We No Speak Americano

Colombia. That's what the parrot pulled from it's gypsy flavoured pack of cards. That's where the vacation angst ridden took a metal bird to.

Yes, after much racking, and bitching, and whining - for that's how great things come about - we impromptu-ously ran to Colombia. Uncanned. With a lonely planet and a few choicy spanish words. And the backpacking skills of the girl (I'd fall on one knee and propose to her just for that if I hadn't already married her).

We Cartagena-ed, we Cali-ed. Salsa-ed or tried to at least, drank like mad and said hi to a snow covered volcano. Which then proceeded to emit sulphuric fumes, and so our guide made us run. Colombian volcanoes, unlike colombian people are not friendly. The guide said.

In cartagena, the girl went Gabriel Garcia Marquez crazy, re-living every book of his by the streets. Even touched the walls of his house. I tried to speak spanish with hand signals.

Drank so much coffee, but more importantly slept amid coffee greens. In an old plantation house, next to a trail on which had traveled Simon Bolivar. And then drank so much more coffee. Exported some of it over to our apartment as well. Drinking so much coffee.

But then the snow monster fucked us proper. I'm convinced I'm jinxed with air travel. It's out to get me. But no pain no gain. I laugh and wink now, but when we were stranded in Bogota, with no one speaking english, and no planes departing to Neuva York, I was close to crying. The girl almost punched a few airline people in frustration. I probably would have cried for sure then.

But now, laughing and winking, I'm being the saying whew. It's good to be home. Until the next holiday, eh?

Tower Of Song

Yello.
How's the good life treating you then? Plodding along hopefully... willing to punch me for asking such staid questions?

Argh, so desperate to sound cool. Sigh. Ok fine, I take full blame. But in my defense, I didn't have anything to start with, so I shot from the hip. And I'm more Indian than cowboy (*and then proceeds to remove tongue from within cheek*).

Now I've lost my chain of thought. I was going to take the desperate cool forward, but as you saw, my consciousness stepped in. Or something like that.

So instead I'll throw a thought that's been nagging me, your way.

Vacations. I've had it with canned vacations. Like driving out to see fall colours in Vermont, or some stupid trees in DC, going skiing in the Alps/Colorado, golf holidays, going to big cities like Paris, London, or even Miami. I don't really know what exactly I have had it with, what irritates me about them. It's most likely the feeling that they feel so... so safe. So normal. So boring.

And like with most forms of angst, I don't know the solution just yet.

Perhaps Everest Base Camp; Backpacking in colombia, where I don't know the language, maybe biking across it; River rafting for 10 days across a dangerous untamable river; A drinking trip, except one inspired by the ten deadliest drinks (found here, a website The Girl found and one that'll absorb me for the rest of the year for sure).

You got solutions?

Space Oddity

I don't like the BBC.

I do however believe, that they're one of a few unbiased non-sensationalism-seeking news channels left. A belief that has been much strengthened after living in the US for a while now.

But it still stands. I don't like them.

Why? Well, there was this time when I used to watch them everyday. And loved it. Then one summer (it's always a summer that gets destroyed), I picked up a book to read, and I heard the BBC's male commentator's voice reading the words out back to me - this is the one who starts speaking once the pictures start. No matter what I tried that damn BBC commentator would chirpily pipe up in my head when I'd read a sentence. With his same sing song manner, the same pauses and the same accent. If I read aloud, he'd disappear, but that didn't appeal as a long term solution.

It was fun in the beginning and then got irritating very fast.

And it happened with every damn thing I read. The newspaper, the websites, even menu's in restaurants. Brunch tasted different that summer.

So I stopped watching the BBC. And stopped liking them. And eventually I drowned the bugger out.

But today, accidentally, while flipping channels, I saw BBC as an option, raised my eyebrows, and ventured forward as means of an adventure.

Now I'm dreading picking that book up. What if the bastard's back?

Show Me How To Live

Look ma, he changed the look.

Damn right I did. I'm a sucker for marketing - I'll buy the iphone, I'll walk down organic food aisles, sell my soul to social networking sites, and perhaps jump on a few other bandwagons along the way. So what's a little blog redecorating, huh.
Or is it peer pressure? Or something deeper. Do I need a shrink for this? Do I?

Regardless, it is what it is.
And that's how the world goes.

And so I'm back. I missed this. I'll probably disappear again. But till then....

Wasted Hours

It's probably too late. You've most likely already moved on to the next big thing and this, coming so late as it is, might leave a stale taste. But it's uncontrollable now. I have to let it out.
So I'll say this, cause I will say it, but I'll do you one. I'll say it real fast and without the danger that is emotion.

Finally!
After I'd supported the buggers for 3 world cups.12 years. They finally delivered.
Ah espania, much against your "la roja furia" name, I say you're like safe drivers. Better late than never. I don't care either way. I would have rejoiced equally if you'd sped, swerved, scratched and still won. But thanks.

There.
So much better I feel now.

And what else?
...and then there's been life. It's been trying to catch up with me for a while now...which it did and so I had to take care of that.

I'm going to sip some wine, listen to music and try and lose it once again. Life that is.

El Porompompero

Somethings are too emotional to be said all by yourself. So I'm going to use other people's words to reflect on the next 21 beautiful days, that will be spent watching a beautiful patch of green grass.

“Football, a game in which everyone gets hurt and every nation has its own style of play which seems unfair to foreigners.”
George Orwell

“I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women. Suddenly, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain it would bring.”
Nick Hornby

“To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink.”
JB Priestley

“Amongst all unimportant subjects, football is by far the most important.”
Pope John Paul II

“In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.”
Jean-Paul Sartre

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that.”
Bill Shankly

“Rugby is a game for barbarians played by gentlemen. Football is a game for gentlemen played by barbarians.”
Oscar Wilde

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

It's going to get very real, very soon. And also wet. It might even smell of fish.

You see, I just resigned to go to another bee hive. But that's not important. What's important is that I get 10 days. 10 glorious, shiny, full of possibility days between these things they call "jobs". And it somehow coincides with the beginning of summer, the defeat of winter. Isn't coincidence a wonderful thing?

What's also important is that we've decided to unleash our inner kerouacs and go on a road trip. To catch a beach town while driving on a sea-side road. Step onto cobbled streets, eat with the local fishermen, swim in their seas, watch their sunsets, drink with their blessings. That kind of thing.

Someplace much removed from Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday" seaside town. Someplace much out of an artists biased potrait of everyday small town living.

It's not completely "on the road" I will admit, marred as it is with a little planning thrown in. It's the price you pay for living in a foreign land.

And yes it's a boring thing. The being planned.

But worry not, we will throw caution to the wind. Without abandon we will.

So if you see a small rented car, going east from new york, with two, smiling like the dickens people, yell us on and if you want postcards, drop your address in the backseat.

No Surprises

I'm coming today to vent.

I love my mum and dad. Unconditionally and insanely.
I hate my grandmother (dad's side). Conditionally and sanely.
But that might change. Unconditionally and insanely being common.

She's a right bitch that one. Always been mean to my mother, always been mean to other daughter in laws. You get the gist. You've seen that TV serial.

And I know the drill. Life's not fair, blah blah blah. And another blah. She's elder and senile and all those excuses. I've heard them all before.

I still don't see the light.

I'm sure she won't pop it soon (or soon enough) or won't suddenly make an about turn and start being a loving one rather than an insecure grouch. Yes, I've been through all those thoughts and permutations in between before. If you label me a rank amateur in your head, you've got the wrong joe.

So what can I do. Other than a shoulder shrug and a sigh.

Mum's suffered a lot. Still does. And I feel so helpless so far away. So far away. So fucking far away.

That's all.

California Stars

I have the time, and I don't have the time.
I want to write, and I don't want to write.
I have those words on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my finger,
and yet it feels like I don't.
In that sense it's like an everyday day.

I used to have a lot to say. Actually I still do. But perhaps now, because I'm happy, I mean happier...with the status quo, the words come coated with a paint of laughter, a tint of contentment.

Tragedy makes good writers. Contended writers on the other hand sound boring, even to themselves.

But they wouldn't want it any other way.

But I will say things, soon I will shout and rant and blurt. I will jump to conclusions, I will make my assumptions, I will dispense existential angst at will and I will wander aimlessly as well. The paint of laughter and the tint of contentment though, will not fade. It's a permanent structure now and as permanent structures go...unfadeable.

...cause it's on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my fingers.

Lemon Tree

A day dedicated to fools?
Nay sir, it's but confusion.

A day dedicated to being a fool?
Nay sir, your lack of understanding merits a repetition. It's but confusion.

A day dedicated to foolery?
Aye sir, aye. It's but confusion followed by laughter. Like watching the world through kaleidoscopic eyes (with yellow smiley's floating in the background), through lenses that colour in myriad but joyful ways, that don't break, but bend. It's understanding that tragedy is manmade, laughter is organic. That tragedy is forced, self indulgent and that without so much as an effort you can poke at it with spokes of laughter. If you so desire.

A day dedicated to desire?
Aye sir, you're catching on. But that's all you'll get from me. For it's the first of April and there's much foolery to be done.

Creep

Ok enough of the mushiness already.

My chest hairs have started to bristle, my muscles ache to be clenched and I fear that I might have to go camp, kill a wolf, eat it's raw heart just to cleanse myself.

It's a little disturbing I know, but don't blame it on me. It's but genealogy.

(At least I hope that's what it is, else chicken won't be our staple diet anymore).

On similar notes, we've been painting this mean ol town red. It has to be done. And no plans. Nothing. All plans have been thrown to the wind where they flutter lifelessly. Just her, me and a town named boo.

oh and last night, in a karaoke bar, I sang my post marriage rendition of Creep. A girl at the bar yelled "If I had underwear to spare, I'd throw it at you".

Making life difficult for single guys, one bar at a time. Ah bliss.

Strawberry Fields Forever

....
To tell you the truth, the honest god forsaken and all the different kinds it comes in, truth - I don't know that much of the written word to describe how much of a blast it was.

But if you were in front of me and saw my hand gestures, the excited tone in my voice, the eyebrows with a mind of their own, the bulging eyes themselves, you'd see my point. Even if I didn't have to pin you to a wall and scream it out, you'd see it.

I lived those two weeks.

I laughed, I danced, I drank, I sat on a horse, I wore heavier clothes than I've ever worn, some jewelry too yes, I hugged a thousand people, I reflected a million flashes of the camera on my skin, I made my jaws ache by smiling so much, I walked in a daze, I saw family and friends I hadn't seen in ages and I cried for it, and I smiled for it

...and she looked so lovely through it all. And I crossed my fingers every time I managed a secret glance at her.

Now we're busy assembling ikea furniture and the camera's are slung on tourist necks clicking past me at the buildings and the concrete.

Shit I miss the attention.

Dance Me To The End Of Love

And here I'd almost given up on February.

You'd think that once you'd gone ahead and told the months the roles that they'd play, they'd behave. But really all they do is stick their tongues out at you and make a face. Collectively at that too.

In April, I had whispered to May to tell June that I had the ring. May gave me the stressful hibbie jibbies instead. I'm not even sure if he passed my whisper on.

And then June came. I was ready to fall on one knee. But man, June went on some mischievous-binge then. She threw my game around, surprises around every corner, a hiccup here and a hiccup there, but thankfully, it all played out prettier than a masterpiece. I'll always love June for that.

And then I spared the rest.

Except for February. All I had told February was to hurry up with the wedding. And all the bugger really did was play the immaculate tease.

But now, now it's finally here. And I can hear the music. And I can almost touch her now.
It's started it has.

She Loves Everybody

Friend of London boy : "But you hate americans"

London boy : "Everyone hates americans. But she's from New York. They're almost like us."

From a UK drama thingy that I have been watching about this guy in london who’s doing the long distance with this girl in new york.

Despite the cheesy backdrop, I’m loving it for the moment.

Hellhole Ratrace

“You’re very well read.” That’s what she said.

You’re not sure what that means really.

The english language relies heavily on relatives. Perhaps the other languages do as well, but you never bothered to learn them, so commenting on them becomes a technicality.

It’s all relative. “Very well read” relative to the average person. Does that even matter. “Very well read” relative to the people she knows. Should that be a compliment? An insult?

You never bothered to know the people she knows, so technicality claims another victim.

You keep quiet. Nod perhaps.

“You’ve changed.“ That’s also what she said.

Fuck hell you have.
You, you change in the course of a day. There are moments every day you shed an old skin and grow another. Some are subtle, still camouflaged, some so completely new, they revolt with the environment. Given that you are meeting her after a year, that's 365 possible sheddings. You'd wager that the maths suggests they can't all be of the subtle variety.

This time you tell her all that. And for extra measure add, I’m not sure what you mean.

“You know what I mean.”

No I don’t. I’ve changed to something you don’t like. Is that what you’re hinting at?

She keeps quiet. Perhaps nods her head.