static in the cities

MOVED

2009-10-06T21:32:00.001-07:00

New adventures at:

www.staticinthecities.net

TJH

Bag It Up

2008-09-18T00:45:00.000-07:00

I get up early this morning with a lump in my throat. Paul and I drive to the airport in relative silence. It is a dark, grey morning in Manchester – the kind that I’ve dreamt of for years. A dreamy city with its feet firmly entrenched in reality that seems all too foreign to me. A city with a lengthy list of problems and complaints, and a country with a collective middle finger raised to the rest of the continent and to the world.

Another chance to make my imprint on the city – gone. It is now when I think of my own legacy in Manchester and if I’ve been able to make any sort of positive impact on the people that I love and admire here. This was my home away from home before I’d ever been. It is my xanadu, my Shangri-La. It still is.

Shaun Wright-Phillips, the former Manchester City star who everybody simply refers to as Shaun, has finally come home again to resume his career at the club that propelled him to stardom. This happened during my stay, and I attended his first match back in City Blue. Only the Gallagher brothers could get a louder, wilder reception in Manchester. He is possibly the most likeable footballers in the world, standing at under 5’4” and looking not a day older than 17 years.

I think of Shaun while I am at the airport and I think of how he must feel to be back. And I think about my time in Manchester and, even with the prospect of three long flights looming ahead of me, and my first day back on the job tomorrow, I feel happy to be alive and well and to be part of the city and the pulse that it generates.

I play a small part, but even that satisfies my craving to be a cog in the machine. At last, to have a role: that of the wide eyed American who can’t escape his roots and the strange rumblings underneath the surface that urge the drive along; the drive of needing involvement. Of fitting in, of playing a part.

The whole of Manchester City Football Club is at Manchester Airport today. They are outside my gate. For some reason I am not surprised. I walk by Robinho and Kompany and Jo. And Shaun is there, and at one point we walk right by each other. When we meet each other's glances we are both smiling, for not altogether different reasons.

Peace, Love, and Bananas,
TJH

Cadishead

2008-09-16T15:58:00.000-07:00

In Europe, it seems like people are strongly tied to the area that they're from. There's not as much moving around to different cities pursuing more money and higher culture. There are no misgivings about your supposed lot in life, and there is not as much of a rush to leave it all behind.

This is admirable, in that you don't have people constantly trying to become something and somebody they are most definitely not. Of course, it is also admirable to see the world and pack as many experiences in as possible in your short life, and so you can say there are two sides to this bitter coin. But instead of getting bogged down with aspirations and, of course, setting up for likely letdown in the not-too-distant future, most people settle down and live their lives.

They live!

In Portland, where I live, I think about old friends moving to Vancouver, and even the dreaded West Side, and I almost throw up in my mouth. People tend to grow up in an area, and leave it all behind as soon as they can afford to, and they start to lament how things "aren't how they used to be" back home, something that could very well be avoided if people stopped complaining about certain areas and instead invested some time and effort into making it a livable and friendly community. Neighbourhoods don't only need influxes of cash to improve the quality of life; they need people who have pride in the area, people who will stand up to criminals and violence and yuppies who move in and complain about not having a Starbucks nearby.

It is like a Patek Philippe wristwatch: You never own it - you just keep it safe for future generations.

I went to Cadishead on my last full day in Manchester. Cadishead is just down the road from Irlam, and here, when people say things are "down the road" or "just round the corner", that's exactly what they mean. Back home, I say my work is "down the road", when it actually it like five miles away, and I live "just round the corner" from my grandmother, who is a 15-minute walk away. Margo and Terry, Paul's parents, live in Cadishead and I wanted to see them before I left. The pubs scattered through the area serve as navigation points: The Ship, The White Lion, the Catholic Club, the Conservative Club, the Coach and Horses, the Cadishead Labour Club. I walk up to the house on Buckingham Road, where they've been for 41 years.

Forty-one.

This is why, after tea and some time admiring the garden, Margo is able to take me for a walk around the area. She is blind, and not too happy about it. Still, she is so familiar with the area that she can act as a tour guide around town, eventually leading us toward the chemist and the butcher shop, where Bob, the owner, has worked for about 41 years. Margo introduces me to Bob; Bob shakes my hand with his blood covered paw and introduces me to his co-worker, Paul, and Paul tells me he has relatives in Connecticut. I pretend to care.

Later, Margo says this: "He probably thinks Connecticut is right beside Oregon."

She pronounces Oregon correctly.

Off to eat at Ye Olde Red Lion, a restaurant in Warrington (again, down the road) that has "the best Peppercorn sauce this side of Irlam", according to its most recent American visitor. We all say goodbye and that I'll come back someday. We embrace. I am sad.

I hope they believe me.

TJH

Democrazy

2008-09-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

- The thing is, we're not a democracy, Tyler. They say we are, but we're not.

- You're telling me this? You're telling me? Do you suppose America is a democracy?

- Well, you spend so much effort spreading the seeds of democracy to all reaches of the Earth. It seems like you've got a handle on it.

- Look, don't group me with this group spreading democracy. You and I know it's not democracy. It's imperialism in its purest form. And I don't want any of you to think that I am cock of the walk because my country is spreading any sort of seeds that are being spread.

- Oh, aye, I'm not grouping you in with 'em. The thing is, though, you're close to it, and of course it piques our interest. And as your country is redefining the limits of democracy and the parameters that we can define ourselves by, democratically speaking, as it were, I would imagine you would have some sort of insight.

- Right. That's no fault of mine, by the way. It's my country's fault, but that'd be like blaming you for George Michael. You didn't have anything to do with him. Look, we aren't a democracy; If we were, there would be more than two people to vote for in our elections. Already, by definition, it's a farce. And every time the United States makes an effort to spread "democracy", it happens to be in a country that is home to massive oil reserves or that is home to a massive leftist movement, which promotes such ridiculous things as securing basic rights for all their citizens and things like that. That can't be accepted, because it's not "democratic".

- I tell you Tyler, it's not often that we meet Americans like you.

- Well, you don't meet many Americans, then, because I believe in things that most Americans, and most people, believe in. I mean, who was the last American here? Me??

- I think so.

- Yeah, figures. But things are wrapped up in hardcore right-wing bullshit that people don't know what to claim to believe anymore; I mean, you have these people who will resist any tax increase, because they think the money will just go right into the pockets of the ruling class, which is essentially true anyways, and I can't blame them for that to be honest, but what happens if people ever get the chance to actually have a say in what their taxes go towards? They'll be clueless, they won't know what to do because of all the propaganda.

- And you fight for democracy as if people even understand the meaning of the word. Well, I have to ask you something before you leave.

- Anything.

- If you find any of this democracy that you fight for - could you cut off a slice and send it to us?

TJH

Strangeways, Here I Come

2008-09-15T16:54:00.000-07:00

The best bands in the world come from Manchester.

This is one argument I will not shy away from; no other city has produced as many great bands as Manchester.

Most Mancunians are proud of this. Some think it's a load of shite.

Take Paul, for example. The other night I heard him say that Manchester produces the best music in the world. I've been saying that my whole life, so I silently agreed with him. Later, I found out that he was taking the piss, and wasn't serious in the least bit.

Wait - what??

How can a city that's produced Oasis, the Smiths, the Hollies, the Stone Roses, Doves, Badly Drawn Boy, Autechre, Joy Division, The Verve, New Order and the Chemical Brothers be anything but the hub of modern guitar music?

This is what I was thinking as I moved through Salford, when I stopped short.

The Salford Lads Club. Right in front of my face.

This is amazing. Not only is this like the heart and soul of Salford, but it's where the Smiths shot their sleeve for The Queen is Dead.

OK, so not to be all fanboyish, but this is almost Abbey Road territory to me. For anybody who appreciates good tunes and a creative lyric, the Smiths are your band. Proof that the 1980's weren't all bad, they made a living out of preaching about the terrors of commercialism, the temerity of love, and the alienation of youth culture from modern culture and development.

A staff member sees me taking pictures out front and invites me in. He gives me a spiel about the history of the club, and shows me around to all the rooms. There are boxing rooms, snooker tables, ping pong tables (!), and a gymnasium. There is also a Smiths room where fanboys like me can leave messages for their guitar heroes.

Not that they would come round; they don't live here anymore, and they haven't been back in years. But it's just another testament to the significance of the area, and how you can't go five minutes walking around the city without seeing something that makes you think this:

Haven't I seen this before?

The Mersey Beat

2008-09-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

For somebody who likes to think that they are "educated", there are some things in life that I know very little about.

For example, guns. OK, I would know how to shoot a gun I think. You switch the "safety" to the "NOT SAFE" setting and you point the gun at what you want to kill and you pull the trigger. Simple. But I don't know how to tell the difference between the different types of guns and ammo and things.

There are different types!

There are big guns and small guns. I think the big guns are called "rifles", and I think the small guns are called "pistols". I think that an "automatic" weapon means that you don't need to "cock" it. But I remember when I was younger I was teased constantly by my gun-nut friend, who thought that every young American boy should take advantage of his God-given right to shoot stuff in his backyard. I chose to kick a ball around for fun, and so I was ridiculed.

And there's no hard feelings, because at the very least, I can always make fun of him for being overweight. But it seems like this is something that people take pride in knowing about. Guns. Which guns do the most damage. Who used which guns in which country in which war. Who shot who.

Speaking of guns: do you know that it's illegal to carry a handgun here? Did you know that it's a minimum of five years in prison if somebody gets caught carrying a handgun?

I say this: "Make it ten!"

Anyways, one more thing I don't know much about: motorcycles. I had never ridden one until today, where we rode up to Blackpool on the North English Motorways, in the biting wind and green-like-Oregon landscape. I figured, might as well start off the motorbike-riding period of my life in a country where I have no idea what the process would be if I had to be checked into the hospital for, say, a broken abdomen. Would my insurance hold up? Would they even take me in? I have no idea. Maybe next time I leave the country I should check before I leave, or at the very least, before I get on a motorcycle on the English motorway.

Blackpool, like always, is "not what it used to be," according to every single Northerner you talk to, but it's still worth the relatively short trip for a relatively disenfranchised American. It is a small seaside town which attracts visitors on the weekends by putting flashing lights on everything and putting the word "Blackpool" on various pieces of merchandise and selling them for a tidy profit. No joke: you can buy a Official Blackpool Stapler down by the North Pier. I would have bought one myself if I was a gullible fool - which I without question am, as evidenced by my pocketsful of Official Blackpool Lighters.

We stop by Cleveleys, the "pensioners capital of Europe", to get some dinner. For those who are interested, English meals are different. A handy conversion table:

Breakfast = Breakfast
Lunch = Dinner
Dinner = Tea

Good enough, but you have to consider the Chandler Algorithm when examining the above table.

The Chandler Algorithm is calculated as such = "All British Food is Terrible."

Look, I don't think it's funny when people talk about bad British food, or how the English have bad teeth, because it's just a retelling of a joke that people have told thousands of time, and most of all, the English know these things; nobody makes fun of themselves better than the English. But this is a theory, championed by a co-worker of mine, who stands by it and loves to remind me of this at every opportunity. There is, I must say, some truth to this theory, especially if you've been in Manchester for a week and you can't afford to go out and eat Italian every night. Of course, the Chandler Algorithm can only be used with a proper estimate of the Hinds Limit, which is roughly translated as "How Many Beers You (Yes, You) Need To Drink Before British Food Tastes Good".

Essentially:

X = H (CF)

where:
X = Personal Satisfaction With The Meal
H = Hinds Limit
C = Chandler Algorithm (this is always constant)
F = Type of British Food You Choose To Eat

Down the road from Blackpool's waterfront Promenade lies Stanley Park, which is filled with football pitches, pristine gardens, a lake with ducks and swans floating around, a bandstand that is actually being used, rowboats and bicycles to rent, basketball courts, a track and field stadium, clock tower, zoo, ice cream stands, fountains, bike paths, and tourists. Even so, a wonderful place to escape from the madness of the Promenade and the toll booths on the piers.

The best things in life, I am told, are free.

TJH

Family Matters

2008-09-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

Time with family means catching up with each other's lives and telling new jokes about the royal family.

Like this one:

Prince Charles goes jogging one day and runs past a prostitute. He yells out to the prostitute, "How much?"

"150 quid," says the prostitute.

"How about 5?" asks Prince Charles. The prostitute gives him a nasty look and he runs on by.

The next day, he runs the same route and sees the same prostitute. "How much?" He asks.

"150 quid," says the prostitute.

"I'll give you 5 pounds," says Prince Charles, and she shakes her head, and he runs on by.

The next day, Camilla asks Prince Charles if she can run alongside him. Sure, he says, and they run the same route he's been running the past few days. They run right by the prostitute.

"See," yells the prostitute, "that's what you get for five pounds!"

TJH

Football

2008-09-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

OK, so to get right down to it, the real reason I'm here is football.

I didn't come for it; I came to escape it. I had applied for a high school soccer coaching job, and I interviewed for it, and I promptly failed miserably. I like to think that it wasn't because of my youth and inexperience and the old frayed tie that I wore to the interview, but it was. It was.

It was.

So, I came here, and it's the next best thing. The thing is, though, I would be back home otherwise, and the scene apparently is tits up, because the team I would be coaching is undefeated as of last night. I have escaped to avoid it, believe you me. No matter. Today was what I had been waiting for for years, reallly: today was a day for Premiership Football.

First up, Manchester United. The club that I support. At Liverpool, in a match that serves as the most regionally important derby in all of Europe, as reported in the Manchester Evening News. Granted, they're biased, but I don't care. To say Manchester isn't the most important football town in the world is now bordering on selfishness, centrism, and outright ignorance, what with the Abu Dhabians' takeover that will be coming any day now. Manchester is buzzing.

So, then, United: Paul is working this morning, so I go over to Mickie's house to watch it, which is just round the corner. Better than paying to get into a pub, although the atmosphere may be less... crowded. United scores three minutes into the match on a perfectly placed Berbatov cross, which Tevez slams home. But then they disappear. Berbatov vanishes into thin air, seemingly; Rooney is distracted by something or other, Ronaldo is still out, Anderson is off his game, and Scholes is (finally) showing signs of the game passing him by. Me and Mickie drink tea and complain about the team.

Here's the thing: United hasn't lost to Liverpool since Benitez took over as Liverpool manager six years ago. Here's another thing: Manchester United is now the second richest club in the city. City are the leaders, and this is very hard for lifelong City supporters to accept. Their side will be successful; it is only a matter of when. They are not used to this sort of bright future. Same with my hometown Blazers, which, by all accounts, will win multiple championships and eventually take over the world starting next season. It is a strange position to be in, as the envy of the league and the "future of the sport". Football is everywhere today: on television, on the radio, in the papers, on electronic billboards, on people's mobile phones, on people's tongues.

United lose 2-1, which altogether is a disappointing result, and had me pissed off as I walked home to Paul's. In Manchester, you either support United or City; there's no two ways about it. I support United; Paul supports City. The tension could be cut with a tube of Polident, but I piss on it and tag along with Paul to the City match. They are playing Chelsea in what is being deemed the "Clash of the Cash"... and the side with the cash advantage, at least at this moment in time, comes out on the losing end. It is the Story of Salford.

City plays at Eastlands, which is an incredible new stadium built in what seems the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of the city. It's loud and the stadium is packed to the brim: 47,331 people file to their seats to catch the opening kickoff. City scores first on a free kick just outside the penalty box, as Robinho, City's recent Brazilian import playing his first match in sky blue, loops it up and around the wall and catches Petr Cech off guard. 1-0, City.

Three minutes later, Carvalho evens the score for Chelsea, silencing the crowd for a few minutes. It remains tied up throughout halftime, and Chelsea gets plenty of help from the referees, who appear to all have taken Chelsea in the office pool. The second half brings two more Chelsea goals, and the City supporters file out in silence. Maybe someday they will compete for a league title, and possibly at the European level... but not today.

Manchester was a loser today, and drowning our sorrows seems like the only thing to do.

TJH

Quays to the World

2008-09-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

Check it out:

Museums are free of charge in England. Not only that, but they're everywhere, even up north, where people have a reputation for being only interested in football and drinking lager. I suppose this is an accurate reputation, much in the same vein as the reputation for Oregonians to be only interested in riding bicycles and wearing flannel.

I don't own any flannel, and I don't know anybody my age who does, so I guess that categorization has fallen by the wayside. In England, there are indeed groups up here who don't care for football. They are called "rugby supporters". Failing that, "bitter old hags". Still, Salford and Manchester are diverse, modern areas with a great transportation system and helpful people throughout. It is just like any other big metropolis with a relatively recent influx of cash and successful companies moving on in. This is a city where Manchester United is only the city's second-richest football club; Manchester City will be overtaken by a rich group of Arabs from (where else) Dubai - in exactly five days. This is HUGE news here, and causes some to weep in public, or just talk very, very excitedly.

And despite what people have been telling me, I have had no rough experiences; not even close. Maybe it's because I am English and I look like them and I am always carrying around a copy of the Manchester Evening News, but when I see young kids running around with no supervision and riding their bikes down main streets and playing footie out in the open, that to me strikes me as a relatively safe place to come and visit, at least. Walking along the Manchester ship canal, you see warmth in people's faces and genuine goodness along the muddy banks. There is a certain understated romance about the place that is reflective of the English resolve; we can point to the Quays and say, with all honesty, Look At Us Now, before remembering that deep down, this doesn't surprise us in the least bit.

The Manchester Ship Canal is a little navigation channel that flows all throughout the city, underneath the many small bridges and behind the brick row houses and the causeways. Its nexus is the Salford Quays, an area that has inconceivably become modernized beyond belief, with the Northern Imperial War Museum as its crown jewel. After walking through the Lowry, an art gallery worthy of worldwide recognition, it's on to the War Museum, where I spend four hours and barely scratch the surface. I figure it's just as well, because it gives me a reason to come back during my next visit.

Hey - did I mention it was free?

One other thing about the War Museum that I appreciate is that it is firmly against war of any kind. Plus, it's an equal opportunity accuser: it demonstrates atrocities committed by the Germans, the English, the Americans, and the Arabs alike. Manchester is the City of Peace, by the way, and the city council's stated goal, plastered all over town hall, is a commitment to helping rid the world of nuclear weapons - and a wonderful tongue-in-cheek testament to this ethos is seen plastered on a plain blank wall at the Museum, and you see it as you snap your jacket back up and brace for the cold outside. It's a quote from Harry S Truman, remarking on the events of the 6th of August, 1945; a day, which, according to Truman, was "quite possibly the greatest day in history".

Truman, at least among those who are somewhat educated and have a nose for history, has a well-deserved reputation as one of the most inhumane murderers the world have ever seen; a man who hid behind pathetic cliches and whined about having his feelings hurt after he was criticized for the decision to drop the bomb. A warmonger who deserved the same fate as Mussolini, Truman's portrait and quote appears between Stalin and Ronald Reagan, who aren't exactly empathetic figures here in the Imperial War Museum smack dab in the centre of the City of Peace. Funny thing is, the last museum I went to was the Atomic Testing Museum in Las Vegas, Nevada, a museum brought to you by our generous sponsors and all-around good guys McDonnell Douglas. This is not English cheekiness; rather, there are framed pictures on the wall of different atomic blasts, and you can pick out your favourites by name.

I liked Christine. She was big and thick.

Another day in Salford was coming to an end. It was time to head back for a meal with the family, and I had to make my way back on the tram. I walked past the Quays on the way back to the station, along the water and watching the swans float around aimlessly. A old small man comes up to me and asks me where the tram station is.

"Are you headed into Manchester or towards Eccles?"

"Manchester. City Centre." He looks slightly confused. "You know, this is my first time here!"

Follow me, says I. "And don't worry. You'll catch on quick."

TJH

Rugby and the Salford Beat

2008-09-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

I never liked rugby. Too much like American football.

Or so I thought. It's actually nothing like it. It's much better.

Still, that's not saying much.

Tonight, though, I secured a free ticket for the playoff match between Salford and some team from Wales. I've been told that we hate teams from Wales. Very well.

I meet up with a group of guys at the Steel Club at 6pm. Paul is bowling, and he can't come. We are renting a bus and going to Salford, which isn't far from here, and incidentally, is where my family is from. The guys are: Alan, an old football star who has a thick moustache and a beer gut; Morry, a really nice guy who lays bricks for a living, who takes me under his wing and tells me about his travels to Australia and also tells me to not listen to what anybody else says; Ab, a Scouser who ignores me the whole trip and seems like an asshole to be hon-

BREAKING NEWS: Speaking of assholes, Comcast has banned my site because of some harsh language I apparently used a few posts back. I told my friend the other day that if the Comcast people actually read my site and liked it, or at the very least deemed it "appropriate", I would consider it, and myself, an abject failure, and I would have to live with that shame for the rest of my life, as the Comcast owners and stockholders obviously have a collected intelligence level less than that contained in a rhesus monkey's tit.

Anyways, back to the crew: Mark, who is tall and skinny and likes to yell obscenities at strangers out the window of the bus; and Roger, who came to the match with his young son and likes to make racist jokes. My favourite goes like this:

Q: What's the KKK's favourite football club?

A: Blackburn.

Ooohhhhh....

Oh, Christ, come on. It's funny.

See, the match is a hot ticket; the winner moves on to the league final, and at any rate, both teams are moving up to the highest division next year. Salford has been playing at this stadium, called the Willows, since 1901, and will be moving out in 2010 to a brand new ground.

Is Salford a city on the rise, then?

Not bloody likely. Salford is a rough town, says everybody in the know. Rough, they say. They say it over and over. Rough. It's rough, mate. Rough. You're going to Salford by yourself? Regent Road, you say? Rough road, that. Rough town. Rough.

Well, how rough is it?

Terry knows. Terry, a close friend of Paul's, was born and bred in Irlam and went to college in Salford. One of his first days he saw a man mugging an old woman, and noticed at least ten people milling about the area pretending to not notice what was happening. He decided to do something about it, and so he ripped the old woman free from the grasp of the mugger, and then promptly got his ass beat by the assailant, before the man ran off. Before too long, a man came and helped Terry up off the ground, where he had been kicked repeatedly in the gut. Terry got up, with considerable effort, and thanked the man, who told Terry with all honesty that he deserved the beating.

That was then, and this is now. Now may be worse. We have the bus driver drop us off five feet from the entrance of the ground, and we get in without getting mugged. Yes! These are tough Salford-born lads I'm with, and they're still scared. They are nervous, but they think they can fool the wide-eyed American. No luck. We enter the ground and go straight to the bar. We don't go to our seats once during the whole match, which sounds worse than it actually is; the bar is situated above the ground somewhat, and we get seats that overlook the pitch, so we might have one of the best seats in the house. Everyone agrees that Salford should take the match easily; they get slaughtered beyond comprehension.

What went wrong? Well, first off, the referees obviously descended from some sort of primates - possibly Rhesus Monkeys - so there's that, and there's also the fact that Salford isn't very good. Still, the match was far more entertaining than any American football game you've ever been to in your life, in fact we had some American footballers out here just the other week, you know, the club decided to give them a go, you see, and they made it through the first practice and they said, sod it, we're going back to the States, see, none of this bloody running around with no pads or anything...

Umm, guys... I've never been to watch an American football match...

Oh... well, it's still better. Hey, I'm not arguing, I'll be the first to admit it! I hate American football, I think it's a terrible excuse for a sport, and I think rugby is ten times more entertaining...

"So I suppose you support the Seattle Seahawks, then?"

No! I hate the Seahawks! I hope they lose every game they play for the rest of their lives! That's how much I don't care about them! I don't think they believe me, but whatever - they're still buying me beer and at this point I don't even know who to thank for the beers because they are coming at me from every direction. I just take what they give me. I am Being a Gracious Guest.

Game over. Back to the Steel Club. I meet back up with Paul and Terry, who both buy me beers. Aw, jeez, man. Morry pulls me aside and explains to me English-style ribbing: "Y'see, the thing is, d'yer know wha' I mean, is that we're all havin' a laugh, see, and it may not seem like that to an outsider, but it's true, yeah? And the idea is, you know, the idea is, beyond anything else, to get the target to conveniently forget that little tidbit of info, right? And so when they crack, which is the whole idea, we can get in their face and tell them that they're out of order, see, and so the next day they come grovelling back and apologising, and by that time it's us that's having the laugh, and so that's important right there, d'yer know wha' I mean, is to not lose your cool, because, bleeding hell, it's like you don't want to be caught with your trousers down, mate, you know, and so you've got to be dry and just let it roll right off you because..."

Terry asks Morry if he can steal me away for a second before he goes. "I just have to ask you, before I leave, Tyler, I have to ask you if that Barack Obama has a chance."

Sigh.

Okay, here goes, once and for all:

"No, he doesn't have a chance in hell. People won't vote for him because he's black, and that's not just in Texas where everyone is racist and backwards pigs. That's even in Portland, where people are somewhat progressive, at least compared with the rest of the country. But he doesn't have a chance because McCain and the Republicans have a monopoly on the stupid people in the country, which far and away outnumber the educated and reasonable ones. The knock on Obama is that he is an elitist and he doesn't have experience; at least, that's the downfall as perpetuated by the Republican party, and by extension the press, and so that becomes an issue, this "experience" nonsense, when it doesn't have anything to do with it. John McCain is a nasty old warmonger who happens to believe in exactly the opposite of what the majority of Americans believe in, and yet he still is in a position to win the election and become the most powerful man on Earth. Funny, that."

They look at me and grin. They are wondering if I'm done, so they can chime in.

"Well," I say. "Either way we're screwed."

TJH

The Tipping Point

2008-09-11T09:23:00.001-07:00

I've spent enough time in Manchester now that I'm comfortable taking the trains and the buses around, and the good thing about (most) English people is that they not only will tell you how to get somewhere, but take you by the hand and drop you off right on the steps.

And you don't even have to tip them!

This is maybe one of my favourite things about this country: tipping is considered rude. Thank God. I think tipping, along with the economy and Miller Lite, is one of the biggest problems we have in the States. I don't think I've ever been out to eat and tipped in the correct way; it's either too much, or too little, or too obvious, or too brazen, or too insincere. I have certain friend who will not eat out with me for fear of suffering through a bad tipping incident. One friend even called me a "genuinely bad person" after one particularly nasty outing, and he was dead serious.

Anyways, you're not supposed to tip here because it is seen as an implication that the tipper is better off financially, and that he or she feels bad for the waiter. Given the different living environment, one which there is never any doubt that a waiter or waitress needs any extra money to cover any health-related problems that strike themselves or anybody in their family, that assumption is actually quite reasonable. There is no reason to assume that the person serving you is worse off in any way.

Anything to save money turns me on at this point. Everything costs roughly twice as much here, except the beer, which I don't even pay for anyways, as everybody wants to be the one who buys the American a beer. I paid the equivalent of 2 US dollars for a newspaper today, and I paid $7.50 to take a 20 minute bus ride to the Trafford Centre, a place where I've managed to avoid until today. Somebody at the Steel Club told me I really, really should finally go, and today I gave in. It was everything I had expected. It was crap.

Okay, not totally: the Trafford Centre is a giant shopping mall that the Mancunians are very proud of. I doubt there is a bigger mall north of London. There are - no joke - 10,000 parking spaces, and over 250 stores. It's big. There are over 60 restaurants. There is a bowling alley. There is a cinema. There is laser tag. There is a casino.

One more thing: the Trafford Centre has its own Chinatown.

Again, I am not making this up.

And I thought the trip was going to turn out to be a complete waste of time, until I started to make my way through the Debenhams towards the bus station. And I froze, at the largest Ben Sherman collection I had ever seen, which had seemingly popped up right in front of me out of nowhere. Of course, I couldn't afford anything, and I went out to sit by the station. But I thought about it for a while, and I realised... this place isn't half bad...

TJH

The Steel Club

2008-09-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

My cousin Paul belongs to a private pub. That means I belong too.

What a feeling!

It is a steel workers club. There are two bowling greens in the back, and a cricket pitch beyond that. It is a brick building that sells pints of Carlsberg for under 2 pounds. Paul has a trick: he gets handed his pint, and takes a big sip off the top when the bartender turns her back to retrieve change. After Paul is handed his change, he asks for the bartender to top him off. "Seems a bit shortchanged, innit?" He asks. He gets topped off. Works every time. I am scared to try this trick. I am gracious for anything that they give me.

Paul wasn't able to get the time off work, so it's up to me to entertain myself during the day. Today I went into the city and got my bearings; tomorrow, Salford. But everything revolves around what happens at the Steel Club in the evening. Tonight, Paul had a big lawn bowling match out back. Lawn bowling is big here. You are partnered with a player on an opposing team, and face off on a pitch about 27 yards squared. You roll a small ball, called a Jack, to the opposite end of the pitch; then, you try to roll two larger balls as close as possible to the Jack. It is a simple game, and great for the drinking spectators, as you can't even tell who's winning if you pay close attention, so it's just as well that you drink Carlsberg and joke around with your friends and occasionally yell encouragement to whoever happens to be playing. I suppose you could drink while you are actually playing, but I don't have access to the official rulebook.

Paul lost, but he soon recovered; England beat Croatia 4-1 tonight behind a Theo Walcott hat-trick. Completely unexpected! The locals are down on the Three Lions at the moment, and take every chance to take swipes at the team. Fabio Capello, England's Italian manager who can't string three English words together, has recently banned junk food and sweets. He possibly thinks this is the Key To Success. We laughed at him before the match; now he might be the man to lead England back to glory. Such a tactician!

"You know, I love America," says Paul, out of the blue, "but I cannot, for the life of me, understand how the richest, most mighty nation on Earth, cannot figure out how to insure it's own people." Aw, jeez. I don't want to get into this again. Europeans are smart, and they do not associate our fascist government with its people. They read newspapers, and they know about the low approval ratings of Bush and his murdering thug associates, but I quickly change the subject. Everybody knows - our government is corrupt. And I am sick of talking about how corrupt our government is. No need to pour salt into the open wound.

Still, I am somewhat of a celebrity, as not many Americans make their way to the Irlam Steel Workers Club. The last American here was... me, three years ago. To mark the occasion, everybody buys the American beer. Paul buys me beer, and Steve, Paul's friend, buys me beer, and then Steve's dad buys me beer, and then Paul's friend Paul (no relation) buys me beer, and then I have no idea what's going on. Steve asks me why I would waste a perfectly good holiday to come to Irlam; I tell him I'm a demented human being and I hate the sun, and he pretends to understand. Me and the original Paul buy takeout and go home.

A perfectly good holiday, indeed.

TJH

Black and White Town

2008-09-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

Here comes the action,
here it comes at last,
Lord give me reaction,
Lord give me a chance.

You feel guilty walking around Manchester. You feel guilty for being able to leave. For most, they are stuck in the glum.

I am staying in an outlying small town, called Irlam, which is a twenty minute train ride into the city. I wake up today to realise that it hasn't changed since my last visit.

One bit.

Mind you, I love Manchester. I would come here over any sun-infested tropical island any day. But you feel guilty because people are trapped; trapped within the dreariness and the go-nowhere jobs and the muck and the grime. It would be different if I didn't have a return ticket every time... but like I said, not much has changed. Even so, that's not to say there isn't fierce pride and confidence that exudes through everyday life here, that lies dormant within every Mancunian, whether they be hugely successful pop stars or work at the local newsstand.

Manchester is the original black and white town, where dreams of bigger lives fall by the wayside early on, and to be quite honest, they seem to be okay with that. Most of the people I've met know with a precise certainty that they are never leaving, and their renowned sense of humour and dry wit serves as a buffer to the opportunity that a person like me has. This is How It Is, and to think one person, one insignificant mound of flesh and bone, has the power to change How It Is, well... I'd choose to live within reality, Thank You Very Much.

Still, I see the clash between innocence and bleak reality firsthand, as I walk to the train station my first morning in my beloved home away from home. I am staying with my cousin Paul, and sometime after he leaves for work in the morning, I leave his Irlam home to go into the city. He gives me a key so I can come and go as I please. Five minutes into my walk to the train station, I am struck by a young boy, who might be ten or eleven years old, just sitting on his bike in the middle of the deserted road, staring, motionless, into the grey sky.

He looks incredibly bitter, and he decides it takes a special type of person to put up with all this... and to think that we've put up with this for hundreds of years, and fought for this, for God's sake... well, the walls are forming even as I look into his forlorn eyes. He will never leave, and he dares you to question the resolve of the English, because every boy at some point stares off into the distance, eyes glazed, and accepts his fate on this God-forsaken island, one that for some reason the Nazis wanted with a passion.

What were they thinking?!?

This is in the back of everybody's mind, from the eighty year old miser who hobbles up to the bowling green, alone and unhappy on a Wednesday afternoon in mid-September, to the ten-year-old boy in the United shirt, stopped short in the middle of the road, transfixed by the clouds and the rain. They were not able to take this island, and they never will.

England will live, whether we like it or not.

TJH

Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want

2008-09-09T17:35:00.000-07:00

Ahoy.

I arrived in Manchester today. I've loaded some pictures for your possible enjoyment. They aren't much but I figure it will satisfy the rumblings of certain random readers, who may or may not be my parents.

I have added them throughout my previous posts. Read them again if you like and make a comment or two.

Tell your friends: I am still alive and kicking.

TJH

Fare Thee Well

2008-09-09T15:42:00.000-07:00

It is time to say goodbye.

The Germans have been gracious hosts, and I could not have imagined a more smooth trip in a country where I am not exactly the smoothest customer. I know embarrassingly little German, but Europeans will turn their lives upside down to make their foreign friends feel comfortable. This much I know, and that is indeed how I felt - comfortable. I don't even feel comfortable in my own house, let alone Germany.

Kathleen sees me off, and as I wait by the gate I feel something altogether too familiar. I cannot possibly keep up any sort of meaningful relationship with anybody 6,000 miles away. I am a footnote to the incredible life of a fantastic person, and there is nothing I can do about it. Even so, I feel lucky to be a footnote, as I find it massively presumptuous to think of yourself as anything but; in fact, I might argue that a footnote might be the most admirable position to aspire to. I am not important, and I do not appreciate those who think they are. Objectivism is played - so played; Ayn Rand was a dangerous menace to society, and anything resembling her backwards views should go straight to the rubbish bin.

Still, it is hard to bid farewell to a saviour of sorts, somebody who enables you to see yourself in a different light and to examine your decisions with a newfound prospectus... as if they were enlightened at all to begin with! Before I leave, she orders a McFlurry and asks if I want kids. Man, how the fuck should I know?? I don't even know if I should renew my subscription to TIME magazine!

"You know what you want in your life," she says. "You have always known. Don't pretend you don't know."

"I'm not pretending!" I raise my voice. I am getting out of hand.

"Shhh. Oh please. We are both confident people. Are you kidding? We both know what will happen with our lives. We just have to peel back the skin."

Nobody talks to me like this. Again, she is right, and she is real. I feel sometimes that I am surrounded with... imagination? I do not exist, and I do not react. This doesn't occur in Europe. She can't help it. We embrace and I try to thank her, but it's no good. Germany is full of life, and I turn a cold shoulder and head through the exit. I stare off into the city until I am well up into the clouds.

We will see each other again. We will laugh and it will be just like old times.

TJH

A Day in the Life

2008-09-08T17:47:00.000-07:00

I slept in today. This morning Kathleen went to the dentist because her tooth has been bothering her. She tells me later that she went in (without an appointment), they found a cavity, they drilled and filled it back up, and they let her go, and it didn't cost her a dime. It is at this point that we have the requisite Health Insurance Debate, which involves me telling her about the American health care system and her saying things like "What!?" and "No!!"

Christian lends me his bicycle, which happens to be this top-of-the-line French model that surely costs thousands of dollars and possibly was developed by aerospace engineers. Me and Kathleen are riding our bicycles to the banks of the Rhein today, through the busy thoroughfares of Wiesbaden, and we are going to take a ferry down the river. We carry our bikes down the four floors of her flat and put on our sunglasses. "Are you a good bicyclist?" she asks me.

"Of course." I lie.

"Follow me." And she's off, and I immediately get my pant leg stuck in the gears. I kick my leg out to break free and already I am behind, and without having time to figure out the gearshifts I speed off, trying not to lose sight of her as she's weaving in and out of parked cars on a sidestreet. Germans do NOT wander about aimlessly; they know where they are going, and they get there as fast as possible. We bomb down a hill and I finally catch up as we enter a residential area, full of greenery and gardens and narrow cobblestone roads and pubs smaller than my bedroom back at home. It is What You Would Imagine.

We get to the river and buy ice cream that we can eat while we watch the ferries float by. Kids zoom past on Rollerblades and there is a group of men fishing down on the banks. The Rhein is calm and inviting.

Alas, the ferry never stops, and as the sun starts to set, we head back to the flat, where Simona is preparing a birthday cake for herself and anybody who would like a piece, and she makes it clear that everyone can have some "as long as you don't get angry with me if you get sick or something." Deal. Her birthday is tomorrow so we can't dig in until midnight.

But what are we going to do until then? Hey! I know! We should drink!

"Great idea!" I am told, and we wander around for an open pub. It is Monday night and the streets are quiet. We get lucky and find a place with outdoor seating. "Please excuse my terrible English," Simona tells me before launching into a lengthy discussion about climate change, photosynthesis, and manipulating the chemical bonds of Carbon-based compounds. This is Not What I Expected, That's For Sure. The pub closes and we are kicked out, and we are sad, but then we remember about the cake, and we are happy again, and we make our way back to the flat. We own the streets and we own the night, and for one person at least, another year comes and goes. And of all people, she has to spend it with a funny-looking American who also happens to be a very, very bad tipper.

TJH

Wine Tasting

2008-09-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up first.

I sleep next to floor-to-ceiling windows that let the city in all too early, especially if you´ve been out till 5am the night before.

But I can´t sleep with the city buzzing and the gears shifting. It is a brand new day in Germany and the idea of sleeping it away is appalling. We went back to the Slaughterhouse last night. It was Rock Music Night, which pretty much means Anything But House Music Night.

Better, I suppose. We got a late start because of a late dinner, so we make our way up the grimy pathway past midnight. Young Germans are flooded around the entrance; there is no smoking indoors in Europe, and everybody smokes. My new friends are constantly getting up and going outside to smoke, and it seems like they spend more time outside smoking than inside drinking. The Schlacthof is big in Wiesbaden; Sigur Ros played here only two months ago. Therefore, I will refrain from complaining about the DJs playing such rubbish as Eminem and Outkast during Rock Music Night. If you´ve never heard Outkast, just imaging Hell on Earth. The Germans dig it.

Simona told me yesterday that she´s never met a bad American dancer. "Does everybody take dancing classes in the USA or something?" she asks. Later, at the club, I understand her thinking; German men don´t dance, but rather stumble around like they´re suffering from a bad mescaline trip. Also, Germans have a nasty habit of stepping on your feet and elbowing you in the kidneys. Which would be FINE if they would PLAY SOME DECENT MUSIC FOR ONCE, but my group finally agrees:

It's time to go.

So anyways, back to this morning: after filling up on Nutella and kiwis, me and Kathleen meet up with Marko and load into his Mazda. We drive to Mosel and fill up on sweets, then meet up with Marko's friend Stefan, who happens to be this bigshot area vintner. German wine is the best, he says. The best. Travelling up the Rhein, he shows us his grapevines and proudly talks about his Riesling grapes. "Do you get angry with tourists who stop alongside the road and start picking grapes?" I ask.

"Of course. But there are ways to deter the tourists. If you sprinkle flour on the grapes, the tourists think the flour is dangerous chemicals, and they stay away. Unless they are Dutch, because they will eat anything." The Dutch have a reputation here as being goofy, carefree wanderers, in a "not-the-brightest-tools-in-the-shed" kind of way. There are hundreds of tents set up along the Rhein; these are all Dutch people, Stefan tells me, because they either can´t afford a hotel room, or don´t know how to book one.

Wine tasting is next. Stefan, who is with his young son Florian, has his own private wine tasting room, in his cellar directly underneath this little village. Stefan starts by letting us taste a few different wines, then joins in, and we spend entirely too much time in this scary German cellar, drinking in the dark and teaching each other words. At first Stefan said he didn´t know how to speak English, and now he is explaining to me, in English, the fermentation process. I buy two bottles of wine from him and Marko buys three; we somehow make our way back to the car so we can put the wine in the boot.

Now we eat!

Stefan knows a friend who owns a restaurant nearby. He is a fellow vintner and the only wine you can order at the restaurant is his own. Kathleen orders something that begins with a W, and I follow suit. Even the other Germans copy Kathleen; she is confident and is the obvious leader of any group. Every conversation and decision revolves around her, seemingly by sheer social osmosis. She asks the questions and gets the answers; a person with such command over the culture is nice to have as a friend who will take you in and feed you and show you around. We order more wine and get moved to a table on the roof, overlooking the small village. The sun sets beyond the Rhein as we get fat and happy in the warm German night. The owner, who is close friends with Stefan, brings four bottles of wine to our table free of charge, then waltzes back over and fills up everyone´s glass with a different bottle that I thinkI saw him drinking from himself earlier. No worries. The owner sits down with us and tells a long elaborate story about God knows what, as I laugh along with everybody else at the appropriate time, as nobody knows the time and nobody cares. Stefan lets Florian have the run of the place; it is safe here, and there is no reason to worry about anything besides enjoying the moment. Kathleen knows I don´t understand anything and finds it hilarious that I am laughing along with everybody else, which makes her laugh more, which makes everybody else laugh more, which leads me to believe we must be breaking some noise ordinance level or something. We keep laughing, and I smile and look up at the moon.

TJH

Kletterwald

2008-09-07T14:55:00.001-07:00

I have an idea, which I will bring to America and hopefully make millions.

The idea is to copy the hot German trend of Kletterwald, but with an added American twist.

Maybe I will add a gift shop?

Let me explain: Kletterwald is complete craziness, a boyhood fantasy ripped out of the pages of Robert Louis Stevenson and set up, with accompanying info stand and juice bar, in a forest at the top of a hill. There is very little supervision and much to be worried about. It is great.

Kathleen and I, along with our friends Axel and Simona, took a ride on this water-propulsion gondola in Neroberg which is very popular among the locals. Axel is very much like Kathleen, in that he claims to not be able to speak very good English, because he needs clarification for words like "esoteric". The idea is simple: there are two cars, one on the top of the mountain, the other at the bottom. The car at the top is filled with water, to the point where it makes its way down the mountain, thus bringing the car at the bottom up to the top. At the top is a Russian basilica, a large meeting place where a wedding was winding down, and the Kletterwald forest.

You walk through the forest and people on ziplines zoom around above your head; there are log ladders, rope swings, and wooden platforms in between all of the stations. You are strapped into a harness, so if you fall you don´t crush your skull on the unforgiving gravel below. Kids are dangling upside down, grown men are balancing on slippery logs thirty feet in the air, and everybody is screaming and having a grand old time. The lack of supervision is heinous; young girls and boys are expected to be able to strap themselves in and out of the harness by themselves, which they do with ease.

"You don´t have Kletterwald in America?!" Axel asks me. "You could become rich!" The rain makes the course even more difficult. It reminds me of certain elements out of the Mario Brothers games: jumping from platform to platform and leaping from vine to vine. Achtung. I would do it myself if I wasn´t frightened or slightly drunk. The area is huge - you could be up there for hours and not do the same thing twice.

Oh well. It would never work. I´m no entrepreneur. Plus, my lawyer doesn´t even exist.

TJH

Musings at the Noodlebar

2008-09-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

- So I have to ask, and I apologise if this is a sensitive issue with you: I´m just curious as to the German mindset and the coping mechanisms employed, regarding what happened 65 years ago...

- There is nothing to cope with for me. I did not live it and did not participate in anything that happened "65 years ago". No, I take that back: I cope with the fact that Germans have not been allowed to be patriotic in the least bit, and I have to be so careful with what I say, lest I be called a Nazi or worse. I avoid Bavaria because that sort of thinking, this extreme nationalism, disgusts me, but I am proud of who I am and that I am German.

- I would imagine that any sort of nationalism reflects badly throughout surrounding areas, and that you are expected to apologise for things beyond your control.

- Exactly. This is something that is unique to the German experience, and to be honest we really don´t verbalise this much amongst friends because we all feel it. No need to pour salt in the wound, or to kick the dead pig or whatever you say. But if we say anything to the Turks, like if we don´t respect something they are doing and we say something about it, they call us Nazis, and that´s something we want to avoid obviously. But this is why the World Cup was so important to me, because it seems now it is alright to wave a German flag or to express pride in ourselves as people, or in our government or how we live, and I think it was very instrumental in changing the way the world sees us. It gives me goosebumps talking about such things.

- Well, one thing I can say is that, at least among people who pay attention to what is going on in the world and foreign relations and these types of things, Germany seems to have taken the right approach in integrating Jews and other minorities back into the fold.

- Yes, and the turnaround was relatively quick when you look at it from a wider perspective. I ask, what have the Americans done to atone for their years of atrocities, with the Indians and slaves in their own country and the amount of lives they have ruined in so many countries in the world? How do you cope with this?

- By distancing ourselves from our government and the ruling class. The American government, as opposed to yours, has done very little in terms of making up with the oppressed, if that´s the right word to use. You know, we actually have a holiday still to celebrate Christopher Columbus??

- I know, I couldn´t believe it when I found out about that!

- And certian things, like being able to read his personal diary, these things are so easily available for the public to access and yet so many people either don´t know the real story or they choose to ignore it and blame it on the "self-hating" ways of the "far left". You can open up his diary and he makes fun of the Indians, he writes something to the effect of, ´Well, it´s funny because they have no idea we will soon be raping all the women and stealing their gold and burning all their houses down´.

- Our situation is unique, but in certain ways it´s not, in that people now and before have always been easily led to believe such ridiculous things. It happened here, it´s happening in America now. They label everybody terrorists and they bomb countries because they say they want to spread democracy, and everybody knows that democracy has nothing to do with it. I just don´t understand how so many people are so easily misled.

Meeting People is Easy

2008-09-06T10:09:00.000-07:00

It´s time to meet my new German friends:

Simona, a medical student who lives with Kathleen who enjoys smoking indoors and listening to Franz Ferdinand; Marko, a chemical engineer who lives 30 minutes away in a city I can´t pronounce; Afra, an old college friend of Kathleen´s who speaks no English and pretends I don´t exist; Christian, a really small guy who doesn´t speak English who I think also lives with Kathleen (there´s like seven people who live here); and Tina, Christian´s friend who thinks I´m interesting because I´m from America.

The night starts with muddling apprehension and confusion: I get handed a beer right before we leave the flat. Do I have to drink it really fast? Or can I go outside with it? Luckily everybody starts walking outside, so I follow suit, and find out later that as long as you aren´t "stumbling into people", nobody cares. The original plan was to go to a church and listen to some klavier musicians, but the plan has changed - we are now on our way to watch the funk-and-soul show (at a different church).

Walking up to the church, we realise it´s a five euro admission, so naturally we sneak in the back, bottles of Beck´s shoved down our pants. The show is about as bewildering as one would imagine any sort of German funk-soul fusion outfit, and the audience is mild-mannered and well-behaved. We make our way to the front of the church and relax on the steps. Me and Marko seem to be getting along, as we have a long confusing discussion about the dynamics of the North Sea and the surrounding environs, and what that means to you and me. He assures me this is a significant issue for young German environmentalists and anybody who wants to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. We are boring Christian and Tina.

We are drinking champagne now, as there is a stand nearby to attract some of the less devout churchgoers. A woman who was speaking heavy German to Kathleen turns around to me and starts asking me about Portland, in perfect English. Already this is strange, as I have gotten used to not being able to make out one single word anybody says to me. The woman and her husband buy our group more champagne and leave into the cold wet night. The rain starts to piss down and we race inside the church with our valuable champagne glasses, ones which can be returned for a one euro deposit. So essentially, I am getting paid to drink in church.

Off now to the Slaughterhouse (Der Schlacthof), Wiesbaden´s premier dance club, where they are spinning house records and the DJs are getting paid to pretend to look busy.

I explain to Marko the American male´s love of Vonnegut´s Slaughterhouse-Five and how I am planning on going to Dresden. "Wiesbaden was lucky," he says. "The Americans didn´t destroy it like they did Dresden." We go into the club and I start getting harrassed by Germans who assume I am Afra´s boyfriend. Or they are jealous of my smooth dance moves. Either way, Afra is plastered, and she´s dancing like it´s last night on Earth. Kathleen tells me that it´s even funnier because she "hates this kind of music."

The Slaughterhouse is not very full tonight, so we go back outside and I order beer successfully at the bar, all by myself. I am very proud of myself, and Marko beams at his pupil like I had just hit my very first home run. The night has lost its edge, and we leave the Slaughterhouse and the bobbing German heads and pulsing rubbish music. We walk along the train tracks on the way back home, and almost have a nasty run-in with some young Turks by the station. There are Turks everywhere in Germany. Tensions run high between Turks and Germans because of what Kathleen describes as (what else) "cultural misunderstandings." A Turk was arrested recently not far from where I am staying for murdering his sister in broad daylight. Her family was disappointed that she was not married and giving in to the perversions fitting those of young Europeans, so they decided she wasn´t worthy of life.

I wonder what they think about me!

TJH

Wiesbaden

2008-09-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

After a much delayed flight, I finally landed in Frankfurt to be greeted by an old friend of mine who I haven't seen for nine years, the great Kathleen.

We took the train to Wiesbaden, where we're staying, and we walked around for a bit and bought food and beer. I feel like I probably felt before I could read or speak at an intelligible level, and just spent my time gazing around at all the different colors and shapes. Also it's pretty nice because I keep getting food shoved in front of me.

I need to find a electrical converter for my computer, because it's almost out of battery. Don't know when I'll be able to update next. I need a nap, as you can tell.

TJH

Strange Rumblings From 37,000 Feet

2008-09-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

It is when you are traveling alone (and I feel like a grizzled old veteran of the process) and lifted off the face of the earth when you are able to separate yourself from the vagaries and minutiae of your everyday life, both literally and figuratively. It is at these times when you can examine personal happenstance (and happiness) through a microscope, as your filters have been blown to smithereens by your insecurities.

My problems are nothing that nine or ten $200-an-hour therapy sessions wouldn’t fix, but to be honest I would rather spend the money on Stella instead. Insecurities? How about bold decision-making? Besides, people come to me all the time for advice in matters ranging from relationships to gambling picks to fashion. My insistence that I am truly an ignorant dolt doesn’t worry them one bit, seemingly. I either know what I’m talking about, or people are taking advantage of me because of all the beer in my fridge.

And by the way, I’m fine with that. But what does worry me is the trap that people fall into when they start thinking about their retirement funds and performance reviews and understanding tax code. This should be terrifying to any level-headed individual, but I suppose it is the product of dashed dreams and squandered youth that we desperately cling to, like a shark ripping into a surfer’s leg. You can only be a stubborn bastard for so long; I suppose at some point, you have to give in and just let them chew you up and spit you out.

It’s the system: you play by the rules and jump into the funnel, and you end up having the same problems as everybody else and spend entirely too much time complaining about gas prices and the exchange rate. Lately I’ve been arguing that athletics are possibly the most self-satisfying professions one could have, just because it’s so far removed from what the system preaches. To me, the idea that an athlete should choose to go to college over signing a professional contract is ridiculous, as the only reason I choose to learn about stuff and become “educated” is because I was never a great athlete, or I didn’t spend enough time working on improving or whatever. Sure, I like learning about new stuff, but not as much as I like kicking a soccer ball.

Whatever. I spent a couple hours walking around O’Hare, trying to find Jules after we got separated, but I gave up. She was going to New York. I knew her for a very short time, but she was a wonderful person. I liked her shoes. Maybe we will get married and live near the Irish Sea.

TJH

Layover

2008-09-04T16:24:00.000-07:00

Aw jeez. Life in an airport is the pits.

The pits!

I'm smack in the middle of a ten-hour layover, and I'm hungry. I've narrowed my choices down to two: Chili's (no way in hell) and Corporation Inc.'s Bagels and Overpriced Salads. Not promising. Meanwhile, the seating area by the gates are filled with chairs that they apparently got from an old Soviet-era medical facility waiting room, with padding as effective as paper towel wrapped around a cinderblock.

The Republican National Convention is on every television with the sound turned up, and sportswriters are roaming around in packs that resemble big lumpy Pillsbury Doughboy armies who all wear the same brand of khaki pants. There's John McCain merchandise in every store, which leads me to ask the cashier where the Obama stuff is.

"Sold out!" she proudly claims.

"So they force you guys to keep the McCain shirts out, even though nobody would be caught dead buying one?"

She nods sheepishly. The wild world of high-flying American politics!

TJH

Chicago

2008-09-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

I made a friend on the flight to Chicago. Her name is Jules and she said this as we stepped off the plane:

"I wish this was Amsterdam."

Stop me if you've heard this one before...

Chicago is no Amsterdam. In fact, she's turning out to be fickle and unwelcoming, what with the weather and the sea of fast walkers that swept Jules away from me. So there will be no wild Chicago adventures, at least this day; my attention turns now to my German phrasebook, something Jules has assured me will not be necessary. "Everybody speaks English," she said. "It's great!"

Sure. But I do want to try these ones out at some point:

- Kann man hier tanzen? (Can we dance here?)
- Haben Sie Heringe furs Zelt? (Do you have any tent pegs?)
- Wie bitte?? Null Heringe furs Zelt?? (What?? No tent pegs??)

TJH

Under Control

2008-09-04T04:56:00.000-07:00

Traveling is best in the early morning hours, when people don't quite have the required amount of energy to be a dickhead to you. I swear, I even saw the TSA guys smiling at travelers.

Even though I love to travel, I don't necessarily enjoy being away from home because of the feeling of reduced control over things which revolve around your life, or vice versa. Even though I usually have very little control, now I have zero. The mental block is significant, and there are lingering aftereffects. It's like stepping off of one of those totally awesome moving sidewalks. That's why I like coaching soccer. If something is going wrong on the pitch, at least I have the power to change it.

I am not a control freak, but I don't like the idea of other people writing my story. Consider the amount of blind trust we put into strangers, let alone our friends; we drive around just hoping that people won't cross those lines at the wrong time, we put things into our bodies that complete strangers have deemed healthy, and we rely on our own bodies to not, for whatever reason, mix our chemicals into the wrong vials. We line up and walk onto huge flying bullets without having the faintest understanding as to the physics of flight and the perspicacity of the crew. We are taught to accept our good fortune and not question who or what is responsible. Of course, it'd be stupid not to.

Ignorance is... bliss?

Then what's objective reality? Chopped liver?

Frig!

And sometimes, I choose to give up control, like when I chose to book my flight with a ten-hour layover in Chicago. What was I thinking?

One more thing real quick: we were just alerted that the first class passengers on the Chicago flight get to walk up to the plane on a red carpet. I'm not kidding.

The rest of us have to use the black one.

TJH