CityHangover Miscellany: Gateway Edition

In this substance laden edition of CityHangover Miscellany: Marijuana may or may not be your first step in turning tricks at a truck stop to fund your next bump, Germany asks us to consider their history of innovation, more marquee athletes get effed by flaxseed oil, and your mom starts to DJ. Whew.

So who's up for a trip to Amsterdam? Depending how you spin it, a new study out of the Mount Sinai School of Medicine either cements the After School Special theory that pot leads to a slippery slope of drug addiction, or suggests that smoking up has very little to do with heroin use after all. At its core, the study concludes that while rats exposed to pot wound up shooting up (or, well, pressing a bar) 25% more than straight edge rats, both groups took a hearty liking to the heroin sauce. So I guess the learning is, if you try heroin, you'll probably get addicted. Stay in school, kids!

Germany - Land of, um, Ideas. I was in Germany last week for work. Although I had little time to take in the sights, I did manage to satiate my cravings for German beer, particularly of the wheat, or hefeweizen, variety. I can trace my first foray into the world of wheat beer from my college days with Bell's Oberon out of Kalamazoo. From there, I remember sharing 6-packs of Hacker-Pschorr Weisse on the front porch of my spring term house on Division, and more recently adding Hoegaarden as a staple to my beer-based diet in New York and London. Although each of these beers has its own merits, none compare to a classic German hefeweizen. The Germans were one of the first to add wheat to their brewing techniques (in place of barley) back in the day, resulting in a unique smokiness to the beer, with aromas of citrus and clove. It sounds weird, but the taste is a perfect compliment to a hot summer day.

Evidently while I was off tasting as many hefeweizens as a 48 hour trip (and my boss) would allow, Germany was kicking off a new advertising campaign from New York to Tokyo heralding their country as the "Land of Ideas". I'll be the first to celebrate innovations like hefeweizen, but "Land of Ideas"? I'm not sure Germany should be asking the rest of the World to think back to some of their great "ideas"...

BREAKING NEWS: Athletes use steroids. Man. This is getting rough. First, Tour de France winner Floyd Landis fails a drug test the day of his tour-making stage 11 mountain climb, and now, USA Track & Field wunderkind Justin Gatlin admits to testing positive for "testosterone or its precursors" after an April track meet. I'll admit, Landis' positive test didn't surprise me that much. He seems a bit Nascar, and this is cycling, after all (who else thinks Lance Armstrong is laughing his ass off right now? Sucka!). Gatlin's positive test, on the other hand, is a disappointment. I remember his interview after he won the Olympic 100m in Athens, and was impressed by the way he handled his win without the requisite hubris of most world class sprinters (think Maurice Green, Donovan Bailey, etc.). Until now, he's been squeaky clean (well, except for that Adderol induced positive) in a sport desperate for a new face, and seemed mature enough to handle his recent success. Like many sports fans, I'm really hoping that Gatlin is cleared of any wrongdoing. At some point though, the public needs to recognize that drugs have become an unfortunate, yet integral component of professional athletics. Maybe we need to start having separate heats - runners on vs. off The Clear?

And another one... These days everyone is a DJ. That quiet Indian guy I had Psych with at college, the dude who works through my P&L from Finance, you name it. This weekend I made my first London DJ friend, and hope to be well on my way to insider status at raves across the city. Kidding. He actually DJed a lame house party where the only excitement was derived from making fun of girls for requesting Belinda Carlisle songs. What's with girls and bad music taste, anyway?

Hello? McFly?

Ah, the joys of Sunday morning. Fresh coffee, the weekend newspaper, and debilitating hangovers. That said, I'm feeling much better having spent the last 20 minutes watching Back to the Future on TV. I had no idea that it's been over 20 years since BTTF came out. Well, at least until watching the following opening sequence unravel: Michael J. Fox practices electric guitar, skateboards to school behind a Jeep while Huey Lewis' "Power of Love" plays in the background, kisses girlfriend after school (backed by, you guessed it, Huey Lewis' "Power of Love"), meets Doc in the mall parking lot to unveil the DeLorean time machine, gets ambushed by Libyan terrorists (1985 style?) in, oh I don't know, a VW Minivan.

Can you imagine reading this script for the first time? Really, with hangover cures like this, who needs Chaser?

Not a Good Look

How could something that feels so right be so wrong?

Update: McDonald's reports largest quarterly sales increase in Europe in 10 years. Coincidence?

Your Search Results

Google has really outdone itself this week, bringing a host of crazies to this website. Some of the more interesting searches leading to CityHangover:

-Drunk saki bombing
-Andre Agassi mullet photo gallery
-Sex teenage girl
-And about a gazillion image searches for Scarlett Johansson.

You know you've made it when porn searches link to your blog. For those of you with websites - what are some of the most ridiculous searches leading to your blog?

An Open Letter to Al Gore

Dear Mr. Gore,

First things first - how are the wife and kids? You know, I still remember that romantic kiss you gave Tipper during the 2000 Democratic National Convention. You really showed Michael Jackson who's boss when it comes to PDA, didn't you? Anyway, on to the purpose of my letter. I've had a very rough week, Mr. Gore, and I'm hoping you can wield your considerable influence to help me out. Let me explain.

You see, since last Friday my life in London has felt eerily similar to an episode of, well, Family Feud. Weird, isn't it? You know how every Feud episode has one family member who effs it up for the others? Like Ray Combs (pre-suicide, of course) will ask the family to "Name something you use to eat", and the group will be moving steadily along with responses like "knife", "fork", and "plate", until arriving to Aunt Margaret, who responds with something ridiculous like "garden hose", or "sock"? To be honest, I'm starting to feel a lot like Aunt Margaret.

Time and again this week, I've felt Ray Combs perched on my left shoulder, asking me to show him "a place most likely to have air conditioning". Initially, I felt destined for the Fast Money Round upon hearing the topic. Brimming with confidence, I took Ray with me to ride on the trains and buses of London's public transport system. Ehhh! Strike one. No air conditioning there. Being the resilient guy that I am, I bounced back from this misstep and took Ray to the supermarket, which had to be a top 3 answer. Ehhh! Strike two. Finally, feeling the need to raise my game, I took Ray to a museum - surely ancient artifacts feel the cool breeze of conditioned air, right? Ehhh! Strike three. And just like that, the Fast Money Round had slipped from my grasp.

I found myself agitated and (still) sweaty, so I decided to go check out your global warming movie, An Inconvenient Truth (actually I was planning to see Rusted Jesus' Gay Superman Returns, but it wasn't showing). I must have looked desperate for a respite from the sweltering heat, as the cashier immediately warned me, unprovoked, that the movie theatre was also not air conditioned. What?! No A/C in a movie theatre? Doesn't the summer blockbuster season rely entirely on the allure of cool theatres? Confused, I aborted the mission, choosing to walk the 20 minutes home (the bus, after all, was about 200 degrees).

So what does all of this have to do with you, Mr. Gore? Well, to be honest, I think you're up to something. I've read the articles and seen the magazine covers (albeit not on recycled paper), and can't help but think you've got a vested interest in this heat wave. Perhaps you're basking in the satisfaction of your message finally being heard? Or simply making the common man pay for not having heeded your warnings? Worse yet, could this all just be a ploy to strengthen your 2008 candidacy? Regardless of your motive, I humbly ask that you consider my plea. Can you please talk to your guys and cool this place down?

There are over 820 days left until the 2008 Presidential Election, and old people are going to start dropping like flies if you continue to ratchet up the heat index in such dramatic increments between now and then (admittedly, most old people are republican...). There's no question that you're a big deal these days, but the last thing you want is to peak too soon. Maybe a cold front could be just the break the public needs to avoid Al Gore overkill? Plus, if this heat continues, I'm going to be forced to overdo the post work beer drinking ("Once it hits your lips, it's so good!") to stay cool, and may yet again wind up drunk in Macker's late at night ordering seconds off the Extra Value Meal menu. (Yes. Two cheeseburgers, two large fries, and a coke or two. Disgusting, I know. But it was air conditioned!).

Seriously. Do something about this before Hillary does.

Sincerely,
CityHangover

Am I Making Myself Clear?

I've noted the direct nature of English PSAs before, but nothing beats their approach to warnings on cigarette packages. Consider the picture to the right compared to these (relatively) weak words of wisdom from the U.S. Surgeon General:

"Cigarette Smoke Contains Carbon Monoxide."

"Smoking by Pregnant Women May Result in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, and Low Birth Weight."

"Quitting Smoking Now Greatly Reduces Serious Risks to Your Health."

Carbon Monoxide? As a warning? I'd bet half of America thinks the Dentist uses Carbon Monoxide as an anesthetic when filling their cavities.

Although there's little evidence that cigarette warnings are effective - and in my experience far more people smoke in London than New York - you have to give the Brits a high five for trying.

Week(end) in Review

OK. You win. All of you daily, or even every-other-daily bloggers can now step off of your soapboxes: I concede defeat. (In fact, although you can't tell since most of you are halfway around the world, I'm waving my tighty whiteys humbly in the air as we speak). I am, at best, the JV to your varsity, the yellow card to your red, the Smirnoff Ice to your shot of Patron. But starting this week, I'm going to get back to a respectable posting schedule. That's right, Junior is gettin' moved up for States! ("Ohhhh, man I wish I could go back in time. I'd take State.")

Before we look forward, let's look back to address the two 100's of emails I receive daily inquiring about both this site and my life:

1.) Where have you been? Working too late, staying out too late, and generally "burning the candle at both ends", as my Mom would say.

2.) Are you dead? See #1.

3.) Are you still "hungover"? Does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Did Yoko Ono ruin the Beatles? Did Lance Armstrong use steroids in winning the Tour de France? In the last week alone, I've managed to close down a pub "whilst" serenading a friend with "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" for her birthday (her request, not mine), rediscovered my love affair with hefeweizen at an outdoor beer garden, and downed double caipirinhas at a traditional Brazilian churrascaria.

4.) When are you paying me back that $100 I loaned you? That's enough questions for today, class.

So stay tuned. This week will (hopefully) allow me to capture some of my final thoughts on my time in London before heading out on vacation, and ultimately back to New York, at the end of the month.

Week(end) in Review

In this U.S.-centric edition of the Week(end) in Review: I celebrate our nation's independence by breaking bread with the enemy, women take a net loss on equality (but work so hard!), and the World Cup ends in thrilling, albeit violent, fashion.

And I Gladly Stand Up. I'm actually not that big a fan of the 4th of July. In fact, my most vivid 4th memories involve failed attempts at chasing down candy thrown from local parade floats. I hated those bastards for not throwing candy my way. Seriously. I am, however, a fan of grilling, drinking, and telling innocent Brit's to "eat it!" when it comes to U.S. independence. And these, my friends, were the driving forces behind hosting a 4th of July barbecue this week. Another American colleague and I invited 30 of our closest friends (what's your name again?) over to enjoy a classic 4th party, starring a wobbly Argos grill, a bathtub of beers, and even vintage sparklers. Only 3rd degree burns and the requisite trip to the ER were missing from the equation.

A Room of One's Own? It's been a confusing week for you women readers, hasn't it? First, you try to make sense of the All England Club pay scale, taking solace in the fact that only you can get away with weird isht like this on the tennis court. Now a few national studies, as well as statistics from the Department of MisEducation (NY Times article here), laud your increased prominence and strong performance on American college campuses. According to these studies, you're more likely to earn bachelor degrees than your male counterparts and wind up committing much more time to your studies overall. Unfortunately, while you're slaving away in the Grad Library stacks trying to make the grade, the dudes in your class are out socializing, trading firm handshakes, and practicing their signatures for when they sign your, oh I don't know, discounted Wimbledon checks perhaps. But at least we're not an oppressed British colony anymore, right?

So Doesn't This Mean...? Alright math nerds. Italy beat France 5-3 on penalties tonight to win the World Cup, shortly after French über Captain Zinedine Zidane received a red card for trying to score a header goal against Marco Materazzi's chest. There has to be a way our U.S. team can pose as internationally relevant given our group stage draw with the Italians, right? Simple transitive relationship mapping should do the trick...

The Championships, Wimbledon

Last Friday I had the privilege of spending an evening strolling along the grass courts at Wimbledon, the most revered of Grand Slam tennis tournaments (at least according to the British press). For a few years now I've been catching matches at Flushing Meadows during the U.S. Open, so I was looking forward to experiencing big-time tennis, England style. Unfortunately, I left my seersucker pants at home, so my ability to WASP it up had inherent limits. Never one to give in, I popped my collar, put on some khakis, and proceeded to the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club.

Within moments of arriving I realized that Wimbledon is, for better or worse, a tournament of contradictions. Although the event shamelessly caters to the bourgeois set (think champagne, strawberries and cream, etc.), it's also one of the few top tier sporting events to spurn Corporate America England (?) and offer a significant number of tickets to the general public each day for that day's matches. As a result, the duchess of Kent could conceivably rub Centre Court elbows with your smelly neighbor Bob, which in my opinion is pretty cool. That said, we found ourselves waiting in line queueing for about 2 hours (next to your smelly neighbor Bob) to obtain same-day grounds passes. Another, more publicized, contradiction for this "peoples tournament" involves the checks that will be written by the All England Club this year. In what can only be considered a statement play by the AEC, tomorrrow's men's champion will walk away with 655,000 GPB, while today's women's champ will walk away with 625,000 - a variance of about 5%. Now CityHangover doesn't want to get all feminist on you, and both winners make a hell of a lot more than any of us (unless one of you is sandbagging when you make the rest of us buy your drinks), but this just doesn't make sense. Supporters of the pay gap usually cite that the men play best of 5 sets, while the women play best of 3. However, based on my admittedly suspect math skills, this logic would support something closer to a 33%-40% pay variance. The measly 5% gap is simply unfounded. And for a tournament that walks away with an annual profit in excess of 25 million pounds, well, it's a bit embarrassing. Venus Williams wrote an interesting piece on the pay gap at the start of this year's tournament.

Anyway, back to business. My visit to Wimbledon didn't result in any massive checks being tossed my way, but did allow me to relax amongst a pristine setting and watch some good ol' grasscourt tennis. We were lucky to stumble upon Williams and American Bob Bryan playing mixed doubles, and given that they were playing on one of the smaller courts, witnessed the impressive size and speed of Venus in person. She's ridiculous. We also had our first glimpse of this year's linesman uniforms, designed by Ralph Lauren and worthy of a Straight Bangin' summer fashion discourse. Now that's a WASP look. After catching a few other matches, we made our way to Henman Hill (I'm resisting this "Murray's Mount" isht). As the sun set, a Pimms in my hand, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else. Wow. That was cheesy.

The only disappointment on the evening came from yet another Grand Slam visit sans Andre Agassi. Kimbo has pulled the rest of us into an endless pursuit to see him play before he retires, but luck (and the draw) were once again not on our side. I'm cautiously optimistic that our patience will be rewarded at this year's U.S. Open.

Viva la Euromullet!

Down but not out...