From now on, I'm going to live every day like it's the last day of January 2006.

My first day of classes...

was actually on Friday. But here are some highlights brought to you by the magazine for children:

Global Business Strategy - Prof gave us the green light to make fun of gays

Environmental History of Europe - Introduced myself as "Scott, but if that's too difficult to pronounce, you can call me by my Chinese name, T. Guy Minetti"

Nordic Mythology - taught by Beardruff, Keeper of the Cosby Sweaters and God of Shitty Jokes

Danish Politics and Society - learned that the Baltic is a vital Scandanavian shipping channel, despite its unenviable position on the Monopoly board

And now, the hardcore sex. Last night was one to remember, if not for the sexual re-education I received at the hands of a Faroe Islander, then for the copious amounts of ginko biloba I ingested per my celebration of the Chinese New Year. For those of you with a subscription to Penthouse Letters, I invite you to read on. For those of you related to me, please, do not. For those of you who trade Dead tapes, check out 2/11/70 at the Fillmore East. Best Lovelight ever.

What do you say to a woman who asks you to stick it in her ass? This is just one of the many questions an American student will ask himself when studying abroad in a foreign country, along with "Are you sure these grades don't transfer?" and "Where is the nearest embassy?" Last night, I found myself unprepared to answer that question when it was posed to me by a naked, 23 year-old aspiring actress. I can't be sure what films she has appeared in, but I'll be looking behind the black curtain at my neighborhood bodega tomorrow.

I picked her up at Welcome Back Party hosted by the kollegium, conveniently held downstairs in a good-sized room with two poorly-stocked bars manned by poorly-trained student bartenders. But the booze was cheap and the party was bumpin'... eventually. I first strolled in with the Krew at around 10:30, and I was instantly reminded of my 6th grade dance not only because the DJ was spinning Now That's What I Call the Worst Music From the Mid-90s, but because the room was split down the middle with us Americans on one side and the Danish students on the other. We had a lot of Danes in our 6th grade class, and we kept our distance.

We headed for downtown to check out a new bar, but after getting lost amid the windy and winding streets and realizing that it was a mistake to leave the warm confines of the kollegium in the first place, a few of us returned home while the hardiest sought out a familiar Irish pub. Sam and I decided to revisit the kollegium party before calling it a night, and we were happy to find a bigger crowd with lotsa fine Danish ladies. I ordered a White Russian and let the power of The Dude wash over me. After several unsuccessful attempts at breaking into conversation, I met Paula. Or maybe it was Pola. But it might as well have been Emmanuelle and she may as well have been sent from space to give me a lesson in hedonistic love.

She told me she was from the Faroe Islands, which is probably the coolest thing I had ever heard. They've got puffins in the Faroe Islans. Puffins. I told her I was from New York, which is probably the coolest thing she had ever heard. We've got pigeons in New York. Pigeons. It was that easy - she wanted to sleep with a New Yorker, and I wanted to watch.

Most of the girls I've seen in Denmark are so beautiful that I wouldn't even know what to do with them if I had them alone in a room. I'd be like, "So, you wanna make origami? Or, um, I've got the Sunday crossword puzzle... we can do that. They’re pretty hard on Sunday." But Paula was different. She was hot, in a porn star kind of way, but had an engaging personality and was very open with me. She told me she was a people person, a good listener, but above all, a whale eater. She explained that it is Faroe Island custom to kill and eat the whales that swim too close to the shores. In America, "I eat whale" would be a conversation ender, but in Denmark, I took it in stride and showed Paula upstairs to Chez Rogowsky. But after hearing about the whales, I was worried about the puffins...

It didn't take long before she had her teeth brushed and we were all systems launch. But before I get into it, I’d like to take this opportunity to go on record as saying, I am a proponent of safe sex. Also, I am not a racist, I don’t support cancer, and I think we should bring our troops home. But it has been my experience that of the two genders involved in sexytime, the female is the more safety-concerned party and will be adamant in her inquiry as to the condom supply, to the tune of, "You have a condom, right? You've got condoms? I've got them if you don't, but you do have them, don't you?" So you can understand my hesitation when Paula suggested in a cautionary manner, “You might want to put a condom on.” I might want to put one on? What exactly could she mean by such an admonition? "You might want to put a condom on, because my toxic cesspool of a vagina will dissolve your little man on contact." "You might want to put a condom on, because the moon is right for baby-making, and I want a kid with dual citizenship.”

Eager and already naked, I shrugged off Paula’s pussy disclaimer, secured the prophylactics (Frommer's suggests triple-bagging), and strapped in for the ride of a lifetime. This girl was an All-Star, as voted by the fans, and when it came to fielding the positions she was like Bert Campaneris circa 1965. I, on the other hand, felt like a bullpen catcher chasing down passed balls to the dugout. The whole time (11 minutes, 49 seconds) I kept thinking about Mike Birbiglia’s sports analogy: Sex is like tennis, because you’ve got to find someone of your own ability. Otherwise, it’s just a whole lot of arm flailing… “I’m getting nothing over here. Do you have an underhand serve? You must have had a lot of lessons.”

Paula definitely had a lot of lessons. She told me afterwards that she’s been “doing it for 10 years” (i.e., since she was thirteen) and that she’s lost track of the number of partners she’s had, but she estimated “over thirty.” We all know that means 70 plus. That also means, I’m checking the phone book for a cock doc.

And so went my first one-night stand. She stayed the night and jetted in the early afternoon, leaving me with two less Tylenol caplets and a lot more dirty laundry. But as it happens, that may not be the last of Paula after all – she’s moving into the kollegium in March, and she told me to look her up. I told her it all depends on whether it stings when I pee. Until then, I’m chalking it up as another crazy Danish experience that I’ll be sure to tell the grandparents. They’ve been there. You’ll be there too, and when that day comes just remember – you might want to put a condom on.

FUN FACT: Last night was also the one-year anniversary of my stand-up debut, 5 minutes in front of 300+ students in the Arellano Theatre at Hopkins. Who would have guessed that one year later, I’d have my finger up a stranger’s ass? Just goes to show what comedy can do for a guy.

Even while Jeff was out screwing someone else, he managed to screw me. His alarm clock woke me up at 9:15 this morning, a mere 4 hours after I had touched down in Slumberland. So I poked holes in all his condoms. Hey, it's an eye for an eye...

I've put the kibosh on my plan to sell trucker hats to the Danes. Turns out, it's like selling sand to the Saudis. Trucking has been a long-established national pastime of the Danish people, and they all have impressive collections of hats. Who knew?

PUERTO RICAN WATCH - Day 8. It's been eight days since I've seen a Puerto Rican.

Mel Gibson's The Producers? - There are posters in the metro stations for THE PRODUCERS which is either coming to Copenhagen’s stages as the musical or Copenhagen’s theatres as the movie that was based on the musical that was based on the original movie. The posters say, “THE PRODUCERS, Forår For Hitler.” I had to refer to my Danish-English dictionary to make sure that "forår" did indeed translate to "springtime” and not "hooray” as I had feared in my anti-Semitic paranoia.

Speaking of the mustachioed dictator, I'm reminded of a conversation I had the other day with another DIS student about the girls of Denmark. We both agreed that they are super smokin' (and that they do also like to smoke), but I had some difficulty swallowing his follow-up comment, “Maybe Hitler had the right idea?” Maybe... yeah, no, totally, because I'm pretty sure if Hitler hadn't killed those 12 million people, the world would be devoid of hotties. No Maxim, no Playboy, no Skinemax - just dark-haired, mutant half-beasts roaming the earth, making ugly babies and letting their fingernails grow really long. But thanks to Hitler, it's blondes, blondes, and more blondes! Yep, maybe Hiter did have the right idea, and maybe I should travel without my Chai necklace.

A Tale of Two Bars

It's 4 in the AM, Saturday. Just strolled in from my first Friday night out on the town. I feel like spinning some yarns, so read on as I tell all about my first Danish love, my first Danish heartbreak, and perhaps my second Danish heartbreak (if my first Danish love doesn't call me back)...


L.A. Bar
It all began on Tuesday, my third night in the city. The crew (more on them later) ended up at a place called L.A. Bar - yeah, radical, it's totally Cali in Copenhagen! A bunch of us guys from the kollegium (dorm) got a few drinks and just wandered about the bar, ogling the fine fine ladies; undressing them with our eyes and redressing them in Dallas Cowboys cheerleader outfits, only to undress them again. One particular brunette caught my attention as I made my way up to the second floor - clearly Danish, sexy and alluring, seemingly untouchable. After more wandering and ogling, I spotted her dancing with a friend. The song ended, and I approached with something stupid like, "You like American music? You're beautiful!" We got to talking and it turned out she spoke better English than I did, with a British accent, as a result of spending 7 years in England. She told me she was 25; I told her I was 24. I bought her a drink, and the rest, as they say, is sloppy make-out party.

Her name was Caroline, and I pretty much fell for her right there in that bar. She was smart, funny, and super sexy, but above all, she was Danish! And she was really into my teeth. Apperently, it's hard to find a dude with a good set of chompers in Denmark, so all it took was a few goofy grins to snare my first Scandanavian. I ended up going home with her, back to her flat in Vanløse (15 minutes outside the city). It was a 130 Kroner cab ride - and she paid for it! What won't these Danes do? The next morning I managed to find my way back to the kollegium via metro (Vanløse was the end of the line) with Caroline's phone number and memories to last a few days...

The Happy Pig
She entered the upstairs bar, a radiant Danish goddess, and I instantly succumbed to her beauty. She was a whole lotta lady, standing a shade above six feet tall and weighing in at around 170 pounds - but in all fairness to my taste in women, about 20 of those pounds could be found resting comfortably in her breastses. Her flowing blonde mane draped her soft visage and pale blue eyes, but it was the red checkered pearl-snap cowgirl shirt she wore that gave her a Jessica-Simpson-as-Daisy-Dukes-meets-Brigitte-Nielsen-as-Red Sonja (minus the red) kind of look and made her irresistable. I slowly made my moves, a medley of popular American dance styles featuring the lawnmower, the sprinkler, and the shopping cart. We gotsta talking, whatever, whatever. Her name was Miriam, and she wasn't as good with the Engelsk as Caroline, but I didn't hold it against her. She told me she was 19; I told her I was 21. I later found out that she was 17 until April, and I much later found out that the age of consent in Denmark is 15.

I worked on Miriam for THREE HOURS. Three hours. I bought her drinks, I talked to the friends, I DANCED with the friends. I pretended to enjoy the crappy American dance music from the 70s, 80s, 90s, and today, even singing along to it with emotion and gusto (note: Heaven is a place on earth, and that place is Copenhagen). I stayed in that bar, The Happy Pig, from 11PM to 3:30 AM, afraid to leave my blonde behemoth's side. These Danes party hard - when Jermaine Dupri famously stated that "the parties don't stop till eight in the mornin," he may have been talking about Atlanta, but he most assuredly had Copenhagen in mind, or packed in his lip. The Danes usually start the evening around midnight and stay out well beyond the break of dawn when some bars announce their last calls just as others are opening their doors. This philosophy is summed in Denmark's country motto: "Sleep is for pussies, and the Swedes."

Unaccustomed to this nocturnal way of life, I told Miriam that I was calling it a night, well before it was appropriate. She didn't seem too disappointed. After an awkward hug, I went in for a goodnight smooch that was met with a just-get-the-hell-outta-here grimace. With my confidence shot down to Hannah Geller-era levels, I picked up the pieces of my broken heart and beer bottle (motor skills are the first to go) and quickly hustled out of that sleeze tavern into the cold streets of Copenhagen, alone. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.


So what can be learned from these first encounters of the gorgeous kind? How about more Danish, especially phrases like, "I'm sorry, that's never happened before," and, "In America, this is as big as they get." And when my Danish fails me, I should just let my teeth do the talking.

To clear up some fallacies from the last post...

The food is not terrible. In fact, Copenhagen is home to some of the best McDonald's in Europe!* They have these things called "Chili Cheese Poppers," and you get five of 'em for 10 kroner (part of their COINOFFERS - similar to our Dollar Menu). The Burger King holds its own too, and there are 7 Elevens on nearly every street corner - open 24 hours a day! That's every hour of the day!

Also, not all Danish guys look like James Earl Jones. Most of them actually look like Don from Napolen Dynamite. And that's the truth!

I've been too long in Copenhagen without mention of the womenfolk in this fair city. In a made-up word, they are unbefrigganipplizing. Never have mine eyes graced such beauty - the platinum blonde locks, tall and slender bodies, piercing blue-green eyes and junk in all the right places - and I'm just talking about the girls on the city buses! I haven't even been to the hot clubs or bars yet... Thor only knows what valhalla awaits me.

I'm convinced this is the birthplace of hot. All the blonde bombshells you know and love - from Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn to Farah Fawcett and Daryl Hannah to Pam Anderson and Danielle Grunwald - can trace their ancestry to the Germanic and Scandanavian peoples. Of course, that statement is made without any actual research or fact-checking, but it proves to illustrate my point which is - these bitches got it goin' on.

While these arctic foxes sure are pretty to look at, it takes more than a vicious eyefuck to get them to talk to you. That's why Jeff and I have been perfecting our icebreakers and pick-up lines. Jeff is sticking to his guns with, "Did you waterproof your Uggs?" I have chosen a non-conventional approach whereby I break a sheet of ice (abundant in the frozen city) over the girl's head, to which I am assured the beginnings of a conversation, usually, "What the fuck?" For the Danes most proficient in English, I've relied on the tried but true, "Do you have any American studying abroad in you?/Would you like some?"

*see Señor Detecto

Finally got my internet humming in the room. I'm working on an unsecured wireless connection, but I'm not too worried. The Danes are a friendly people, and they wouldn't dare hack into my server and do whatever it is that hackers do. At least, that's what we've been told in our orientation seminars. All week long, we've heard nothing but blanket statements about the Danish people. "The Danes are very friendly, but shy." "The Danish people are very comfortable with their bodies." "Danes will not say 'Excuse me' if they bump into you in a public place." Normally I don't have any problems with stereotyping, if the stereotypes are true. But after several days in Copenhagen, I've learned that these generalizations about the Danish people are just plain wrong. However, I have noticed some common characteristics that appear to be shared by all the Danes I've seen and talked to, so I've developed my own blanket statments for these people and their culture:

- All the Danish men look like James Earl Jones, but talk like Joan Rivers, while all the Danish women look like Joan Rivers, but talk like Bobcat Goldwaith.
- Hot dogs are called "Baby Legs"
- Before asking for a cigarette, Danish women will always wink three times and vomit on your shoes.
- Most Danish ballerinas have tattoos of the fictional "Star Wars" planet Tatooine hidden underneath their tutus. These so-called "Tatooine-toos" are becoming increasingly popular among the punk kids.
- The Danes are a very illiterate people.

The program is looking good. We're getting along swimmingly with the other American students, the dorm room is large and accomodating, and the food - oh the food! It's fantastic! No, it's tanfastic! No, no... it's, ok it's just alright. It's fine. It's... it's fucking horrible. It really is bad. God I'm sorry, I just, I just wanted you to like me...

The following are some things I wrote down these past couple of days but couldn't post because I didn't have that inter-mabob-athingy:


Spent our first night in Denmark at the Ascot Hotel. I negotiated a free night’s stay by agreeing to walk around the city square donning a polka dotted ascot, posing as the Ascot Mascot. Jeff paid full price, like the Asscot he is.

Saw Jarhead in a multi-colored multiplex. The Danish subtitles allowed me to pick up some choice vocabulary. “Mine klunker” roughly translates to “my balls.” I’m pretty sure I can get by on that alone. Coincidentally, when we got off the plane in Copenhagen, a grizzled Danish woman in fatigues turned to Jeff and me and said, “Welcome to the exact opposite of The Suck.”

After unpacking and settling in, Jeff compiled a list of things we need:

- pillow
- wireless internet router
- bus/metro pass
- mobile phone

I’ve thought it necessary to compile a list of things we don’t need:

- gingivitis
- hoof and mouth disease
- bird flu
- the bad Hodgkin’s

Here's to everyone around the world, getting what they need, and not getting what they don't need. Cheers!

Arrived in Copenhagen to discover that it's summer in Denmark!! Summer in Denmark is characterized by 15 foot snow drifts and -4º C temperatures. Too bad I left my snow pants in the fourth grade.

I have entered my 31st consecutive hour of aroused intense concentration. No rest for the weary, and no sleep on the airplane - or the Langoliers will getcha! That's what my pops always says. Pops never leads my astray, and he would certainly never lead me into the gnashing jaws of THE LANGOLIERS!

So I'm dog tired, which is pretty tired for a human. But I've compiled some thoughts I jotted down while traveling from New York to London to Wonderful Copenhagen (according to neon signs). Later, you will be able to relive my experiences through the magic of IMAX...


On the way to the airport, I actually saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. Don Henley, your words ring as true day as ever before. Maybe even truer.

All the establishments at the JFK airpot have found it necessary to name themselves with clever puns in reference to flight, to remind the customer that he or she is indeed at an airport. The restaurant is called "Latitudes." The music store is called "Altitunes." And the maternity ward is called "Airborn."

Jeff and I have created Danish aliases for ourselves. Jeff is Man Eddie, for obvious reasons. Myself, I have chosen the lengthy yet distinguishing Hans Jewish Anderschlitz, which can be shortened to Hans or Andy if time is of the essence, and Jewface when appropriate.

They're actually playing that song from the British Airways commercial on my British Airways flight. My chocolate-covered strawberries should be any minute now...

Disappointed to discover that all the banging hot stewardesses I met as I boarded the plane are working the VIP seats, while all the banged up stewardesses are catering to our beverage-related needs here in the back. Who do we have working seat 46C - there's Grandma Poppins, Dykey MacDykebag (she's Scottish, I think), and a woman I've dubbed Jo Jo Khaki Pants who's got too much hair growing out from behind her ears for anyone's good.

BA starts us off with a light snack in the form of worcester sauce flavored breadsticks. Good intentions, poor execution.

Checking the inflight monitor, it's a bit chilly outside at -49º C. Good thing I brought this airplane with me.

Losing my mind, it's 1:30 AM EST and time for breakfast! The brand of muffin they served is called Muffin Town. Curious, I asked the male steward for the name of the mayor of Muffin Town. Wouldn't you know, it's Steve Malfitano! As I ate the muffin, I pretended I was the star quarterback on the Yogurtville High football team - Muffin Town's longtime rival. We had just won the big game after a fourth quarter comeback, and to celebrate, me and the guys rode into Muffin Town on our badass mopeds and fucked the place up. Serves 'em right for being Lemon Poppy pussies.

I'm bleeding from the ears!

Keen Observations on a London Layover:
- food "to go" called "takeaway"
- double-breasted suits abundant
- most black people actually Africans, like, from Africa

While waiting for our connecting flight, I've gotten a kick out of telling people that I've just flew in from America to see Timmy the Thames Whale.

Good afternoon! It's 6:15 AM EST, and we've touched down in Copenhagen. Terra firma never felt so frozen. I need a bed and a pastry. But I am happy to report that I have arrived safely with my payload of 500 trucker hats. See, I've hatched this plan to sell mesh-backed hats - popular in America during the 1970s and 1980s, and again in the early 2000s - to the Danes. I'm going to make these trucker hats the next big thing in this sleepy Scandanavian town! Hoorah!

The irony of my neon green fanny pack has been lost on everyone in Europe, myself included. I have found it rather conveniant in the airports, and I can't understand why it ever went out of style in the first place...


More to come when I'm not sleep-deprived.

Hey, so, I’m blogging now. Pretty cool, huh. This blog is gonna have lots of writing in it and maybe even pictures, just wait and you’ll see. It’s gonna be something special, I promise.

There are those who might see this blog merely as internet pollution junking up cyberspace – just another tributary of mindless drivel flowing into a larger stream of invective that meets with an even larger river of dreams that snakes its way through the valley of the dolls and eventually becomes an estuary of self-indulgence where it mixes with the salty, swirling waters of an ocean of virtual narcissism and verbal masturbation. To those people I say, “You have a very good understanding of river systems.”

Check this page often, for I will be updating it often. But who am I to be telling you when to read? I’ve never liked it when other people have ordered me to look at words. My teachers did that all the time. They would be like, “Read chapters 4-7 for tomorrow.” And I’d be like, “No! I will read those chapters when I get around to it.” Getting around to it meant waiting until I had to go to the bathroom, or until I had a long train ride. Last week, I finally finished "Animal Farm" on my way down to Philadelphia.

Ostensibly, this blog was created to chronicle my madcap sexcapades and salacious Scandanavian adventures while studying abroad in Denmark. But really, I just like using the word “ostensibly,” and this blog allows me to use that word with the reckless abandon of an abandoned daredevil. Ostensibly.

I leave tomorrow, so nothing Denmark-y has happened to me yet. But I’ll leave you with a story from today. It takes place in a little town with a big heart and an Indian name, Mamaroneck…

I was eating a sandwich in my car when I noticed a little girl licking a glass door. She was standing just inside a shoe store, her face pressed up against the glass, licking the door and seeming quite pleased with herself – completely ignorant of the nasty germs she was no doubt ingesting with every lick. Her mother was too busy shopping to take note of her daughter’s door-licking, so I thought it my duty as a concerned onlooker to intervene and save this child from any possible harm that might result from a microbial infection. But just as I was about to get out of my car and yell, “Stop licking that door!” I remembered that a little girl's mouth is cleaner than a human's. How silly of me...

Epilogue: That sandwich was Boar’s Head cracked peppermill turkey with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and provolone on a roll, and that little girl… that little girl was me.