Try Me Do To Forget the Batteries!

-Age of Empires III was unveiled recently in stores around the world. The object is to help a European power establish an empire in the New World. I wonder if the difficulty setting is guaged by how much help you get from the epidemics you bring with you. Not to be outdone, another video game company has managed to hook Chow Yun Fat for its latest high action product. Apparently, however, the name of the game was decided (and insisted) upon before this hire: Inspector Tequila. Therefore, the argument against Macs that they aren't compatible with most games is more and more losing its force.

-I wrote "Goats" in my notes, and since I'm not really sure what I was referring to with such succinctness, let me just say that goats are scary. Not when you're eating them, in which case they're delicious (except for that morsel Alex found). But what I'm talking about is when they try to eat our bus, or when when they grow sharp horns longer than a scimitar and bleat the dirge of mankind. Therefore, watch out for the goats.

-NAN (Neolithic Ad Nauseam) day was celebrated on the 21st of October by our little group, and let me tell you, it was one of the greatest 3 hours-that-seemed like-I-was-passing-a-kidney-stone-while-reading-Dickens of my life. The highlight was when it started raining. Actually, my apologies, the highlight was stepping on and crunching snails no matter where you stepped. I'd put a picture in but my camera refused to be accomplice to reproducing that day. Therefore, NAN day should only be served with lots of Chana Masala, samosas, and anything else that will put you in a food coma til the sun goes down.

-"I'm gonna dip it in Nutella and love it the whole way down." Dipping granola bars in Nutella has become one of my greatest inventions of recent note. I met with an obstacle when the bar tore off into the nutella jar, but on fishing it out I discovered that you get even more chocolate-hazelnutty goodness on your hands, great for licking off. Therefore, try it, try it and you may, I say.

-Have I ever mentioned that you can't flush toilet paper in Greece? Well you can't. I know, I shouldn't complain, but for me it's not even that I think it's primitive. It's the onerous guilt I mind, that comes upon you unawares, in the middle of the night, when the thought strikes you that you may have accidentally thrown a piece of toilet paper in the toilet during "office hours" after dinner. What if I'm responsible for another catastrophe like the Great Clog of '73? Therefore, mi pikhnete TIPOTE stin toualeta!!!

-I dare you to find me a pumpkin for our Halloween party. It's not that they don't have them, but they think they're only to decorate the windows of their supermarkets. When you ask how much they cost, you are informed that they are not for sale. Maybe I'm being insensitive and these pumpkins are family heirlooms passed down from generation to generation, but more than likely these people don't know how to run a business and deserve people like me, who come in, look at every product on the shelf intensely, and then leave without buying anything. Therefore, sell me a flippin' pumpkin!

-Ah, the title. This was the warning on a toy box in the window of a store in Dimitsana. Personally, I think it's a great title for a solid British rock song. Therefore, it's definitely worth it to go toy shopping in Greece.

-I've had the urge recently to write a serious blog, but I'm not really sure how to go about it at this point. If you have any ideas that I won't ridicule for not being well thought-out or just plain retarded, please don't hesitate to let me know. I also make a really good statue. Therefore,

Excerpt from "The Military History of the Neolithic Period"

...Following his harrowing defeat and narrow escape back to Sesklo, General BOUGATSA ordered his troops to strengthen the fortifications of the town, and himself retreated to the heights near the town to gather his thoughts amidst the solitude of the rugged landscape that his fellow countrymen devotedly called sacred. Still, he mused, their fervor had its uses, especially when channeled in the proper direction. Of course, this "proper direction" usually involved allowing me moments of peace like this, he couldn't help but noticing.

"I'm on yuh team!" a scratchy, male voice whined in a Bostonian accent, causing our hero to nearly jump out of his fitted animal skin loincloth. Staring at the brambles from which the voice came, he found before him a rather strange sight. A man of medium height, thin legs and a roundish figure, dressed in fleece vest, shorts, and boots, was arching his back while staring up through aviator sunglasses into the bulky camera that his outstretched arms were holding above his unusually large head. Blond curly hair and blue polyester leg sleeves, like azure pollen pockets on the legs of bees, framed the figure. Of course, BOUGATSA knew neither the words for most of the items on and around the creature before him, nor what to make of this strange apparition. Silence rained upon both men in heavy sheets. In fact, it was a friggin' downpour.


After about seven minutes of mutual inspection, the tension was broken: "Have you evuh had your sons read to you in the bathtub? It's very relaxing. I used to have my sons read to me while taking a bath all the time. You should try it." The general, though quite perplexed by the fact that the person in front of him refused to say anything that even remotely followed the protocol of human interaction, replied cautiously that he had not experienced such a thing, and even managed to interject a question regarding the purpose of his new aquaintance's presence on the mountain.

"Oh, I just like to be fashionably late!" came the reply, followed by the equally enigmatic: "I came from the bog!" By this point, BOUGATSA's curiosity had been whetted enough to hasten him past the usual formalities to a directness which he normally reserved for his closest associates. By such interrogation, he discovered that his fellow mountaineer was named John Pollini, had a wife and two boys, and normally resided in a place called California. "It's nice there, unlike this area, which has the general shitty appearance of Thebes," he insisted.

BOUGATSA swallowed his confusion and, against his better judgment--which had, it's true, let him down recently--invited this strange person back to Sesklo: something told him that perhaps he would make all the difference in the coming struggle. Unfortunately, "something" had no clue what it was talking about.

Once admitted into the city, Pollini immediately began picking figs off the trees in people's yards. In another instant, he was lowering an entire bunch of grapes into his mouth, harvested from the town constable's vineyard uninvited. Not wanting to make a scene with his new guest, BOUGATSA quickly led him to his house, sending messengers to his fellow council members with a request to convene there at the soonest possible convenience. In the meantime, Pollini had struck up a conversation with his host's young son, who was attempting to play with the cat. "Your cat looks kinda thin," the strange man observed. "Maybe you should give him some pussy nibbles."

Now, BOUGATSA was not the sharpest mind when it came to picking up on the slang used by the younger generation, but even he knew that whatever "pussy nibbles" was, it should not be spoken of around his young child. After ushering the boy into the next room, he chastised Pollini for his lack of decorum.

"Like you're one to talk," countered the offender. "I noticed that your boy doesn't even know Latin. I spoke Latin to my children from birth. Of course, when they went to school and realized no one spoke it, they stopped, but when I rescued them from the horrors of public school, they learned it again. Home-schooling is really the only way."

BOUGATSA understood little of this speech. He didn't understand that Latin was a dead language spoken by a people that no longer existed, a people that Pollini stubbornly insisted survived through him. He didn't understand that to speak Latin to one's infant offspring was both fruitless and cruel. But not as cruel as what would come.

Wearily BOUGATSA asked what the names of his boys were. "Gaius and Drusus, good strong Roman names, of course! Both their middle names are Romulus, as is propuh." The magnificence of this information was again lost on our hero...

To learn of BOUGATSA's further adventures with the creature called Pollini, how the latter came to be called Boutros-Boutros Ghali, and how he advised the Sesklians to fight in the style of the flexible Roman legion, with disastrous results, look for the appearance of "The Military History of the Neolithic Period" by John Pollini, in stores across the world.*




*let the reader note that the term "across the world" is open to numerous interpretations**

**Indeed

"I feel like a man again"

Before I kick it, I just want to mention that I finished my first Jhumpa Lahiri work and thoroughly enjoyed it, though I'm sure I couldn't fully appreciate it given my background.

Now listen up, I've got a story to tell
That makes me look at myself and say, "Son, what the hell?"
We were out last night havin' drinks at a bar
Most were sippin their beers, but my SoCo wasn't far
When all of the sudden, out the corner of my eye
I saw three cute shorties, speakin Greek on the fly
Now, as y'all know well, normally this situation
Would find me soon with all three, in heavy rotation
But since I don't speak the tongue, my game is put in a cast
I go from fightin for first, to lucky that I'm not last
But this J isn't one to lie down and let be
I had to make a move quick, think up a line that was key
Of course things worked out, that's not the part that is hack
I had some nice conversaysh, the digits 'fore I went back
But at the end of the night, I confessed to Bloody Steve,
An Irish mate with bad ankles, for which he pops some Alleve,
He said "Well done" for the number that I told him I got
To which I uttered the title of this blog-like cyber-spaced blot
Now, for some silly reason, no one called me to task
For saying something so dumb, as if I'd chugged from a flask
So I wrote this til diddy, 'bout the time I was lame
Lest you think I just rip on others without no shame.

Ok, enough of that. Tomorrow morning we leave Athens for another ten day trip, and I am determined to once again not lose my camera. I realized, though, I that I haven't really given any account of the last trip, which is understandable, since I've been catching up recently. NONETHELESS!

Our dedication to America's national sport really deserves more mention than the allusive comments in Set(h)'s character profile (see below). Set(h) came upon a ball while we were in the "city" of Kalamata (yes, named after the olives). This was a grand occasion, since not even Athens, which is about 100 times bigger, had this wonderfully-shaped enclosure of joy. So he bought it, and we began propagandizing the virtues of playing at the soonest possible convenience. That opportunity turned out to be after a group dinner (for "group dinner" read all-you-can-eat-and-drink-binge) on the unlit dock of the small harbor town we were staying in. Ok, so we did have our bus's headlights on, but that really only made it harder to see. For a while, we were "smart" enough to just play a one-on-one version, but soon we felt impelled to urge as many people as possible to participate, including our Greek bus driver (who had generously shared his private stash of vodka from the bus fridge already). The first play from "scrimmage" involved a trick play whereby Christos (the bus driver) was QB. Understandably ignorant of the rules, he immediately took off running forward and then about 10m from the endzone threw a brilliant touchdown pass. It was the Ol' Make The Defense Laugh Too Hard To Defend play, unstoppable really. After a few more minutes of belly spasms, followed by some gitty instruction, the game continued in more normal fashion. Then Christos signaled that he was done.

It was an omen we failed to heed, to the detriment of two involved. The very next play, the ever competitive Nick suggested that he and Set(h) do a crossing pattern to confuse the defense (Andy and I). As the play unfolded, I realized the strategem and backed up to avoid a collision. Andy and Set(h) did not share my concern. Running full force in opposite directions, they became the subjects of a physics problem. Suddenly finding themselves seated on the pavement, dazed but with all pain dulled by the dinner festivities, they asked us what happened. After helping them to their feet, and asking the usual question "Are you ok?" we noticed that Andy had a wide ribbon of blood crawling down the side of his face. Set(h) seemed to be ok, so we attended to Any's gash. Of course, it turned out that Andy was fairly ok once we cleaned him up, but soon Set(h)'s eye began to swell. A beer served to keep it in check, but we knew that by morning it would be an early costume item for Halloween. But nobody could have predicted the vengeance taken by Set(h)'s eye: completely reddish purple and swollen shut, it became the talk of the town.

And THAT, my friends, is what I call being an American.

The meat wheel speaks

Lest the title of this chronicle be seen as misleading, and due to the incessant complaints of the local guild of gyro restaurants, I have agreed to let my favorite such establishment contribute to this humble publication. As you can imagine, the difficulties in having an immobile (but not, contrary to popular misconception, inanimate) object post online are innumerable, but through an intricate system of decodification and dictation, not to mention a patience which most of you think I lack, I give you the following:

"Ok, I should say right off my English not so good. Even when Americans come to eat from me, they usually take trouble to learn how to say gyro pita. So yeah. But I have feeling English will get better as I talk.

I got to say, man, you Americans really need to stop complaining! Always something wrong with Greece. All I ever hear is 'No one ever stops at red lights! The sidewalks are non-existent! The pollution is gross! You have too many stray cats! All the stray dogs make poop your national flower! You Athenians smoke too much and sit around all day and get fat because you never exercise because there's nowhere to exercise! Your city plan looks like an architect drank syrup of ipicac and then, in his dizziness, thought that his "creation" was a good idea. Your cabs never pick up anyone unless they're going to the airport! Your buses don't announce stops when it's dark out and as a result people not from Athens miss their stop and have to take a cab (if he can find one) back to where he was supposed to get off originally. Your post offices close at 2! The shoulder of a highway is not a lane! And so on.'

To this I say, first: at least you're not in India. Second, if you have not gotten run over yet, be thankful. Third, you can't have both sidewalks and periptera [Editor's note: a kiosque with the importance of a Wawa/Sheetz; everything from snacks to phone cards to alk]. Fourth, I saw you petting a cat the other day and crooning like a sycamore in heat. Fifth....ok, I got nothing for the dogs; they suck. So does pollution. Sixth, who wants to exercise? Or not be fat? It's awesome! Seven, our city is beautiful and your words are hurtful. Eighth, you lack the skills of coaxing a taxi. Trust me, all you need is a gyro wheel full of meat (or a 20 euro note flapping visibly in the fumes). Ninth, why would you take a bus, retard! Tenth, you're lucky we have a postal service.

Sorry for that, but the critics are everywhere, and none too bright. I imagine my human counterpart to this blog even has some sniping comments now and then. I know I should be grateful to him for helping me post, but his hair is REALLY distracting, and he's always doing some impersonation. I swear, if he tries to imitate the sound of my meat basting...

But what I really wanted to talk to you about is the Steelers. I know, it's hard to believe that a restaurant in Athens can follow American football at all, let alone well enough to fall in love with the greatest team ever to win 5 Super mpola. But it's true, and with their recent annihilation of the politically incorrect squad from Kansas City, it looks like my gyros will be moist and delicious for weeks to come. Oraia!"

That's all I had time to transmit before the owner of the restaurant insisted he be allowed to serve lunch. Anyways, before I sign off, I should clarify that in Greek, gyro is not pronounced JEYE-ROW (don't worry, Pittsburgh, you still have crik and jaggerz), but YEE-ROW (but without the rebel yell that YEE implies). Learn it, internalize, practice it, and then you can come visit me. Holla.

Making up for lost Chronos

Ok, so I lied. Most of what I'm about to say did not take place in Athens. But the aura of the place haunts me wherever I go. "Where are you from?" people in every town ask me. I want to jut my chest out proudly and affirm "America, by golly!" But I know that no sooner will such inspired words leave my lips than a limb-rending frenzy will ensue, masked by the shouts of "Opa!" and "ela re!" that dominate any show of energy in this country. So I am forced to admit that I am living in Athens, as if I could ever feel a tenth of the affection there as I do upon entering one of the six (formerly seven) Eckerd stores that protect the bastion of culture that is Monroeville.

But this isn't a tale about Athens. We are here to explain the lacuna in my photographical record. As few of you know, the program I am using to fund my lust for travel requires that I embark on a series of ten-day trips to various regions in Greece, during which I must give one site report and listen to countless others, in addition to viewing numerous ancient ruins, monuments, and artifacts. The first of these trips left on September 15th, full of promise. We drove north to the foothills of Mt. Olympus, ignorant that the magic that had once led the Greeks to believe that the gods resided on top of the mountain now resided in our bus driver. This would soon become all too apparent, but we were too busy being serious scholars to notice what now structures the foundations of my personal metaphysics.

After a couple days near Olympus, we headed to Thessaloniki, which soon became my favorite Greek city. Lacking the narrow sidewalks and senseless street plans of Athens, and with a much more diverse and effusive cuisine than the capital, this city quickly won me over. A quick visit to Ataturk's house revealed a facet of history with which I was completely unfamiliar. When the bus pulled away two days later, I vowed to intend to return the city for at least several months.

Not much exciting happened for several days, except the discovery of Tsoss's neckbone difficulties. These become especially prominent due to the windiness of Greek roads. Remind me to show you how this works at some point.

Skip ahead to last night. I went out to eat with Katie and Marcie, classic BFFs. We found this quaint place with live traditional music, and sat down. A great time was foreshadowed by the game of "musical bread baskets" that the waiters kept playing. We would have one basket, then two, then one, then two, and finally one again. Then we noticed that all the wines, including the house wine, were exorbitantly priced, so we asked the waiter (who was pro 2 baskets of bread) what the deal was, and he informed us that on Saturday's 25 euros was a base price for each customer at every restaurant in the area, and then gently whisked us out of the place. I appreciated both his honesty and perceptiveness. Lesson: don't eat out in Psiri on Saturday. Ever.

Ok, back to the first trip. In Olympiada we had a hotel on the beach, and a lifetime supply of cute cats to feed. In fact, this apparently is a requirement for all outdoor tavernes. If you want to eat outside, be prepared to fall in love with a cat or seven who want to be your temporary friend. Unless you don't like cats, in which case your annoyment will only be rivaled by my laughter as you are ushered into Martha Stewart's domain in the hereafter. In fact, one of the resident cats at the dorm here just gave birth to five kittens. My favorite is Lynxy, so named after the tufts on his ears, who has a predilection for sitting in a cinder block so he can look cuter than his/her siblings.

Right, so I'm supposed to be talking about the first trip. [Re-inserts artificial narrative voice]. Gone was the initial excitement of discovery and novelty. As we trudged up to the bus for what seemed like the thousandth time, I suddenly remembered that we were boarding a ferry to the island of Thasos. But that shot in my arm was as short-lived as my capacity to conjure up similes. The cause? As I was leaning over the edge of the boat to take another stunning shot of the approaching island, I behaved as if my notebook was not wedged in the crotch of my arm. Well, it was, and I was left devastated by the fact that I had littered in the virgin waters of the Aegean...and surrendered the identification of the 150-200 pictures I had thus far taken on the trip. Yet fate has a strange sense of humor, one that I will always appreciate.

The next evening, after a solid day of reports and trekking about, Seth, Nick and I decided to chill on the dock and have a drink. They got beers, I a half liter of retsina, which has a considerably larger alcohol content than beer, but is actually cheaper. The buzz was amazingly wonderful, but subsequently, what most likely happened is that I left my camera where we were sitting. Not realizing this until after a satisfying shower, I scoured my room, the dock, and then my memory. Nothing resulted, and the police were only helpful in insisting that I speak English.

You might think that this misadventure would prevent me from riding the wave of frivolity commenced by the retsina. May it never be! After a short bout of wrath, I was ready to wine it up at dinner with the boys, Katie, and Sannan. We walked without purpose, guided, as it were, by a benevolent force to an unimpressive taverna called Grigoris. A 3/5-toothed (sources conflict) old man greeted us with an advertisement we couldn't refuse. Instead of menu items, he simply referred to kotopoulo (chicken), and bragged that the tzatziki and melatzanosalata were prepared with his very hands. In case we weren't yet convinced, he proffered free mavro krasi, which we assume meant red wine, though it really means black wine. I knew we were in for an unforgettable evening, and led the way to the table, my lost camera abandoned in the mists of responsibility kept at bay by the warmth of Grigoris' kitchen.

I won't bore you with our revelry, but the crowning achievements of Grigoris' hospitality were the free pens he gave us, with his name on them, and the following: in order to facilitate splitting up the bill, we had asked for smaller change. Not having this, his son proceeded to get on a bicycle and get the change we had asked for. We had only just finished laughing (but not feeling bad) when he returned. Those who have been to Greece will know just how extraordinary such an errand was.

I will conclude this post with an (I think) impressive revelation. On the 7th or 8th day of the trip, we finally succeeded in finding a place to play soccer. That's right, after America's dismal performance in the World Cup, I've decided to take advantage of my surroundings and give our nation's team a kick in the rear. After some tentative sessions on half of a tennis court back in Athens, I was ready to show my skills on the small town of Maroneia's official pitch (and by pitch I mean gravel). As we warmed up from our hotel, the town came out to see who had doubled their population unannounced. My play was modest, except for a wicked one-timer that would have solved the US's problems against Italy. Since then, I have continued to hone my skills, and plan on challenging Ronaldihno to a one on one for the right to endorse Lays potato chips by spring. Stay tuned.

Stage Directions

Setting: Athens in autumn. Medium-sized shrubbery, including a cum plant, adorns the yard. Maids flitter about in search of their various tasks. From time to time a cat strolls by.

Cast of Characters:

The unwilling narrator, often referred to as Ieremias: Crowned with wild and wiry hair.

Set(h): Also known as Mavromati (Black-eye), following his participation in Night Bowl I, an American football game played sans lights on an empty(ish) dock in Pylos after a krasi(wine)-filled dinner. We all learned that night that crossing patterns are a bad idea when you can't see and are tipsy. Actually, Set(h) learned it...we'll probably still do it again. Among Set(h)'s other talents are gymnastics, baking, and sarcasm.

Jake and Nick: Sporty chaps that meet with my approval.

Tsoss/Josh: Distinguished by his refusal to wear shoes or shower after a rain-induced mud session, but in particular by his lack of a neck-bone when napping on the bus. Can also be marked by his over-the-top reaction of disgust when asked if he likes chewing tobacco.

Mulder: Offensive to many, due to his seemingly inherent stick-up-his-ass tone of voice and a particularly nasty habit of pretending he knows about 85% more than he actually does. For me, a wonderful source of amusement.

Boutros-Boutros Ghali/Dr. John Pollini: A god. Poses as a Bostonian teaching at USC. Deserves his own blog entry.

Sara and Helene: Good cop/bad cop in couple form. Their public conversations consist of Sara chastising Helene for being mean/sarcastic/honest/etc. It's pretty great. At one point, Sara told Helene to stop being "too honest."

S(h)annan: A smoker. That's all you need to know. Well, she does make baklava and laughs when I make fun of people. But she likes Cincinatti. Did I mention she smokes?

(Orta) Katie: Wise because she is not married despite having a boyfriend (unlike everyone else at the school). Participant in the sacred "Shit-to-do" list that involves a trip to Italy, eating Indian food, an eternity of crossword puzzles, and a sweet optional listing.

Alex: Set(h)'s wife. More sarcastic than him. She just got here yesterday so that's all I can really say at this point.

Sisqo: Named after the world-famous R&B singer due to her tendency to comply with the exhortation of said singer's most popular ballad. Also, is fluent in Greek and never fails to unsubtly show it off at every possible moment.

Memo: So named because, at a loss for how to understand her, I resigned myself to the conclusion that she "simply didn't get the memo." Interesting mannerisms have elicited the curiosity of many.

Prologue:

Henceforth what comes from these fingers shall be

A bit of wit, some truth, and history.
We find ourselves in Athens, cragged and dry,
In foothills of Lykavittos on high.
The task of painting for the readers' mind
What life is like from day to week to month
A task I do not relish, from despair:
For if one be not here the hope is vain
To make conveyed emotive force wherein
To be in Athens, Greece, perchance beyond
Is manifold assault on mine blank slate.
What words suffice to translate pang or chill,
Reaction to the catalystic New?
But in such plights there's Wisdom to instruct,
And in the guise of Poomba she now chides,
"Fret not, the "cannot" merely wants a step
To transfigure to "possibility."
Le longue durée does ease the fulfillment
Of aimed attempts at guiding foreign eyes
To gain appreciation of what's yours."
And so, with this in mind, content at last,
I tell the reader curious of my past
To patiently endure what now unfolds.
All will be understood, and oft retold.