No time to drip dry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sankt Pauli

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

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

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

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

And the fischbrötchen helped too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I roll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Fold in half.

4. Wipe.

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

6. Wipe.

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

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

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

We've only been here two weeks.

WTF?

Things I learned today

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. Bollocks!

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

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

Rock out with your cock out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brothers Pieracci

Brothers Pieracci
Originally uploaded by Stewf.

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

Jay Oh Bee

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

Live from New Jersey

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's good to be back.

A few notes...

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

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

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

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

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

Warning: this life contains hardly any nudity.

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

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

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

www.baederland.de

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

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

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

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

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

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

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