The thing about that is...

A long day in a good way.

2011-06-11T10:11:00.001+02:00

Saturday, June 4th.

4:45am. Wake up. Didn't sleep much last night. Dinner didn't agree very well with the ol' tummy. Raw veggies, hummus, pesto, and crackers. Sounds pretty harmless, right? But one of the veggies was broccoli which, despite its impressive resume of vitamins, minerals and being hated by children, is a bit difficult to digest when eaten raw. I know this. But I was caught up in a quest to get more iron into my vegetarian system and I forgot.

The problems began while laying in bed; there was churning and burbling, there was gas generation without expulsion. I lay there with my hands on my belly feeling it expand like a fleshy balloon.

And that’s uncomfortable physically, but it’s also uncomfortable mentally given all the ruckus created by the recent and "worst-ever on the planet ever for reals" outbreak of e-coli here in Europe. Germany has been hit hardest, and Switzerland is right next to Germany. The problem? Animal feces on vegetables. What did I eat last night? Note to self: in case of severe intestinal cramping and/or bloody diarrhea, cancel fun bike ride in alps.

5:35am. Catch the first of three trains that will take me to St. Moritz. You know you're living in the boonies when the train station platform isn't long enough for the train. As usual, the bicycle car is at the ass end of the train. Unfortunately the end of the train was past the end of the platform. So I get on the train, but I have to stand there with my bicycle next to the door for a bit. I can switch at Rotkreutz, the nice man informs me. It's only two stops away, so no problemo.

INTESTINAL STATUS UPDATE: So far so good. Internal pressure lowered following atmospheric venting. Fortunately, the train is uncrowded.

6:22am. Train number two. A less fancy train. No bicycle car this time, just the luggage car. A rather unsophisticated and not-so-elegant way to transport my highly sophisticated and elegant road bike. Also a great way to transport a side of beef.

Oh yeah. I'm totally comfortable with that.

The luggage car is two cars away from where I actually sit. Thanks to Caroline for recommending that I bring a bike lock. Still. Must. Resist. Urge. To check. Bicycle. Every. Five. Minutes. But people don't steal things in Switzerland, right?

7:58am Train número tres.

Ah, that's better.

Bike safe, and in a much better spot. Two hours to St. Moritz. Scenery spectacular. Lakes full of crystal-clear water. Giant rock formations looking down on us silently. So much water, so much green. Everywhere I look is a postcard.

If you suffer from motion sickness or are afraid of heights, this is totally the train for you.

View alternating between typical postcard and output from weekly oil painting class at the retirement home.

A buddy for my buddy. That great looking mountain bike belongs to the woman sitting on the other side of the aisle.

First sign of cyclists outside the train! I see them out there on road bikes rolling up from hairpin to hairpin. Happy to think that that'll be me soon.

9:49am. Fourth and final train to Pontresina. Of course mountain bike lady switches to the same train I do. We are two cyclists on a mission. Almost there!

10:05am. Arrived! And! The train stops right in front of my hostel! Oh Switzerland, I love you for your looks AND your convenience. Check-in goes smoothly, and I frantically change into my cycling gear and ride to the fancy hotel where my friends Arnd and Daniel are staying.

10:15am. On my bike on the way to the hotel I experience typical mountain weather. The mountains are like a crazy weather whirlpool - temperature, wind, and precipitation are constantly shifting. It's tough to ride in because you Have to strike a balance between enough clothing to stay warm, but not too much so you can stow whatever you're not wearing in jersey pockets. It can be surprisingly hot going up, and unbelievably, brutally cold going down. Ideally you have a sag car ... But that only happens on organized group tours or if you can somehow manage to have a mate that is willing to give up the whole weekend to drive, stop, wait, drive, stop, wait, drive, stop, wait, for the whole damn weekend. Oh, and he or she has to like cycling enough to want to go, but not so much that he or she would rather ride. Oh, and you need a car.

Some people ride with a small rucksack hanging from their shoulders. I prefer to bring only one bottle, and use the second water bottle cage to hold my rain jacket. The rain jacket works great on descents because it's totally water proof and therefore totally wind proof. Arm warmers, knee warmers, and wind vest can all go on or come off and be stuffed into pockets.

Anyways, we decide on a 90km route that will take us over two medium sized climbs, into Italy (!), to a restaurant for lunch, back into Switzerland, through the Swiss National Forest, through the valley, and home again. Like this. Arnd and Daniel H go upstairs to get dressed, and I go back to pick up my passport and some knee warmers.

One last check of the ol' email. Can't help it.

10:30am. We have lift-off. Arnd and I head out of Pontresina towards Passo del Bernina, with Daniel H driving his car. Poor guy! He caught a cold shortly after arriving at the cycling vacation that he organized and isn’t up for riding. So he’ll drive and meet us at a few stopping points along the way, and then we'll do lunch. He’ll go back home after that, though, so no sag car. But he has graciously offered to take awesome pictures of us along the way.

The weather is cool and we have a pretty good tailwind. The scenery is gorgeous - we're in a valley, so Alps with snowy hats surround. Arnd and I are at about the same fitness level, and we work well together from the first pedal stroke.

There's more traffic than I was expecting, and more motorcycles than I've ever seen. It's a little noisy when they fly past us, but they are respectful, which I appreciate. They wait until it's safe to pass, give plenty of room, and I didn't hear a single honk the entire weekend. Arnd yells at them anyway, calling them fat idiots and pointing out repeatedly that while we are huffing and puffing up the mountain, they choose to puff on cigarettes. Apparently this is because they are "lazy assholes". Fortunately the bikes are loud enough that the riders can't hear Arnd's rage against them and their machines.

11amish. We arrive at the top of Passo del Bernina. Perfect climb to start the day with - not too steep, not too long. There's restaurant at the top, as there so often is, and we pee and put on our descending gear. The backside is just like the front - neither too steep or too long. So far I'm feeling good. The roads are wet, but not dangerously so.

12ish. Climb number two, which seems to be the second part of Passo del Bernina, is steeper than the first. For the first time we get passed by a pretty professional-looking rider - a woman. My male hetero ego penis brain insists that I tell you we were stopped at the time, eating bananas*. I wave as she passes, which is something that I try to do whenever I see another cyclist. Feels good to know we're all in this together, brother/sisterhood, camaraderie, etc. She acknowledges my wave with a nod, and is polite enough to only call me "wanker" in her head.

1pmish. Arrive in Livigno. Italy! Still find it odd to say "we rode to Italy". But it's really just like riding from Northern California to Southern Oregon.

But it's the descent into Livigno that is the highlight of the ride. The rain is coming down hard and sad at the top of the climb. Arnd and I quickly put on everything we had and headed down a wet, wet mountain. This descent is mostly straight, so you just have to sit there, watch out for bad pavement and think warm thoughts. There are thin streams of water crossing the street and juuuuust enough traffic to make you worry that one of these motorcyclists might try to make a balls-out pass right into your 3T Ergonova drop bars.

But then a wonderful thing happens: the rain dissipates and the pavement dries as I approach a mild left-hand bend. Dry pavement means no more nerves. And the turn leads to a valley full of sunshine. No kidding folks, it’s a northern Italian valley bathed in warm, golden sunshine. Green fields kissed by wildflowers. Road magically empty. Coasting, I sit up, drinking it in like a perfectly crafted cappuccino and thinking to myself "this is why we do this". Elliot and ET have nothing on me.

For some reason, Arnd brakes on descents when the road is straight. He says it's because he has kids and that one day I'll understand. I think it's a matter of choosing which risks one feels more comfortable taking; I choose to go fast in a straight line, while he chooses to yell at bikers that outweigh him threefold. Anyway, he catches up to me in my moment of bicycle euphoria, and we gawk at the scenery like kids on a field trip.

Libere indeed.

2pmish. Lunch in Livigno. The thing about Italy is: the waitstaff is very disappointed in you and your order and probably your outfit. I first noticed it on a trip to Rome where every time I walked into the coffee bar and ordered an espresso, the guy would role his eyes and reluctantly pull a shot. And I always thought dude, I'm sorry, but I want an espresso, and I want to pay for it, and you are the man who makes the espresso and takes the money. Amico, we are both just pawns in this larger coffee reality. And besides, I'm the only one here, and that Italian accent that I whipped out when I said “Espresso, per favore” ain't bad enough to get snooty.

It takes about four tries to tell Mr. Waiter Man what I want to order. He was clearly disappointed in my choice of vegetable soup and mixed salad, and positively insulted that I didn't want something drink. The whole ordering process is an awkward mix of English, German, Italian, and feigned enthusiasm.

Food’s good though, and we have a nice lunch and then a tour of the local bike shops. The thing about this part of the world is: they take road cycling seriously. So the two bike shops we went to had serious, seriously beautiful road bikes on display. Fantastic! Not like most shops where you find a ton of bread and butter commuter bikes laced with a few higher-end mountain bikes and then a single token mid-range road bike with reflectors and a layer of dust. Oh no. The first shop has a rack of Colnagos, with the high-end Specialized Tarmacs serving as the bread-and-butter line. That's what I'm talking about! And FYI: no kidding, everything in Livignio is duty free. I don't know why, but it seems like a good place to buy a new road bike and not ask any questions.

3pmish. Daniel H leaves us, and Arnd and I are on our own for the ride from Livigno back to the Swiss border. This takes us past the long and skinny Lago di Livigno, on a road that is mostly covered in one of these strange half-tunnel structures. It’s a tunnel built into the edge of the mountain so there’s a wall on your left side, a ceiling, and it’s open to the right. The scenery is part beautiful, part wasteland.

We get passed by a team car from the MCipollini - Giordana women’s cycling team, with a rider riding only a few centimeters from the rear bumper. They are FLYING. Someone’s getting in her high-tempo training. They pass us in both directions, twice. Impressive (and fun!).

After half an hour or so of this long half-tunnel thingy, we arrive at the Italy/Switzerland border. But it’s not just some typical border crossing - It’s a border that goes accross a huge dam, and into a tunnel that’s too narrow to allow cyclists. So there’s a shuttle service consisting of a van for riders and a trailer for the bikes. We wait a bit, trying not to get cold. The sun is appearing and disappearing, and there’s the occasional cool gust of wind which always signals that it’s about 4pm and it’s time to ride in a homeward direction. The van arrives, and we go through a very narrow tunnel.

4pmish. The ride through the Swiss National Park is gorgeous - a curvy road with a gentle rise through a big beautiful forest that goes as far as the eye can see. The sun is shining again, so the layers come off again, and are stuffed into pockets again. You get used to it.

The climb is spectacular, but the descent is spectacularer! Fast, fast, fast, with excellent hang-it-all-out corners and good pavement. Funny thing about the pavement - if you close your eyes, you could tell whether you're still in Italy, or crossed the border into Switzerland. Because the pavement goes from shitty to shit-free.

5pmish. We arrive in Zernez, and turn left. I'm starting to feel it. Whereby IT, I mean the early start, the long ride, the climbs, the cold, the heat, everything. And unfortunately, this begins the long drag through the valley, back to Pontresina. For the remaining, 30km, theres a headwind, cold and strong. And just plain rude. Arnd and I do our best to slipstream through it, taking turns pulling, trying to laugh it off. But it's just brutal, and it seems to last foooooreeeeeeverrrrrrr.

I try to think of other things, happy thoughts, but the roar of the wind in my ears blows them away and brings me back to reality. It's a long struggle that has me questioning again why we do this. But brief thoughts of the descent into Livigno, and dreams of the hot shower that awaits (Arnd and Daniel H's fancy hotel has a fancy Hamam, and Arnd thinks he can get me in!) keep me going.

6:30pmish. At last, we arrive in Pontresina. Total time in the saddle - about seven hours. Quick internal check from head to toe: Eyes dry, face salty, neck tired, shoulders tight and painful, belly delightfully recovered, low back tired, ass sore, legs depleted.

We go to the fancy hotel to ask about me and the Hamam. I can get in for 10 francs (the cheapest thing all weeked!) but it's closing at 8. So I have an hour-and-a-half to rush back to the hostel, change into some normal clothes, rush back to the fancy hotel, get a robe and a towel and a tour of the facilities, and enjoy some steam rooms and stuff. Seems worth it. And it is.

Back at the hostel. A few minutes later I'll be smiling again. And then we'll eat Risotto!

* Male hetero ego penis brain would also like to inform you that "eating bananas" is not some sort of sexual slang - we were literally eating bananas. One each, hence the use of the plural.

Mountain biking is so dumb.

2011-05-29T20:30:00.001+02:00

Yeah, that was me. I said that, partly because I think it's true, but mostly to get the goat of Mike and Ian, two of my favorite mountain bikers who were in the room when I said it.

I've always been a roadie, you see. Even when I owned a mountain bike and rode it, the smile on my face was mostly forced; there to mask the grimace underneath. Mountain biking looks fun, but it's so ... bumpy and dirty. Ew! Yucky. Tires slide. Trees and bushes reach out and poke, ticks and poison ivy are standing by just waiting to attack. And there are bugs. Lots and lots of bugs.

When I was racing road in college, I decided to give the mountain biking thing a try. Mike, Ian, Tom, Kenny and basically everyone else on the planet really loved it. I don't remember how I got my first bike, but it was a year-old Specialized aluminum Stumpjumper hard tail. It had a pretty light "metal matrix" frame. It might have been the fancy and very racy S-Works model. We built it up with a decent set of components, I bought shoes, pedals, and a Camelbak, and off we went into the beautiful mountain sides of San Luis Obispo.

And it was fucking terrible! Sure the bike was light-weight and it looked super cool. But it was also hard as a rock, like federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison. The suspension fork was hard and rubbery. The seat was also hard and rubbery. Every ride on it made me wonder why anyone would want to do this. There were roots and ruts strategically placed to suck the fun out of every ride, and there were even more bugs than I thought. So many bugs!

And to make it even worse, I found mountain biking to be EITHER steep uphill OR steep downhill. But the thing about that is: I was a terrible climber (compared to all my awesomely talented cycling buddies like Mike an Ian, who seemed to have been born not from a womb so much as an altitude tent) so I got dropped on all the climbs. And the only thing that I was worse at than climbing? Descending! So I would get dropped on the climbs AND the descents!

Thankfully that bike was stolen out of my garage not too long after the first ride. Here's how much more popular mountain biking was than road riding at that time: the thieves didn't steal my Dura-Ace laden Kestrel 200Sci which was parked right next to it. What a bunch of self-mutilating morons.

About two years later it was time to graduate from college, and finish my road racing career. I was pretty burnt out on road riding, and by this time the latest and greatest mountain bikes had dual suspension. It seemed a bit excessive to me, but Mike and Ian convinced me to give it a shot. And it seemed like the kind of thing that would prevent the bike from trying to insert itself into my rectum. I got a screaming deal on a Specialized Stumpjumper FSR XC.

I barely finished test riding it in the parking lot when Mike snatched it away tossed the stock tiresreplaced them with some wider, cushier downhill tires (this was before downhill tires turned into fucking motorcycle tires).

Back at home Ian sat me on the bike and pumped up the rear shock to the appropriate level, and off we went. And holy motherfucking shit, it was a revelation. Suddenly, the bike wasn't trying to eject me from planet earth like a bull on Red Bull. The rear suspension did indeed take the hit out of all the bumps, roots, and ruts, the tires gripped nicely instead if ricocheting off of every little pebble. It didn’t change the bug situation, but I actually sorta kinda started to enjoy being out there on a mountain bike.

I was still living in San Luis Obispo at the time, which will always be a fabulous, beautiful, perfect place to ride both mountain and road, and I was surrounded by several mountain biking friends. I bought full fingered gloves and my own shock pump. We went on epic night rides through muted moonlit forests. And yet mountain biking never really set my heart on fire. Maybe I was burnt out on cycling in general after all that road racing. Maybe it was all that dirty dirt, and the fact that every damn ride I did really was uphill both ways.

Eventually I moved to the Bay Area (also fab for riding) where I sold my mountain bike to my friend Brian. Then I loaned the ol' road bike to Ian to take to Australia. I took a long cycling hiatus.

Fast forward to today - I've moved to Switzerland and started riding road again. I bought a fancy new road bike and have been riding once or twice per week. The hills around the mountains are a welcome change to the unending flatness of northern Germany. Road riding is celebrated here, and the mountain biking is supposed to be some of the best in Europe. And guess what I've had the urge to do! Yeah, that was me who said Mountain biking is so dumb. But now I'm in Switzerland and it seems I'm going to have to eat those words (and a lot more cheese).

I started poking around the bike shops here, beginning the investigation into mountain biking's current state of affairs. And I’ve found that it’s reached rather impressive technical heights. Everything is lighter and more solidly made. The bikes are turning into well-integrated cycling units, as opposed to a frame with a bunch of rattly crap hanging off of it. Specialized bikes basically have active suspension. It’s mechanically active, but with the rise of Di2 and power meters and wireless cycle computers that can all talk to one another, you just know that eventually the suspension is gonna wanna get in on the action.

So yeah, the bikes are better than ever before. But now there’s a thousand categories of bike to choose from. I remember when there was one category: mountain bike. Then two - with and without front suspension. Then there were hard tails and soft tails. But now, it’s Cross Country, Trail, Singletrack Trail, Technical Trail, All mountain, Gravity, Recreational, Race, Sport, Gravity, and Dual Sport.

Then the web sites asks me what kind of rider do I want to be and what kind of riding I want to do. Well obviously I want to ride cross country on a trail with some technical singletrack across all types of mountains, with occasional use of gravity for my own recreational purposes while feeling very sporty. But no racing, and only one sport at a time. So that narrows it down, I guess. Also sixteen inches of travel seems a bit excessive.

Price is a good way to narrow down the field though. I set myself a limit of 4000 Swiss Francs. Ideally that’ll cover the bike, shoes, and pedals. I’ve begun the investigation at several local bike shops. The good news is you can get a hell of a bike for 4000 Francs, and all the shops will let you take a bike for the weekend to try on the local trails. And I can go with my pal Pablo who lives nearby.

So far, these are looking promising:

Price Marathon

Specialized Epic

Specialized Stumpjumper

Canyon

The Santa Cruz Superlight also looks intriguing. But for some reason its price doubles on the plane ride over. I guess it flies first class or something.

And I guess mountain biking is looking a lot less dumb than it used to.

Workspace Wuv.

2010-10-09T00:45:00.001+02:00

Watch this:

http://www.imaginaryforces.com/featured/10/502

It's beautiful, isn't it?

There's a romance about the workspace that seems to have popped up over the last few years, spawning blog entries, entire websites, contests, documentary films, overly deep discussion, and serious self reflection that takes itself FAR too seriously (this little ditty, for example). And I am such a fucking sucker for this stuff, that I have bookmarked it all, clicked through every picture, watched too many movies, and all too often found myself perusing the workspaces of others like some sort of binoculared pervert perched in a tree. And it's always, always while sitting at my own desk avoiding the very work that would go a long way in bringing the fantasy to completion.

What fantasy is that? I think it's the delicious promise of productivity. For me, that would be ideas conjuring up words, words forming sentences, forming paragraphs, sliding onto the page and magically transporting the ideas in my head into someone else's. Easily, effortlessly. And looking cool while doing it, of course.

When you're working well, really well, really into it, there's that feeling of time disappearing and leaving you alone for a while. And when I see the right combination of windows, surfaces, tools, and wall color, I feel that possibility. An open MacBook. A perfectly placed Moleskine. A cappucino with latte art. I know, I know, BARF-O-FUCKING-RAMA, right? I'm right there with you.

And yet I can't help it: every time, I just keep clicking, picture after picture, putting myself in there for a moment and wondering if that 8000€ stainless steel hanging pendant lamp would help me be a better, more inspiring, and more inspired manboy.

I seek the perfect work space, a perfectly solid desk, not too heavy, but never flimsy, the right amount of sunlight, a lamp that says I have taste, but don't take this stuff too seriously (because that would be so embarrassing) and a chair, designed by someone you may have heard of, that holds my ass in a perfect balance between style and comfort.

SIDENOTE: Aeron chairs with that mesh material, insect-like design, and a seemingly cult following have never worked for me. They always feel like a slingshot that's trying to press my ass cheeks into a single unit. Is that just me?

It is the perfect setup, the perfectly set-up space that I crave. A well organized (that's how I roll, YMMV) group of beautiful things that make others say (as I have said so often) wow, your workspace is so inspiring! And then I want to sheepishly grin and pretend that it's just something that sort of happened. When in reality it's been a subject of life long study, made easier by the internets for making it possible to sneak around the offices of famous people, and by a higher income, which make it easier to buy things not made by Ikea. And pursued with the (mostly) genuine belief that designing and executing the perfect workspace will have a positive, measurable effect on my output.

And I know it's all bullshit. Massimo Vignelli can talk all he wants about his deskular situation, and how he loves it and it loves him (oh, hot productive man-on-desk action!). But we all know that it's just a bunch of ginned up romance and that his desk is, relatively speaking, a transient part of a long successful career based on talent, luck, and a lot of hard work. This is not like how 51% of the reason Nigel Mansell won the '92 F1 championship was because he had the best car. This is more like Picasso having basic access to decent paints and a brush that didn't stab him in the eye.

So I'll keep watching and clicking like some kind of fucked up office voyeur. And I'll keep dreaming of my MILK desk and wireless peripherals, VESA-mounted hi-res display and a sleek and silent laptop. And surely over time I'll spend an unwarrantable amount of money on all of them. And they will make me a little bit happier.

But I know that really, I should just write more.

Lancing Free.

2010-10-01T11:01:00.001+02:00

So, I'm a freelancer now. Funny to write that after approximately eighteen years of being an official member of the official workforce, and always working for someone or some organization. I've always been a full-time or part-time employee somewhere; somewhere that determines my working hours, pay rate, start date, career direction, and daily activities. When is it okay to go to lunch? What format would you like the documents in? Can I have a nicer computer? Can I have a raise? These are all questions I used to nervously ask my employer. And invariably, they would answer in a fatherly tone Hmm ... we'll have to think about that.

Not anymore.

Well, that's being a bit dramatic, I suppose. I may have worked for corporations, but none of them were very blood sucking or Matrix-like. But it can't be denied that with freelancing comes a certain breezy, romantic freedom. It's a bit cowboy-esque: look at him - a lone gunslinger, a hired hand, a bounty hunter, on the hunt for creative ideas that solve a problem. He can be air dropped anywhere in continental Europe within twenty four hours (though he prefers the train). He brings his own tools. Just give him a network connection and tell him what you need.

None of this is out of the ordinary - each place I've worked has had its share of contractors, freelancers, and consultants. But it's certainly new for me. Freelancers were always other people. The ones who showed up Monday morning with their rolling suitcase and their (always fancier than whatever the company had given me) computers and sat quietly in a makeshift office while they waited for a brief. We all whispered about them - who they were, why they were here, whether they were making double or triple the money we made. We were annoyed that they just trotted in to "help" us and we looked forward to watching them fail. They were, after all, an implicit declaration from our bosses that we weren't good enough.

And now I am one of them (minus the rolling suitcase). I'm a freelancer. Me.

Yep. That's me at that one lonely, forgotten desk, the one that hasn't been occupied since the layoff. It's empty except for a few leftover pens and pencils, and a dirty phone to which no one knows the extension. Mysteriously, the voicemail light is blinking. If it rings, I won't answer it either.

That's me sheepishly asking the regulars how to connect to the printer. And then asking where the darn thing is.

That's me with the annoyingly specific questions about the project timeline. I'm done on Thursday, you see, and I've got a train to catch.

That's me in the meeting that you didn't get invited to. Sorry. I just go where they tell me.

That's me using whatever software I want on my laptop because it's my laptop and no IT gestapo jerkoff is going to stop me from putting whatever software I want on my laptop. Yeah, sorry, not sure what to tell you about that annoying problem you're having with MS Word ... because I don't use MS Word anymore.

That's me, not coming in to the office on the Friday after Thursday's all-nighter because my booking is over. If you want to torture yourself, go ahead and picture me drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice off the room-service breakfast cart at my hotel. Though we both know that I'm just sleeping.

These are some of the glorious (and exaggerated) benefits of being Founder and CEO of the Oneself corporation. But there are disadvantages too, which I will list out and embellish upon, even though you already know them and the whole thing may sound a bit whiny.

So far I've been to Frankfurt and Hamburg, neither of which are Berlin, where I live. Traveling for work is fun! and exciting! ... for the first twelve seconds of the first trip. After that it's just one frantic jog to the train station or airport after another, with too much luggage in tow, and consequences for being late.

And every move I make costs me money. My money, out of my own pocket. And not only do I have to pay for my own travel, I have to book it too. You know what's more fun than booking travel? Everything, including paper cuts.

And it's easy to look at each bus ticket, train ticket, plane ticket and taxi fare as just a miniscule percentage of my awesomely high freelancing rate. (I'll take a taxi to the taxi stand! I am invincible!) But that shit adds up fast, and that awesomely high freelancing rate is half taxes. So keep your little financial feet on the ground there, fantasy boy.

And it's not just the moving that costs money: the eating does too. And the sleeping, when you think about it. Basically I walk around and hear that cash register KA-CHING! sound all day in my head. Though walking is one of the few things I can do for free. I'm working on solutions to the cash flow problem, and I'll write about them later. Until then, I guess I'll try to take the bus and eat apples from the reception desk.

Still, it's a net positive experience so far. And there's this addictive mentality to freelancing ... this ability to walk away at the end of a project, no strings attached. I limbo right under cheap office politics, and slink right around the office gossip on my way to the candy machine. Don't like my work? That's fine. Go ahead and kill all of it - I'll make more. You cannot hurt me. I am a freelancer. I'm here until one of us decides that I'm done. Now where do I send my invoice?

Six wonderful things that have happened since the last time I blogged, in no particular order:

2010-09-27T09:27:00.000+02:00

1. Moved from Hamburg to Berlin with Caroline.

2. Left Jung von Matt after almost four years and became a freelancer.

3. iPad Wifi, iPhone 4.

4. Film shoot in NY and LA.

5. Taught at Miami Ad School Hamburg.

6. Week long bicycle trip through the French Pyrenees.

Back in the saddle again.

2009-09-21T20:19:00.001+02:00

In August I officially came out of retirement... out of retirement from my nonexistent cycling career, that is. I rode in the Vattenfall Cyclassics, the "biggest bike race in Europe", held right here in Hamburg. I'm not sure which of its attributes makes it the biggest... but it's probably the number of amateur riders like me who participate in the "Everyman" category like I did. I don't know for sure, but I think there were over 15,000 participants. That's a lot of legs.

There were three distances for us wannabees: 55km, 100, and 155. I signed up for the 100k, figuring that it's only 62 miles, and I used to do that in college all the time. It would require some training - a few rides per week should do it - but I could find 62 miles in these old (hairy) legs, no problem.

Naturally, the training didn't have what one might call military-like discipline. To be fair, it rained A LOT in the months leading up to the race, way more than it should in July and August. And even when it wasn't raining, well, I still worked in advertising, which means late nights. Oh, and the riding here is a bit uninspiring, what with the lack of mountains or even hills, the endless sprawl, the bridges closed to cyclists, yadda yadda yadda. What other excuses can I make? I only had one jersey, and some evenings after work that fucker needed to be washed, and I don't mean perhaps. Can't ride without a jersey right? Right! Pass the ice cream, bitches.

Anyways, I figured out that the ride I managed to do about once per week is about 50k. In the middle are two small 2-3 minute climbs (gawd that sounds pathetic) that I could suffer on, and then turn around and do two or three more times to get that climber's body I've always dreamed about. And the thing about that is, I wasn't the only one making recursive pilgrimages to these tiny little Earth bumps - each time I rode there I'd see a bunch of dudes riding up as I rode down. Then I'd turn around at the bottom, ride back up, and pass them as they went back down. Turn around again, and repeat. And we'd smile at each other - that smile that says "Isn't this silly? I know, right?"

It felt pretty good though, and slowly I felt my condition getting better. I even had a ride or two where I felt really good - dancing on the pedals, you might say. Then it rained and work got busy, and I lost a little. But then I got back into the training rhythm again and started feeling better and then holy toe clips Batman, the ride is tomorrow!

Dirk and his friend Thomas, both Dutchies from Amsterdam, came to Hamburg to ride with me - Dirk and I went to school together, and Thomas is a friend of his. It was a perfect Sunday morning for a ride - bright and sunny and warm. And at 8:30am, the three of us non-German amateurs lined up in our starting block of 500. And what a mishmash of cyclists it was - there were groups wearing matching jerseys, and even some with matching bikes. And right next to them would be a lonely solo rider, trying to avoid eye contact with everybody, trying to stay cool, but obviously wishing he had a mate to pass the time with. There were 7000 dollar bikes and one or two 70 dollar garage-sale bikes, and everything in between. I saw carbon wheels and shaved, veiny legs... and the goofball in front of me who took at least two hundred meters to get his size 50 German tennis shoes from the eighties into hot clips and straps from the seventies. I would have given him a hand, but I didn't want to touch him - I might catch dorky.

Caroline was kind enough to escort us down there, take the jacket I decided I wouldn't need, and even wait up the road to cheer us on after we rolled out... onto the fully blocked-off roads of a professional cycling course. My friends, if you ride, you've gotta do a ride like this at least once so you can experience the awesome beauty of a car-less, pedestrian-free, roadway where all you see are bicyclists riding in the same direction. It was like flying. It was fantastic. Rolling around corners knowing there was plenty of clean road and no risk from cars was like crawling naked into a warm bed with someone you love over and over again for three hours, with a feedzone in the middle (Powerbar anyone?).

So we rode and rode down these beautiful empty roads on a perfect sunny day. There were 15,000 riders spread out on 155km of roads which is enough to always have someone to draft behind (oh those giant square-shouldered Germans!), but enough of a spread to never feel too crowded. And the second best thing to all the people on bikes were all the wonderful people on the side of the road cheering us on. How lovely of them! They yelled and whistled and spun those clackity noise maker thingies and held up signs as we huffed and puffed and hauled our fat asses all over southern Hamburg.

Fifty kilometers is where my body is used to climbing off the bike and spending the next half an hour cramming 47 pieces of toast down my throat while I have an internal argument about whether or not I should actually be taking a shower right now (Answer: HUNGRY! FUCK YOU!) But of course this time fifty kilometers was only halfway, and I certainly felt it. The second half of the ride was noticeably slower and more sedate. No more mad dashing through the streets and much less fighting for position; we went from "We're on fire!" to "Are we there yet?" It was a bit more of a slog, but still exquisite. With twenty kilometers to go, we climbed and crossed the Köhlbrand bridge, which is a tiny bit like the Golden Gate, except it's blue and a lot more modern and designy. More importantly, it's normally closed to cyclists, so it was a real treat to ride across it. Plus, going up and over it is the biggest climb in the whole route. Only in Hamburg would the King of the Mountains competition be decided on a fucking bridge.

It was a fairly epic way to finish off the ride though. From there we twisted and turned our way back into the city. I had lost touch with Dirk and Thomas - one ahead and one behind - so I rolled in in a straggling group of fifteen or so. The crowd was five deep at the barriers by the finish line, and everyone was cheering like we were in a bunch sprint on the Champs-Elysees as I crossed the line. Epic.

After a shower and some lunch, I went back to the race and checked out all the booths set up at Jungfernstieg and Rathaus Markt. I got to try electric shifting of Shimano's Di2. I tried it on a stationary trainer, and it actually wasn't shifting perfectly - the rear derailleur needed some adjustment (or perhaps some new firmware? Maybe a fresh reboot?) but it was obviously just a matter of adjustment to a system that is obviously the wave of the future. Like index shifting, integrating the shifting into the brake levers, email, twitter, and YouPorn, kids born today will one day ask us what life was like in the dark ages when dinosaurs roamed the earth and bicycles had cables that, like, moved things mechanically? OMG WTF DAD!

There were tons of other booths there too - exotic carbon bikes from Pearl and friends, and all the local bike shops, one of which had the Trek Madone I've had my eye on marked down even further. Sadly, of all the problems I encountered over the 100 kilometers - aching muscles, sore ass, tingly toes, mild oxygen debt, low blood sugar, thirst, getting passed by fat people, etc. - not one of them can be attributed to the bicycle I was riding. Which is unfortunate, because there just doesn't seem to be any justification whatsoever for for me to buy the Madone. Or one of these! Or one of these! Or this pretty titanium one! Or maybe something in stainless steel! And that's a damn shame because I so want one with its ultra lightweight carbon everything, and its more upright geometry (maybe that would soothe some of my old-man aches and pains?!), and its ten speeds (one more cog to get over the hills of Hamburg? I mean if there were any?). I'm thrilled to say that I'm so old and slow that even low-end components are plenty high enough for me, which brings nice road bikes down from catastrophically expensive, to merely stupidly expensive. Still, due to my current bank account situation, it seems that if I'm going to scratch my cycling itch, I'm going to have to do it with actual riding on a bike that is not only perfectly adequate, but still a little awesome. Pooooor me.

Karma killin'.

2008-06-22T19:35:00.000+02:00

You know what's hard? Trying to write a TV script that links Kofi Annan and a high-priced four-door luxury sedan. A link that isn't so nauseatingly advertising that I want to jump out the window. A link that kind of actually makes sense. Maybe a link that's even intelligent and meaningful. In approximately 20 seconds.

But I suppose if intelligent and meaningful were on top of my writer's priority list, I wouldn't spend my days in an ad agency trying to use an important peace maker to hock a car that will be en-vogue for a matter of months among perhaps 2% of the world's population.

No match for ________.

2008-06-21T12:14:00.001+02:00

In our bathroom, we have a bunch of matchbooks. It's an impressive and ever-evolving collection. And I'm always impressed with how many different ways there are to contain a bunch of match sticks.

But next time you find yourself in our bathroom, take a look around and notice that there isn't a single candle, pilot light, BBQ, campfire, cartoon bomb, firecracker, spliff, cigarette, crack pipe or trail of gunpowder in sight. Yes, the dearth of flammable material in our bathroom is simply undeniable.

But everyone knows why people really keep matches in the bathroom. And the thing about that is, that's not really what matches were invented for. So my question is: what percentage of these consumable tools for lighting a fire under controlled circumstances on demand are actually just used to cover up the smell of poop?

And if that percentage is as high as i think it is, how come no one has created scented matches? Like a miniature, localized scent bomb (that should probably be kept out of reach of children). If no one's ever seen that, let me know, and let's make our million.

Things I learned this past week:

2008-06-05T00:33:00.001+02:00

Sleeping on the balcony on a warm summer night is fucking fantastic. It was fresh air and the quiet of the sleeping city mixed with soft sounds from the harbor all night long, followed by bright sunshine and birds chirping in the morning. It was my favorite kind of camping - outdoors but with a full-on mattress and bathroom easily available. Go ahead an call me a pansy. It was wonderful.

And in other summer news, I bagged up my poofy winter clothes and shoved them under the bed, safely out of sight and mind. Symbolic! Satisfying! Space saving!

There's hardly any heroin in my life. We went to the park for a little pre-theater impromptu picnic in a park in a part of the city with a bit more character. As we were walking along the grass looking for a perfect spot, she (only half jokingly) said Be careful not to step on any used syringes. and I chuckled just as I turned my head to see a guy shooting up under a huge oak tree. He had the strap and the inconspicuous look and everything. I realized that I'd really only seen that sorta thing in a movie, and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad. On one hand, it's not the most pleasant reality in the world. On the other hand, it's real life baby.

Apparently I'm not an Economist reader. This makes me feel stupid. I was suprised to find the latest issue - in English! - in my local grocery store. So excited, that I tossed it in my basekt, genuinely interested in inflation and why it's back but not where I think. So far I think I've read about three pages of the thing. I just can't get excited about the world this week.

The AK-47 assault rifle has only seven moving parts. It's that simplicity combined with devastating firepower that has made it such a well recognized symbol of both revolution and terrorism around the world. I've been reading a very interesting book about the history of the AK. Maybe that's why I haven't been reading The Economist.

Having an office at work with a door I can close makes me happy and more productive. And upgrading from a eMac (single hamster) to an iBook (hamster duo) didn't hurt either. My new favorite position is: feet up on the windowsill, laptop on corner of desk just a few degrees from my center, watching the big maple tree wiggle to the wind ouside our big ol' windows, while thinking thinking thinking and writing writing writing.

I can make my own salsa, and making my own salsa makes me happy. It's delicious! I don't know why I didn't do this sooner. The thing about salsa is, you just can't get it (at least not the fresh, non-jar stuff) anywhere around Hamburg. So I looked up some recipes on the web, and found what I should of realized from the beginning: that it's just a bunch of veggies chopped up in a bowl. Duh. So I got a bunch of veggies, a bowl, and a knife, and made it happen. Here's my silly recipe, which I proudly call Salsa1 (sounds like it comes from the Mexican space program):

4 big tomatoes chopped into little pieces.
1/4 cup white onion chopped into little pieces.
1/2 cup cilantro chopped onto little pieces.
1 clove of garlic chopped into tiny pieces or mashed in garlic press.
Some spicy pepper of some sort... enough so it's spicy but not ridiculous.
Mix everything together.
Eat.

Upon further eating, I've decided that I may need to add another quarter cup of onion and one more clove of garlic. And maybe some more spicy pepper. But damn, son - that shit is good. Fresh salsa rules!

Why I must leave this country immediately.

2008-06-05T00:30:00.000+02:00

I brought my baseball glove and baseball to the picnic on Saturday, but for a while we couldn't play catch because Sergio, the only other person in Germany with a baseball glove, had to leave for a bit to go look at an apartment and the glove was in his bag. Though really it wouldn't have mattered if he left it, since he's a left, and this was an otherwise right-handed shindig. We're not prejudiced; it just worked out that way.

But then Sebastian had a brilliant brainstorm: why don't we hop on our bikes and ride down the street to the sporting goods store and buy anther glove? I expressed skepticism. It's hard to find a baseball glove in this country - I know because I've tried. Love for baseball seems to be limited to America, Japan, and a few countries in South America. I've looked around a bit, and never found a good source. Oh come on, said Sebastian. Of course they'll have them.

So we hopped on our bikes, rode through the park, out onto the street and into downtown. Weaving with precision between mere pedestrians, from street to street to the bike rack, we locked our bikes with the clink-clank efficiency of a machine. I began to feel optimisic. My search before had been lazy at best. And we were going to a real sporting goods store. This would be easy. We were unstoppable! We entered the mall and bounded down the escalator into the underground store. All the signs of success were there. Racks of Gore-tex, shelves of shoes, balls of all shapes and sizes. This is going to be brilliant, I thought. In a total of ten minutes, we will have acquired a second glove and a beautiful game of catch will ensue. And in the corner, on the bottom of the rack, I saw the baseball gloves.

Kneeling down towards our prize, I could already deduce that these were not the finest gloves in the world, but that their reasonable price (a mere 17 euros!), decent construction, and lack of baseball experience amongst my compatriots would ensure that one of these gloves would fit the bill nicely. It was perfect. I extended my eager hand. But there was something wrong that caused me to pull it back. Some disturbance in the force. A million voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. This was a left-handed glove. And so was the next one. And the next. They were all left-handed gloves! I was kneeling in front of what could possibly be every single baseball glove in the country, and they were all lefties. How could this be?

For those of you who don't know because you are with the terrorists, the thing about baseball gloves is that you wear them on your non-dominant hand. So if you're right-handed like me and most of the world, you put your oh-so-non-symmetrical baseball glove on your left hand, and you throw with your right. If you're left-handed, you can't just strap on a standard baseball glove; you need a left-handed glove that goes on your right hand. I know, I know, it's confusing daddy. But this is just the way it is and always has been. My right-handed glove goes on my left hand. My brother's left-handed glove would go on his right hand if he were a bad-ass catch-playing motherfucker like myself*. But of course, since like 99.99 percent of the population is right-handed, it's really hard to find a left-handed glove (or a suitable chair/desk combination when it's time to take smeary notes in class). If this had been Larry's Left-Handed Sporting Goods Store, I wouldn't have been so shocked. But it wasn't.

As I uttered expletives, as the shock set in, Sebastian started off to find someone to help us. But of course the store was suddenly devoid of help. He found one tall guy standing next to the information counter and dove in, asking for "baseball handschuhe**" I don't sprechen, so I don't know for sure, but it seems like the conversation went something like this:

Sebastian: Excuse me, do you guys have baseball gloves?

Salesguy: No.

Sebastian: Oh. Well, we found some over there, but they're all for left handers.

Salesguy: Oh. Well, those are all we have then.

Sebastian and I looked at each other. This was a rather unsatisfying bit of dialogue coming from a guy I wasn't sure we could trust. He lacked a certain dedication; his pasty white skin and oddly baggy sweatshirt betrayed any sporting confidence he may have had. He wasn't exactly what I would call athletic. And I'm pretty sure he rolled his eyes when Sebastian said the word 'baseball'. Attitude! In fact, neither of us were sure if homeboy actually worked at the store.

This just can't be, I told Sebastian. Do you know how hard it would be to find FOUR left handed gloves in The States? And this place has ONLY THOSE FOUR! What we needed was some knowledgeable in-store guidance, and pronto. So we hightailed it over to an older woman with bifocal glasses, a price scanning gun, standing behind a cash register. She looked at us and her eyes said BRING IT ON BITCHES! So Sebastian asked about the baseball handschuhe. She tilted her head back slowly, letting the challenge sink in, no doubt considering her options. This was our girl. She grabbed the phone and sprechened the Deutsch, machine gun style to whoever was on the other end of the line. Ten seconds later, she hung up and told us to meet a guy right over there who could save us. She found us a guy. Our guy. I wanted to kiss her on the mouth. I refrained.

Unfortunately, this guy was no better than the first. Short and pudgy, with facial hair that was trying way too hard, he looked like the kind of guy who would tell you all about the latest carbon fiber cycling accessories, but then smoke a cigarette while he rides. I would guess he was about sixteen and has never seen the world outside of the tiny German village he came from, and the utopian embrace of Hamburg. And he most certainly didn't know a damn thing about baseball, or helping customers for that matter. We stepped onto the mound with questions and needs, he saddled up to the plate like an overweight catcher with a hang over and an impending divorce.

Sebastian: We're looking for baseball gloves.

Pudgy: Yeah, right over here.

The Pudgster waltzed over to the four lefties, and slid one on his right hand.

Sebastian: Yes. But those are all left-handed gloves.

Pudgy (looking at the glove on his right hand, and then at us like we were the idiots): No. Look. Right hand.

Waterboarding is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. This was torture.

Sebastian: No, look, it says here on the tag that it's a left-handed glove.

Pudgy: That tag must be wrong.

I'm not making this up. If there were guns in Germany, I would have gone on a shooting spree. I tried to explain.

Me: No, see, if you're right-handed like me, you wear the glove on the left hand, and throw with your right.

I mimed the CATCHING and the THROWING. Pudgy looked at me. He looked at the glove. He took the left-handed glove off his right hand and tried, like a monkey with a rubiks cube, to put it on his right. Obviously, it wouldn't work. I wondered if he was going to stand there (slouch, really) and tell the American how a baseball glove works. Fortunately for all of us, he changed his strategy.

Pudgy: We don't have it then.

Yeah, thanks for the update genius.

Salesguy Number One had recommended another store to try, so with our proverbial tails between our actual legs, Sebastian and I walked back out into the world, without a whole lot of optimism. The second store was fancier than the first, but yielded nothing. We looked around ourselves, found nothing, and then asked a sales guy. Before Sebastian got to the second l in baseball, the guy was already shaking his head with a smirk.

I'm sure that when a young Ghandi first stepped (bare) foot onto western soil, at some point there was a moment where he realized that it just wasn't the place where he belonged (what tasteless advertising asshole blogger compares himself to Ghandi, even as a joke? This one, apparently). I dare say I have a decent understanding of how he must have felt in that moment. I have lots and lots of love in my heart for Deutschland, but there's this feeling I get every time I have to explain why I don't like beer. Or what the word 'douchebag' means. Or how a baseball glove works.

* He doesn't play catch, but he has other bad-ass motherfucking qualities, BELIEVE YOU ME.

** That's right the word for 'glove' literally translates into 'hand shoe'

Summer singlespeed update.

2008-05-25T11:34:00.001+02:00

tubes
tires
those anti-flat-tire-strip things that go between the tire and tube (I put some on my Bergamont commuter a year ago, and haven't gotten a flat tire since - totally rad!)

Purchased and installed! I bought Continental 26" slicks and a thing of baby powder to make everything slide together and stay dry. In my (limited, wimpy) experience, it really is the secret weapon when it comes to tires and tubes as it is the original "dry lubricant". Only problem is my roommate Birgit is going to think I'm slinging cocaine since I'm tracking fine white powder all over the apartment.

fork
headset
stem

On order. Or at least the fork is, and the nice guy at the bike shop down the street said he had to order the fork and that the stem and headset are always in stock. I got to choose the color - matte black - and it'll be the correct length for a frame built for suspension. It'll have V brake mounts. Yay! It'll be here in two weeks. Boo!

The rest of the list is looking a lot more manageable since Ricardo sent me a link to Singlespeedshop. Holy crap, they've got everything! All I need to do now is learn the German terms for all the bike parts.

Gabeln = forks
Ketten = chains
Kurbel = crank
Innenlager = bottom bracket
Lenker = bar
Naben = hubs
Ritzel = cog
Steuersätze = headset
Vorbauten = stem
Zubehör = accessories

At the moment I'm filling my spare time up by looking for a crank/chain/cog combo. But I'm having trouble figuring out what width bottom bracket axle will create a proper (whereby 'proper' I mean 'straight') chainline. There seem to be hardly any options are a bunch of options - from 100 to 130mm - and I'll have to get the right one the first time since, there isn't any room for adjustment in this setup.

And once I get the bottom bracket, I add the crank, and who knows where it's going to put the chainring in relation to the chainline? I'm skeered!

The bikes of summer.

2008-05-24T13:07:00.001+02:00

MikeAndTiff have a garage full of bike parts and lots of love in their hearts, so when they heard me waxing economical about my difficulty in finding a single speed bicycle that is both super cool and reasonably priced, they offered to donate a frame, wheel set, and more to the Dan P Mobility Fund. So as I type this, my new-to-me, well-loved Santa Cruz Chameleon frame and a pile of parts are hanging out behind me, waiting to become a part of something a little more meaningful.

I'd like to state for the record that this is exactly the right way to add a single speed slash fixie bicycle to one's stable. Since this style of bicycle is so incredibly popular right now (man, who could have seen that coming?) it's getting harder and harder to build one out of used parts, and easier and easier to buy a brand new one from a big bike company. And there's certainly nothing wrong with the latter option - I considered it myself. In fact Kona nearly took 600 of my euros to the bank in exchange for a copy of their Paddy Wagon. I went as far as scheduling a test ride and waiting around the bike shop on a busy Friday evening for someone to help me get it out onto the sidewalk. I left my wallet as collateral, and took to the sidewalk. But it just didn't feel right.

It's a very nice package, the Paddy Wagon. It looks good and rides solidly. I'd switch the drops for a set of narrow flat bars, get it fitting right with the right stem and saddle, add some mounts lights, and ride it all summer long. But there was something missing.

And something is character. A bike you buy at a shop is delicious and filling, but it would take months for it to be as satisfying as something I've built up myself from a combination of old parts from my closet, old parts from MikeaAndTiff's garage, and the shiny new ones I'll buy myself. It's the difference between baking from a box and baking from scratch.

Anyways, parts not in that pile that I'll be purchasing in the weeks to come include the following:

fork
headset
stem

tubes
tires
those anti-flat-tire-strip things that go between the tire and tube (I put some on my Bergamont commuter a year ago, and haven't gotten a flat tire since - totally rad!)

saddle
seat post

crank
bottom bracket
chain
cog
pedals

brake pads
cable and housing for front brake

(Man, I didn't realize how many bike parts there are on a bike until I started building one up piece by piece)

Since I'm a girl on a budget, I can't buy everything all at once. So I organized the parts into groups so I can do the purchasing in phases. I figure the first thing I need to do is take the frame to a bike shop so they can figure out what (rigid, inexpensive) fork is best for the geometry, and then I'll just buy the front end stuff, and have them install the headset cups. I'll put stuff together and bring the frame back home. Then it'll just be one group of stuff at a time until I can ride that mofo home.

The thing about building bikes is you need special tools - a press for the headset cups, wrench for the bottom bracket, chain thing for the chain, others that I can't think of because I've never really done this before. I have to figure out which of those tools are worth buying based on how often I plan on building up a bike. Good tools are pretty expensive of course... and once I get the tires and tubes on the wheels, it'll be easy to just roll the thing back and forth between home and the bike shop. So for the moment, I think I'll just wimp out and have the shop do it for me. Then again, self sufficiency is a virtue. Then again, a pile of heavy single purpose tools may conflict with my somewhat nomadic lifestyle.

Anyways, the only time I really get to hang out at bike shops is on Saturdays. If I can tackle one group each Saturday, then it should take about five weeks to put the whole thing together. Then again, my experience with the local bike shops in Hamburg is that they never have what I want, but are happy to order it for me and call me when it arrives in a week or so. So this may take a while. But no matter - I've got a (mostly) working bike to ride around in the meantime, and it'll be fun to watch the little dude grow into an adult bicycle with some pizzaz as the weeks go on. Exciting!

Now that Spring has sprung.

2008-05-24T12:31:00.000+02:00

Slept until nine this morning, woke up to blue sky, sunshine, and stillness. Opened up all the windows in the apartment. Made a perfect cup of coffee, made brownies for the picnic that we're having this afternoon. Sergio said bring your baseball glove to the park. You can be sure I will. Listening to music.

Had a solidly good first week at the new job. Starting to think that maybe things really are okay. Maybe I'm the only one with control over my mood, my destiny. And maybe...

just maybe...

I'm

(gasp!)

happy.

(and that sunshine sure does help)

Decisions, decisions...

2008-05-20T12:00:00.000+02:00

A few months ago my friend Caroline convinced me that one should always take a day off from work on one's birthday. It didn't take much convincing... in fact all it took was a simple demonstration.

So here I am sitting in my room in my pajamas with my feet up on this, my day of birth. It's Tuesday, and the sun is shining in Hamburg. The sky is blue, there's a cool breeze blowing, and I have the whole day ahead of me. What am I going to do with it?

I'm writing and re-writing a list in my head of possibilities and desires; there are a few things that keep popping up consistently: do a little writing (check!) go outside, and buy something fun for myself. As long as I go shopping in the real world and not online, the outside part will be taken care of, so that leaves me with this question: what should I buy?

Top of the list is a PlayStation 3. Tom came to visit and we drove to the Nürburgring and got a ride around the track, and ever since, the car guy in me has been jumping up and down in my brain trying to get me to play with him. Seated in that black 911 GT3, hugged by six point harnesses and watching german forest fly past me at great speed, I began to form a plan that would enable me to drive the track and feel good about it. The plan goes like this:

1. Buy a PlayStation 3 and Gran Turismo.
2. Pick a weekend several months into the future, book a rental race car and a spot in the BMW Ring Taxi.
3. Drive the virtual Nordschleife over and over again until I have it memorized.
4. Go to Nürburgring and drive the rented race car on it, feel like a god, and fulfill a life-long dream.

The good news is that Saturn, the Circuit City of Deutschland, sells the PS3 and Gran Turismo 5 Prologue as a package! But there's a bunch of bad news:

* That's the prologue, not the complete game, which won't be out for a few months.
* The prologue doesn't have the Nürburgring. GT5 will have it, but no one seems to know when GT5 will be released
* It's 399 euros. That's a lot!

Still, one look at the videos of GT5P is nearly enough to convince me to shower up and head on down to Saturn RIGHT NOW. Oops, I just watched video that opens the GT5P site, and now I'm thinking of skipping the SHOWER. Could there be a more perfect birthday present for a 32 year old kid to buy himself? Maybe I'll just ride my bike over to Saturn and check it out... maybe I'll bring my big shoulder bag just in case...

A day of firsts.

2008-05-15T06:59:00.001+02:00

Today is the first day I've made coffee on my own in quite some time. And the first time in a long time may not TECHNICALLY be a first, but it's been long enough that I'm sitting here thinking damn, I should have done this years ago even though TECHNICALLY it's only been weeks. Sometimes everything is a matter of technicalities, I suppose.

What happened weeks ago that made me make coffee was this: Tom came to visit me, and in doing so became the first person in the friend, non-family-member category to come see me in Deutschland. And we had a great old time. Okay, so maybe he didn't come just to see me, maybe he really just came to pick up his brand new, silver, four-door, BMW 335i (see? technicalities!)... but he drove it to my house and we hung out for four days, which was totally rad. We went to the Nürburgring via the autobahn, which was also totally rad.

Tom gets major points not only for the quality of his purchase (that's a pretty sweet ride), but also for understanding that even though my friend from a hundred years ago was in town and sleeping on my futon (technically, it's my roommate's futon; NOTE TO SELF: buy Birgit flowers), a brother still has to go to work every day. Indeed, if I had asked JvM for a few more days off in what is already major vacation time, no doubt they would have offered a few days + the rest of my career, you slacker lame-ass. So GO TOM for a) understanding and b) entertaining yourself while I was doing the work thing.

The other first (I've already finished the coffee; it was fantastic, and in a very small glass, which is probably for the best) is this: I'm starting work at a new group within JvM today. After a year-and-a-half or so in one unit, it's time for a change of scenery. The new group differs from the old group in many ways, including the following:

1. it's way bigger. Like 80 people instead of 15.

2. It's way more German. As in they sprechen the Deutsch all the time, as opposed to just when arguing during meetings (which I understand... it's way easier to argue in your native tongue). Obviously, this is going to be quite challenging. In fact it may not work at all.

3. It's way more machine like. Meaning they pump out work like some sort of caffeinated, 24-hour advertising factory as opposed to the lazy/crazy/lazy/crazy up-and-down-ness of my old spot. Peek under the hood of this machine, and you'll see lots of internal competition, high revs, and lots of pressure. And the occasional flame-spitting backfire.

So this is why I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night, which is why my little eyeballs popped open around 6am, which is why I had plenty of time to make coffee, and contemplate this day of firsts. So much has been going on with me lately* - trip to Italy, Ritter Sport Challenge, VIP passes to the German Touring Car Championship at Hockenheim, Tom's visit, two weeks in America, Spring finally springing, etc. - that it would be easy for this coffee thing to slip under the radar. But after a few weeks of GO GO GO, it's time to for a little home-made coffee and contemplation. Technically speaking, it's exactly what I need.

* I plan to blog on all of this**.

** Promise***.

*** No, really.

Ritter Sport Review #4

2008-04-20T07:57:00.000+02:00

Flavor:

Marc de Champagne (Milk chocolate with champagne filling)

Sweetness: 0 out of 5

Yuck! Gross! Blech! I practically spit this one out the moment I opened the package (dramatic!). I don't really like alcohol flavor in chocolate, and I don't like champagne at all. So I suppose you could say that my relationship with this chocolate bar was doomed from the start. Nevertheless, I popped a square into my talking hole as a conciliatory gesture; an effort to preempt any ill-will between me and this chocolate. What a mistake. I should have tossed it out the window. The aroma is BAD, the flavor is BAD, the aftertaste is BAD. The chocolate is okay, but the filling is awful, and the whole thing is so sharply sweet it was like chewing on tacks. And there must be a lot of alcohol in there because it does that thing that alcohol does - it wafts up into your sinus cavity and stings. Bah! Fuck you Marc de Champagne!

Texture: 4 out of 5

Okay, so despite the fact that this bar is basically disgusting, I can't fault it's texture too much. The milk chocolate is soft, but not too soft. The champagne filling is a little too soft (boo) but at least it's not liquid (yay!). Liquid _whatever_ in chocolate usually bugs the crap out of me. So given all that, I'm bestowing upon this bar four points for texture. It should probably be three, but I'm feeling a little guilty since there are so many zeroes surrounding the four..

Devourability: 0 out of 5

I didn't even finish this one. I think I had two squares. Ew.

Frequency: 0 out of 5

Yeah.

Overall: 4 out of 20, but only because I'm a nice guy.

Ritter Sport Review #3

2008-04-18T18:14:00.001+02:00

Flavor:

Pfefferminz (Dark chocolate with peppermint filling)

FULL DISCLOSURE: This is already one of my favorites.

Sweetness: 4 out of 5

Hot damn! The combination of dark chocolate and perfect peppermint delecticality makes for a near-perfect balance of sweetness. If I at too many squares at once, it would probably be too sweet; but one at a time, and it's like little squares of heaven.

Texture: 5 out of 5

The chocolate has exactly the right bite, and the peppermint is smooth as hell. It's minty perfection. It's refreshment times sixteen. I want to fuck this chocolate bar.

Devourability: 4 out of 5

Yep, this one didn't last too long, though like i said above, I can't eat it too fast. But that's really more of a beauty mark than a mole.

Frequency: 5 out of 5

I could eat this every day until the end of time, if only because it makes my pee smell like peppermint. Seriously.

Overall: 18 out of 20

Ritter Sport Review #2

2008-04-09T11:43:00.001+02:00

Flavor:

Erdbeer Joghurt (milk chocolate with strawberry yogurt filling)

Sweetness: 3 out of 5

Wow, this mofo is sweet. The chocolate is sweet, the fruity filling is sweet, it's all just a tornado of sweetness stabbing me in the throat. Not as obnoxious as some cheap POS chocolate bar, but too sweet for me.

Texture: 4 out of 5

The chocolate is creamy, the yogurt is creamy, and the crispies are crispy. Crispies? Yes. What I thought were little rice crispies are in fact, according to Ricardo, who always seems to know about these kinds of things, dried strawberries. Clever! And a delightfully contrasty addition. I like. The whole thing feels light and Spring-y... though ironically, it's not part of the Spring collection.

Devourability: 2 out of 5

It's tasty, but a little too sweet for me to want to shove the whole thing in my gullet all at once. This one needs to be enjoyed in small bits over time.

Frequency: 1 out of 5

You know what doesn't belong in chocolate? Fruit. Here, they've done a nice job of putting together two things that don't go together... but still. No.

Overall: 10 out of 20

Yeah, this was a fun little trip into girly chocolate territory. But I'm ready to take off the dress and have a Halbbitter.

Ritter Sport Review #1!

2008-04-09T10:36:00.001+02:00

Flavor:

Mandelsplitter Bio (milk chocolate with chopped almonds, organic)

Sweetness: 4 out of 5

I'm really a dark chocolate guy, but I dig Ritter Sport's milk chocolate because it's not too sugary sweet (like Milka) and it tastes like real chocolate, and not like chocolate's plasticky cousin from LA who visits for the weekend to mess up your apartment and do drugs on your coffee table (like Hershey). So I'll give it a good sweetness rating because for milk chocolate, it's the right level of sweetocity.

Texture: 2 out of 5

This bugged me - the almonds are chopped too fine, and there are too many of them. Too many almonds! It was like having a mouth full of ground up wood (I've always found the almond to be the woodiest of nuts). The chocolate texture was perfect, though. Like I said, Ritter Sport does milk good.

Devourability: 3.5 out of 5

Despite the texture issues, once I started I couldn't stop. Maybe it's the mix of salty (the almonds, of course) and sweet (the chocolate, duh) that kept my fingers in a strict back and forth pattern. My half bar only lasted as long as it takes to walk from my office, downstairs, across the street, and up the elevator. About four minutes, I think.

Frequency: 2 out of 5

Yeah, I'm not going to be buying this one too often. Or ever, I think. But if you have one, I'll take a square or two. Thanks in advance!

Overall: 11.5 out of 20

I liked it, but it didn't change my life. It had a one thing going against it from the very beginning - that it's milk chocolate instead of dark. And adding almonds and making the whole thing organic just couldn't overcome that hurdle.

And here's a link to Shelley's review.

The Great Rittersport Challenge of 2008

2008-04-07T10:05:00.000+02:00

I'm pleased to announce that both Shelley (fellow former MAS'er, current co-worker, long-time bad-ass) and I have decided to join together and take our love for all things sweet, more specifically our addiction to chocolate (the first step is admitting it to yourself), to the next level. Starting today (Monday), we are embarking upon our very own Ritter Sport Challenge. The goal (if you could really call it a goal) is to eat one Ritter Sport candy bar a day until we've tasted allannals the Ritter Sports that Ritter Sport currently offers. It's an undertaking that we're willing to... er... undertake because we love you, dear reader, and we want you to know what all the flavors are, if only vicariously through us. You're welcome.

But we're not just going to try each one, we're going to keep track so that each flavor will be properly (ha!) documented and entered into the annuls of human history as is befitting of such a righteous candy bar. Which is a fancy way of saying that I'm going to use this as an excuse to blog, and Shelley's going to sketch stuff with her superfly illustration skillz.

So if we're going to rate each bar, we need some sort of criteria, right? Right! We'll rate each one with the following criteria:

Sweetness. Is it sugary and sweet like someone from San Diego, or is it dark and bitter like a JvM employee?

Texture. What does the chocolate feel like in your mouth? How does it 'bite' and how does it melt? is it gooey or crunchy or both? And more importantly, do you like it that way?

Devourablility. Are you satisfied with a little nip every now and then? Or do you want to cram that motherfucker in your mouth as fast as possible?

Frequency. Is this the kinda thing you're going to eat everyday? Or is this a once-in-a-while, just-because-it's-Tuedsay sorta thing?

So each day, we'll try a flavor, write down what we think rate it with the criteria, and post it. In the end, we'll have something approaching a complete review of the entire Ritter Sport product line, which I think we can all agree has been needed for some time now.

And since this is a web-based endeavor, I've created a FAQ for your viewing pleasure; partly to answer any questions ya'll might have, and partly because I just think it's funny to have a FAQ containing questions that no one has actually asked; I just made them up completely. Irony alert!

FAQ:

So, you're just doing this so you can eat chocolate everyday and not feel bad about it right?

Yes. That and both Shelley and I share a genuine desire to taste all the different flavors RRitter Sport has to offer so that when we're with friends in the grocery store, and they ask if we've tried this flavor or that, we can say "Yeah, sure, I've tried that one" and dismiss it like some super hipster chocolate god.

Are the flavors really that different?

We're gonna find out. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, with/out nuts, fruity, alcoholly... there's a lot of flavors. And each package is a different color. Pretty!

Come on Dan, we all know you eat one Ritter Sport per day. Haven't you had all the flavors by now?

It's true, I eat them all the time. But I'm not just a gluttonous pig - I'm also a creature of habit. That means I've really only sampled a few flavors often enough to really form an opinion about them - Marzipan, Halbitter, Edel Bitter, Mousse au Chocolat, Pfefferminz are the ones I eat all the time. The rest are like Ringo Starr songs: I have an idea of what they'll be like, but I'm pretty sure I won't like them.

Well, how many flavors are there?

33! That's a lot!

Okay, we ordered (from Ritter Sports fab website http://Ritter Sport.de/) the Kennenlern-Paket (the "get acquainted package") which comes with the 19 standard flavors...

Voll Erdnuss (milk chocolate with whole peanuts)
Knusperflakes (milk chocolate with cornflakes)
Weisse Voll-Nuss (white chocolate with whole nuts)
Cappucino (milk chocolate with coffee flavor filling)
Voll-Nuss (milk chocolate with hazelnuts)
Knusperkeks (milk chocolate with caramel and a cookie)
Trauben Nuss (not sure what this one is)
Dunkel Voll-Nuss (dark chocolate with hazelnuts)
Halbbitter (bittersweet)
Rum Trauben Nuss (rum chocolate with nuts and raisins)
Marzipan (dark chocolate with marzipan filling)
Erdbeer Joghurt (milk chocolate with strawberry yogurt filling)
Edel-Bitter (dark chocolate - 71%)
Nugat (milk chocolate with nougat filling)
Vollmilch (whole milk milk chocoate)
Aplenmilch (milk chocolate made with milk from the Alps?)
Pfefferminz (dark chocolate with peppermint filling)
Dunkle Vollmilch (dark and milk chocolate)
Ganze Mandel (milk chocolate with almonds)
a la Mousse au Chocolat (dark chocolate with mousse filling)
Cocos (milk chocolate with coconut filling)
Joghurt (milk chocolate with plain yogurt filling)

Plus, there's the Frühlingssorten (the Spring assortment), which we're going to have to buy on our own.

Marc de Champagne Trüffel (champagne truffle)
Eierlikör Trüffel (egg nog truffle)
Ramazzoti Trüffel (Ramazzoti truffle)

And then there's the Diät (diet, of course) flavors, which we'll reluctantly try, and sneer at because if we were into this half-hearted lightweight low impact diet bullshit we probably wouldn't be doing this whole shindig in the first place.

Diät Vollmilch (milk chocolate)
Diät Nugat (milk chocolate with nougat)
Diät Joghurt (milk chocolate with plain yogurt)
Diät Halbbiter (dark chocolate)

Last but not least is the Bio selection. This is a recent addition to the Ritter Sport selection. "Bio" is German for organic and fair trade, so these are the Earth-friendly Ritter Sports, I suppose. Curiously, the bars are smaller (65g instead of 100g), and even curiously-er, Shelley seems to think that the Bio bars and the Diät bars are the same. Not so! New group. And here they are:

Mandelsplitter (milk chocolate and almonds)
Vollmilch (whole milk)
Trauben Cashew (still don't know)
Feinherb (dark chocolate)

So that's it for now! I look forward to posting a fresh new Ritter Sport review soon. Delicious!

344 words on why my new-to-me Porsche jacket is awesome.

2008-01-06T16:17:00.000+01:00

As part of her never-ending quest to get rid of everything, mom gave me one of dad's old jackets. It's this totally awesome black, lightweight, poofy, wind-proof jacket with a fake fur collar, multi-colored piping, and a Porsche patch. The reasons I love this jacket are as follows:

1. It's actually really vintage, and I know this is true.

You know how you go into the vintage clothing store and you see all these clothes that you love because you think they're from a different era, and have had a life leading up to the day you find them? Well, how do you know this is true? Call me paranoid, but since the vintage crazy began, I've had an image in my head of devious shop owners buying new clothes that have been made to look old, roughing them up, adding a few patches, and jacking up the price. And even if that's not true*, what is true is that you don't know the history or even if there is a history. The elbow patch on that intriguingly worn army-issue jacket may be covering a hole that developed from frequent masturbation to "mature" porn. WELL, there are no such shenanigans here! This here is a genuine 80's-style jacket from the actual 80s. Dad bought it and wore it for twenty years.

2. The fucking fat/phat fake fur collar is both fun and functional.

Looks great, keeps my neck warm, feels oh-so-nice against my soft and girly skin. And no cute n' furry animals died in the making.

3. Porsches are rad cars.

This is indisputable.

I wore it for the first time today; it kept me toasty warm all the way to the Knuth Cafe & Bar where I am currently sitting. I didn't see any other jackets like this one on the walk over... having an un-trendy father is most certainly a blessing.

* or perhaps I should say even though this notion is completely ridiculous

Further proof that any publicity is good publicity.

2008-01-06T12:10:00.001+01:00

Attendance up at San Francisco Zoo following fatal tiger attack

What do you want to bet that the whole thing was just a pre-planned (if ironically-named) exercise in guerilla advertising put on by some outside-the-box-thinking newbies at a local ad school? Hey, whatever it takes to tip that point.

The ex-pat conundrum.

2008-01-06T08:52:00.000+01:00

Jeez-louise, it's been forever since I've written in this blog. I blame work - the last three months of 2007 were relentless - but I'm back to a more normal way of life now. At least until things at work pick up again.

I was home in California for the last two weeks of December. How was it? It was exactly like you think it was - cold, but way less cold than Germany. Blue skies. Old friends. Family. Christmas presents. Too much eating. It was great, except maybe for one small thing - enough has changed back home that it doesn't quiiiiiiiiite feel like home anymore. And Hamburg is great, but it's never like home home. So I find myself hip-deep in the ex-pat conundrum. A (hopefully temporary) state of inbetweenity.

<patronizing speech written in third-person where when I say "you" of course I really mean "me">
See, when you leave your home town/city/state/country to see the world, you do it with the idea that home will always be there for you to return to when you get sick of expanding your horizons. But what you forget is that home will continue to evolve and change while you're gone. The longer you're gone, the more it changes. It'll never change so much that you can't go back. But it'll change just enough so that you're not 100% sure you belong.

And what you didn't realize is that as you explore, you'll meet new people, do new things, discover new interests, and forge new relationships out there in the world. All this stuff - good and bad - installs itself in your experience, and you change a little bit too. Not enough that you no longer fit into your old home; but enough that it feels a little less like home. Which is an oddly uncomfortable feeling similar to having a small rock in your shoe that you can't seem to isolate no matter how you jiggle your feet or wiggle your toes.

And as you build a new existence in your new place, it starts to feel more and more like home, but it will never feel like home because a) the percentage of your life you've spent there is tiny, and b) you still have one metaphorical foot in your native land.

So you find yourself in between two states of being. And you wonder if it'll always be this way. And that makes you kind of sad.
</patronizing speech written in third-person where when I say "you" of course I really mean "me">

And I know all this is true because I've talked to at least one other person, and she confirmed it. Though she sort of followed up by saying "you can be happy anywhere." Well that may be true. But it doesn't mean anywhere can feel like home.

Mom makes an interesting point.

2007-10-26T17:12:00.001+02:00

I was chatting with my mom this afternoon (3:45pm here = 6:45am there... they're early risers) and she pointed out the following:

just one very important thought............did you realize that you are the age now that i was when your were born?

I don't know what that means. But it's kinda freaking my shit out.

Things I learned at Art Forum Berlin.

2007-10-06T22:20:00.000+02:00

Here is a short list of things I learned while visiting Art Forum in Berlin on Wednesday:

That, sir, is a ridiculous hat.

You can put feet on anything, and I'll think of it as human.

I don't like video art exhibits. Ever.I just can't take them seriously. Every single one has that jumpy, grainy, black and white footage of pouty women and/or men dancing or staring off into space or both, with no discernible plot or point. And we all watch, in those stupid square rooms painted all black, sitting on those hard block benches, with our chins resting on our knuckles, brows furrowed, nodding slightly, pretending to be interested while desperately hoping to see the word "Fin" or some tits. Ridiculous.

I like big versions of small things. You can take anything - coffee cups, thimbles, a sweater - and make it really really big, and I think it's art. And awesome. The gigantic Fiat 500 at the Frankfurt auto show was the ginchiest. And there's this big ol' Nokia cell phone used as an ad outside a cell phone shop 'tween my house and the office, and if it would fit in my bag, I'd totally steel that shiz. And outside of a lot of ice cream shops here in Hamburg are GIGANTIC plastic ice cream cones with three colorful scoops on top. I'm such a sucker for those things.

That's what I've been saying all along!

2007-10-06T18:29:00.000+02:00

Yeah! Finally, someone with more power and influence than me (well, any power and influence is more like it) is doing something about the disgustipating mess that is the Heathrow airport. I had to travel through that hell hole on British Airways several times in the last few years, and it was always a major pain in the arse - long bus rides, followed by long walks to long lines. And if I remember correctly, you have to go through security twice. Double your pleasure. If your plane is more than ten seconds late, you're sure to miss your connection.

It's bad, bad, bad. So what did they do?They installed signs that say "If you get mad and yell at one of our employees, we'll throw your ass in the slammer. So keep your mouth shut and suffer, bitch."

Or something like that.

We're all White Trash.

2007-10-03T11:56:00.000+02:00

Met up with Jens and Eric and friends last night at a grrrrrrreat bar/restaurant called White Trash Fast Food. Its run by a bunch of Brits and Americans, and it's the kind of place that really makes an expat feel at home. Everyone spoke English effortlessly, the place was decorated ceiling to floor with a mix of kitschy and satanic, and the menu was hilarious - Fuck You Fries, The Fuck You Cheeseburger, and something about the tortilla chips being free, "unless you're a cunt", in which case they're ten Euros. Oh you cheeky Brits! All that, and the outstanding quality of the cheeseburger I ate (bacon motherfuckers!) make me want to move to Berlin immediately.

How international is this city? Just look at our table: one American, one Norwegian, one Swede, two Swiss, three Germans (one half Egyptian) and a lovely Dane. It would have been four Germans when Eric's girlfriend arrived, but instead of coming inside to eat, drink, and be marry, she stayed outside so they could argue and fight about whatever. Ah well. I didn't see Eric afterward, but I heard that he looked as if he'd been beaten by Somalian solders and dragged through the city.

Eric and Jens used to work where I work now, so we had a nice long bitch session, followed by compare and contrast, and perhaps best summarized by this thought: no matter where you go, no matter where you work, some people will be complete and utter morons. So make the best of it and keep smiling. Very philosophical. And then everyone got really hammered.

And to top it all off, today is German Reunification day - the Fourth of July for Germany - and a day off. Yes! And I poked my head out of the window to verify that indeed, the sun is shining and all is well with the world. I'm going to meet some folks from the JvM Berlin office and check out this big fat (and by the looks of the website, pink) contemporary art show extravaganza that I think is taking place near my hotel.

I think I'm turning German.

2007-10-01T10:47:00.000+02:00

I'm on a train to Berlin right now - it's the third time in just over a week that I've gone someplace far away by train. The first time was Frankfurt for the car show, and the second time was the following Monday morning when I went to Berlin the first time.

But the most JvM thing ever happened on that trip. Friday evening I got word that I was going to Berlin on Monday because the Berlin office needed an English speaking writer (that's me). So we panicked a bit, then figured out tickets and times and places, and then I went to Frankfurt for the car show. Monday morning I would meet Sebastian, account planner extraordinaire, at the train station and we would head to Berlin together. He'd do the briefing, and I'd stay and work for the week.

We met at Central Station at 7:45am, got our tickets and sat down (more on the sitting down part in a minute). The Hamburg to Berlin express train does it's thing in an hour and forty five minutes. And half way through, as Sebastian was telling me all about the brief, he got a phone call. The trip was cancelled, the meeting was cancelled, me working there all week long was cancelled, all as we hurtled towards Berlin at 250 km/h. Apparently they were busy with something, don't come in, we have no time for you, go back home, thanks anyways, bye.

The thing about an express train is, it doesn't stop. So we went to Berlin. I was all for taking a few hours off and having a fun day (they've got a zoo!) but Sebastian really needed to get back to the office and get some work done. We asked information when the next train back to Hamburg was. There was a train leaving in ten minutes, but we decided that that would be absurd. So we signed up for the train fifteen minutes after that. So last week I was in Berlin for twenty six minutes. And had a meeting at over 200 km/h.

Anyways, the whole point of this is that I think I'm turning German. As I walked down the aisle of the train looking for my seat this morning, it occurred to me that on the last two trips I took, both times we had reserved seats, but we didn't sit in them. And that for a few seconds each time, it really got my goat.

See, the deal is that when you book a train ticket, reserving a seat is optional, and like two Euros extra. Then you board the train and each pair of seats has a little digital display above them. If the label says something like "Hamburg-Berlin", that means it's reserved from Hamburg to Berlin. If the label is blank, the seat is free and anyone can sit there. On an early morning (yaaaaaaaaawn) train like the ones I've been taking (cheap!), there are always plenty of seats free. But on a busy every-body-commutes-home-at-that-time train it's a good idea to reserve a seat so you don't end up sitting in the aisle. So I always book a seat, because it's practically free, and I like the peace of mind, and fuck it, the company is paying. And when I train it all by my lonesome, I dutifully find my reserved seat, and I sit in it because that's the way it works, right?

Well, apparently not. The last two times I've been on early trains with Germans (okay, Julia is Austrian, but close enough), we've boarded the train and then the German says "Oh whatever, let's just sit here" all willy nilly like. WELL! How un-German is that? Both Julia and Sebastian are perfectly respectable people, so this came right outta left field. Up is down and soft is prickly and nothing is right when the Germans are shunning their assigned seats. And each time I had a microscopic panic attack as I visualized two seats with our names on it just sitting there, empty, while we took up two unreserved seats. That's FOUR WASTED EUROS and TWO WASTED SEATS! The universe falls out of balance and an adorable baby seal PLUMMETS off the edge of the planet into an abyss of burning fire. That is just not right. Around here, you can get deported for shit like that.

So when I return to The States, I'm sure I'm going to have to be broken of my newfound Germanic ways and re-integrated back into society. Or maybe I should just fly RyanAir a few times because it's one of the only airlines on the planet that (gasp!) doesn't have assigned seating. So when they open the doors, everyone RUSHES ON BOARD as if they're trying to find the one seat that hasn't been peed on by a crackhead. Now that's American.

IAA Afterglow.

2007-09-30T10:38:00.001+02:00

Last weekend I did something I've always wanted to do - I went to the Frankfurt Auto Show. As a car guy, it's on of the Meccas of the industry since (I think) it's the biggest show in the world.

Coworker and Austrian princess Julia and I hopped on an ICE train (the coolest, fastest, Star Trekkiest trains in the country) at 6 in the damn morning, and zoomed to Frankfurt where we met up with her boyfriend Michi (that's how the Euros shorten 'Michael'). Frankfurt is kinda lame - bad coffee, not much action, a lot of suits - but we managed to have a good morning. We met up with Boris, my new favorite Bulgarian, and dove into the show.

I'm used to the SF auto show which, if I remember correctly, fills up two and and a half halls of Moscone center. There are big booths from manufacturers like Mercedes that feature all the cars, some on rotating stands, a few girls with microphones, and a desk with marketing material. The Mercedes "booth" at IAA was an entire hall unto itself, maybe half the size of one hall at Moscone. It was two floors with a giant hole in the middle of the second floor so you could see down onto the first floor. The lighting, projections, and screens were straight out of a U2 concert, and they had a counter on the second floor that gave out glasses of water (with and without gas). All the new cars were there, along with a few race cars, artifacts from Mercedes' history, and what looked like exhibits from the Museum of Science and Mercedes. There were probably a hundred Mercedes people working. It was incredible. And BMW had the same thing (though it was less like a U2 concert).

The Ford group had its own hall for all its brands - Volvo, Aston Martin, Jaguar, Ford, Land/Range Rover, etc. And then there were halls containing several manufacturers each. There was the mostly Italian hall (my favorite) with Maserati, Ferrari, Alfa Romeo, Lancia, Fiat and... Hyundai. Poor Hyundai! They were all the way at the end of the most crowded hall of them all. So after pushing your way through hot human oatmeal to see the most passionate cars on the planet, you had to make a decision: do I push a little more to see Hyundai? As you can imagine, it wasn't really a decision at all.

And speaking of crowded, holy shit this thing was crowded. We were foolish enough to go on a Saturday and arrive around 11am along with the rest of the planet. Volkswagen was so crowded that you couldn't actually see any of the Volkswagens. And after our first visit to the Mercedes hall, where the line to get on the escalator was twice as long as the escalator itself, we decided to take a little break and wait for things to clear out a bit.

And about six hours later, we had seen everything we needed to see. I saw the new Ferrari F430 Scuderia which is my current dream car. The Alfa Romeo 8C looks as good in real life as it does in the pictures (though it's a lot smaller than I thought it would be). I stole three of the Mercedes glasses. And in honor of countless Thanksgiving day Moscone hot dogs, I ate a genuine Frankfurter sausage.

Amsterdan.

2007-07-29T13:20:00.001+02:00

I'm in Amsterdam this weekend! Talke and I got us some plane tickets and have come to hang out with her boy toy Mathieu, who I know from ad school. It's to be back in this ADORABLE little city. It's so cute! I swear, watching the outskirts of the city pass us by on the train ride from the airport, it's like a giant plastic train set utopia. It's clean and futuristic with bright shiny colors and freshly paved roads. And as you approach Amsterdam proper, it gets older and more dense, but stays cute. All these brick buildings squooshed up against one another, and you know they've been there for a thousand years (give or take 500). Spend some time around here with your eyes open, and you'll understand Walt's thinking behind Disneyland.

The plane we flew was a Fokker 50, and by plane I mean bus with wings. That shit was small and rickety. How small was it? It was so small, I caught claustrophobia. They have to evenly distribute the fat people. The seat belt sign stayed illuminated because it's impossible to stand up. We got delayed by a stiff breeze. No kidding, that shit was tiny. But the good news is that it got us where we needed to be, and we got two prepackaged sandwiches each on the way. Now that's livin'.

On our way from Centraal station to Mathieu's place, we did a little shopping, and Mathieu uttered these words: Dude, do you want to see something that will blow your mind? It was a rhetorical question of course, so we found our way to a book shop, and went to the section selling planners for school kids. Schools here start up in September as well, so stores are littered with back to school items and such, and there were twenty different styles of planners available. You know the ones - a spot to write in your schedule, lots of room to write down your appointments, finished in bright kid colors for your kid's brightly colored kid lifestyle.

But remember, we're in Amsterdam, where sex is viewed in a slightly more progressive light than, say, all those red states where nobody masturbates. Mathieu handed me this. It's a day planner for kids called Starfucker. And I'm not making this up. It was right next to day planners with cute designs and exotic cars and sporty themes.

Money quotes:

Fuck me, I'm famous.

VIP: Very intens penetration [sic]

I never fake orgasms
only with you

There's a new bitch in town.

Your place or right now.

A few planners over was one featuring a sexy blond woman posing in various positions with a giant sausage. Pardon my American prudishness, but this is insane. Mathieu and Talke back me up on this, and it's not like the French and the Germans are known for their skittishness when it comes to the horizontal mambo. Needless to say, I bought Starfufcker, and I'm sending it to Elizabeth Holt. If she can handle Cockolada, this should be no problemo.

My friend Julia is funny.

2007-07-25T10:04:00.001+02:00

Yesterday Austrian Julia said she was going to the movies in the evening. Apparently JvM does this thing where if you go to the movies on Tuesday, they'll pay for the ticket because Tuesday is "family day" at the movie theaters. Nice.

So I saw her in the kitchen this morning and I asked her what she saw. She said Die Hard four.

ME: How was it?

AJ: It was very creative.

ME (surprised): Really?

AJ: Yes. I didn't know there were that many ways for a car to fly through the air.

That cracked my shit up.

Rant.

2007-07-23T17:36:00.001+02:00

I'm sick of people calling Al Gore and the like hypocrites because they proselytize a low carbon footprint, but still use a lot of energy. They shout hypocrisy and sarcastically say Do as I say, not as I do, when really, they're missing the bigger point.

Yes, Al Gore travels from speech to speech in big, heavy, secure SUVs. He has no choice because a) he needs the protection and b) these overweight, inefficient cars are the only option. We let the auto corporations do whatever they want so they can maximize every cent of profit with no regard for the planet. There isn't a light weight, fuel efficient alternative that suits his needs because there's not enough incentive for auto makers to build one.

Yes, Al Gore uses three thirty inch computer monitors in his office. And the monitors he's using are a thousand times more efficient than old school alternatives.

One fabulous part about the new green movement is that it encourages technological innovation so that we don't have to make drastic lifestyle changes to protect the planet. Pissing and moaning about Al Gore isn't going to help as much as pushing companies to create and innovate.

Think seat belts and airbags. Good ideas, right? Yet the auto industry had to be dragged kicking and screaming into making those innovations happen. They whined about bottom lines and how it would kill their business, they lobbied the government until they were blue in the face. They did the same thing to keep fuel efficiency standards low, except here they were successful.

But what a load of horse shit. Here's what I say: What kind of pussy ass company are you running? Work hard and make a good product better and shut the fuck up. We should be able to drive big cars and use the computer equipment we need, and we will if these ridiculous corporations would stop whining and get to work doing what Americans do best: innovating.

Silly

2007-07-23T16:44:00.000+02:00

I went across the street to the other JvM building today to get the good coffee, and I got to talk to my friend The Lovely Ms. S. We did the how-was-your-weekend exchange, and when it was her turn, this is approximately what she said with a totally straight face, without missing a beat:

I went to visit my aunt to help her. She lost her husband a year ago, and now she's starting to die. She's an alcoholic, and we had to set up her will and sign her up to be an organ donor.

It's this kind of straight forward, no bullshit rhetoric that makes me really appreciate the Germanosity of German people. I've seen this sort of thing before; it usually goes something like this:

ME: What do you think German person?

GERMAN PERSON: I think it totally sucks.

ME: Well okay then.

Why mince words? Let's deal with reality right here and now. You go girl(s).

Anyways, the other thing I found interesting about this whole conversation was the alcoholic who wants to donate her organs. Organ donation is as noble an action as any other, but I'm sure there are health restrictions. For example, if you're a non-smoking, non-drinking athletic organic food type who spends your life meditating, massaging, and yoga-ing, then I'd imagine your organs would be more sought after than those coming out of an alcoholic, chain smoking prostitute with herpes and a bad attitude (not that The Lovely Ms. S's aunt are any of these things). But I'm sure that the number of people needing an organ far exceeds the number of donations, so it's probably a take-what-you-can-get sorta thing.

But who gets the alcoholic liver? Do you have to be an alcoholic to receive it? Does it come with instructions?

Care and maintenance for your new organ: Thank you for installing this high quality, second-hand human organ. Please note that due to its alcoholic nature, you'll need to drink like a fish to keep it healthy. We recommend large quantities of box wine and vodka.

That would be a fun label to see hanging off of a shiny new organ. Though if I had to drink to get a liver, I think I'd prefer to kick the bucket.

Attn: Bike Nerds

2007-07-15T15:16:00.000+02:00

This little photo tour of Koichi Yamaguchi's workshop is fantastic. I love it for the same reason I love VH1's Behind the Music - it show's you what it looks like behind the scenes.

Makes me want to jump on Spanky and ride away... in fact, I think I will! The weather is perfect today - sunny and still. FINALLY, after a month or two of constant rainy and gray. We all thought summer would never come. Now hopefully it'll last a few weeks... Like, say, though September.

Reality Distortion Field

2007-07-13T10:35:00.001+02:00

With no iPhone here in Europe (rumors are T-Mobile will be the carrier, and it'll be here Octoberish), I have to live my geeky fantasies vicariously through others via the internet. I was just reading an article by Farhad Manjoo, a techy writer living in the Bay Area who's written some great stuff for Wired and Salon, among others, and this one thing really jumped out at me...

And one more thing: It's $600! I'm not used to treating my cellphone with much respect. I throw it in my bag, I flash it around in public, I don't think twice about slipping it in the security tray when I'm going through the airport. The iPhone alters that calculus of risk. When the thing in your pocket is worth half a month's rent, you feel yourself constantly on alert.

Holy crap is SF expensive! When six hundred bones only gets you about two weeks of living, you know you're living in the whacky reality distortion field that is the Bay Area That and the live show at Trannyshack. Rim job on stage? Why wouldn't you?

Hamburg is one of the richest cities in Germany, and generally considered quite expensive. For a room in a two bedroom apartment, I pay €355 (about $500) per month, and that includes all utilities. When I lived in San Francicso, a similar sized room (granted, it had a big closet with mirror doors - fancy!) was $700 plus utilities. Poor Farhad is paying $1200. It's a fabulous city, but that's a lot of rent. To think that you could buy two iPhones per month... well, it's the rent that makes me queasy, not the iPhone.

Sup.

2007-07-11T15:23:00.001+02:00

when i grow up...
Originally uploaded by ricstefano

MAX: Daddy, what was life like before Photoshop?

DADDY: It was totally lame, son.

Random bits of whatever.

2007-07-09T12:18:00.000+02:00

1. I wrote this during a recent bout of dating frustration. It's my way of mocking the whole process, and I think it's kinda funny:

Dan, i've reviewed your request with a summit group of my closest friends, and after a thorough examination and exhaustive research, we've compiled this list of 142 reasons why a relationship with you could be a heart wrenching disaster five to ten years down the road. Though potentially pleasurable in the near term, we see an inevitable breakup that would cause short-term heartbreak and might lead to long-term psychological damage and post-traumatic dump disorder. We apologize for any inconvenience. Your request for "a drink, or a maybe a movie" is hereby DENIED.

In my thirty one years, I've gotten a lot of those responses.

2. This guy I know has breath that smells like the inside of my colon. And what's worse than that? He's a close talker. He doesn't just tell you something, he leans in to do it. Which is great way to establish intimacy and make your audience of one feels special. But it's definitely sub-optimal when you have to postpone breathing every time he does it.

3. My partner Ricardo is having his baby today! His frau Anika is doing most of the work, of course, but they're in a hospital right now huffing and puffing and making the baby come out. It's a boy, and his name is Max.

We were having a meeting today and at the end Doerte asked if there was an update. There wasn't, but Henning brought up an interesting question: why is it that when a baby is born, we always report the length and weight? Why not eye color and hair color (if applicable). Doerte, who's had one of her own, said that it's because you can tell a lot about the baby by those two numbers. Bigger means more healthy, small could mean trouble. Also, size tells you how hard the birth was... though I'm not so sure about this one. The whole process is so HOLY CRAP! painful and traumatic that I can't imagine that there's much of a difference between passing a watermelon or a honeydew.

Quote of the Day

2007-07-07T16:34:00.001+02:00

If you let me fist your mother, I'll let you fuck my sister.

Oh yes. That is good stuff. Especially because the quote comes from our lawyer. And it's also a good lesson in how to piss off a Chilean (or any other South American, I'd imagine). This particular example caused the Chilean to chase the German out of the kitchen.

People like this...

2007-05-13T12:55:00.001+02:00

Will you be my friend? Will you? What about you? Please? Can we be friends?That friend of yours, does he want to be my friend? Or perhaps you? Let's be friends. You can't be her friend, because you're my friend. Please be my friend. We can be friends now, and maybe good friends later. Someday we can be best friends. Doesn't that sound nice? So let's be friends! Will you be my friend? Please be my friend. I need more friends, and I like you. I think you would enjoy being my friend as much as I would enjoy being your friend. So let's be friends. Can we be friends? Let's be friends! Will you be my friend?

...drive me fuckin' nuts.

Quiet day.

2007-05-02T18:40:00.000+02:00

It's a quiet day here at JvM/9. We were busting ass for weeks it seems (I guess it was really only a week and a half, looking back) on a brief for a big-ass German client. It was tough because we kept trying to do advertising that doesn't suck, and yet it seems the client desperately wants to do crappy advertising. "That's really smart and funny," our bosses would say about our work. "Too smart. And too funny." So it goes.

This was supposed to be a four day weekend - Tuesday was a "bank holiday" in honor of the beginning of May, and Monday was a "bridge day" because it's silly to have just Tuesday off. But of course the client presentation is Wednesday (today), so we had to work all weekend. Due dates here are always the day following the weekend... if they were scheduled for, say, the end of the week instead of the very beginning, the universe would collapse on itself and we'd be able to enjoy our weekends like normal people. So I was here Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and some sad bastards (read: Art Directors) had to be here Tuesday as well. Das ist nicht gut! But the powers that be promised to give us back the days... so it's cool. I didn't have any plans anyway.

But Tuesday was heavenly, if only relative to the grinding hell of the previous week and a half (whine whine whine, my white collar life in the first world is SO HARD). On Tuesday I got what I had been craving for so many days: alone time. And it was fabulous! Some people don't call it vacation unless there's a tropical island or snowy alps, but fuck that. I wanted to do laundry and dishes, and I got all that and MORE. I slept in, vacuumed, cleaned my room, cleaned the bathroom, did two loads of laundry, put the finishing touches on my new bed, took out the recycling, and read on our patio in the sun. It's the stuff that dreams are made of! And my roommate was gone too, so I had zero human contact for the first eighteen hours of the day. Then Teresa came over and we watched Pulp Fiction... she had never seen it, and I can't be friends with someone who's never seen Pulp Fiction. I mean really. She didn't like it, but whatever.

And today the final touches were put on the client presentation (happily not by us) and our bosses trained it to Berlin. Which means we've spent the rest of the day fooling around. Henning is playing with his axe. I went to the bike shop to buy shoes. Sergio went to another bike shop to fix his cruiser. We fixed a flat on his girlfriend's bike. We sang happy birthday to Peter. We chatted with the new guy. We threw some paper planes out the window. Can you say two hour lunch? I knew that you could.

Anyways, it seems that although little has changed, a lot has happened since last I blogged. Here's a summary for all my readers (both of you):

1. I got Spanky back! A year or two ago I quit my job, got rid of most of my stuff, and moved to SF. I wasn't using my dear old racing bike, and it so happened that Ian needed one. So I said listen, take it, and don't pay me. Consider it an extended loan; someday, i'll call you and ask for him back. Since then Ian's gotten married, divorced, and moved to Australia, and Spanky was with him the whole time. And then he sent him to me via air courier. Spanky went to Bangkok, Vienna, and finally the Hamburg airport where I picked him up like a mother and child reunion (sorry). Ian added a fancy carbon fiber fork, changed the Chris King headset from regular to Aheadset style, and built up a nice solid pair of wheels. I bought a new saddle, new shoes and Speedplays, and now I'm ready to dive back into cycling. I don't think I'll be shaving my legs anytime soon, but it's really great to have Spanky back. And I think I hear the Alps calling me.

2. I met a bunch of new people! I went out with Talke and met her friends Cornelia, Nora, and Miri (Mira?), three lovely students. We rode our bikes through the Elbe tunnel and froze our asses off on the beach. Cornelia is cute, she rides bikes, and speaks Swahili. How cool is that? We're going out for sushi on Saturday.

3. I went to the Ice Bar with Fernando and his wife Tamara. It was kinda silly, but now I can say I've gone (not that anyone's ever asked). It was all part of the Goodbye Fernando 2007 celebration. Homeboy moved from Zurich to Hamburg to work at JvM/9, but then the visa didn't work for his wife Tamara, so after three months he transfered to JvM Zurich. Sigh. It's really too bad because I liked working and hanging out with Fernando. But at least now I have a floor (nay - they promised me an AIR MATTRESS!) to sleep on in Zurich. See you soon Fernando and Tamara!

4. I bought a bed. A real bed! From Ikea. I haven't taken pictures of it yet, but as soon as I do, I'll post it for my teeming mass of followers who no doubt can't wait to see it. :-) It's really nice and simple, and more comfy than the air mattress (duh).

5. I read some good books. I read Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. It's a weirdo fantasy book by Haruki Murakami and it's kind of about a guy who has to choose between the real world and his inner consciousness. I'm sure Wikipedia understands it better than I did. After that I read High Fidelity by Nick Hornby. It was great, of course. Easy, fast, and delicious. Then I read a piece of crap called Everyman by Phillip Roth. Lame. It's a rambling story of a sad old ad man coming to grips with his own pathetic-ness at the end of his life. It went on and on with no real point (that I could see) and the writing style was only occasionally good and often downright confusing. There were all these dangling he's and she's where I had to read the sentence three times to figure out which character we were talking about. Whatever. And now I'm reading an EXCELLENT book called Perfume by Patrick Süskind. Interesting story, sweet writing style, nice sense of humor (though it's not a particularly funny book) and intriguing characters. Really a joy to read.

6. I bought green shoes! I have ALWAYS wanted green shoes, and now I have them. Hooray.

I think that's about it. Word to all your moms.

Tactful Germans.

2007-04-02T22:09:00.001+02:00

Spring is finally here, and that means the sun actually comes out and shines upon us once in a while. It's quite a change from the usual misty grayness we're all used to here in Hamburg, and it has quite an effect on the people and the mood. Suddenly everyone, including myself, is just itching to get outside and mill about in the warm bright sunshine. Tables have moved outdoors, and makeshift patios have sprung up everywhere, and everywhere you go, Germans are sitting in those chairs at those tables in that sunlight... just... sitting there. They don't talk or read or word process, they just sit and stare into space. Their skin glows white from months of indoor fluorescence, and they bask like lazy, confused moths.

It's great though, and it's time for sunglasses, and that means it's time for contact lenses. I hate contact lenses. They dry my eyeballs out, they collect dust, they poke and prod and move around. But they give me über clear vision (when they're not dried up and clouded with muck) and they let me wear sunglasses. Sunglasses! How wonderful.

So I've been wearing contacts lately, which means (duh) that I'm not wearing my glasses. Thing is, all the people I work with and/or hang out with are used to me with glasses. So lately, when I see them and they see me, often they look at me with furrowed brows. Something's different you can see them think, but I can't quite tell what it is. And then it hits them.

"Dan! Where are your glasses?"

And then...

"You look so much better!"

Yeah. Germans do this thing where they're really direct about their feelings. Of course this is a generalization, but I say from experience that a German is likely to tell you exactly what (s)he thinks of that shirt, even if it's "I really don't like your shirt!"

It's a little different in America. Say I don't like your shirt; chances are I keep my mouth shut. If you ask me what I think about your shirt, and I think it sucks, I'll try really hard to say that I hate it in the nicest way possible. Maybe I'll list all the good qualities first, and then slip in a not-so-good one at the end. Crafty! If I do it right, you may not even know that I despise your shirt and think you have terrible taste and pray that you don't breed and propagate said taste.

Now, it's a bit different in this case because they're saying they like what they see (I'm happy to report that no one has said I look worse). But there's a nice and a not-so-nice way to say that as well. I don't want to sound overly sensitive, but Dan, you look so much better! sounds an awful lot like Before you looked like an idiot!

This has happened twice: once in the HR department, and once with one of my two bosses. The HR girl just said I look way better. Okay, thanks. But my boss, or Captain Tactful, as I'm going to call him from now on, took one look at me and said:

"Dan, you look great!"

And then...

"You don't look nerdy at all!"

Nice. You know, it's fine if he thinks of me as that skinny American NERD in the office down the hall. It's okay if he thinks I scored really high on the math portion of my SATs (I didn't, but whatever), or that the only friend I have is a hamster named Barney who runs around in a ridiculously complex habitrail that I built for him to fill up the time I spend not getting laid. But seriously. Can't he keep that thought to himself?

Quote of the week.

2007-03-20T16:40:00.001+01:00

That headline looks like it was written in German by a Chilean, and translated to English by a German.

-Ricardo

I'm just happy he wasn't talking about something I wrote.

The girl who loves potatoes.

2007-03-18T16:03:00.000+01:00

A week ago I went out with Lanky Girl. We talked about many things, including her boyfriend, and the fact that she's loved three men in her life, all named Thomas. So not only is she currently in a relationship, but she's unavailable on this whole other cosmic level as well.

Still, we had a very nice time. We ate asian food; she had noodles, I had sushi. She shared her broccoli with me. We created charts of our lives with a pen and paper. I think we'll meet again, maybe at a restaurant called the Kartoffelhaus (kartoffel = potato). We walked past it, and I made some joke about how I guess everything there is made out of potatoes, which is kinda funny from my Californian, not-so-many-potatoes upbringing. And she told me that she LOVES LOVES LOVES potatoes, and how they're her favorite food, and mom served potatoes with every meal. So that'll be fun.

Fun in German

2007-03-17T12:59:00.000+01:00

Last week a bunch of us went to a bar in the Karolinen Viertel (the "Karoline Quarter", a hip little section of town with it's very own website). I've been learning to sprechen, and all my German friends have been telling me how much better I've gotten, so I was feeling all good about myself and decided to order my drink in the Deutsche. I decided I wanted port, also known as dessert wine. I remembered that the word for dessert is nachtisch and the word for wine is simply wein. So I sauntered up to the bar an said Haben sie nachtische wein? and I slurred it a bit so the words would be a little squooshy and blend together and it wouldn't be so obvious that I'm an American infidel. For a second there, I was pretty proud of myself.

But the bartender, a twenty something girl with extremely red lipstick, looked at me in horror. Turns out that nachtischwein, when properly slurred, sounds a lot like nacht shwein, which OF COURSE means naked pig. Which I suppose could sound like some sort of exotic cocktail ("Naked pig on the rocks please!"), but probably sounded a lot more like a bizarre sexual maneuver ("I'll donkey punch you if you give me a naked pig after! Whaddya say Ms. Sexy Bartender?"). Naturally, she turned to my Deutscher friends, who laughed and clarified the mistake. I turned a little red, and they asked me what I was trying to say.

"Dessert wine," I said. "How do you say dessert wine?"

They all said, practically in unison, "We say dessert wine!"

"Well fuck you then!"

Which I think is about the right answer. How could "dessert wine" possibly sound like "naked pig", and how could Germany have made it this far while speaking such a ridiculous language? I mean really.

:-)

I totally got her number. And his. And his too.

2007-02-25T22:08:00.001+01:00

I went to a fun party last night with my good friend Luke. It was a birthday party for our friend Caro, who just turned 27. It was at her little apartment, and the place was packed with boys and girls, all of whom were Caro's age, plus or minus five years... a good place to meet people, then.

Luke and I are always looking to meet new people - we both moved to Hamburg around the same time, and met soon after, lamenting about how we don't know enough people, and now despite our charm and talent, we are dreadfully single. I came home with three new phone numbers in my little cell phone. Go me! But wait, two of them are guys. Wha... ?

This is something that's happened often over here in Hamburg. I go to a party, and meet new and interesting people. Someone will sprechen at me, and tell them sorry, I'm the one guy here who doesn't speak German. A few of them bail immediately - especially German girls who don't speak English very well; they tend to be really self conscious about it which is funny, because I'm a guy, so theoretically it shouldn't matter: "Baby, your head may not speak good English, but that body is slammin' it's way through all kinds of language barriers!", etc. - but most speak English really well. So we talk about America, California, San Francisco, Germany, Hamburg, why I'm here, and how it's possible to be an English-only writer in Germany and on and on and on.

And because we're all basically friendly, interesting people, and I guess because there aren't too many other Americans around to hang out with, eight guys out of ten (a rough estimate) ask me for my number. And now that I think about it, I don't have anything near that kind of hit rate with women. I think last night is pretty typical - a 2:1 ratio. Hmph.

I went to a lot of parties back in the states (or at least I went to enough to notice this pattern now) and I don't remember reflecting on this issue - I never got a guy's number. Maybe it's because so many of the parties I went to were made up of a group of people I spend time with anyway (school, work) so getting ahold of them wouldn't require contact info. Or maybe there were loads of men desperate to give me their number, but they were afraid someone would think they're gay. I'm sure this is illustrative of something to do with American males vs. German males, but I'm not sure what it is. Does any body know what it is? Are there any guys out there who can offer an explanation (or perhaps their number?)

Anyways, in addition to two really nice guys, last night I spent a lot of time talking to a lovely girl named Sandra. We covered many topics, including cities of origin, occupations, German vs. English, and why she lives in the boonies of Hamburg. We spent a bunch of time talking about how one of the few things I know how to say in German is Ich möchte eine latte machiatto bitte, and the chaos that ensues when the waitperson assumes I sprechen and then follows up with a barrage of coffee-related questions. She was interesting, tall and lanky, and just the right amount of goofy. She made the most adorable facial expressions. She was wearing red Adidas sneakers, and I'm a sucker for red sneakers. And in a delightful reversal of the social order of German twenty-somethings, she asked me if I'd like to meet for a latte macchiato some time, and I told her I'd love too. She grabbed a pen, handed it to me, and held out a very long left arm. I left my name, number, an American flag, and a cup of coffee with steam above, a saucer below, and smiley face on the cup. Then I got her number and put it in my phone, you know, just in case she forgets, and then showers too vigorously.

How not to be Rock n Roll

2007-02-20T15:46:00.001+01:00

So we got another brief the other day. Apparently the powers-that-be here at our big fat ad agency have been inspired, and have shouted from the rooftops that this year they want the agency to be... wait for it... more rock n roll. It's the theme for the year. Our ideas should be more rock n roll and our executions more rock n roll and we're going to be more rock n roll with our clients and more rock n roll with each other.

I'm not sure if I'm getting the entire message here, because the message is always given in German and then translated into broken, jaded English by my frequently bitter co-workers. But it seems to boil down to the following key items: we're going to let our work be a little more kuh-RAZY!, we're not going to pitch clients who won't let us rock out with our cock out, and every other tuesday there'll be cocaine-fueled orgies with underage groupies*.

It's hard not to roll the old eyes with a cynical smile when two guys with a combined age of 104 think it's perfectly reasonable to tell us to be rock n roll. I'm not sure I can think of something that is less rock n roll than sending out a memo to be more rock n roll. I'm pretty sure there weren't any PowerPoint presentations at Led Zeppelin band meetings, and I doubt Kurt Cobain ever took the budget into consideration.

The point here, of course, is that you can't just tell someone (including yourself) to be more rock n roll. It has to come from within; it has to be a genuine feeling of FUCK YOU for almost everything around you; it has to be a rebel streak that takes no prisoners and gives convention and nay-sayers a big fat middle finger. And I think it helps to get drunk and throw up a lot.

And now we have this brief to think of ways to make the agency more rock n roll. It's great - we can hang out and think of ideas that'll make this place more crazy (and newsworthy! we were specifically instructed to come up with ideas that would get us into the paper... just like how Ozzy would get the gang together and said "Lads, let's get ourselves some press coverage!") so we can present them and get them killed for being too expensive or too crazy or too offensive or all three. "No," I can hear them saying, "more rock n roll!"

* yeah, I made up that third one.

Tomorrow's To Do List

2007-02-17T12:07:00.001+01:00

Tomorrow is Saturday, and I have no plans until the evening. So! I'm going to be so productive, it's going to blow your mind. Here's what's on the list:

Get up at a reasonable hour. Dude. Seriously. There's only so many hours that can be made productive, so you've got to take FULL advantage of them. Sleeping in is for losers with no future! Rise and shine and bring out your glory!

Wash sheet and set it out to dry. I only have one sheet for my bed. It needs to be washed once in a while, and it's time. I have a washer, but no dryer, and since I only have the one sheet, I've got to get up early (see above), wash it, and then hang it out to dry so that come bedtime, I'm not laying in a soggy fog of cold cold sadness.

Finish Slaughterhouse V. Holy crap this book is good! I borrowed it from Ricardo (or as Germans would say, he borrowed it to me) and started reading it. Then I noticed that I couldn't stop. I've read it long ago in high school, and I remember liking it then too. The writing is so good. It's visual, and uses lots of metaphor, but in a good way so it's not annoying and overblown. Good shit!

Start reading How to be Good. Last week I got a credit card from my bank (yay!) and this week I learned how to order English books off Amazon.de (yay!). Shipping of English books is free anywhere in Europe (who says America isn't loved around the world?) and apparently it's pretty fast too, cuz the books where here only days later. How to be Good is by Nick Hornby who wrote High Fidelity which of course was turned into one of my favorite movies ever, and a great book called A Long Way Down that I read a few weeks ago and loved.

Ride bike. Somewhere. Anywhere. It's going to be sunny, so get out there you fucking pansy.

Go to a birthday party. There's a birthday party for this crazy girl named Renatta tomorrow night. It won't start until 10 or 11 or even midnight because we're all so goddamn hip. So that leaves PLENTY OF TIME to get through this exciting to do list.

Exciting!

The Ukranian way.

2007-02-14T13:24:00.001+01:00

Got on the elevator this morning along with Andrej, who sits across from me, and a girl of, shall we say, some girth. We all exchanged pleasantries until the girl got off and left Andrej and me alone to ride up one more floor. And then Andrej turns to me, and in his thick Russian accent, he says simply:

She is strong!

Tell me Andrej, what's Russian for awesome?

My very first (very small) ethical dilemma (in advertising).

2007-02-07T22:28:00.001+01:00

So we got a brief this week for a bank. They offer this savings account where twenty percent of what you put in gets put into a lottery, and you can win money and prizes. That's right, you put, say, fifty Euros of YOUR money into YOUR savings account, and assuming you don't win, a month later you have forty Euros. The account doesn't pay any interest.

My first thought was well that's fuckin' retarded. It goes against everything I've ever been told about the virtues of saving. The whole point of saving money is to let it sit there and not touch it and not do anything stupid with it like gamble it.

The second thing I thought was this would probably go over well with the young, not so wealthy, not so educated crowd. So I asked who the target audience is. Yep. Nailed it.

I knew this would happen eventually - it's the nature of the business. I knew that one day, someone would waltz into my office (or we'd meet in the kitchen, whatever) and ask me to make ads that convince the not-so-intelligent to do stupid things.

Back when I was trying to figure out if I wanted to make advertising my next career, I talked to some people in the biz, and a couple times I asked this question: do you ever feel bad about trying to get people to buy things they don't need? Most people just hemmed and hawed a bit and said you get over it. But one guy whose name I can't remember put it really well. He rolled his eyes and said something like: "Look, I try as hard as I can to do good work that doesn't take advantage of people... but if I make an ad that says something ridiculous, and you're dumb enough to fall for it, then you're just dumb, and there's not much I can do about it." I thought that was a pretty good answer. And I think it's fair. I'm a Darwinistic kinda guy, and I think the buyer ought to beware. Do your best and don't be an asshole, but everyone knows that advertising is all promises promises. But there's just no way accommodate everyone's stupidity.

Still, I don't want to lie to people, or trick them (Cigarettes are healthy! Mel Gibson loves the Jews! This bank account is a great deal!). And what they want us to do is tell people who don't know any better that this savings account is FUN! and HEY, A EURO ISN'T THAT MUCH ANYWAY! and YOU'LL WIN A LOT AND GET RICH! Which is okay if you're the national lottery, but not so cool if you're a bank who's supposed to be telling people how best to handle their money. Hmph.

Then the account folks pointed us to our lawyer (THAT's always a good sign) if we have questions about what we can and can't say. So I talked to Christian. Turns out it's legal to offer accounts like this, but it's not legal to advertise them. Or at least, it's not legal to say things like you're gonna get RICH from GAMBLING with us. He also said that the client knows all this, but they want to make ads anyway. I guess they figure they can either a) get away with it, or b) get caught, pay a fine, and still basically get away with it. Great.

So I let all that brew in my brain for a bit, while Ricardo and I tried to find good angles to sell a product that we both know is pretty lame. We came up with some initial ideas, nothing spectacular, and I kept whining (internally) about it. So I talked to Christian some more.

Turns out, he's got one of these accounts with another bank. Same deal - no interest, and twenty percent of what he puts in goes into the lottery. Every two weeks they do a bunch of drawings, and he's won a couple of times. Usually he wins €5 or less, and a couple of times he's won €50. He said that he's probably broken even. And that it's kinda fun. Huh. Christian's not a retard... he's pretty smart. Made it through law school and ever'thang.

So that pretty much took all the wind out of the sails on my little ship of righteousness. Meanwhile, Ricardo and I have a pile of ads that are kinda funny, and not too dastardly. We present them tomorrow... I'm sure most of them will get kicked out, especially the ones that make outright gambling references... and the one that shows a hand with outstretched fingers against a white background. The pinky finger is missing and the copy says "If this were our bank you could win back up to 150,000 fingers or maybe a car!"

That shit is genius.

Oh, Flickr

2007-02-02T15:58:00.001+01:00

Cold hotties
Originally uploaded by Women, Fire & Dangerous Things.

Sometimes, you're just browsing through Flickr, and you find something like this, and you're all "WTF?" and then after a few minutes, you're still all "WTF?"

Help me Lionel, you're my only hope.

2007-02-01T22:39:00.000+01:00

As of this moment, right here, tonight, my upstairs neighbor has lost the right to complain about the volume of my music/television/whatever. He's lost the right completely, and he's lost it forever. Whatever weirdo modern day musical game show in front of a live studio audience he's watching is coming loud and clear through the thick cement walls of our building. And the only thing louder than the TV is his booming voice that occasionally yells, and often sings along. I'm picturing a fat old guy with broken hearing aids and a drinking problem.

This is one of the rare cases where I am lucky to be a foreigner in a foreign land; the only way this could be more annoying or distracting, would be if I understood the voices coming out of the television.

Funny - I just wrote that run-on sentence, and now I'm hearing an ad for the upcoming Lionel Richie concert here in Hamburg. I totally wanted to go, but the tickets start at 85 euros. Sorry Lionel, but I can't afford to dance on that ceiling. Perhaps I'll you can sing me to sleep instead... through my headphones at full volume.

Saturday

2007-01-27T15:08:00.001+01:00

I managed to escape the relentless savage of my own sloth, the warm embrace of Ikea sheets ("What's the thread count?" asked Diana. "Don't be a snob", I replied), and mild depression caused by frigid temperatures, and go out into the world today. More specifically, I made it into my 'hood, Ottensen, found a cafe, ate a pizza, and drank 0.2 liter of Coca Cola (mmmm, capitalism tastes delicious).

A few tables away, there's a pair of parents with a little kid, and the kid has been coughing for thirty minutes minutes straight. And not little dry throat, it's-that-time-of-the-year, something's-going-around coughing, but serious, phlegmy, choking on a fishbone, Heimlich maneuver, hocking-up-green-goo coughing. There is something inside this child, it's gooey, it wants out now, and it's trying to make a run for it via his esauphogus. I guess he isn't choking, because he's still managing to shovel pancakes in to his face while not turning blue. But goddamn. Either this kid hasn't yet learned how to swallow, or he's developing cystic fibrosis right here in front of everyone. And the parents are just looking right past it and into their newspapers. And I feel like yelling: oh my god, sweep his throat, smack his back, tell him to raise his arms above his head for crying out loud. 'Cause this has got to stop. When child services arrives, I will not defend you!

In other news, GODDAMN, it's been cold lately. We were several weeks into an oddly warm winter (temps in the 40s, which is no big deal if you've got a good coat) when suddenly, one afternoon, it dropped to 19. 19! That's cold. The difference between 40 and 19 is 21. But obviously, the difference manifests itself in other ways...

Water: you wash your hands in 40 degree water; you drop 19 degree water into a drink to keep it cool.

Bike riding: 40 degrees means you wear gloves, and a coat over your t-shirt. When you arrive, you're sweaty and you have to take off the coat immediately. 19 degrees means you add another layer in between, add a scarf, and put a hat under the helmet, and when you arrive you stand next to the radiator and wait patiently for you fingers to thaw out so you can take off the jacket.

Words, capitalizations, and punctuation: Jeez turns into FUCK, and you add an exclamation point, as in: FUCK, it's cold!

And it snowed for real for the first time all season (apparently it snowed a bit in December while I was gone, but it only lasted a few minutes). As usual, it was pretty for a few minutes, and then it was a slushly, muddy, messy, icy pain in the ass. I just can't get past my cynicism towards snow; sure it's pretty, and it's neat how it falls so quietly... and then when you have to leave your insulated office and do anything out doors, it's a thousand times more annoying than it should be. I never think of nature as vindictive, except for when it snows, melts, and freezes. I've fallen off my bike twice; you shouldn't need metal spikes in your bike tires, that's just not right.

But whatever, I'll figure it out. The sun is out today, so that makes it a lot easier to cope with the cold.

It's finally getting cold.

2007-01-23T10:36:00.001+01:00

It's finally getting cold.
Originally uploaded by dpieracci.

Well, the temperature finally got to where it's supposed to be at this time of the year. 19 is a lot colder than 40, and there was ice on roofs and cars. This morning was the coldest bike ride so far; my fingers and toes are still feeling it.

I knew it!

2007-01-14T16:57:00.001+01:00

From the Häagen-Dazs entry on Wikipedia:

Contrary to common belief, the name is not European; it is simply two made-up words meant to look European to American eyes. This is known in the marketing industry as foreign branding ... The playful spelling devices in the name invoke the spelling systems used in several European countries. "ä" (an Umlaut) is used in the spelling of German, Finnish, Slovak and Swedish language, doubled vowel letters spell long vowels in Finnish, Dutch, and occasionally German; and zs corresponds to /ʒ/ (as in vision) in Hungarian.

I knew it! Partly because I think someone told me once. Anyway, it's still delicious, but not as delicious as Ben & Jerry's (which, by the way, was named after two real people).

Welcome, Sabine

2007-01-14T13:44:00.001+01:00

One of the things I like best about Sabine is her name. See, in America we would simply say suh-BEAN, which gets the job done, but it's a bit, well, flaccid. It kinda just ker-PLUNKS right out of your mouth. But here In Germany, where the Germans speak German and switch the S's to Z's and give every vowel its very own syllable, suh-BEAN becomes zuh-BEE-nuh. Mmmmm, now we're talking! Go ahead and say it out loud - and then purr like a cat who just found a sunbeam. Yummy. And if you don't think she deserves such a sultry name, then you must not have seen her shoes last night.

Sidenote: Some of her friends call her BEE-nuh for short, which is adorable, but impossible for me because BEE-nuh sounds way too much like BEE-ner, or beaner, which is what you call Mexican kids when you want to get your ass kicked in PE class. I tried it once, and thought Sonny Gonzales was going to fly into Hamburg just to spit on my locker again. We'll have none of that.

Anyways, last night we celebrated Zuh-BEE-nuh's thirtieth birthday at a cool little bar in Eimsbüttel. It was fun, and we drank and hung out and watched a little slide show put together by her hip photographer boyfriend. So welcome, sweet Zuh-BEE-nuh, to thirty. We're glad to have you.

Oh, I went to bed at 5am (how you like me now?) and slept 'til noon. Rock 'n roll, baby.

4 Things to be happy about today

2007-01-11T21:55:00.001+01:00

1. On January 1 a new rule in Germany went into effect that allowed... wait for it... stores to stay open as long as they want! Outstanding. It's like they read my mind, and I'd personally like to welcome Germany to the nineties, on behalf of all Americans. The change meant that I could swing by the local Rewe and pick up some muesli, yogurt, chocolate, and Pringles (they're like America all over my mouth).

2. The first half of the day was busy, but the second half was relaxed. So my partner Ricardo and I became Flickr friends (aw, group hug!), and took pictures of what's inside our bags for the What's in your bag? pool. I've always wanted to do that, and I don't know why it took so long. For some weird Web2.0/RealityTV/OCD reason it feels good to organize the contents of my (favorite) bag, take a picture and share it with the world. Maybe because I really like that bag and most of the stuff inside. Like that all-in-one tool... I love knowing that I can adjust all the important stuff on my bike AND build Ikea furniture at all times. As my old friend Craig would say, titties.

3. While we were at it, I took a pic of our office, and Ricardo posted it. Gee whiz I love standing on desks.

4. I'm in our kitchen, sitting on a chair at the little blue kitchen table. I know that doesn't sound like a very big deal, but it feels like forever since I've had a place to sit down with my computer and write something (outside of work of course). I don't have a desk or a chair in my room. And until Tuesday night, the kitchen was empty and waiting for Ikea to deliver. But then they did, and now there's places for stuff and the washing machine works and we can boil water and I can sit in a chair and life is grand. It's the simple things, man.

Happy New Year

2007-01-01T17:54:00.000+01:00

Just about to head out to get a bite to eat after a very lazy New Year's Day. I put on my jacket and hat, grabbed my iPod, set it to shuffle and hit play. What popped up? Babyshambles, The 32nd of December. Nice.

YouTubeTastic

2006-12-31T13:01:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-29T18:30:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-23T04:12:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-12-21T03:02:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-12-15T08:22:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-08T17:48:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-07T12:51:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-06T11:25:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-12-05T18:27:00.000+01:00

This is most excellent.

Guten appetit

2006-12-02T15:27:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-30T17:51:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-29T19:56:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-26T14:45:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-17T14:37:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-01T09:37:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-18T15:37:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-15T23:14:00.000+02:00

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.

2006-10-14T17:20:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-14T14:18:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-02T16:48:00.000+02:00

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!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

2006-09-25T07:22:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-16T19:51:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-14T08:57:00.000+02:00

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

2006-08-04T22:16:00.000+02:00

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...

2006-07-24T18:59:00.000+02:00

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.

2006-07-23T14:54:00.000+02:00

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