarchical format.  LISTS!! I love lists.  It's the same thing that makes me actually select the number of stars (1-5) next to each song in my iTunes library (I wonder if anyone else even knows that option exists . . .).

If you can possibly endure it, I have created some lists below.  These are strictly my opinions and my assessment of how certain things rank when compared to other things. Also, these are absolutes (you won't want to argue with me).

Top 5 Strange Names to Have if You're an Old Person:

1:  Josh (sounds like a little boy in a baseball cap)

2:  Chad (shirtless frat boy)

3:  Zoey (dog or quirky young television personality)

4:  Jamie (teenage girl - although __ Lee Curtis adds a little senior cred, but this still goes here)

5:  Jordan (just imagine calling your grandfather this . . .)

Honorable Mention:  Britney

Top 5 Most Overused Words 

1:  Literally (99.9% of the time it is used incorrectly - "I'm LITERALLY starving to death")
2:  Random (as in "haha, yes, I love that show; it's so random")
3:  Awkward (used to absolutely STOP a conversation at the slightest hint of pause)
4:  Awesome (everything . . . is awesome now)
5:  Super (as a prefix to any word that does not already convey enough weight - "super-excited")
Honorable Mention:  Crazy ("I like toast." "Me too . . . that's crazy.")

Top 5 Ways to Ruin a First Date

1:  Wear a diaper outside of your clothes

2:  Tickle a stranger at dinner

3:  Bring her a balloon that says, "She said, 'Yes'"

4:  Call your parents and leave them on speakerphone for the entirety of the date

5:  Bring your own jar of garlic

Honorable Mention:  At the conclusion of the date, do calisthenics on her doorstep

Top 5 Worst Songs Ever

1:  Let's Give 'em Somethin' to Talk About (Bonnie Raitt)

2:  She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy (Kenny Chesney)

3:  Baby It's Cold Outside (performed by Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey)

4:  You Can Do It Put Your Back Into It (Ice Cube)

5:  Get This Party Started (Pink)

Honorable Mention:  My Humps (Black-Eyed Peas)

Top 5 Songs I'm Ashamed to Admit I Enjoy

1:  Dreams to Dream (Cathy Cavadini from the Fievel Goes West soundtrack . . . yes, I know . . .)

2:  Escape (Enrique Iglesias)

3:  Head Over Feet (Alanis Morissette) 

4:  I Want it That Way (Backstreet Boys)

5:  Baby Love (Diana Ross & The Supremes)

Honorable Mention: Come Away With Me (Norah Jones)

Top 5 Favorite "Modern Day" Music Artists (at the moment . . .)

1:  Death Cab for Cutie

2:  Radiohead

3:  Wilco

4:  John Mayer

5:  Coldplay

Honorable Mention(s):  The Strokes & Arcade Fire

Top 5 Favorite Stand Up Comedians (at the moment . . .)

1:  Demitri Martin

2:  Louis C. K.

3:  Mike Barbiglia

4:  Jim Gaffigan

5:  Brian Regan

Honorable Mention(s):  Arj Barker, Jerry Seinfeld & Dave Chapelle

I could do these forever, but I will leave some of the more detailed lists for individual posts (i.e., ranking all Radiohead songs, favorite books, favorite movies, etc.).

I'm still working on "pimping my blog", and I don't really have the art of injecting imagery into my posts down quite yet.  In my last post, I included some beautiful photographs to spice things up.  This time I would like to add what I consider to be the:

FUNNIEST THING I WATCHED THIS WEEK:

Enjoy - this is a good way to wrap up this weekend now that we are in the midst of a long 2-week drought until the Super Bowl (the Harbowl, that is).

Embarrassingly Long Pause

Whoa! Embarrassingly Long Pause . . .

After a few mo[nths]ments of uncomfortable silence between what was an over-promissory initial stab at a blog and this, my sophomore attempt, I will proceed as if that arbitrarily lengthy (and entirely unmerited) sabbatical never happened . . . . . . . . . . . .

 . . . . . . . . . .

Cool.  No excuses . . . just results.

The Results:

No results, so far.  

I need metrics in order to create results.  I have pledged that all proceeds from this blog will go directly to fund the salary of a vigilante crime-fighter to reduce violence and evil in this city.  

It goes without saying that the tier of crime-fighting ability will directly correspond to the level of salary my blog proceeds allow.  

I'm shooting for the upper echelon of experienced hero, but, in the event that I am not bought out by Bain Capital in Q1 2013, I have listed some [one] contingency plan(s) beneath my top choices:

Platinum Level Batman

I don't think this even needs to be explained.  He's a man . . . but he's also a bat.  He has a sweet car, an elderly butler, a voice like he has a cold (I love my voice when I have a cold . . . so deep and gravelly . . . I just want to talk to people all day long and give them my cold).  

Batman, unfortunately, is also aware of his level of kickbuttedness, and all of that vocal machismo comes with a fairly steep price tag.  I might be reaching a little bit for this one.

Gold Level Superman

Wow . . . so, just like that, Superman takes a backseat to Batman? He can fly! Yeah . . . because he doesn't have a sexy car.  Also, Clark Kent looks like Atticus Finch, whereas Bruce Wayne looks like James Bond.  

(yeah . . . I guess Atticus Finch IS pretty cool though . . .)

Silver Level Atticus Finch

I felt a little guilty after that last one.  This one is here just in case taking down criminals requires more litigation than assassination.  

Bronze Level Spiderman

Eh . . . identity crisis.  Overrated.  "I'm reserved and sensitive yet bold and moderately ripped, and I'm into Kirsten Dunst" . . . "I want to do Broadway; I'm too dangerous for Broadway" . . . "I have big hair and a British accent, and I'm more of an Emma Stone type of guy who co-created Facebook".  This waffler will be out of work in a few years, and he may be available on the cheap.  Still . . . reaching a tad . . .

Stainless Steel Level it's stainless, so it's better than regular steel

Okay, so this is likely the level of skill I will be able to swing (i.e., the aforementioned "contingency plan").  

In truth, this isn't really a seasoned crime fighter.  It's actually just the guy on my block with the most cats.  I think his name is Mel or Mick or something.  

These cats work for free, and they perfectly combat the most plausible threat to the survival of NYC . . . rats becoming more powerful than people.  

I saw a rat with a power tie last week, and he looked pretty confident. Not everyone can pull off high-sheen lavender.  Salt-and-pepper fur . . . I felt instantly inferior.  I let him have my seat on the bus.

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Pictures

I'm still new at this, so, right now, my blog is a bit dry and texty.  (sidenote, I love the fake word "texty")

Here are some pictures to spice this up:

rabbits in clothes

the future

That was fun.

I'm going to cut this off here.  Now that I have re-started this blog, subsequent posts will not constantly refer to the fact that this is a blog.  I might even find a purpose.

A Blog is Born

 . . . and just like that, another blog is born.

Just like any parent of a newborn blog, I will pamper my blog.

I will show my blog off to other people (whether they own blogs, don't own blogs, want blogs or one day accidentally wake up with a blog after a hazy night of drinking and bad decisions).

I will look at my blog and assume it is the most beautiful blog that has ever existed and secretly harbor the impression that all other blogs are violently ugly and slightly resemble aliens.

I will tell my blog that it is unique and special.  It is not just like every other blog brought into this world at 1:50am on a lackluster Friday night.  My blog is a snowflake.

My blog will always hear that it can be anything it wants to be (within the parameters of what I think it should be).

My blog will always receive accolades regardless of merit.  If nobody else provides these awards, I will create them . . . at home . . . using poorly chosen clip art in Powerpoint.

My dogs will become jealous of this new blog.  Do I have time to walk them to the park? Can I hold that bone while one of them chews? Is that ball going to just sit there, or am I going to throw it? Sorry . . . afraid not . . . I have a blog now, and I have to take care of it . . .

Right now, at this very moment, as I speak to you (and my blog is present), I am playing classical music with the hope that eventually my blog will become more sophisticated as a result.  It makes an odd soundtrack for a muted SportsCenter repeat, but, hey . . . I'm a blogger now, and that's the type of sacrifice we bloggers make.   That's why I'm up at 2:00am . . . I've been told you get very little sleep the first 6-8 weeks of having a blog.

I don't see Jessa getting out of bed right now, so I assume she doesn't care about this blog.  I think it's because she already had a blog before we got married . . . so she spends all of her time on that blog.  It's not that I don't love Blog#1, but I just feel more connected to my (I mean our) new blog.

Well, enough about me and my beautifully innocent, pristine, new, warm baby blog.  Let's talk about what you should expect to get out of this blog:

• More insight into my everyday life - America, you spoke, and I listened.  I'm here to give you what you've been clamoring for.  What did I have for breakfast yesterday morning? (you might have asked yourself) Well, that was yesterday.  I didn't have a blog then.  So, you'll just have to sweat that one out.  Tomorrow, however, I might tell you (cliffhanger) - hint: it will involve gravy.
• Warm, fuzzy stories about puppies and hippies on the subway - Oh yes. Definitely.  I'm a Chicken Soup for the Mushy Soul sort of blog writer.  I'll provide you with all the ammo you need to attack your day with a positive outlook toward your fellow man, woman and manwoman.  That woman you just let take your seat on the subway . . . that's a dude, but should you feel cheated? Yes.  Will you dress like a woman tomorrow to steal someone else's seat? Yes. Everyone wins . . . except the next guy . . . but if he isn't clever enough to dress like a manwoman, then he deserves to stand and wonder if you're actually a woman.
• Plagiarism - I'll often include jokes and profound observations that I will rip off from popular celebrities and/or Gwen Stefani, and I'll present them as my own original ideas in a vain attempt to gain favor. It's not admirable, but will you really know? . . . On second thought . . . don't speak . . . I know just what you're thinking. 
• A slight headache - Tilt your monitor at a different angle (that should fix it).
• At least some useful information - Sure . . . if you're one of those people who must read with intent to learn, I'll pepper in some nuggets of wisdom here and there, but you'll have to work to find them.  
• Interesting anecdotes surrounding our adventures in a new city - Ah, okay, you are probably looking for Jessa Thomas.  Yes, this happens a lot.  I totally understand.  Her blogs are much more (what's the word?) readable.  She includes many pictures and relevant facts.  What she doesn't include is gratuitous amounts of Chuck Norris.  So, here's your fork in the road . . . if you want(need) more Norris in your life, you can stay right here; I'll accommodate.  If you are, frankly, sick of Chuck Norris, then I'm pretty sure Canada is taking applications.  You can read Jessa's blog from your freezing hut in Canada.

Well, folks (sense the optimism in my use of plural language), I believe this sets me up for full-blown bloghood.  I look forward to presuming anyone else in this world wants to know what I think.

If you made it this far, thanks, you deserve an award (I'll warm up Powerpoint).

Richard

If you made it this far, you can stop now.  You probably should stop. Apologies if you actually fished out your glasses in order to read this tiny print. Why weren't you wearing them in the first place? Did you waste money on glasses?