March 31
Destiny Unbound?

Like a box Cracker Jack found on the bathroom floor of your favorite all male adult theatre, my last night in Prague was full of surprises! Before I left for Denmark, my Uncle Alan had given me the names and numbers of people he knew in Europe – distant cousins and old business associates or people he knew from his many years of traveling the world. Of course, I haven’t called any of these people. There’s no reason to willingly dive headfirst into an awkward situation But while in Prague, my uncle has repeatedly e-mailed me reminders to call a guy named George Nussbaum, “…or else.” George is a vaguely-if-at-all-related cousin by marriage who has been living in the city since 1991 where he has found success in the billboard business and happiness with a native woman 14 years his junior. After experiencing the Prague club scene last night with my buddy Eisman who is spending the semester here, I figured I might as well give George a ring and at the very least, get a free dinner out of it.

A quick note about last night: I met up with Eis at the Bombay Bar with Peter and Megan from my study tour, had a drink, and then headed to Radhost to celebrate Black Music Night. In Europe, rap and hip-hop are affectionately lumped together as “Black Music,” and Black Music Night is the one night each week when the clubs give their techno records a rest to acknowledge the great strides blacks have made in the repressively white music industry. Interestingly enough, jazz and blues are collectively known as “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.” The club was alright - met some obnoxious Americans and nearly got my ass beat for calling out a Czech guy who was wearing a Hugo Boss-designed, Grateful Dead-themed t-shirt. And the Czech women, well, they wouldn’t talk to me if I were on fire holding a bag of money. But I did manage to sneak this sweet pic of a dude who looked remarkably like a Barry Bonds type person.



George picked me up tonight at the hotel where I’m staying illegally in Megan’s room. That means, I’m not paying for the room, but I am sleeping in it and using the shower (the Chinese call it “entrepreneurship”). I invited Megan along, more as insurance for a shitty evening (she was gonna fake a water break), but as it turned out all the worrying was for naught. George introduced himself and drove us to a happening restaurant/bar/club that hasn’t yet been discovered by tourists where two of his friends joined us for a delicious dinner (I had the goulash, I always have the goulash) that included a shot of the beloved national drink, Becherovka. It tasted like burning, but I sipped it down to save face. George is a short, very pleasant man in his mid-forties. He wrestled at Loomis Chaffee and did fratty stuff at Georgetown, and then moved to Prague after the Velvet Revolution. He’s pretty much an aging campus legend desperately trying to hold on to whatever cool sensibility he once had while struggling to keep up with the American zeitgeist (he had not heard of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the poor guy). But we found common ground in our insatiable appetites for talking about women who we’re never going to bang (you don’t have to point out that he has a wife, and therefore, a good excuse). Most of the dinner conversation was spent pointing out various hotties in the restaurant and commenting on their bodies and/or faces. I felt bad for Megan at times, but George did his part by including her in his sexual objectification.

After dinner we checked out the bar/club area of the restaurant/bar/club, which was just a short, spiraling walk downstairs. We were standing around, cruising some beers, when this young American guy who had overheard us struck up a conversation. He introduced himself as a writer from Los Angeles who had just arrived in Europe to aimlessly drive around in a rented car, and that’s all I needed to hear before I started thinking this guy could be the Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise. We stood there by the bar and got to talking about writing and comedy and music and New York and LA (and their whacky differences!), and by the end of it we had both decided some sort of cosmic force had driven us to meet in this random Prague bar, on this my last and his first night in the city. A quick biographical sketch of Tyler: 25 year-old writer, currently living in Studio City, originally from the Seattle, WA area. Dropped out of high school in ’99 to tour with Phish, briefly dabbled in film school before dropping out to pursue independent film. He’s bumming around Europe with a rented car for a few months before heading to far-east Russia to film Siberian tigers in the wild, or something extreme and nutty like that. Our mutual love and appreciation for The Simpsons was discovered pretty early in the course of conversation, quickly followed by the realization that we are both huge fans with a PH. He regaled me with stories from the road, including his acid-for-tickets trade with a random French before the 10/7/00 Shoreline show, what turned out to be Phish’s last show for more than two years as the band took an extended hiatus from touring. He also described his first encounter with Trey during which his ex-girlfriend blew a line with the Mr. Anastasio in a private backstage room after one of his 70 Volt show (Trey, putting the crack rock in rockstar). The most awe-inspiring tidbit: Tyler had just completed an original Simpsons script as a writing exercise, but due to some inside connections, the episode might actually get produced in the upcoming season. He said the hapless and underrated Gil is featured prominently. This guy was a Simspns writer, or at least, the closest thing to a Simpsons writer that I’ve ever met. Unbelievable.

The whole time I was talking with him, I just keep picturing us in the Simpsons writing room, pitching a hilarious script that had even George Meyer cracking up. Every generation has a group of prolific writers who manage to come together and create magic: The Inklings, the Beats, the Pythons, the Lamps, the Yacht Rockers. I entertain the fantastic notion that I could be a part of that next generation, and I feel like Tyler could be part of it too. But like a fucking moron, I didn’t get his contact info before I lost him in the crowded bar. So I’m a little bummed out, but I have a strange feeling we'll meet again someday, if this whole comedy-writing career works out (it's the same strange feeling I got when I made the switch from nail scissors to nail clippers). Nonetheless but alwaysthemore, if someone reading this knows of a writer named Tyler from Studio City, tell him about THE SPOT, and tell him to shave those sideburns. (THE SPOT – that’s the new hip spin I’ve put on my blog. Think Saved by the Bell’s THE MAX and Mark Fidrych’s nickname THE BIRD, and then forget about those things, and remember to floss).

March 30
That t-shirt says, “Czech Me Out!” THASS HILARIOUS!

The women in this town, they’re something else, huh? Something beautiful! But what’s with the hair colors, ladies? You know what I’m talking about, fellas! I’ve seen red, bright orange, PURPLE! My question is, do the curtains match the carpet?!?! I’ve heard of a fire crotch, but COME ON! And the men are holding up their end of the bargain - I’m seein’ alotta sweet ‘staches out there. The fellas know what’s up!


While strolling the Charles Bridge, I stopped to listen to the Original Prague Syncopated Orchestra as they played their unique brand of rare, early jazz from the 1920s. Their new album, Goin’ Crazy with the Blues, is hitting street corners everywhere, and judging from the band’s live performance their latest studio output should be a real treat.


Is there anything gayer than a heterosexual couple in love? Last night, Jeff and Christina went off and did their own gay thing together, probably involving some gay dinner and romantic walk (read: gay) around the city. I took the opportunity to spend a guy’s night out with a kid named Peter who goes to GW and a buncha random girls. You bet it was as fun as it sounds!

These girls were new to the gentlemen’s entertainment scene, and that was the perfect rationalization to mask our own titty-focused agendas. I had also heard that accompanying females to a strip club for their first time is considered a form of community service in the Czech Republic. So we scraped together our funny money and hit the streets.

We didn’t have to walk far before stumbling upon a seemingly reputable establishment called the Amsterdam Cabaret Club. Remembering my Euro algebra, Amsterdam plus Cabaret times Club equals titties plus ridiculous cover fee. The old bastard at the door wanted 250 koruny per person. Remembering some other math that I learned through a computer game, that’s 10 USD each. I bargained down to 1000 kc for the five of us, hoping that we’d get at least a good hour’s worth of premium titty. But as soon as we made our theatrical entrance through the black velvet curtain, I knew we had been had! We took our seats in the near corner of the empty bar, empty save for a British couple looking equally at unease as my motley band of prudish co-eds. Surveying the room, I could see about a dozen decrepit women sitting at the bar who, for their age, appeared inappropriately dressed in skimpy lingerie. Two girls were exchanging dances set to popular hip hop favorites on a pole in the opposite corner, but neither was disrobing much to the dismay of Peter and me. Behind the bar were several TV sets tuned to nasty, hardcore porno films that only added an element of creepiness to an otherwise merely pathetic scene. To borrow one of Patton Oswalt’s bon mots from an episode of Comedians of Comedy, it was like miserableness had taken a dump on sadness. Browsing the drink menu quickly induced a shift of emotion from confusion and remorse to seething outrage. “10 dollar beers! On top of the 10 dollar cover! Are you fucking serious!” After inquiring with the waitress as to “what the fuck’s the deal here,” I found out the real story behind the more Amsterdam than Cabaret “Club.” It was a whorehouse, pure and simple. You buy time with menopausal mistress, and you bang her in the back room. The attempt to indulge my impossibly horny side had acquainted me with Prague’s depressively hoary side. Goddammitanyway. We picked up and shuffled out of there, reaching down into the well of our high school Econ knowledge to analyze our pitiful disposition. Amsterdam Cabaret was a sunk cost, and we’d leave it at that.

Epilogue:
Determined to show these girls a lonely trucker’s idea of a good time, Peter and I led the charge downtown where we met a costumed barker who showed us to Rio, a tropical-themed titty bar in the American style we all knew and loved. Surrounded by Italian tourists in a lively atmosphere, we enjoyed a good show and reasonably priced drinks to the tunes of 50 Cent and DJ Tanner. As for the girls in the group, well, they all got wasted and started making out with the strippers onstage. One of them fell in love with the bouncer and followed him home, and another one was sent to the hospital with a herniated disc. Jeff and Christina remain gay.

March 28
PRAGUE! Can ya smell it?

It’s a mixture of stale cigarettes, intense body odor, and MILF, but mostly intense body odor. That’s just how they roll here in Praha, and I’m cool with it if the big, hairy guy scrunched up next to me on the tram is. I’ve been in town for a few short hours (it’s 48 Czech minutes to one American hour), and I’m already enamored with the cheap booze and sketchy African men. Tonight was mostly spent getting hit on by the sixty-something waitress at our hotel restaurant who turned me on in ways only Blanche Devereaux had done before. I might invite her out tomorrow when shit’s s’posed to get CRAYZAY! Nah, it’s not really.

What would a Scott Rogowsky post be without a self-conscious reference to his Judaism? I wouldn't dare find out. On the way to Prague we stopped in Dresden for lunch and a guided tour of the city (for those of you unfamiliar with World War II history, Dresden is like the Coventry, England of Germany). It's an attractive city featuring architecture predominently of the latter twentieth century, and yes, it is considered rude to ask, "Why?" The Jewish population was nearly completely wiped out during the years of the war, but has seen a moderate resurgence since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Still, there are only 500 Jews living in the city of 500,000 people, which means that my presence alone briefly increased the Jewish population by 0.2%. I’d say Dresden is an AEPi convention short of being able to support a deli.

March 27
Ich bin ein Believer!

Berlin continues to impress, although ordering food continues to be a problem when the only German words you know are "Anschluss, Luftwaffe, and Kristallnacht." The city truly is a cosmopolitan metropolitan - last night I was talking French to an Indian cab driver - that remarkably managed to survive its recent history of Nazism and Communism to become a cultural and financial capital of Europe. I especially admire how Berlin entrepreneurs have learned to capitalize on their legacy of communism and exploit their precious Wall for tourist dollars! Along our guided bus tour of the city, we stopped at Checkpoint Charlie, the iconic former border crossing point between East and West Berlin. On the site of the old military guardhouse is a recreation, manned by a dude in Soviet garb with whom you can take a picture for five euro. That’s just the beginning of it… there is a Checkpoint Charlie Museum with a ten-euro entrance fee and multiple souvenir stores along Friedrichstrasse selling small pieces of the Wall for disproportionately large prices! But if you don’t want to pay the inside retail, there are just as many street vendors hustling decidedly unauthentic Commie paraphernalia to choose from. My favorite aspect of the Checkpoint Charlie area is the inane display of punning to be found in the names of neighborhood establishments. There’s Snackpoint Charlie, which I guess is a snack shop. There is also the Czech Point Kulturinstitut, which I believe is one of those “We Sell Your Stuff on eBay” stores for Czech people living in Germany. But there are so many more business opportunities to be pursued here in the name of word play! What about Checkcash Charlie, a Cold War-themed provider of payday loans? It could be a franchise! And how about Checkmate Charlie, your one-stop Berlin shop for all things chess. I imagine the most popular seller would be a set pitting the Gorbachev administration against Reagan and his cabinet on a board constructed from a polished Wall fragment. It would be a welcome change from all the decorative paperweights. Get on it, Germany, or I will.

I’ve hatched another brilliant plan to buy up every remaining piece of the Wall, ship ‘em home, and rebuild it in Berlin, New Hampshire. Let’s face it, that town could use some help.

Where do you think the Berlin Wall historically ranks among other walls around the world? I’d put it ahead of Hadrian’s and China’s Great, but behind Jerusalem’s Western and the girls’ shower room wall in Meatballs 4.

Berlin cannot be sorrier for the Holocaust. We toured Daniel Libsekind’s Jewish Museum and memorial, and I walked through the concrete blocks that comprise Peter Eisenman’s tribute to the six million murdered European Jews. Pretty soon, the entire city will just be one giant Holocaust Memorial, and the sign on the autobahn will read, “Berlin: Apologizing Through Construction Since 1945.” Only then will my mom visit.

DIS arranged for us to eat lunch at Restaurant Käfer located at the top floor of the Reichstag building. The kristallnacht was rather bland, but the hearty bowl of gestapo more than made up for it.

March 26
Death Camp for Cutie Hookers - Rammstein's Greatest Hits!

I am in Berlin with my DIS study tour group. Jeff, Christina, and Rachel are here with me, along with a man who looks surprisingly like a slightly fatter Harold Ramis. Only slightly.
Before reaching Berlin last night, our bus stopped at the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp where DIS had arranged for us a tour of the grounds. I was a little anxious and very hungry for my first visit to a Holocaust site, and my hunger only made me feel worse about the situation. There I was in the Sachsenhausen parking lot, complaining about the fact that I had missed breakfast… pathetic.

Touring a former death camp is a powerful experience, and it is impossible to truly capture it with words alone. The words must be accompanied by maudlin song. So throw on the Garden State soundtrack and prepare to read…

THOUGHTS THAT OCURRED TO ME WHILE TOURING SACHSENHAUSEN

• “Did you get here by train?” is a good example of a bad question for the tour guide to ask.
• National Socialist sounds so much friendlier than Nazi.
• Whattya think having had SS officers live in these houses done to property values around here?
• People are taking pictures of “Arbeit Mech Fri” (Work Makes You Free) – the sign on the prison gates that was installed to mock the prisoners as they entered. I’m sure that will make a helluva background on someone’s desktop. Maybe I should snag a photo of the old Nazi barracks for my ex’s picture caller-ID.
• If not for Hitler and the Holocaust, there would be so much less humor in the world today. No Mel Brooks, that's for sure.
• I wonder how the gay kids are handling this. Do homosexuals identify with the historical suffering of other homosexuals the way Jews do? Now there’s a question for the rabbi.
• Holocaust victims were targeted for being Jewish. It didn’t matter what kind of person they were, how loving of a husband or wife or son or daughter they were, how many free throws they could make in a row, or how often they took in beggars off the street and fed them a hot meal. It was narrow-minded discrimination based purely on religious affiliations. Ironically, Jewish mothers today support a similarly ignorant method of discrimination - the Must Marry A Jew policy. It doesn’t matter how incredibly amazing of a person your girlfriend could be… She’s a Dartmouth grad working on the hill! She’s an inner-city schoolteacher with a passion for recycling! She’s a Gulf War veteran turned veterinarian! Not Jewish? Then you can send that relationship straight to the chambers.

My first night in Berlin was spent ogling/bothering the city’s exceptionally skanky prostitutes (good skanky). We had asked our study tour guide to point us in the direction of “where the young people party,” and we had started to walk down Oranienburg strasse when I saw the most beautiful girl in the world standing along the street among a row of parked cars, wearing a fanny pack. Huh. A little further up the street I saw another extremely beautiful woman, and then another one on the other side of the street, and both of them were wearing fanny packs! I kept walking, and sure enough, I kept running into gorgeous girls just standing around, wearing fanny packs. Who were these women? Lost tourists? Stylish meter maids? WHORES! They’re all whores! And that’s when I remembered some of my favorite porn stars are German! I hatched a brilliant plan to come back the next night dressed in a suit with a handful of business cards that say "Scott Rogowsky - Dream Weaver," and I'll march right up to these girls and say, "What are you doing on the street, Dollface? You oughta be in pictures! Come back with me to Hollywood and I'll make you a star!" Then I'll hand them my business card, drop a smoke bomb, quickly cop a feel, and vanish into thin air! OH, IT IS BRILLIANT!

March 25
These days, it seems everyone knows a Lindsay Lohan

The Europea-ganza kicked off with a BAM! BOOM! BONKERS! SHOOT THAT ALIEN! I’m talking about Area 51, people. The ferry from Denmark to Germany featured a crappy cafeteria, a second-rate duty-free, and some downright shady passengers, but its saving grace was a small bank of arcade games in the lobby of the Lido Deck (Lido must be Pirate for “Sit Around and Look Miserable”). Nelson and I each threw in a ten piece and began the slaughter of alien zombies and their ilk. They shot at us; we shot back. They threw barrels; we fuckin’ shot the barrels. I’ve always loved this game, especially the level where you’re in the office building, because it allows me the pleasure of indiscriminate destruction by shooting up inanimate objects like glass doors, windows, computers, exit signs, fire extinguishers, and picture frames, along with the filthy alien spawn that have so ruthlessly and unnecessarily taken over the office. I really focus when I play this game, always determined to snag every power up and ammo cache yet always careful of my stray bullet count so that I may secure a high accuracy rating. Nelson and I battled valiantly but went down together in the third stage. I pressed on alone as a crowd (Jeff) started to form, but without the support of my partner I could not cover the mounting fire. My efforts were rewarded, however, with the 6th spot on the all-time high scorer list. Entering your initials in an arcade shooter is a game all its own. You have thirty seconds to first think of a funny three-letter word (ASS, SAC, CUM) or acronym (FBI, CIA, IOC) and then shoot it onto the screen with a marksman’s degree of precision. I can’t tell you how many times my homage to a favorite part of the female body has been horribly misconstrued with nothing to show for my high score but TIS or RHT. So on this particular day aboard the SS Non-Aggression Pact, I went with an old standby, the simple yet sincere, GUY.

I hosted a send-off celebration in my bathroom this morning after getting out of the shower. As a ceremonial gesture of bon voyage (use the french pronunciation), I shaved off most of my beard. Right now I’m rocking a goatee, sans moustache, and ear-length sideburns. My reasons for the trim have little to do with personal considerations for my appearance and everything to do with a certain hobby of mine that I have cherished since puberty. I’m talking about facial hair clippings. Bags of facial hair; I collect ‘em. Only mine, of course. See, every momentous occasion in my life (from after I started growing hair on my face) has been documented with a plastic baggie full of the hair that was on my face at that time. I started cataloguing my life’s milestones with whiskers when I got Bar Mitzvahed and became a man in the eyes of the lord. At age 13, nothing seemed like a better affirmation of my acceptance into adulthood than shaving. At around that same time, I was becoming disillusioned with my scrapbooking hobby and was desperately searching for an alternative method of chronicling my life accomplishments. That’s when it hit me – hair clippings. And not just any old hair clippings from the top of my head, no, that’s nothing special. Facial hair! Hair that I grew on my face. I took my first bag sample the day after my Bar Mitzvah. It wasn’t much then - just some peach fuzz from my upper lip - but it was a start, a start of something magical. Since that first shave I have archived over 140 bags of facial hair that I keep in a shoebox under my bed. Some baggies contain the prickly hairs that commemorate my defining moments, like when I passed my road test or lost my virginity; others contain hair that I wore on my face during more difficult times, like when I suffered through mononucleosis or when I attended my grandmother’s funeral. Most of them capture the more understated events of my life that I can still appreciate as nostalgia, like a family vacation to the Bahamas or the time in high school when I struck out 10 hitters in a JV baseball game. Each bag tells a story, and each hair in the bag bears direct witness to that special moment from my past.

So now do you understand the reason for this morning’s shave? When I get back to Denmark, I’m going to need some unadulterated hairs for my collection, hairs that will have been with me every step of the way on this Eurotrip of a lifetime. Come hair harvest, I will have another bag to add to the box and another field of memories to watch grow.

Tomorrow I overcome my Germanphobia and discover my taste for Absinthe as I begin my 27-day Eurotastic Adventure of Madness and Fun! A quick rundown for those keeping score at home:

March 25-27 Berlin, Germany
March 28 Dresden, Germany
March 28-31 Prague, Czech Republic
April 1-2 Munich, Germany
April 2 Salzburg, Austria
April 2-3 Vienna, Austria
April 4-5 Bratislava, Slovakia
April 6-7 Budapest, Hungary
April 8 Zagreb, Croatia
April 9 Rijeka, Croatia
April 10 Ljubjlana, Slovenia
April 11 Venice, Italy
April 12 Bologna, Italy
April 13-14 Florence, Italy
April 15 Pisa, Italy
April 15-19 Rome, Italy

I apologize for using Anglicized place names - I still haven't gotten over my American Exceptionalism.

I'm bringing the computadore along for the expressed purpose of recording every bit of travel minutia in blog form. Pray for its safety, or conversely, pray against the gypsies.

Take care you guys. I'll be in touch from the road, and yes, I will give Toni Kukoc your regards.

My mind's got a mind of its own..

Takes me out a-walking when I'd rather stay at home
Takes me out to parties when I'd rather be alone
My mind's got a mind of it's own.

That about describes how I feel right now. I've got a gajillion things I need/want to do, most pressingly writing my Nordic Mythology midterm paper that was due on Tuesday, packing for my twenty-seven day Eurotrip, and responding to the e-mails I have received from John Edwards and Tom Vilsack (when the Democrats need help, they know who to turn to). But I whenever I finally sit down to write, I find myself lured to YouTube to watch David Cross stand-up or to Wikipedia to research the origins of the hamburger (who knew Seymour, Wisconsin is the birthplace of the burger? Wikipedia knew!).

This mythology paper has actually been a lot of fun, because I am completely disregarding the professor's instructions on how to write it. He is expecting a research paper, but he is getting a wholly original Nordic saga, based on the adventures of Scott Bayowulf as he makes his way from his native Iceland to the Roskilde Music Festival on the Danish island of Sjælland. Along the way, he meets many colorful characters with names like Hrbek, Hrabosky ("The Mad Contrarian"), and Sisqo The Elder with whom he writes and records The Dipthong Song, arranged for the bone whistle. A final, serialized edition will be published right here at DENMARK'S THE SPOT, so you got that going for ya, which is nice.

Part II of Amsterdaaaaaaamn! will be posted shortly. Just another one of things that have been gnawing at my brain lately.

I tell myself to do the things I should
And then I get to thinkin' that them things ain't any good.
I tell myself the truth but know I'm lying like a snake
You can't walk on water at the bottom of a lake.

Today, I joined The Facebook. Finally got around to it. To say that my surge of motivation had nothing to do with the recent decision to include high school students in the Facebook community would be a bald-faced lie to bald people everywhere. To say that it had everything to do with the prospect of stalking 16 year-old girls from the convenience of my laptop would also be inaccurate, not to mention absolutely true. What I'm trying to say is, I joined The Facebook to help promote my t-shirt business and comedy career, but primarily to prey on children.

Happy Birthday, Benito Juarez!

GUEST POST GUEST POST! Scott is a buddy of mine from high school who visited over the weekend from Oxford where he's studying for the year. He's good with computers (I have him to thank for Retro-Rags - still coming soon), and he's good at distracting me from doing school work. So while I attempted to start/finish two papers due tomorrow, he guest-blogged about Sunday's cross-country road trip. You read, I think of excuses for extensions.

Århus, in the middle of Jylland...

While there are many-a-Magnus in the phantasmagorical land of Denmark, it's often said that there is room for only one Scott. Thus, it goes without saying that my venture into the land of the Dansk to visit Mr. Rogowsky was marked by almost as much trouble as was caused by a cartoon that portrayed my good friend Moe in a compromising position. Indeed, that cartoon was the inspiration for my journey out of Angleterre and into Denmark, despite Scott's impression that I was coming to visit him. As I wrote about in my college essay (Common Application, question 2) entitled Coloring Outside the Lines "...[C]artoons have been my passion, my guiding light, and my source of masturbational inspiration." When I heard a cartoon from the Jyllands had become so popular, it was necessary that I embark on a journey to those parts to investigate said cartoon, its maker, and its intended audience.

After arriving at the Copenhagen airport, evidently sponsored by Ikea, I took the S-Train into the city and began to ogle the selection of fine Danish women. Despite the fact that I was placed next to 400 pounds of Dane that required a seatbelt extension on the way over, Scott's insistence that the Danish women were second-to-none was quite accurate. After settling into the Kollegium, Scott decided to introduce me to Danish culture by forcing upon me an ancient form of Danish torture, the hardwood floor mattress. While my gracious host cuddled with his teddy bear on his Serta Perfect Sleeper, I enjoyed the pleasures of fine Scandinavian maple. You can bet I woke up refreshed and ready for a day of travel.

The trip to Århus - Denmark's second largest city located on the Jutland peninsula - was rather far by Danish standards (about three hours), so Mr. Rogowsky had decided to rent a car to take us there in style. The smoothest part of our journey was the bus ride to Budget rent-a-car, which only stopped every third block. When we got to Budget, our temptress/receptionist Trina showed us to Ms. Clio - a miniature silver hatchback with a standard transmission. Danes, with names like Magnus and 6-foot tall girlfriends, have an aversion to automatic transmission and will only drive and rent standard cars. Unfortunately, neither of us Scotts could drive stick. Mr. Rogowsky decided to attempt the drive, having dabbled in manual driving once before, and got us as far as a busy intersection before deciding that he had broken the car. Something about burned gear boxes and a busted engine. He called Trina, hoping she would come by with a tow and then invite him back to her place for a massage, but her words of encouragement over the phone were enough to sooth him into getting the car moving again, and we were off to the island of fun, Fyn.

The only town with more than 12 people on the island of Fyn, Odense, is also the birthplace of the only person in Danish history known outside of Denmark, Hans Christian Andersen. Odense is also the funniest possible name for a town, because it sounds like you're beatboxing when you say it fast. Untz untz untz. As you might know, Hans is famous for his inventive fairy tales, ogre-like appearance, and probable penchant for pedophilia. After parking at the local Netto, we Scotts made our way to the House of Hans where we learned the following fact: tickets are optional in Danish museums. What did Wikipedia tell us that the museum didn't? Hans loved to masturbate. He also could have starred in a movie called The 70 Year-Old Virgin, because, he died a 70 year-old virgin.

After some parking lot practice with Ms. Clio, we finally got back on the road to Århus, the jewel of the Jyllands - the City of Smiles - which is embarrassingly small considering it is the second-biggest city in the country. However, we were determined to make the most out of our Sunday night in a strange locale. We first settled in at the City Sleep-Inn where our receptionist was a fan of English-language comedy, particularly Howard Stern and Adam Carolla (who "has a funny opinion on everything"). He showed his appreciation for America's finest export by shouting "Bababooie" whenever we entered the lobby. He also made us pay for sheets (in a hotel!). After I hustled Mr. Rogowsky in a game of billiards, we sated ourselves at a Mexican restaurant, owned by an Iranian, where we conversed with an Indian who was in Århus on business. From there, we spent a good deal of time admiring the décor of a fine "Amerikansk" restaurant called Bones that consisted of a canoe bearing the Washington Redskins logo, a variety of baseball collectibles, and the odd bit of cabbage from last week's coleslaw.

Our night ended with a few drinks at Bar Ris Ras before taking to our beds at the hotel. The next morning was rather uneventful, except for Scott demanding a free driving lesson from the receptionists at the hotel - the same receptionists who charged us for sheets. I must say, however, that his ability to drive a manual car has improved greatly in the past few days, and our drive home saw less than 65 stalls. Congrats!

As for the cartoons, the closest I ever got to Moe was lunch in Odense where a Middle Eastern lad made me a fine pizza topped with meat from seventeen different animals.

And so to end this post on a positive note, I will tell of tonight, when Mr. Rogowsky and I, after eating some Thai food, ventured into Freetown Christiania - a noble experiment in which young Danish men and women attempt to return to the old-world values of community, honesty, self-sufficiency, garbage fires and drug running at the site of an abandoned military barracks. We saw many noble young Danes gathered around fiery garbage cans fuelled by their own broken dreams. As the smoke rose from these bins of hope, I looked towards the sky and thanked the Nordic god Thor for my brief yet eventful stay in this land of Vikings.

-SB

This St. Patty's Day, I am celebrating the arrival of avian influenza in Denmark. The Minister of Health and Safety has establishd a slogan contest for a nationwide awareness campaign, and the writer of the winning entry receives a bucket of fish heads (highly prized in this Nordic country). I've sent in my suggestion, and not to sound cocky, but I can almost taste those heads...

Bird Flu - DON'T CATCH IT!

For the past two weeks, I have been hard at work hashing and rehashing my thoughts and ideas about my trip to Amsterdam. Hash. So much happened, so much was experienced, so many canals were peed in... Suffice it to say that it has been very difficult coalescing these thoughts into a coherent blog post. Like, a really good, sensible piece of writing. I have grown increasingly frustrated with the duration that has passed since getting back to Copenhagen on March 6, and a midterm crunch of papers and exams coupled with The Señor's extended stay have provided too many distractions for me to buckle down to write. So I skipped classes today to polish the post and publish something for YOU, my not near but very dear readers. I will have to publish this piece in two installments, because I'm too fuckin' tired to write any more tonight. Therefore, I offer you PART ONE tonight with the hope that Part Two will be available shortly, with requisite fanciful pictures.

Amsterdaaaaaaamn!
Part One

By way of introduction, I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke, snort, sniff, huff, puff, hop, hoot, or holler (although there have been times when I am wont to snap, crackle, and pop - breakfast times). Chalk it up to a politician dad and doting mother or simply my being too pussy to try anything new, but I have never felt it necessary to alter my state. It has not been for lack of opportunity either – between summer camp, Phish concerts, and family reunions, I’ve been offered more joints and bong hits than Mark-Paul Gosselaar has been offered acting work (ZINGER – but true!). Therefore, you can understand my frustration when people upon meeting me immediately assume that I am a huge pothead. I guess it’s because I’ve got this beard and shaggy hair, and I wear tie-dyed t-shirts, and I really like the Grateful Dead, and I say things like, “Ohhh I’m so high right now.” But I say that because I’m high on life, it’s just misinterpreted.

If you think about it, smoking pot is a hobby, but it is the only hobby that someone will assume about another person just by looking at him. No one ever looks at a guy in a bowling shirt with a handlebar mustache and thinks, “Check out that dude, he’s a total philatelist. Yeah, major stamp collector. Big time, big time.”

I tell people I don’t do drugs because I have an addictive personality, and I’m afraid that if I start, I won’t be able to stop. But, that’s bullshit. Not only is my claim bullshit (if anything, I have a quitting personality. I’ve quit everything I've tried – karate, piano, flossing), but the term “addictive personality” is bullshit. If you have an addictive personality, you should be addicted to everything you do and not just drinking or gambling or drugs. If there truly are people with addictive personalities, then there should be just as many shuffleboard addicts as there are alcoholics. They would have their own meetings and support groups, and they would have to explain their addictions like, “I tried shuffleboard for the first time on a Carnival Cruise, and I got hooked, man. I just couldn’t put down that stick; I was always jonesin’ for a little shuffle. It got to the point where I would go to nursing homes and knock on doors. Old men would come out in their bathrobes saying, “It’s four o’clock in the morning!” But I just had to play, man. I just had to play.”

All that being said, I got stoned in Amsterdam. I ate a weed brownie that was served to me by two friendly old ladies in one of the city’s more respected coffee shops, La Tertulia For you uninitiated, the marijuana bars in Amsterdam are called “coffee shops,” although I am still not exactly sure why. Maybe it is to confuse the elderly? I kept thinking that if my dad were here, he would undoubtedly saunter into one of the coffee shops looking for a hot cup of decaf. This is the same dad who took his wife and kids to a Hooters restaurant while on vacation in Florida because he was under the impression that it was an avian-themed family eatery.

The brownie was delicious, moist and real chocolatey like the Duncan Hines batches my mom whips up (except, replace the chocolate chunks with tetrahydrocannabinol). But the “baked” goods (har har) were not my first taste of Amsterdam. After self-navigating our way from Schipol Airport to Centraal Station late Friday night, Jeff, Christina, and I found the trolley that took us within walking distance of our budget hotel. Starving, I stopped at a snack bar called simply, “SNACK BAR” for a pseudo-dinner of falafel sandwich. Dutch snack bars are characterized by grimy old men serving all manners of schnitzel, krokets, and other grimy processed meats that sit behind a large glass display case in all their breaded-to-be-fried glory. The falafel was less than satisfying, but my palette would soon be cleansed by the smooth taste of Heineken beer, made smoother by virtue of its being free. Yes, free Heineken beer, at Boom Chicago’s Heineken Late Nite Massive. On a recommendation from friend and fellow NYC comedian Baron Vaughn (who happens to be fresh off his first appearance at HBO’s US Comedy and Arts Festival in Aspen - snaps to that), we made our first Amsterdam experience a two-hour improv comedy show at the Leidsplein Theatre performed by Europe’s best American improv actors. Check the website for more information, but it all started back in 1993 when three expat funnymen founded the comedy theatre that quickly grew into a world-class showcase for sketch and improv actors. Several Boom Chicago alum have moved onto Saturday Night Live performing and writing gigs, most notably Seth Meyers.

At the Friday night late shows, audience members are encouraged to shout out suggestions for improvised scenes or games, and the best suggestions earn the shouter a free long neck. Jeff and I won five freebies between the two of us for offering up such gems as Sunny Delight, dry wall, New England clam chowder, automatic nail gun, and Lionel Ritchie. We were dually duly impressed by what the talented comic actors could do with our random Minettisms on stage and by how gregarious they were off it. After the show, I had the opportunity to chat it up with some of the guys and gals to find out more about their backgrounds in comedy and their impressions of the expatriate lifestyle. They were all very friendly and approachable, and one of the founding fathers of Boom was apparently so thrilled to meet a bunch of young Americans who dug the theatre that he offered us VIP entrance into Amsterdam’s hot nightspot, Zebra. The club was hot alright, if not for the beautiful Euro trash then for the elevated room temperature. Needless to say, I was quite uncomfortable.

I had thought it best to wait until after visiting the Anne Frank House and Museum to experiment with THC for the first time. I did not want to be coming down from my virgin high into a depressing Holocaust-tinged scenario, and of course I did not want to be under the influence during the tour for fear of breaking out in a fit of paranoia at a most historically inappropriate time and place. We arrived at the museum after an early lunch on Saturday to find a long, multi-lingual line winding out the door. At first I was struck by the house's prominent location on a street facing one of Amsterdam’s main canals, Prinsengracht. If one is hiding from the Nazis, might I suggest a little outta the ways spot? Something on the down lowwwww, perhaps. Upon reaching the ticket office, I was also surprised to learn that anyone with the first names “Anne” or “Frank” received a 10% discount off the standard ticket price.

But the greatest astoundment came when I actually toured Anne’s house and saw that she really didn’t have it all that bad. Now don’t get me wrong about this – holing up in a secret annex above a jam and jelly warehouse for two years during wartime while SS officers patrol the streets below you must have sucked beyond all degrees of suckness, but the dimensions of the annex and the multitude of rooms contrasted sharply with my mind’s image of Anne’s living arrangements gathered from reading her diary. Yes, I read the book back in the day (which actually was not a Wednesday) and, just as I imagine a visual likeness to match the characters in a novel or the voices of familiar radio personalities (Carl Kasell definitely has a bushy, white beard), I had pictured Anne Frank and company huddled behind a bookcase, confined to a linen closet with nothing but their wits and a few rats to keep them sane. Alas, after making the pilgrimage to the actual house and stepping into the actual annex, I found several relatively spacious rooms for the seven or eight people who lived in hiding, complete with kitchen and bath. No bunk beds, no piss buckets, no rats – I’d take the annex over my freshman year dorm room, for sure.

The story of Anne Frank and her family is a tragic one indeed, and being in their house was one of those “take a step back and really appreciate this, but be careful not to bump into another tourist” kind of moments. Thankfully, the story of my visiting the Anne Frank House ends happily in the museum café where I helped myself to a heavenly fruit tart. But even as I sat and enjoyed my tart, I could not help but think of Anne. If she had not kept a diary that would later become an internationally-recognized cultural and historical phenomenon, the Anne Frank Museum along with its café and fine fruit tarts would not exist today. Crazy, ain’t it?

So many famous people have died recently, it’s hard to keep up! Don Knotts, Kirby Puckett, Dana Reeve, and Slobodan Milosevic, have all shuffled off their mortal coil in the past few weeks, and today, hockey legend “Boom Boom” Geoffrion skated off to the great frozen pond in the sky. It seems that when I load aol.com every morning to check my spam, I am greeted with another celebrity obituary that I dutifully read, half expecting to find a readers’ poll at the bottom asking, “Which aging television actor or sports hero will next be voted off the physical plane of existence?” This spate of newly-deceased celebs has gotten me thinking about all the luminaries who have died in 2006 alone – Curt Gowdy, Peter Benchley, Betty Friedan, Coretta Scott King, Wilson Pickett, Chris Penn, Lou Rawls, Kermit the Chimp… And then I thought about all those whom the world mourned in 2005 – Johnny Carson, Max Schmelling, Arthur Miller, Hunter S. Thompson, Johnnie Cochran, Mitch Hedberg, Pope John Paul II, Luther Vandross, Peter Jennings, Bob Denver, Rosa Parks, Richard Pryor, Peaches the Elephant…
And then I thought about all the famous dead people of the last 10 years, and all the famous people who died in the past 50 years, and 100 years, and in the last 1000 years – Mickey Mantle, Woodrow Wilson, Chris Farley, Mahatma Gandhi, John Lee Hooker, Oliver Cromwell, Lucille Ball, Thomas Edison, Charles Dickens, Juan Ponce De Leon, Kurt Cobain, Genghis Khan, Aaliyah, Tupac, Voltaire, Seabiscuit the Horse…
They’re all famous, and they’re all dead! Coincidence? Or does there exist a centuries old curse that plagues society’s celebrated?

The Señor is on the case.

The Señor has decided to celebrate his 21st birthday with yours truly in beautifully cold Copenhagen. He flew in from Heathrow last night and was already fast on the case of a missing bicycle before I could say, “Bicycle theft is a steadily increasing problem in downtown Copenhagen and its surrounding neighborhoods.” This morning, I convinced The Señor to take a break from sleuthing to explore the sights and sounds of the Øersund region, and we boarded a train to Sweden, a country that when viewed in its cartographic context with Finland and Norway looks totally like a cock and balls.



Lund is a charming university town with a university and a town, and of course, a vibrant local music scene. But unlike Athens, GA or Austin, TX, Lund is internationally renowned as a hotbed for guitar comics and parody songsmiths. In fact, it is widely speculated that a study abroad semester in Lund inspired the young Alfred Yankovic to drop his death metal act and "Soul Rapist Al" moniker in favor of funny songs about bologna and hamsters. The talent centralized in this small town is readily apparent to any visitor, and as we walked the labyrinthine streets near campus we could make out several promising parodies through the open windows of student apartments. My favorite was a “fishy” rendition of Tears for Fears’ “Shout” (Trout, Trout, you’ve won this bout, one of these days I’ll get my hook in your mouth, swim on), and The Señor appreciated a clever take on a Phil Collins classic (Please give me one more bite, give me just one more bite, ohhhh one more bite of your smoked ham and cheddar).

The Señor and I spent much of the day sitting on benches and talking about how we miss New Orleans and how incomplete we feel without its full restoration, even though neither of us have ever been there nor have we any interest in going. We also agreed that it would be hilarious if we started a band that only played “It’s Raining Men” by The Weather Girls.

On the way back to the train station, we bumped into American actor Tony Shalhoub who was chowing down on a breakfast burrito obtained from one of Lund’s 187 authentic Mexican taquerias. The Señor was particularly star struck by the chance encounter, considering Mr. Shalhoub’s fictional character Adrian Monk is The Señor’s personal hero and professional role model. After a brief inquiry as to what the former Wings star was doing in Sweden and why he was eating a breakfast burrito at supper time, we were surprised to both learn that Monk is filmed on location in Lund and that Tony Shalhoub “doesn’t play by the rules.”

I've been published!!! The good folks at the JHU News-Letter included a heavily edited version of my Milan post titled, "For Glory and Gold" in their March 3rd issue. You can view the online version here. Thanks to Matt and Melissa, the Features editors who solicited me for publication and who pushed for my article to appear on the front page of the B Section, but no thanks to the copy editors who broke up the paragraphs into awkward fragments and used their superior discretion to replace my innocuous "bang" with the pathetic "get with." I would never write "get with." You know that.

Christina's breast cancer-flavored chapstick. Mmm, mmm better!

Had three midterms today. Here's an excerpt from my test in Global Business Strategy:

I believe the future of global business will concern the unrestricted free trade of foodstuffs and product innovation thereof. Accordingly, I advocate the continued research into new and exciting condiments. Mayonnaise is popular, but fatty. Combine it with salad dressing and you’ve got a tangy sandwich supplement with all of the great flavor and half the fat. It’s a miracle – let’s call it Miracle Whip. Mix mayonnaise with ketchup, and you’ve got a pinkish condiment that’ll go great with corned beef on rye. I feel the Russians will be at the forefront of this manufacture, so let’s call it Russian Dressing. Mustard and ketchup – it’s probably best to keep those separate. But mustard and mayonnaise – well, that's Mustmayostardayonnaise, of course. And that, good sirs, is the genius of Bob and David.

I’ve been watching way too much Mr. Show.

My Amsterdam blogging was interrupted by a concerned Señor Detecto. While on the case of a missing Prussian sword, it seems he stumbled upon incriminating evidence that could blow the cover off the biggest scandal of this young century. Onwards, intrepid reader...

SenorDetecto (10:46:05 AM): hey if i tell you something, promise you won't make fun of me
SenorDetecto (10:46:12 AM): cause it's just a theory
SenorDetecto (10:46:34 AM): and i can't prove it
rags1227 (10:48:12 AM): ok
SenorDetecto (10:48:25 AM): I think Barry Bonds might have been using illegal anabolic steroids
SenorDetecto (10:48:33 AM): Mexican beans and The Clear
rags1227 (10:48:57 AM): Senor, this is very serious
SenorDetecto (10:49:00 AM): I know
SenorDetecto (10:49:10 AM): it concerns the integrity of the game we love; America's pastime
SenorDetecto (10:49:24 AM): but also, I hear the Yankees might sign Lil' Jon to a minor league contract
rags1227 (10:49:36 AM): and what of the beloved Eastside Boyz?
SenorDetecto (10:49:47 AM): designated for assignment

I'm good at falling asleep while sitting. I can fall asleep so easily on a train, in class, in the car... I should probably just make a bed out of a giant chair, or get one of those Craftmatic Adjustables.

Boston Public was a crock of shit. How could anyone take that show seriously when no one spoke with a Boston accent?

”Spree” is an interesting word, because its context can evoke two entirely different emotions. A shopping spree is always a good time, but a shooting spree is bound to put everyone in a bad mood.

These are some of the thoughts that occur to me on a daily, sober basis.

Yeah yeah, I'm slacking. Lots to write about (a funny thing happened on the way back to Copenhagen!) and not enough time to set about writing. But I will say this for now - my cab driver coming home from the bar tonight was a Syrian man named Jihad. Shit you, I do not. So for the cab ride coming home from the bar tonight, I was a Lebanese man named Intifada.

We're brunching on Sunday.

Another weekend, another country. I'm going to Amsterdam tonight with Jeff and Christina, and pretty much everyone else from the program. For some reason, this is the weekend all the American students chose to visit the Anne Frank Museum. Because Patton Oswalt and the Marijuana-Loguers have already cornered the market on Amsterdam comedy, I probably won't have much to contribute in the way of original, funny writing. But I will say this about the Netherlands - don't think I've forgotten about Tulipmania! 40 bulbs for 100,000 florins? What were you thinking???

Oh boy, I've been having my fun with David Tapley, procurer of celebrity look-a-likes and all-around doubting Thomas. His first reply left the matter of little Minetti's Bar Mitzvah party unresolved, so I was forced to pursue another line of questioning...

To: Dave Tapley
Sent: Tuesday, February 28, 2006 8:58 PM
Subject: Re: In need of celebrity impersonators

Dear Mr. Tapley of TAPLEY ENTERTAINMENT,

Many thanks for your timely response to my e-mail. I could hardly contain my excitement when I saw my query answered by the President of TAPLEY ENTERTAINMENT himself (you are the President, aren’t you?). I must admit, however, that I was slightly offended by your incredulous response to my earnest proposal. My son’s Bar Mitzvah will commemorate his transition into adulthood, and his Bar Mitzvah party will be a celebration of his life and future. I want only the best for my son. I thought TAPLEY ENTERTAINMENT was the best.

But after considering your expressed concerns and further discussing the “Irony” theme with my son, we have decided to alter our plans for the party. I respect your opinion as a man with many years’ experience in representing celebrity impersonators, and I know you truly understand not only the fragile psyches of professional impersonators but also how they might work best in the field. Inasmuch, you make a legitimate point about compromising the integrity of such an affair with a few misplaced look-a-likes (Jeremy Irons was a terrible idea – what was I thinking?) Besides, I could not secure the permission to screen The Passion of the Christ during cocktail hour.

Along with having an appreciation of comedic irony, my son is a baseball enthusiast; an avid player and fan. A brainstorming session with our Rabbi/Jazzercise instructor yielded several possible alternate themes, including Nintendo, Las Vegas, and Al Jolson’s “The Jazz Singer.” But we ultimately decided on a baseball theme, and with your help we might also be able to incorporate my son’s much beloved irony.

Due to recent congressional investigations into the steroid habits of baseball’s most prominent sluggers and stepped-up drug testing that has outed some of the game’s worst steroid abusers, my son thought a “Disgraced Baseball Players” theme would be most appropriate for his upcoming Bar Mitzvah party. While browsing your website for look-a-likes of sports personalities, I was pleased to discover you represent both a Pete Rose and a Mark McGuire (sic) impersonator. The services of these impersonators would assuredly be needed, Rose and McGuire (sic) being two of the game’s most famous disgraced stars. To make the experience as real for our guests as possible, I would also request your Pete Rose impersonator come drunk and ill-tempered.

There are, of course, several other shamed baseballers whose look-a-likes I would request be present at the party. I do not see them listed on the website, but I have some ideas as to which of your other impersonators could fill their role (it shouldn’t be too difficult – all they really need is a uniform!). “Shoeless” Joe Jackson of the infamous 1919 Black Sox could be ably represented by your Joe Millionaire look-a-like (they have similar builds), and I believe your Steven Seagal impersonator would make a great Rafael Palmeiro, if he were to kindly grow a moustache for the occasion.

Investigations into Barry Bonds’ alleged steroid use are still underway, but in the event he is disgraced, perhaps your Luther Vandross impersonator would be available to appear as the Giants’ outfielder?

We also thought it would be fun to kick off the party with a Roseanne Barr impersonator reenacting the actress’ notorious and controversial rendition of the national anthem (when she sings, it can only be called the Star-Mangled Banner!).

I sincerely hope we can come to an arrangement regarding the aforementioned celebrity look-a-likes in your employ. The party is scheduled for the evening of August 12 (Saturday), and because we are planning such a grand event, it is necessary to get a head start on preparations.

I am confident your experienced men and women can pull this off! Can your Pete Rose impersonator spit on our guests?

Many thanks again,

T. Guy Minetti
Renegade Carpentry, Minetti & Associates
207 E. 33rd Street
Baltimore, MD 21218



From: Dave Tapley
Sent: Wednesday, March 1, 2006 12:12 PM
To: "T. Guy Minetti"
Subject: Re: In need of celebrity impersonators

We can certainly help with these impersonators. Would it be possible for me to call you? Thank you. Dave Tapley 957-255-7849


There you have it, folks. Little Minetti is going to have the best Bar Mitzvah ever!

Some of you may be confused as to this T. Guy Minetti character. Who is he? Where did he come from? Who are his associates? For a full tutorial on the man, the myth, the Minetti, I suggest you study Fun List Fridays, the Father of Fun Lists. For those short on time but long on wanting to know more about Minetti, I offer this brief conspectus in the form of his J-Date profile:

About Me
I crew with Storm T. Renegade, Lenny Dykstra, and Roy Scheider (need I mention, he killed Jaws twice). I own every movie in which Kurt Russel appears with a mullet and tank top (there are six). There are three things I cannot live without: my Lionel Ritchie boxed set, my recipe book for exotic chilies, and my white denim cut-offs that I wear with construction boots regardless of what activity I am doing, whether it's going to the beach or just throwing up some drywall. I'm looking for a girl who digs the pre-Janet Wayner and dishes out the double blumpkin. Sunny Delight was my idea.

My ethnicity is: Ashkenazi
My Religion: Conservative
I studied or am interested in: Eddie Money, nail gun operation
My education: Some College
Occupation: Construction/Agriculture/Landscaping
Occupation description: Air Guitar repair

My perfect first date:
Dinner at China Chef for some Double Happiness and 2 in 1 soup. Good conversation, including a discussion of fantasy crews and possible names my first initial could stand for (examples: Tico, Terry, Thor). Back to my place for some Double Happiness and 2 in 1 soup starring me, you and Lenny Dykstra.
My ideal relationship:
Imagine you've got two tickets to a Ralph Macchio Film Festival, and you know it's going to last all day. You don't know anyone who is cool enough to go with... except her.
My past relationships:
Never start a conversation with, "You're one of those 'Sex in the City' California sluts, aren't you?" Never disclose secret plans for being diabolical. Never use condoms that expire in 1987.

I am looking for a:
Sweet, sensitive, Seagal.

A Weekend Cruise to Oslo, as told by that annoying drunk kid

Oh man, what a SHITSHOW! I wish I could tell you what happened but I was soooo wasted. Ugh and now I got the worst hangover... whaaaat the fuck happened.

Friday night was rrrrrridiculous. Me, Trevor and Alex pre-gamed HARD in the room. We had bought like 10 bottles of Smirnoff and Bacardi at the Duty Free, and were just pounding that shit. There were a buncha girls in the cabin next to us, and they heard us partying so they came in and started slugging back shots. This one chick thought she could take me down shot for shot, but I showed her why they call me Captain Jack. BOOM!

We were fuckin’ hammered already when we got to the club. There were so many hottie Danes walking around, I couldn’t believe it. I remember talking to this one hotass blonde at the bar. We were throwing back Jager shots for like a half hour, just taking ‘em DOWN! I don’t know what happened to that girl, but I remember she was all over me. She definitely wanted it.

The DJ was playing all my jams – Summer of ’69, Livin’ on a Prayer, Here I Go Again!!! It was SICK! I was rocking out on the dance floor, and I fuckin’ ripped the air guitar solo on Sweet Child O’ Mine. All these Danish guys were high-fiving me, ‘cause they knew I nailed it, note for note. But the highlight had to be THE FINAL COUNTDOWN! When I heard that intro keyboard riff, I jumped up on top of the giant speaker, beer in hand, and just wailed! IT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN! Dee-da-dee-da, Dee-dee-dee-dee-DAH! Oh man, it was a fuckin’ SCENE!

I got back to the bar and Trevor was arguing with the bartender about measuring the shots. Ok, get this, the bartenders here fuckin’ measure out each shot to the centiliter. It’s fuckin’ bullshit! They don’t know how to mix a fuckin’ drink without their little measuring cups. Amateurs. I got in this dude’s face about it, and the next thing I know me and Trev are kicked out of the place! Can you believe that shit? Horseshit.

We found Alex wandering around outside. He’d been real gay all night, not wanting to go to the club, so apparently he had spent the night just smoking stogs in the Cigar Bar with a buncha Norwegian dudes. I told him he should go smoke some COCK in the COCK BAR! Trev said that was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.

It was like four in the morning and we didn’t know what to do, so we thought it’d be funny to head to the top deck and do the Titanic pose in the front of the ship. I had my camera on me, and I got this hilarious pic of Trevor and Alex trying to do the pose, but Trev was so drunk that he couldn’t get onto the railing! I told him he was acting just like that DiCaprio pussy, and we were all ROLLING! Fuckin’ ridiculous.

They kicked us off the boat on Satuday morning at 10 AM. I was still trashed from the night before and I was hurting ‘cause I only got three hours of sleep! Missed the buffet breakfast, but I heard it was pretty shitty - watery yogurt, runny eggs, and some nasty little cocktail wieners. Who eats that shit for breakfast? Fuckin’ weirdo Danish people.

Oslo was alright. I had a pounding headache all day, and I couldn’t really give a shit about seeing any of the museums and stuff, but the girls I was with wanted to see The Scream. So whatever, we went to the Edward Munch Museum and guess what – The Scream wasn’t there! It was fuckin’ stolen! There was all this security too – how the fuck did somebody steal that shit? Instead, there were just a buncha pictures of naked guys. Whole lotta dick. Rrrrrreal gay. Munch musta been a gaybo, and I told Trevor that he probably got his name because he liked munching on cock! Trev cracked up at that one and gave me a high-five right there in the museum. All these old people were looking pissed off at us, but fuck ‘em. They’re the ones spending their Saturday afternoon looking at a buncha dicks!

So that’s pretty much that. Got shithoused again on Saturday night and almost hooked up with a 28 year-old MILF! She had a five year-old daughter in Sweden from some sour relationship with an older guy. I kinda felt bad for her, but only because she looked like she needed a good bonejob. I was working my MILF Hunter moves on her for like three hours, but she ended up going to bed early. I tried to kiss her goodnight but she wasn’t into it. I mean, I think deep down she really wanted it, but she was too scared of how good I was gonna give it to her. She wasn’t ready for The Captain. Few are.


If you're looking for a TRUE STORY about last weekend's adventure...

At the exact moment the DJ played Europe's "Final Countdown," we happened to be sailing across the European continental divide and the planets happened to be aligned in such a way that a wormhole opened up on the dancefloor that allowed me travel along the space-time continuum back to May 1986 where I dissuaded the arena rockers from ever recording that song. I also tried to tell Bill Buckner to remember to keep his glove down, but he just laughed and said, "Whatever, kid."