YouTubeTastic

I updated the video of me shaving off the beard... here it is in all its glory. I think the music adds a nice touch, and I'm ready to stop fooling around with it now. I still don't know why it's all fuzzy and gray in the beginning... that stuff is showing up after my Mp4 file is uploaded and YouTube-ified. Anyone know how to fix that?

New Years Resolutions

So I asked my friend Erik if he had any New Years resolutions, and he said "No way man. I don't believe in that shit."

The silly thing (one of the many, anyway) about NYRs is that when I write them, I actually think that I'll refer back to them as the new year progresses. Like I'll be at a bakery in October, and point at the marzapan/almond/darkchocolate/death bar, but just as the lady in the paper hat reaches for it with her thongs, I'll be like No, wait! I made a new years resolution to eat less fat and fewer carbs! I'll just chew on my lips instead*. As if.

Stop using my brakes so much. I took my trusty bicycle to the shop last week for some maintenance. The rear wheel had three broken spokes, and had gone all wobbly. While he was checking things over, bike shop dude Ricky said my brake pads were shot, and it was definitely time for a new pair. Ah, so that's where all those scraping noises were coming from. I've only had the bike for like eight months, and I've already gone through a set of brake pads? That sees fast to me, but it's not entirely unexpected. I've always been heavy on brakes, literally and metaphorically speaking; riding my bike around town, going through life in general, I always want to ease off the throttle and onto the brakes just in case... stick to my comfort zone, well witnin the performance envelope. And more often than not, it turns out to be unnecessary. How many times have I said to myself You shoulda a just relaxed and gone with the flow? Many times. So I resolve to let it flow a little more. Not too much, I don't want to get run over by a bus or ride off a cliff or anything. But really, let's not make life (or commuting) any more difficult and encumbered than it already is. Let go of the brakes. Relax. Go with the flow. Glide forward.

Learn German. When I was bouncing around Europe for school, I didn't have to learn the language. What's the point, I would ask myself, if I'm just gonna leave in three months anyway? If I felt a little isolated, I could retreat to my English speaking friends and classmates. But this time, it's long term. I'm in Germany, surrounded by Germans speaking German, and I gotta get with the program. It's gonna suck ass, but the alternative is sad and pathetic and kind of embarassing. So. I will go to class and do my best. I will allow myself to fuck up and fumble in front of a live studio audience of native speakers. I will keep in mind that they want to understand me just as much as I want to make myself understood. I will learn German.

Less stewing, more dealing. When something bad happens, I stew. I think and consider and contemplate and weigh and worry, and nine times out of ten, none of that shit helps. What would help? To make some phone calls, ask some questions, get some info. Can't move on unless you deal with what you're dealt. So I'm gonna do better with that in 2007.

Write, compose, sing, record a real rock song. Recently I've met all these people who are musicians in their spare time, and have recording studios in their basement/attic/spareroom/whatever. I'd love to write some songs and put them together. If I could write some music that makes me happy, that would rock. If it makes the audience happy, even better.

Write more stories. What can I say? Practice makes perfect. Or less sucky, at least. I should post small stories here for the world to see.

Shave off the beard, post a video on YouTube. Oops, just did that.


* I will never make this one of my  new year's resolution unless ordered to do so by a physician.

2006

Things that happened to me in 2006 (in no particular order):

Lived in London, Hamburg, San Jose and Hamburg.

Got a job, officially starting my new career. Hard to believe that two years ago I was waylaid in cubicle hell wishing I'd get laid off.

Learned a lot about advertising and how to write. And I still need to learn so much more.

Worked with really great people like Grant, Sebastian, Erik, Jens, and Pablo. Good people, good brains, good ideas. Fucking great art directors.

Fell in love, got my heartbroken, lived to tell about it.

Made a whole bunch of new German friends.

Moved to Europe, permanently. I live in Europe!

Bought a nice bicycle, and officially re-integrated cycling into my life.

Got hit by a car while riding that nice bicycle. The bike was fine. I was fine after three weeks or so of hobbling and healing.

Bought a lot of really cool clothes, including the most expensive pair of jeans ever. Fucking Diesel. I never cared about clothes until the last two years or so... but these days I really dig my wardrobe.

Turned 30. Oddly, I'm having more luck with women now than at any other age so far.

Rediscovered the joys of Gran Turismo, playing catch with good friends, and riding my bike at night.

Saw Babyshambles and Tool in concert. Babyshambles was excellent - Pete actually showed up, was only a little drugged out. The performance was raw and honest. Tool wasn't as good as it should have been. Sonically spotless, but they felt disengaged... like they'd rather be at home watching TV.

Reconnected with the fabulous Romines, the ever beautiful Cassie, and my old friend Phil.

Experienced World Cup Germany, in Germany. It was great! The world descended upon Hamburg (and a bunch of other German cities) and partied for three weeks straight. The German team did so well - finishing up in third place overall - and the whole thing was fabulous.

Travelled to Berlin, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, San Francisco. That's not really enough though... I need to travel more.

Welcome to LAX.

After 30 minutes in LA:

Celebrity Sightings: 1

So I was about to turn left and exit the 747 that carried me from London to LA, when I looked up and there was Jack Black. He looked just like he does in pictures - short, stout, scruffy face, Nirvana t-shirt. He said something about finding the "coat check" (he wasn't talking to me). He looked at me, I looked at him and smiled, and went on my way.

Tiny Dogs carried in Small bags: 2

Come on people. That's not pet ownership, that's a fetish.

How to tell you're at an American airport:

When the ticket agent tells you how to get to your gate, and her instructions include the phrase "Turn left at the Chilis"

I got so drunk last night!

That's a sentence I don't get to use too often, so I'm going to use it as many times as I can in this post, 'cause man, I got so drunk last night!

I got so drunk last night! It was the Miami Ad School end-of-quarter party, and it was at this cool club on the Reeperbahn. The place must have been an apartment building in a former life, because, well, it totally looked like an apartment building. They took each floor, painted it with heavy duty paint, mounted funky fixtures and solid furniture (hard to break, easy to clean vomit off of) installed some speakers and opened for business. It was a great place to get drunk, and I got so drunk last night.

The drinks were free at first, and that always makes me realize how much cost gets in the way of my intoxication. I just can't stand to watch money flow out of my wallet for something I don't want that badly. But if the drinks are free, it's bottoms up baby! I got so drunk last night! I started off with gin and tonic, which I like because it's just lemony and fizzy enough for me to fool myself into believing that it's tasty and refreshing. Plus, it's not beer. Plus, gin is strong. I got so totally drunk last night! I had two gin and tonics, and three shots of Jägermeister.

I haven't found too many liquors that are as divisive as Jägermeister. People either love it or hate it because of the flavor (though both will drink it until they pass out naked in a corner, so whatever). You have to like black licorice*, and that's the polarizing part. I've been a big fan ever since Amsterdam, where black licorice is plentiful and varied. They actually have candy that's licorice-y, and salty. Which seems so galactically fucked up, until I tried it a few times (it takes a few times), and I started to like it. So Jägermeister is like really sweet licorice that fucks you up. Excellent. I got so drunk last night.

I got so drunk last night! But I don't blame the Jägermeister as much as I blame Teresa. She's so damn cute and flirty and completely off limits to me for a number of reasons I won't go into here. But she's fun to talk to, and she goaded me into drinking shot after shot after shot (literally - we had three... I'm such a fucking lightweight). I got so drunk last night! For an hour or two I could barely stand up and I had to lean against things like the radiator, the bar, the wall, Sebastian, it was crazy. I got so drunk last night!

I got so drunk last night, it was crazy. Everything was funny, like someone turned up the comedy dial. All my cares and worries faded away so I could concentrate on important things like looking down Teresa's shirt  and not falling on my ass. It was awesome. I got so drunk last night.

I got so drunk last night! I got home at 3:30 or so, still tipsy, stomach all gurgly. I felt kinda like I was going to throw up, but I wasn't sure if that was because I was going to throw up, or because I couldn't stop thinking about throwing up. I slept restlessly, and ended up waking up before my alarm clock and getting to work earlier than I have for the last three weeks, because I was so paranoid about over sleeping and showing up way too late because I got so drunk last night.

I got so drunk last night!


* I just realized that the term black licorice is redundant. All licorice is black licorice. Red licorice isn't licorice, it's a lie. A sweet, delicious lie.

Vienna here I come

I've been working on headlines for Austrian Airlines today, and I was just doing some research on Vienna. Vienna is, of course, famous for many things including Viennese coffee served in Viennese cafes. Here's a little tidbit on Viennese cafes I found on Wikipedia:

Along with coffee, the waiter will serve an obligatory glass of cold tap water and during a long stay will often bring additional water unrequested.

That's what I'm talking about! Any country that brings me tap water without any attitude automatically gains my love and admiration.

Here's a little test

I've been messing around with different blogging clients lately, and today I'm trying MarsEdit. So far it looks pretty good... let's see if I can actually post with this mofo...

It works!

Today's poem

O weather, thou art fickle
makes predicting you a pickle
sure am glad I don't have sickle
cell anemia.

The world's most expensive windchime.

This is most excellent.

Guten appetit

CUTE WAITRESS: How do you say, in English, guten appetit?

ME: You don't. But thanks!

When I got to Europe and started eating, I noticed that all Europeans, as soon as your fork is within an inch of the first bite, are compelled to express their devout wish that you love every morsel of the food you're about to eat. At first this bugged the crap out of me; not because I didn't appreciate the sentiment, but more because a) I was usually starvin' like Marvin, and therefore easily annoyed, and b) we just don't do that in America, so I never knew what to say, and I'm so hungry and now I have to think up some sort of response so I don't look like some dolt from the back country of 'Merica.

Of course, in a restaurant in America, the waiter will often say Enjoy your meal after delivering it to your table, and okay, that may be a literal translation of guten appetit. But the meaning isn't the same. In my experience, the waiter has usually turned around and begun to walk away halfway through your, giving it as much impact as the ol' Thanks for shopping with us line, the literal translation of which is Some corporate shill wrote a memo that we should all say this line of BS and I have to say it because that schmuck takes pride in actually coming into the store just so he can fire the poor bastard who forgets to say it and feel good about putting his foot down and preserving the America is grandpa fought for in The Big War.

For six months I worked with the lovely and talented Marta from Espana. We ate together all the time. It was almost like some sort of creative eating disorder:

"I can't think of anything."
"Me neither."
"We're stuck."
"Yes."
"Let's get something to eat."
"Cool."

We got stuck a lot. It's amazing we don't weigh 400 kilos each. But anyway, she always said guten appetit and for the first five months I simply could not think of a good response to this. Thanks! is so one sided, You too! is just too goofy. But I've decided to let go and conform. If you're all seated at the table and one of your fellow eaters says it, the proper thing to do is to repeat it back. When the cute waitress here at Cafe Mango says it, I'm just gonna say thanks. When in Rome...

Further proof that any publicity is good publicity

Kramer's racist rant seems to be boosting sales of Seinfeld DVDs. I'm not surprised, I think it works the same way as bad advertising - just getting a product in people's heads gets them to think about it a little bit, and at least a small percentage of those people is bound to pull the trigger on Amazon. No doubt we'll soon be reading articles all about the increase of Brittney Spears albums and movies with Danny DeVito.

A shout out to my Asian homies

I've been struggling to write radio spots that don't completely blow ass (at the moment I'm shooting for spots that just blow a little ass) for Sparkasse, a local bank, and I thought of the spot below. It's a rip off of a campaign that is far, far superior to anything I could ever write, and it's kinda racist. But if it makes anyone feel better, all the Asian stereotypes I know were taught to me by my Asian friends while sitting in a Chinese restaurant lovingly dubbed "The Dirty Place". I'm a big winner.

Sparkasse presents: Real clients of genius. Today we salute you, Mr. Cheap Chinese guy. Can't sleep? Maybe that’s because you're using the mattress as your savings account. Who can trust a bank anyway? They’ve only been around for a thousand years. So crack open an ice cold checking account and a Bud Light. And go ahead and spill that beer on the remote - we know it’s covered in plastic, just like the couch.

Sometimes I amuse no one but myself.

Thänksgiving in Hamburg

Thänksgiving in Hamburg, originally uploaded by dpieracci.

My boss Jan was kind enough to invite me to his International Thanksgiving Extravaganza. Okay, it was just dinner at his house, but it was still wonderful, and very sweet of him to invite this expat over for some good ol' 'Merican turkey and cranberry sauce from a can.

There were seven of us total: Annie, the Rexhausen family au pair from New York, Annie's mom, who smuggled in the ingredients and did most of the cooking, two of Annie's friends (I can't remember their names, but they were very nice) and of course Jan and his wife Katherine. Jan and Katherine's kids made a brief appearance, and Wallace the cat was fat and lovable all evening.

And a delicious time was had by all. The house was filled with the scents of the season as we started on squash soup, moved on to turkey, stuffing, yams, green beans and gravy, and finished with two kinds of pie. When the eating was done, I felt fat and happy, both belly and soul full. A home-cooked meal made with love is always healthy.

Slow Friday

Slow Friday
Originally uploaded by dpieracci.

1. After three weeks of crazy insane, this week has been slow as molasses. I've had a few little things to do, but overall, it's been a slog of web browsing and trying not to drink too much coffee (can't really justify the use of an upper when there's nothing to expend enery for). The folks that know have been telling me to enjoy the time while I can since apparently it won't happen too often. Not sure how to do that though... I'm fighting a cold, that's kind of fun I guess.

2. I went to the dentist today! A few weeks ago I was flossing and I must have put a little too much oomph into it (or maybe the floss is to thick) and I pulled a filling right out. Bummer. But my dentist is the sweetest, friendliest, gentlest dentist I've ever met. Fantastich!

3. After the dentist I had got a fallafel dürum (like a Turkish fallafel burrito). It was delicious and precarious, since the upper left side of my face was still numb. I developed an excellent technique to avoid chewing my own lips off that involved a big grin and my left index finger. Lucky for me I could eat in the privacy of my office.

3. It's gray and rainy outside. The sun made a brief appearance, but otherwise it's just gray gray gray. And soggy. Not sure what I'm going to do tonight, but whatever it is, I'm bringing my umbrella.

Werking @ Läst

Tuesday was my seventh day of working; that's one full week of being a real life ad guy, the first week of the rest of my life. Once the stupid work visa went through, I just dove right in... and a week later, I've been able to come up for air and think about stuff. It's a lot like school but a little different.

I've spent my week working with Max, another writer, who I know from school. We've worked on one brief for a big boring German company. But the brief is pretty wide open, so it's not too boring. We've presented to our bosses three or four times, each time whittling it down a bit. We're down to one campaign (it went from four to two to one), and now we're working executions and taglines.

Anyways, I was thinking about work vs. school, and here's what I came up with...


Some things are different:

They give us paper, pens, coffee, water, a desk, a chair, a computer, an office. We've got stock photography and art buyers and planners and a really fast internet connection. You don't really need any of that shit to have an idea, but it helps when it's time to execute.

I sit at the big boys table now. My CDs really are the gate: they decide what lives and dies. If I need them, they're there (when they're not somewhere else). We're making real ads that are really gonna run. Hopefully.

The clients are real, and they're really gonna say NO. A lot.


Some things are remarkably similar:

Phones ring, emails arrive, people chat, the mail comes, the internet beckons, and magazines catch your eye. It's always lunch time, dinner time, meeting time, time to take a break or a smoke or a pee. But if you don't take a few minutes to sit down, shut up, and focus, then concepts stagnate, ideas go unpushed, and suddenly there isn't much to show for your time. The moral of the story is, sometimes you just have to tell life to shut the fuck up so you can get some real work done.

And no one is going to do that work for you. You can ask for advice, show it to anyone and everyone, but you are responsible for your shit. End of story.

If it's just not working, you can only fight it so long. Let go. Move on.

It shouldn't matter what time you arrive in the morning, what time you leave in the evening or how long your lunch break is. But it does matter a little. People see things even when they're not watching.

It's just as chaotic and messy and unorganized. There are more people, but we still seem to be fumbling around and fucking things up all the time. Even though we're a big fancy famous agency.

Here's a brief. And here's another. And another. Have you cracked it yet? How about now? Have a good weekend. See you Saturday. And maybe Sunday.*



* It's not like this yet... but I can tell it's gonna be.

No time to drip dry

This morning I got up and did a few things, and then I went to take a shower. I walked into the bathroom and found that my towel was missing. I have one big, gray towel and I use it to dry off after every shower. I keep it in the bathroom, and I wash it every few weeks. When I arrived in Hamburg, I unpacked my big gray towel and hung it on the towel bar, and there it has hung ever since. Until today.

So I stood there for a while, trying to figure out what to do. My fuzzy morning head was having a doozy of a time trying to figure out the logic problem life had presented me:

need to take a shower, but can't take a shower if there is no towel... but need to take a shower... but can't take a shower if there is no towel... but need to take a shower... but no towel... etc.

That lasted for several minutes, which is kinda embarrassing. If this is an indication of my ability to make decisions under pressure, then I may have to say goodbye to my childhood ambition of becoming Flight Director at Mission Control.

Anyways, I looked in the bathroom, I looked in my room, I looked in the kitchen, I looked in the hallway. No sign of it. Could my roommate have used my towel? This seemed unlikely. I've lived with people for a long time, and one of many unspoken rules that are unspoken because they're so obvious that they don't need to be spoken about is don't use your roommate's towel. Also on this list are classics like don't wear your roommate's underwear, don't eat your roommate's food, and don't shave your pubes in the kitchen.

But the towel was nowhere to be found, and the only place left to look was my roommate's room. So I knocked on the door, and got no answer. I didn't want to just barge in, so I peaked through the keyhole... and there it was! There was my towel, hanging limp and rumpled over the back of her chair like a Democrat running for office. I crept inside and felt that it was indeed damp. It smelled like girly hair products. Hmph.

So I left it there and closed the door behind me. I still needed to take a shower, so I walked into the bathroom and scoped out the situation. There are four (4) towels in various colors that are big enough to be bath towels, and as far as I can tell, they all belong to her. What sweet, delicious irony. I decided to take a shower and use one of her towels (did I mention there are four of them?), knowing that I would be breaking the unspoken rule, but seeing no alternative. I had to take a shower, and there simply wasn't time to drip dry.

So tonight I get to have a fun conversation with my roommate. I'll do my best to not come off as an anal retentive six year old (MOOOOOMMMM! SHE KEEPS TOUCHING MY STUFF!) while trying to secure my borders from her cooties. I can be mature about this... but if she uses my towel again, I'm grabbing my electric clippers and heading for the kitchen for a purposely messy pruning session.

Sankt Pauli

Today (Sunday) I went to my first St. Pauli soccer, sorry, football game. St. Pauli is a skunky, punky little Hamburg 'hood that has it's own soccer, sorry, football club. Their symbol is the skull and crossbones, and they wear it over black or dark brown. They have their own stadium, a few seating areas, but mostly standing areas. The players wear black uniforms with a sort of bad-ass, pointy typeface, and when they come onto the field for the first time, the stadium speakers blast Hells Bells by AC/DC. Awesome! It's a really exciting start.

Which of course turns out to be a bit of a let down, as most soccer, sorry, football games are a total yawn fests. Sure, there are usually a few seconds of excitement sprinkled throughout the match, especially when the teams are good... but down here in the whatever league, there's a lot of "oh! oh! aaaaaaah..." which is what it sounds like when he shoots! but doesn't score. The St. Pauli team is currently in fifteenth place in some extremely minor league, so it isn't exactly The Bulls with Jordan at the helm. Today's game ended with a zero to zero tie. Exciting.

I ordered a fischbrötchen, which is a little sandwich made out of a stale bread roll (brötchen) and a cold piece of fish (fisch). It's served by an old man of the sea with two of the dirtiest paws I've ever seen in my life, who wraps your sandwich up in the thinest of paper napkins and wishes you a "Buon apetit!" with no sense of irony whatsoever. There are two mystery sauce condiments in extra slimy bottles, and you get all this for a mere €2.50. Cheap! And pretty delicious, actually. I had two.

But the most interesting thing about the St. Pauli team is the brand they've put together for themselves. They stand out from every other soccer, sorry, football club with their super punk/pirate attitude. It's got a real blue collar, underdog feel to it that inspires the sort of noisy patriotism that is blind to minor faults like hardly ever scoring or winning a game, and stale fish sandwiches. Still, you really get the feeling that these guys would play their hearts out even if it was pouring rain and the other team was all David Beckhams. And the Pauli players don't do that thing that so many soccer, sorry, football players do: collapse in fake agony at the slightest bump so as to inspire a particular call from the ref. The other team was falling and wailing like a bunch of pansy-ass sissy boys, while our guys got up every time and got on with it. That's the way it oughta be, and for that, they have my unyielding devotion.

And the fischbrötchen helped too.

Straight edge, and I didn't even know it.

1. I went to dinner with my future work mates. Most of them I already know, and a few were new to me, including the guy sitting across the table from me, Christian. We chatted about whatever, and then the very Italian waiters ("BUONA SERRA! BUOOOOOOONA SEEEEEERRRRAAAAA!") came over to take our drink orders. I shook my head "no thanks" because I don't drink, and then (gasp!) Christian did the same! I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you, to meet a German who doesn't drink. I asked him why, and he said "Because I'm Straight Edge." Then he asked if I'd ever heard of that.

As a matter of fact I have, but only as an entry in a silly book I bought called The Field Guide to the Urban Hipster, where it showed a Eurotrashy guy with glasses, a buzzcut, and a mean look on his face. Now that I think about it, he looked remarkably like my new friend, except for the mean look.

So I did a little research and found that I've been living a life that conforms to many of the Straight Edge beliefs, especially the refraining from the tobacco, alcohol, and recreational drugs. Its origins derive from a band called Minor Threat, which I've never heard of... though I have heard of, and often listen to Fugazi, which was started by the former lead singer of Minor Threat, Ian MacKaye.

2. This week I realized that the only people in Germany who are guaranteed not to speak any English AT ALL are people who work at Information booths in large German train stations, and the good folks at the government offices where everyone who doesn't speak German comes to fill out complex and confusing paperwork. It's awesome. I've been spending lots of time with some of the Germanest folks ever, working on a rather convoluted process of obtaining a work visa. As far as I can tell, there is no set process (how very UNGerman!) at all... in fact, they seem to be adding little tedious requirements as we go, just because they can. And you can't not be polite - you don't want to get thrown out of the country because you told some frauline to get the giant stick out of her ass about what is obviously perfectly good proof of health insurance. And so I wait and service their little visa needs. A signed letter from him, a photocopy of that. If they ask for a sperm sample, I'm calling the American embassy.

3. A week ago, I bought a little basil plant. That night! I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of all the fresh basil I need for the rest of my life. I love basil! And this was gonna be my bottomless jar of fresh. Then the next day, it was sad, sad, sad. Droopy and wilted, with evil around the edges, like Dick Cheney. So I fed it a little water, and it perked up, but it was never the same. I fought back the reeper for a week, and today I came home to what has become a lost herbal cause. It's dead. It's a goner. And that makes me sad. I never claimed, my thumbs were green, but I couldn't even keep basil alive.

How I roll

Surely no more obvious words can be spoken than these: each and every one of us is extraordinary in our own way. And I submit to all of you that one unusual, if not terribly exciting trait about me is this: I consume far less toilet paper than my fellow humans.

This became apparent to me a few months ago when I was living in Hamburg with a fellow named William. It was one of those living situations where we were both quite busy, so we rarely saw each other at home. In fact, the only impact he seemed to have on the atmosphere of the apartment were the occasional friendly chat, and the extraordinarily rapid depletion of toilet paper.

Yes, I couldn't help but notice that every couple of mornings, I woke up, strolled into the john, and found an empty cardboard roll (I could write a whole other post on why, in the name that all is holy, people don't replace the motherfucking roll, but one rant at a time). I didn't have a lot going on then, so I started thinking about it. In order to document this rather confounding discovery, I decided I would take one picture a day of the toilet paper roll. So what you see below is a series of three pictures, starting right after I changed to a new one.

That's right, we blew through an entire roll in about two days.

At the time, I kept track of how much I used - I averaged six squares a day (morning movement, plus a few nose blows). That means that I used a total of 12 squares of the entire roll. I can't tell you what percentage of the roll that is because I don't know how many squares were on a roll... but I know it ain't much.

So I guess the obvious questions here are: What the fuck? And of course JFC Dan, how could anybody use that much toilet paper? And the answer from me is a flabbergasted yet firm I don't know. The only thing I can think of is that homeboy must have been using the wad method, or had some serious swamp gut going on. But given his good spirits on the (admittedly rare) occasions I saw him, I'd say his lower GI was fine. So he must have been wadding like there's no tomorrow. Was it some sort of asshole paranoia? Or was it just bad form?

For the record, here's the way I do it:

1. Pull off a contiguous piece containing three squares of TP.

2. Fold into the center, thereby creating a single square that's three squares thick.

3. Fold in half.

4. Wipe.

5. Reverse fold, so the used side is now the inside, and the outside is fresh.

6. Wipe.

If there's more wiping needed, repeat the process using two squares instead of three (unless it's disaster conditions down there, then it's okay to use three again).

I go once a day, and I'd say that I average four wipes per session. That means I'll typically use 3 + 2 squares, for a total of 5. Once in a while it's 3 + 3 + 2, or 8. Sometimes it's just 3.

This all came up again in my new place. When my roommate and I got here, there was a roll in the bathroom, leftovers from the previous tenants. I think I used about ten squares of that, and then suddenly it was gone. Then we switched to paper towels until roommate went out and bought what I think was a two roll pack. We're done with that now, and we're back to paper towels. We started with a roll and a half of paper towels, and now I think there are four left. I've switched to my personal (and safely hidden) stash facial tissues.

We've only been here two weeks.

WTF?

Things I learned today

1. Phoenix calls their airport a Sky Harbor because apparently airport just isn't fancy schmancy enough for a city as fancy schmancy as Phoenix . It makes me think of giant buoys. Anchors away!

2. The Phoenix Sky Harbor is the fifth largest airport in the world, according to the driver of the little tram that took me down the mile-and-a-half-long (!) corridor that took me to my departure gate. If I had walked it would have taken for-ev-er.

3. I didn't go outside the sky harbor, but I'm pretty sure the high in Phoenix today was 5000 degrees. Going through the jetway was like walking from a mini cooler to the freezer via the oven.

4. The Heathrow clusterfuck is one of the few airports on the planet that is larger than the Phoenix Sky Harbor. Heathrow is the most jacked-up, whack-ass airport I've been too. Bigger than Phoenix doesn't mean better than Phoenix, it just means more sprawling. It's four terminals spread out over a bazillion acres, and you have to take busses in between. Crowded busses, which you wait for in a crowded line.

5. It didn't help matters when the British Airways flight took off late. Was it an hour late? I wasn't even paying attention, but I missed my Hamburg connection by at least an hour. The plane landed late, and then we had to wait for a place for the plane to park. Then I had to take a bus to the terminal to wait in line to catch another bus to another terminal so I could wait in long-ass security line, and then wait in a long-ass line at the BA counter while the BA people tried to figure out which way was up so they could send us and our sour-puss faces on our way. But the guy who got me the flight I'm currently waiting for was friendly and efficient, so I guess it's okay.

6. Anyways, I'm sitting in the Heathrow clusterfuck waiting for the screens to list my flight so I can wait at my departure gate. This is another stupid thing - they don't tell you what gate your flight is departing from until 40 minutes before the departure time. But this clusterfuck is so clustered and fucked, that I'm afraid it won't be enough time.

7. Bollocks!

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So that was yesterday; I tried to upload it but the network at Heathrow wouldn't let me. If it had, I would have written more about how my Hamburg connection, the one they booked for me after I missed the first one, left four hours late. Gawd it was frustrating sitting there, in the terminal, staring at the screen that refused to tell me the departure time. I kept wondering why it was so crowded in the terminal, but then I realized that all the flights listed except for one (there were probably twenty on the list) were cancelled or delayed. Something about thunderclouds. Mother nature is annoying.

When I finally arrived in Hamburg, got into my apartment, and put my stuff down, my computer, which was still on California time said 3:29pm. I had left California at 3:40pm on Saturday, which makes just about 24 hours of travel fun. Awesome.

Rock out with your cock out

I'm lame because I've lived in the Bay Area most of my life, and never did San Francisco cool stuff like the Pride parade, or the San Francisco Grand Prix. But today I am less lame than I was yesterday, because today I finally went to my first Folsom Street Fair.

The Fair is six or seven blocks of leather-clad fetishistic fun with the needle way into the gay zone. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and the street was packed with short, tall, fat, skinny, hairy, shaved, pierced, tatooed, drunk, sober, hot, and horny people of all ages; some of the best people watching I've ever experienced. I didn't take any pictures because I forgot my camera, but there are plenty of pics out there on the interwebs at places like flickr. There were lots of assless chaps and full on naked people... I haven't seen this much cock since, well, ever.

And it was great! I don't think I'm going to don a latex getup, and I'm certainly not going to send away for a fucking machine (despite the exciting demonstration we saw today), but it sure makes me happy to know that once a year you can roll down to Folsom street and let it all hang out. If you're really into this stuff, then you can meet up with your people, kinda like when we go to the Italian Concorse every year and you hear everyone talking about the subtle differences in the twelve cylinder Ferrari engines on all the 250 models, except today they were talking about lubrication of a different sort.

Michael and I invited our parents to the Fair, but surprise surprise, they said no. On one hand, I can understand... this certainly isn't for everyone. But on the other hand, what's the big deal? Watching a six foot tall gay man sporting assless chaps and a handlbar mustache isn't scary, it's just odd. It's not like anyone is going to attack and get gay juice on you. It's like the characters at Disneyland - fun to look at, and you can try to hug them if you want, but they're not going to make you gay or anything.

The Fair does bring up a few logistical issues that I couldn't help but ponder as I wandered. For example:

Transportation to the Fair for certain fetishes. There were lots of folks there wearing sunglasses and a cock ring, and that's about it. I didn't see any naked people with backpacks, so they weren't stowing their clothes somewhere. Sure, you could drive, but during an event like this, where streets are blocked off and a ton of people go, parking must be a bitch. You could ride a bike, but then you're the crazy naked guy on the bike, distracting drivers, and risking quite a lot of road rash. SF is a really progressive town, but you can't just walk around naked, even if you seem to be on your way to the one place where you're walking around naked is perfectly acceptable. You could take Muni, but seriously, I'd have hygiene reservations about sitting on those seats even if I was coated in Purell and wearing kevlar pants. So how'd all those naked people get there?

How many swats in a spanking? There was a booth that offered spanking, with the proceeds going to charity. The man said it was one swat for a dollar, or five dollars for a complete spanking. I was raised by parents who don't believe in spanking (the children or each other) so can someone please tell me how many swats there are in a spanking? I was all set to pay the man, but I didn't know if five bucks for the whole shebang was an ass kicking (so to speak) deal, or if I should go with a few swats for a few dollars.

Drawing the line with role playing and domination. There were lots of folks that did the domination thing (sorry, I really don't know the correct terminology here). Dog roles were big; so there would be a man or woman with a mask and a leash being led by a man or a woman. The roles were well defined, and if that's fun for you, by all means. And it's all fun and games during the Fair and in the bedroom, but it seems to me that if you're really dedicated, you'd do this sorta thing all the time. But there must be some limits, I mean, if you're off to Trader Joes, you can't bring out the gimp. A half naked man-dog in a leather outfit would be a shopping cart traffic disaster. So are there lots of domination people aching to let their true selves out in public? Can't wait to escape the torturous confines of THE MAN in outside world so they can get back home and be led around by the neck and hung from the ceiling? That must be really frustrating.

Brothers Pieracci

Brothers Pieracci
Originally uploaded by Stewf.

I was in SF for most of the week, staying with my dear brother. I got to the city Monday afternoon, and went to Fontshop to pick up Michael's extra key, and we were tickled to see that we were wearing basically the same shirt. We matched with enthsiasm though, and Stephen snapped the photo. Sigh. I'm excited to go back to Hamburg to work, but lately I can't help but wonder why I would ever want to leave this place.

Jay Oh Bee

At long last, I'm pleased to announce, that someone finally hired my ass. That's right! Jung von Matt has proven me employable (well, hire-able at least). They're starting the paperwork for the visa, and I'm starting to think about winter clothing. Come October second, I'll be back in Hamburg, a city I adore, working as a copywriter, drinking coffee in European cafes, and getting paid in Euros. I'm even gonna try to learn German. Who's your favorite expat?

Live from New Jersey

A few immediate observations upon re-entering the good ol' US of A:

1. Man, airport security here is re-DAMN-diculous. I've noticed this before - airport security in Europe is like it used to be in the States: metal detectors, take your laptop out, move along, no problem. But now, as soon as you enter the "I'm going to America" section of the airport, shit goes berserk. Lines swell and snake back and forth. The worker bees get cranky, Take off your belt, take off your shoes, laptop out, BEEP BEEP BEEP, over here sir, hands out please. I always feel like I've been molested and ripped off by a smelly cab driver when I end up on the other side, shoe-less, disheveled, and pissed off. Now I've got to reassemble my carry-on while putting on my shoes and not holding up the line. DON'T HOLD UP THE LINE!

And the worst part is, it doesn't feel any safer. It's just less convenient. And now I'm surrounded by a bunch of pissed-off travelers, so maybe it's even more dangerous...

2. Americans are big, talkative people. I chatted with the customs guy, traded remarks with the baggage guy, etc. Everyone's on the phone, talking loudly, yelling at kids, and/or singing for no apparent reason. Maybe Germans are talkative too, and I don't know it because I don't sprechen, but I doubt it. Germany is quiet like a sewing machine. America is more like a construction site.

3. It's way too hard to find a plug for my laptop in airports. Hamburg and Newark airports, you have no excuse - it's 2006, and my laptop needs juice.

4. Root beer is fucking delicious. It's been months (years?) since it washed over my taste buds, and it's like heaven in a paper cup. Sweet and smooth. I arrived in Newark and made my way to the gate/waiting area, and found an A&W. Got me a double cheeseburger and a root beer, AND I got treated rudely by the underpaid staff. Welcome to America bitch!

It's good to be back.

A few notes...

1. I bought new deodorant. Now I smell like someone else.

2. It's been really hot lately. I guess the whole world is going through some kind of heat wave. Why is it that when the heat is on in Europe, I always read reports of old people in France dying? It's like the barometer for how hot it really is. "Only 12 old people have died this year - not that bad." What the hell are they doing to their old people? Are they keeping them in the attic or something? C'mon France! Pull yourself together.

3. The job search continues. I have a strong lead in Hamburg, a medium-strength lead in Frankfurt, and lots of emails out to people who are supposedly hiring. I have an interview at a tiny agency here in Hamburg on Wednesday.

4. I've been thinking about trying for a job in Asia... more specifically, Shanghai, Beijing, or Hong Kong. Now that would be a change! Going from The States to Western Europe wasn't really a big deal. My culture shock was pretty much cured once I got a few plug adapters. But Asia would really be a whole new world. I couldn't even fake the language like I can here ("Danke! Zu hosen bitte!"), and everyone would look different than I do. But I really do like the sound of "I worked in Hong Kong for a couple of years", and I really do see Asia as the next big advertising market explosion (in a good way). Plus, if you go to flickr and look up pics of Hong Kong, there's some really great stuff.

5. I'm going going back back to Cali Cali (name that tune!) for the month of August. Fun! I'll go to the Historics with Dad and Elizabeth Holt's birthday extravaganza. Just like old times!

Warning: this life contains hardly any nudity.

If you're American, and you didn't grow up in a commune in Berkeley, then you know that America isn't too big on nudity. I can't explain how it's possible that a hundred million people can sit through no less than three blood-and-guts-filled editions of Rambo, and then freak the fuck out at a two second shot of one of Janet Jackson's milkshakes (note: her nip was covered in diamonds). But that's my country - if you own enough guns to outfit an army, then you're awesome, but you better keep your uniform on the whole time, or you're a fucking pervert.

Anyways, I haven't spent too much time out in the world in the buff. I'm fine with being naked behind closed doors with a girlfriend, but as we all know, I rarely have a girlfriend. I've never been to a nude beach. Had they made us take showers after PE in high school, I would have been one of the kids sporting a bathing suit under that cold, cold water. On the rare occasion that I find myself in a gym locker room, I try to expose my privates as little as possible. I don't sun bathe, and if I did, it would be with shorts and a t-shirt on. I don't think my nipples have ever seen the sun. What I'm trying to say here, is that relative to other folks, I've spent hardly any of my life in the state of naked.

Fast forward to this week - I was hanging out with my friend and fellow copywriting American expat Dylan. He's been all over the world, and lived in Hamburg for a year or two, and he showed me this:

www.baederland.de

Click it, and you'll find a website that shows you a bunch of beautiful public swimming areas throughout Germany. The facilities look beautiful, kind of like old-school public bath houses minus the dirty secret(s).

I'm not a big swimmer... that is to say that I don't actually like it. Pieraccis aren't in-the-water people; we prefer to admire water from afar, never letting it get past our knees, for fear of getting our hair wet. We get this from our mother. Despite my genetics, I swear that one of these days I'm going to learn how to open my eyes under water, and get water in my nose without freaking out, but hey, I'm only 30, so no rush.

So swimming doesn't excite me, but I've always been interested in the concept of a sauna. A super hot room where you sit and relax and think - kind of like Bikram yoga without all that pesky stretching. Then Dylan showed me that one of the places has not only a sauna, but an ice room, where you go after the sauna, and cover yourself in ice. As ball shrinking as that sounds, I can certainly see how refreshing that would be, and how it would force your body to open and close all sorts of capillaries and vessels, thereby fortifying circulation.

The only trick is that - of course - here in Germany, where nudity is WAY more accepted than in America*, you're really only supposed to go in there sans all clothing. Not that there are guards at the door or anything (though that would be perfectly German - I can totally picture German border guards in their scary green uniforms standing by the door, poking at my boxer shorts with a billy club saying "NEIN!"), but if you go in in, say, a bathing suit, you risk being "one of those perverted Turkish guys in the corner, just there to stare at the chicks" (not my description). And I certainly wouldn't want that.

I told Dylan about my nudity nervousness. I said it's because I'm American, and he chuckled. I told him I'm perfectly fine with being naked with my girlfriend, so of course he suggested "Bring your girlfriend!" and then realized how apples and oranges that really is.

So here's the pact I'm willing to make with you, dear readers (both of you). I'm going to go to one of these saunas, and dammit, I'm gettin' naked. I'm going to leave my American anxieties at the door, along with my undies, and be naked with all those other naked people who couldn't give a rat's ass about mine.

* I bet nudity is way more accepted almost everywhere, actually