'Cause Mama Didn't Raise No Fool

As I embarked on my walk to work this morning I was surprised to hear 2Pac's Changes blaring from my iPod earphones. I didn't remember listening to 2Pac on my way home last night, nor was I particularly in the mood for a "2 Pack" joint, as my dad would call him. However, after a few bars, I realized that my iPod was trying to tell me something by shuffling to this posthumous anthem.

As a result, I've committed myself to a difficult, yet important change of my own. I'm putting myself on detox until, well, Saturday. At that point I'll dress up in a school tie and trousers in hopes of meeting some studious ladies in short skirts and knee highs at a club called School Disco (what else?).

I think I'm going to go as a teacher.

Rat tat tat tat tat, that's the way it is.

CityHangover Guestblog, Vol VI

Look out people, the CityHangover Guestblog series can now be counted on two hands...

This installment comes courtesy of the illustrious J-Buckets, known for her skills in luxury living and underage drinking, to name a few. As the better half of the visiting New York born and bred L-Unit (her partner in crime has a bunch of his own internets), Buckets came, saw, and conquered Londontown like none only a few before her. And when the going got tough, she singlehandedly saved Thankgiving dinner, for which I am forever indebted.

Surviving Thanksgiving



If there is one thing I truly learned during my time in London, I’d say it is that Survivor is everything. EVERYTHING. All of the crucial moments of the trip can somehow be understood through a Survivor lens. (Survivor Wiki).

The Immunity Challenge: Cooking a Thanksgiving dinner in a country other than the United States. There were a number of reasons why cooking dinner was so difficult. In the first place, CJB’s sweet apartment did not come equipped with many of the necessary materials for cooking like pots, pans, measuring cups and measuring spoons. We got about half of these, not including the measuring items. CJB’s oven is not exactly what we Americans come to expect in a fully equipped kitchen. One would think since duck is so popular in England, turkey would be also common. Well, it’s not. Finding the ingredients for turkey—and pumpkin pie and various potato dishes—is not an easy task. The most challenging aspect was converting all of the American recipes into metric measurements so we could buy the right amounts (a shout out to Microsoft Excel). The carving of the turkey was not easy either. In this challenge we even had our very own Jeff Probst in other Americans at the grocery store. We were so loudly and comically struggling to find the ingredients and amounts that the other Americans in the store came over to us offering candid commentary and advice. I think Probst would have appreciated their efforts.

The Reward Challenge: Pilfering a bottle of wine from a restaurant (don’t worry, it was one that we had purchased) during an already dramatic meal. (Note: most of this is heresay from Joey.) Somehow, a viewing of the Chelsea v. Manchester United game took a serious turn to drunken town. After we returned from Clapham two porn magazines richer, we had dinner at Pizza Express (I think). We immediately had the waitress watching us because of an altercation with a lemon. I really do not like lemon in my water. So before the water was poured into the lemon-bearing glass, I threw the lemon on the table. CJB then threw it on the ground, to which the waitress responded, “I can see the lemon.” It was an auspicious beginning. At the end of the meal, we had only half-drank our bottle of wine. We attempted to take it, but the waitress wouldn’t let us. Not letting a wine tyrant get in our way, we successfully snuck that wine out of the restaurant. I think the reward is obvious: pride and wine.

Camp Discussion Between Challenges: 4 words—Yul, Terry, Gupta, Claudia. Not only was this trip Survivor-esque, but we talked about Survivor a lot. Yul from Survivor: Cook Islands was definitely the most discussed, but was closely followed by Terry from Survivor: Panama. Joey filled many conversations with his deep love, admiration and respect for this Terry character. CJB and I were unfamiliar with this Terry, but Joey just would not stop gushing. He must be pretty special. After Terry, there is Dr. Rajat Gupta. Gupta was mentioned up the wazoo. He was cited as someone to ask a bevy of questions; someone who has great achievements; someone who everyone loves; Gupta this Gupta that. There was really a lot of Gupta talk. Joey and CJB also claimed that I talked about one of my friends, Claudia, just as much as they talked about Gupta. However, I think that it is just not true. (Note: this Survivor discussion may not have been so dominant had this past episode not been so solid. I am still reeling from it.)

Tribal Council: 13-year-old English girls vote out three Americans. One of the funniest moments of the trip occurred as we were approaching Windsor Castle. We were discussing something, and given my two companions, it can only be assumed the discussion was of high volume. I guess something that was said was ridiculous or typically American because these three 13-year-old English girls started making fun of us. And how did they make fun of us? They invoked the rhetoric of Borat! They taunted us with “Yegshemesh! Yegshemesh!” It was HILARIOUS. Borat is really taking over the world. Or maybe I should say, the tribe has spoken and they are in an alliance with Borat.

The moral of the story, of course, is that Survivor is everything and if it doesn’t fit into a Survivor metaphor, it is just not worth mentioning. In any case, it was a great trip.

Mission: Impossible

Wish me luck. Although I typically prefer to drink my holiday meals, in a few hours I'll be hosting 10 people for a reenactment of the first Thanksgiving. Coincidentally, this will be my first attempt at cooking a turkey, mashing potatoes, and opening a can of cranberry jelly and slicing it into little pieces (you wouldn't believe how many stores I had to go to to find those effing canned cranberries). Fortunately I've got some help.

I was surprised to have so many attendees after pitching the meal as a chance to be poisoned and relegated to a future of alcoholism and gambling addiction - but it just goes to show how far some people will go for free food, doesn't it? Although we may not be able to replicate the harsh, violent aftermath of that first Thanksgiving meal, with an even split of British, American, and Brazilian attendees I'm hoping for at least a little cultural warfare via Taboo or charades. And drinking, of course. U. S. A. ! U. S. A. !

I've got two friends and my mother on call beginning at 9am EST for support with any disasters. And there are sure to be some.

(Note the cans of Ready Whip in my fridge (well, a look-alike whipped substance, at least), which is what Thanksgiving is really about anyway.)

007

What does one do when feeling down about recent struggles with the ladies? Why, go see the new James Bond movie, of course. With just any Bond movie I could have really taken myself over the edge this week. Fortunately, Casino Royale isn't just any Bond movie. In fact, compared to recent installments, it's far better. Though it still sucked to see him scoring all the ladies.

The last 007 movie I, and probably many of you, saw was Die Another Day. Die Another Day featured invisible cars, an aging Pierce Brosnan, an overdone caricature of a Bond girl in Halle Berry (the "Yo Mama!" line comes to mind), and quite possibly the franchise's worst theme song to date - a Madonna tune carrying the film's name. Ugh.

Casino Royale steps away from the polished CG approach of its most recent predecessor, opening in black and white and featuring a lot of closely shot fight sequences. Daniel Craig is a certified badass (as previously suggested by his performance in Layer Cake) and is very believable as a young, less refined 007. Note: I'm still listening to that effing Die Another Day song from YouTube on another browser tab. My ears hurt. Eva Green ups the Bond girl ante (whoaaa, casino pun...) and has also coincidentally become my new girlfriend. Or as I allegedly said this weekend at a bar, "Dude, I'm going to the bathroom, don't talk to the smaller one - she's mine". The only parallel disappointment when looking at Casino Royale is its own theme song, which sucked so bad I didn't catch its name - though I did see that it was sung by Chris Cornell from Soundgarden. Cop that.

So there you have it. Casino Royale is good. What wasn't so good was all of the product placement. I thought we had lost Bond forever when he perpetrated in a Ford sedan (fortunately he quickly got his ass into an Aston Martin, though we only saw Ford cars throughout the film, GM Matrix style), and I found it hilarious that all terrorist related mysteries could be solved with a few clicks on a Sony Vaio (they have wireless in the canals of Venice now? Shiiiit). Or worse yet, by checking the saved text messages from the bad guys' Sony Ericsson cell phones. A friendly tip to terrorists everywhere: stop saving your text messages.

Gutted. But Coping.

During the week prior to Saturday night's match-up I had numerous dreams about The Game. Some foreshadowed blowout losses, while others lent credence to triumphant, dominating wins. Each morning I considered how I'd react to the diverse emotions accompanying each of these outcomes, weighing the frivolity of a match-up between two college football programs. Like many Michigan Men Saturday night, however, I had a hard time convincing myself. In fact, by the end of the night, I sort of felt like I had joined Job in the Land of Uz. Was I being punished?

As I often do after Saturday nights out, let's work our way backwards by leveraging contextual cues from the morning after. First, I wake up wearing my contacts and clothes from the night before. Hmm. My shirt has beer stains all over it. Oh, right, some idiot at the post game bar spilled a TRAY full of beers and shots on me. Wait. Didn't I buy those beers and shots? Ugh. Oh no. How much money did I spend last night? Wallet check: empty. Credit card: found. Whew. But in my front jeans pocket, dangerously far from its safe back-of-wallet resting place. Doh! Why are the bottoms of my pantlegs cold? Oh, they're wet. Wet? That's right, I braved the elements and subjected myself to a 45 minute walk home from the bar. Why did I do that? I must have been annoyed at something. Or someone. The girl. Who I met at the game. Who then proceeded to like me a lot on the dancefloor. But liked her boyfriend more, evidently. Women. Ohh, my sometimes latin office crush. We also had a heart to heart. At 3am. And she went home with that Fonz-like guy. Two missteps with the ladies in one night? Perhaps a new record? Oh. No. And don't forget. We lost. To the worst University ever.

So there you have it. My internal Sunday monologue (which is not typically all that internal, as my friends know all too well). I marched through about half of Sunday feeling pretty shitty about the night. And myself, to be honest. And then I pulled my isht together.

When I took a step back, I had no choice but to acknowledge that Michigan has had an amazing season, which most of you (you know who you are) would have wagered your first-born child against. Losing this game will probably leave a bad taste in my mouth for the next 365 days. It hurts more than any other, but this season's turnaround is unquestionably something to be proud of.

And for me? On Saturday night nearly all of my closest friends in London came out to watch the game. Many proudly sported Michigan t-shirts, some waited over 45 minutes in line just to get into the bar, and all of them yelled, clapped, and hailed as fervently as any alumni I've ever been around. Granted, there were a few missteps along the way ("Hail to the Victorious", and a number of challenges with the unconventional diction of "Leaders and Best" come to mind), but I couldn't have picked a finer group with which to experience the game. To those of you now reading these posts - thank you. And the girl? Well, if nothing else, she's got my business card and at least a handful of comments about getting me a job. She works in Mountain View, California at burgeoning French Internets giant Quaero's main competitor, after all.

It would be too easy (and, well, too Michigan State) to enter into an "I did my part!" diatribe after Saturday night. On Sunday morning it became only marginally less embarrassing to have anything to do with Ohio State. And you know what? It's still great to be a Michigan Wolverine.

Go Blue!

T-Minus 1 Day

Lest you be confused: Yes, I live in London, and yes, that woman from my office is wearing an effing Ohio State t-shirt today. Casual Friday has never looked so bad.

It’s on, Bitches.

Go Blue!

In Today's Evening Standard

So maybe I was a bit tough on CNN.com after all?

Evidently while Dems were taking control of the House and Senate this past week, England decided to let babies launch campaigns for some type of cryptic lesbian TV tribe?

Please. I see right through this sham.

CNN Breaking...News?

Once again, CNN.com has outdone itself, managing to lower the news bar yet another notch.

Admittedly, I came this close to stepping off my soapbox after recognizing the 3 top stories I had visited before taking this screenshot (note the grey links). But on a day when Burger King is selling pot burgers and men are baking small puppies, what's a man to do?

And this is supposed to be the more globally conscious "International" edition.

CityHangover Guestblog, Vol V

There are rules. As well as previous Guestblogs: I, II, III, IV. And with that, I turn it over to my double-crossing sister, who despite her well chronicled exploits made for a great travel partner.

I’m Bringin’ Guestblogs Back...



Although I was nearly booted from the family due to my extracurriculars on the first night of my travels, I am honored to be able to write a guest blog chronicling my holiday with the infamous CJB. Being the youngest, and the only girl, the big bro has always sort of had me under his wing. Usually his influence comes out in discussions about my career (I need to get out of Michigan – okay, I get it), but on this occasion, it was the “What do you want to learn from this trip?” conversation on day 2 that really took the cake. Call me stupid, but I was looking at the trip solely as a break from work, not an experience that would change my life intellectually. Looking back now, however, whether I was trying to or not, I actually did learn a few things from my trip. Sure, they might not be as deep as the lessons CJB had envisioned for me, but they taught me something valuable nonetheless.

Lesson 1: Italy can’t refuse the charm of a bright eyed, small town, American girl. Evelyn, our inn keeper, or more appropriately, our house mother during our stay in Florence, was intent on ensuring that big bro took good care of me while we were on our trip; she greeted us with a cheerful “Bonjourno” every time she buzzed us in and, when we left, instructed the big bro to bring me home safely at the end of the night (to which he later replied to me, still quite irritated, “If she only knew…”).

Lesson 2: Rome is indeed the city of romance, just as I’d always heard.
Not that I’m entirely against romance and affection, but given the number of old couples we spotted making out in open areas throughout the week (that’s right, people, the over 50 crowd), I think they should put some restrictions on the PDA. CJB, on the other hand, seemed amused by all of this necking, exclaiming in reference to one older couple, “Oooh…look, they’re at it again.”

Lesson 3: It’s completely acceptable – and common – for women in Europe to date shorter men.
So…I guess there’s hope for me after all, if I’m up for moving across the ocean and trading my desire for an athlete for a guy who carries a Gucci man purse and prefers a Vespa over an Escalade. We might have to save this option for one of those if-I’m-thirty five-and-not-yet-married sort of things.

Lesson 4: When it comes to flying, if you’re too poor for first class, the emergency exit row is the way to go.
This position on the plane offers plenty of leg room (read: an increased opportunity for sleep), provided that you’re willing to accept the responsibility that comes with the position and live without your possessions for a good chunk of the flight. Not that anyone has ever actually survived a water landing, but we obliged with the flight attendant’s instructions to put everything of ours in the overhead compartment (magazines, books, water bottles, etc) so that if we did crash, our aisle would be clear enough for us to make history by saving everyone on the plane.

Lesson 5: If you’re going to do something stupid on your trip, do it on the last day rather than the first.
That’s right, ladies and gents, I saved the best for last. This might go without saying, but I think it’s imperative to remember, especially if your travel partner is CJB, the man notorious for always getting the last word in and never letting others live things down.

Vatican Addendum

Given that my previous post likely resulted in most of you booking flights to Rome to visit the Vatican, I wanted provide a “heads up” on the venue’s dress code.



That's right. No bathing suits, people. You know who you are.

Dov’é el Vino Rossi?

Greetings from Rome, people. After a rough week (see my previous post), I was more than ready for some time off. England has its charms, but there’s something to be said for sunshine and 70 degree weather, amazing food and drink, and a plethora of kamikaze Vespa drivers. I’m now remembering why Rome was one of my favorite stops in my halcyon days as a backpacker through Europe. I’m also remembering how sneaky those Roman Catholics are at making a buck.

We paid no less than 12 euros ($15 or so) each to snake our way through the Vatican Museum for an hour in search of the Sistene Chapel. During that hour, I counted no less than 9 sales desks pawning rosaries and other traditional catholic relics. Like designer wallets (?). I’ve also confirmed that, without exception, every museum ultimately spits you out at the souvenir shop. Jesus wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Although I had to toil through this maze of questionable capitalism, you, my loyal readers, can experience the glory of Michelangelo’s masterpiece for free. I risked priest molestation to capture these poorly lit and blurry photos from the chapel’s confines:



Trust me, it was better in person.

CityHangover Week in Review: Bender Edition

Sorry for the length, but it’s been a bit of a week.

Here in the realm of City Hangover, bender weeks are typically welcomed with the pomp and circumstance expected of such a namesake event. After seeing four straight “1 beer” nights turn into far more, however, I’m beginning to rethink my position. (Alright. A few of those nights were destined to be something more like 10 beer nights, but still.) This week has run the gamut with team drinks, friend’s birthdays, and the much heralded arrival of my little sister to Londontown. What’s a man to do?

Things began innocently enough on Tuesday night at our post-work pub. I shared some QT with San Miguel (underrated, that San Miguel), and then later at my (oft blogged about) local Mexican restaurant with my new roommate and the Mexican kitchen staff. Yeah, that roommate. I also finally took the opportunity to test my drunk Spanish skills with the guys at the restaurant. It was a hit! Or so I’d like to think.

Wednesday brought the celebration of yet another friend becoming nearly as old as I am (always worth celebrating). We graced the same local pub with our presence, but this time upped the ante with a night dominated by shots and a myriad of sappy and sarcastic toasts. Birthdays are a great time to showcase ones ability to make ridiculous statements while holding a drink in the air. Unfortunately, I was given a bit of a birthday surprise of my own about halfway through the night. The birthday girl and another friend had actually stumbled upon this website a few weeks back from a Google search gone bad (all those “Fernando Torres mullet” searches are starting to make sense), and decided it was time to out me as the hipster blogger I aspire to be. What a generous gift. My immediate reaction must have read something like this:

“Uhhh…hmmm. Interesting.”
Gauges if he’s pissed them off with any of his posts
“What did you think?”
Pauses as part of a lifelong search for approval
“Oh, you liked it?! I’m glad!”
Proceeds to bar for a few shots of his own, just in case

Fortunately, they were cool about it and seem to be enjoying my take on London and my other travels. Whew. A close call indeed. But if I thought that was traumatic, I had no idea what was in store for the end of my week.

Thursday was advertised ominously as “Team dinner and drinks” night with my new team from the office. The night exceeded my typical free drinks expectations, although I’m not sure I’ll be asked to any future team drinks nights with these co-workers. My greatest accomplishment of the night had to have been of the “side-cup” variety, as I was able to convince the group that any purchase of shots must be accompanied by a round of B.A.U. drinks, effectively doubling everyone’s alcohol intake for the night. And yes, things got a bit messy. Let me elaborate. I discovered that one of my co-workers’ girlfriends recently had DD breast implants (and, of course, proceeded to make lewd comments about it all night), might have shared a questionably long hug/kiss on the cheek (with a bit of lip coverage) with a menopausal woman on the team, and woke up to find the breast implant guy on my couch (he lives out of town). To make matters more hilarious, my laptop was tuned into his girlfriend’s MySpace page. Evidently I've become one of those types.

Friday brought the arrival of my little sister into town, and signaled the proximity of my first true vacation all year. Before heading out to Italy on Saturday morning we grabbed a few beers with some friends at, you guessed it, that same local pub. I only had a few this time out as I hadn’t packed and still had some work to do before leaving town, but my sister had what I now recognize as different intentions altogether. She convinced me to let her go out with my roommate as her chaperone, and I hesitantly obliged. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

I spent Friday night/Saturday morning packing and working on my laptop, walking to the office at 5am (curiously closed) and 7am (fortunately open, lest I throw a rock through the glass doors) to login, and generally hating my life. My sister returned around 2am and went directly to sleep. Safe and sound. Great.

Or not. Although we managed to catch our 9am car to the evil Stanstead Airport on Saturday morning, something just wasn’t right with Lil’ Sis. With a bit of prodding, I discovered that she was seen kissing one of my co-workers at the bar the prior evening. What?! I’m still working through my issues with this (which will magnify substantially when I return to the office next Monday), and am vacillating between calling a hit out on her (Godfather style) or excommunicating her (Catholic style – we are going to the Vatican, after all) for the shame she’s brought to the family. Kids today.

Anyway, I’m off to Italy to spend some quality time with my double-crossing sister, hopefully detox a bit, and relax over some good wine (we’re defining detox loosely here, right?). Expect to see some posts from Italy, as I’ve packed along my trusted laptop. What a hipster blogger.