As part of the Miami Ad School curriculum, guests of some advertising or technological noteworthiness are invited weekly to lecture the students on trends, advice, or any insight to prepare/provide us with an edge in the industry. These guests also assign a project.
New week. New project.
While I don't particularly enjoy talking about myself (because I'm so awesome your ears would bleed), this week's A Brand Called You assignment from Jessica Kizorek was pretty fun. The challenge was to find something inherent in my life, that I could use to make people remember me.
After serious consideration, I decided to focus not on specific accomplishments, my life story, or why my hair is as long as Professor Snape's, but what is it I spend the most time doing. When I'm not sleeping.
Running and cheeseburgers. Of all the things in my life, I enjoy dedicating my time to these two activities just as much as working on ads. Training for races, and participating in a multi-city burger challenge with my best friends. And, while it's funny to say running and cheeseburgers both require as much endurance and determination, they do.
Life is about balance. Business and pleasure. For me, luckily, the scale isn't tipping in either direction.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Now you can vote!
Guess what? Now you have the power to vote for our video!
Visit http://youtube.com/canneslions
Search nickpwaytobe
Play Oxfam Signature
Click the Green Thumb
Thanks for all the support!
Visit http://youtube.com/canneslions
Search nickpwaytobe
Play Oxfam Signature
Click the Green Thumb
Thanks for all the support!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
48 Hours to Cannes
My partner, Marton, and I, with great help from our multi-talented friend Peter Megler, finished our spot for the Cannes Young Lions 48-hour Youtube contest with about 16 hours to go.
The brief was to create a Youtube video on behalf of Oxfam. The goal was to inspire viewers to pressure the UN to sign an agreement to end global climate change.
We're pretty happy with the finished product. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6dkbLcM4Ps
If you like what you see, share it as much as you can! Help us get to Cannes!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
What's worse?
Discovering this blog still exists?
Realizing how built I was in college, and how I've atrophied?
Recalling how much fun living/interning in London for a summer can be?
Knowing that this find will lead to the resurrection and redesigning of a once addictive passion?
If you guessed "How awesome my faux-hawk was in college," you are correct. That, however, was not an option, so I take pleasure in the thought of knowing you, unlike Indiana Jones in the (not so) Last Crusade, did not choose wisely.
Realizing how built I was in college, and how I've atrophied?
Recalling how much fun living/interning in London for a summer can be?
Knowing that this find will lead to the resurrection and redesigning of a once addictive passion?
If you guessed "How awesome my faux-hawk was in college," you are correct. That, however, was not an option, so I take pleasure in the thought of knowing you, unlike Indiana Jones in the (not so) Last Crusade, did not choose wisely.
Monday, October 08, 2007
H+Mean
H+M has a cool feature on their website which allows you to create an avatar of yourself - your own personal model that lets you judge how the clothes will fit without going to a store and trying them on in real life. The concept reeks of Second Life, but is clever nonetheless. So clever, in fact, that in the up-scale style of most luxury boutiques on Rodeo Drive, this exciting addition to H+M's website goes so far as to smile, snicker, and ward off unfit guests (pun intended). Like the freaks of nature on My Super Sweet 16, I was pretty depressed to realize I would not be trying on any 3D clothes. Apparently a 5'8, 176lbs athletic build is some sort of anomaly. That, or, H+M was kindly telling me not to buy anything online, because nothing from their sweat shops will fit me (which is actually true, whenever I wear H+M I feel like tearing my shirt off like Hulkamania). I guess I won't be able to start shopping at H+M's online store until I stop eating and start passing out in the subway on the 6-Train.
*If you're wondering what's up with the + signs rather than ampersands in H+M, you may find it interesting to note that Blogger does not allow for the use of ampersands, a symbol originally credited to Marcus Tullio Tiro, Cicero's personal secretary of 36 years, and once referred to as the 27th letter of the English alphabet.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Gone Phishing
Behold one of the most ingenious phishing e-mails I have ever received:ATTENTION: SIR,
MY NAME IS MR.FRANK KOFFI OSEI .I AM THE MANAGER OF THE INTERNATIONAL COMMERCIAL BRANCH BANK GHANA, I AM A GHANAIAN MARRIED WITH TWO KIDS, I NEED A TRUST WORTHY PARTNER TO ASSIST ME IN THE TRANSFER OF (5.5M US DOLLARS) US $STATES DOLLARS. FOR FURTHER INVESTMENT IN YOUR COUNTRY.
YOU WILL BE REQUIRED TO.
(1) ASSIST ME IN THE TRANSFER OF THIS SUM TO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT.
(2) ADVISE ON AREAS FOR POTENTIAL FUTURE INVESTMENT IN YOUR COUNTRY.
(3) ASSIST ME IN CARRYING A FEASIBILITY STUDY BEFORE ACTUAL
INVESTMENT. IF YOU DECIDE TO RENDER YOUR SERVICE TO ME IN THIS REGARD,YOU
WILL BE PAID 35%OF THE TOTAL FUNDS FOR ASSISTANCE .REPLY BACK THIS EMAIL IF YOU ARE WILLING TO WORK WITH ME. RESPECTFULLY,
REGARDS,
MR. FRANK KOFFI OSEI.
Thanks, Koffi. Who needs AdSense now? See ya'll in Ghana.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Rippppit... Rippppit...
So, apparently, there is a new way to download music. Another FREE way to download music. And this time the catch is that it's LEGAL. SpiralFrog.com serves up music for download at no cost, rerouting money the website earns from selling space for advertising towards the music labels. If you thought those Budweiser frogs could sell advertising, swing by and lick this kinky toad's stomach. You spend time downloading, you look at the ads, the music labels get paid, and everyone is happy. Advertising at its best.
*UPDATE*
Ryan Adams: so that spiralfrog is pretty cool, there were some things i didn't really like
Ryan Adams: one being how you have to renew your membership every 30 days
Ryan Adams: if you don't on day 31 you can't dl anymore and your music will only be playable for the next 31 days
Ryan Adams: on if you haven't renewed after day 61 the song's liscences are expired
Ryan Adams: if you, however, renew at anytime after those 61 days, the songs get renewed as well
Ryan Adams: these song's are not compatible with ipods
Ryan Adams: they're all wma's
Ryan Adams: and the dl manager that you have to install is only for windows comps
Ryan Adams: i guess one could try to convert the files, but that might fuck with the DRM liscences on the songs
Ryan Adams: argh....so many steps for legit music
In the wise words of Professor Idson, EC101: there is no such thing as a free lunch.
Leave it alone...
While watching the movie Beer League the other night I began to wonder why the movie was so damn good. I suspected the plethora of New Jersey geographical and cultural references of having something to do with the movie's sickness. Thanks to Pat Costello, a native Bayonne resident, here is proof that Artie Lang and New Jersey make a killer combination. Turns out Artie is Bayonne royalty: http://www.break.com/index/artie_lange_bayonne_watch.html
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
We're back. All right.
I'm back. Timbaland said best - I shouldn't have left you. But since I already said it like that (see July 2006), there is only one other way to express my feelings of apology, excitement and enthusiasm: showing you the cover of the Backstreet Boy's 1997 follow-up to their successful, self-titled international debut, Backstreet's Back.
The last time I looked at this page it was more than a year ago. A lot has happened in that year... a lot. And had I been keeping up with my posts, or had any sense of memory, or any sense, or AdSense (love ya Googs), I would remember most of that year. No dice. Whatever. Pretty soon Britney won't remember much of anything. Except where she got that sweet, new Domino's Oreo pizza mustache.
So the page is back. And better than ever. Why? you ask. Because the posts that began as a documentation of my life abroad (for my family and friends) will no longer be limited to my life abroad. Truth be told, I am not a brawd. I'm a dude. With the belly-rub of a Treasure Troll and a little good luck, I will be assisted by another contributing writer, Alan Moore. He's the man. He's the man, and I know how badly he wants to post. And I also know how badly people want him to post. The less e-mail in their inbox - the better.
From here on in, posts will concern completely random, remotely interesting instances of life. Posts may retell events that take place in my life, or the Lives of Others (Note: these posts will be written entirely in German).
And, please, criticize me. I love nothing more than unintelligent comments. Thanks.
xoxo gossip girl
The last time I looked at this page it was more than a year ago. A lot has happened in that year... a lot. And had I been keeping up with my posts, or had any sense of memory, or any sense, or AdSense (love ya Googs), I would remember most of that year. No dice. Whatever. Pretty soon Britney won't remember much of anything. Except where she got that sweet, new Domino's Oreo pizza mustache.
So the page is back. And better than ever. Why? you ask. Because the posts that began as a documentation of my life abroad (for my family and friends) will no longer be limited to my life abroad. Truth be told, I am not a brawd. I'm a dude. With the belly-rub of a Treasure Troll and a little good luck, I will be assisted by another contributing writer, Alan Moore. He's the man. He's the man, and I know how badly he wants to post. And I also know how badly people want him to post. The less e-mail in their inbox - the better.
From here on in, posts will concern completely random, remotely interesting instances of life. Posts may retell events that take place in my life, or the Lives of Others (Note: these posts will be written entirely in German).
And, please, criticize me. I love nothing more than unintelligent comments. Thanks.
xoxo gossip girl
Friday, July 14, 2006
Read This if You Dare, or Have a Lot of Time to Kill
(Timbaland)
It's been a long time
We shouldn't have left you
Without a dope blog to step to
Step to, step to, step to
Step to, step to
Freaky-freaky
We interrupt your irregularly scheduled Rome posts for a rather poor attempt to catch up on the last couple weeks. For all ya’ll that think balancing class, work from 9am-6pm and then incessant intoxication, electronica/trip hop and clubbing/pubbing from 9pm-4am while maintaining a blog is possible – well, you’re wrong, because it’s not possible, so I haven’t been doing it… the blog part I mean. What you will find below is a flee-frowing (yes that was a typo, but I thought I could pull it off as being witty, so I’m leaving it in) regurgitation of the memories that first flutter to mind. For the faint of heart, I suggest you read this in steps (designate a chunk, read it, come back for seconds later when your brain isn’t as frazzled). For the bold, I challenge you to read the entire post in one sitting (without breaks for food, toilets or self-gratification). That said, I’ll trust you will find today’s blog slightly brief, totally longwinded and completely contradictory.
I also need to apologize for lack of artwork; since I’m taking some time off while at work to write this I will be unable –for the time being– to post any pictures. But on with the storie(z).
Let’s see… how far back can I remember… hmm… not a good sign. Well, let’s begin with the arrival of Andrew Mastey (BU Bio-Office Employee and esteemed Gardner St. Domestic) and his colleague, Steven Kovalck (the Thunder from Down Under, descendant of Her Majesty, Grandma K, and direct heir to the throne of the Bucket).
Right then. Early morning Tuesday, 4th of July, the streets of Kensington were flooded with clamour and the cries of ‘The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming.’ That’s not true. However, what could be faintly heard on that fateful morning, were the distant and sweet, majestic melodies of the mystical word of the Keebler Elves. Ernest J could have performed no better under the sticky circumstances of a sweaty, early morning arrival to London, with no form of communication nor access to shelter, money or food.
Using the calling card of the mystical Keebler Knights, Steve and Mastey were able to attract the attention of a nearby commoner and flatmate, Michael Thell. It went something like this:
::Stuck outside The Crofton with no way to contact Dan/Julian/me for we were on our way to work:: ‘Keeb. Keeb?’ – Steve & Mastey / ‘Hey. You guys must be Nick’s friends’ – Mike.
This story continues, but we haven’t time for that. What is important, is that that night was spent in revelry and protestation and pronunciation of our independence from the British – most notably displayed by my refusal to make tea at work and, instead, dumping all the tea in the middle of the studio and pouring water all over it. That’s not true, I threw it in the toilets.
After spending a delightful sunset through dusk in Hyde Park, we returned to prepare and chaperone an American dinner for 20 some-odd people from our flat (plus outsiders). Cheeseburgers w. all the trimmings/ beans/ tuna & macaroni salad/ French fries/ onion rings/ guacamole and chips - real chips, not fuckin’ French fries for Pete’s sake.. speaking of Pete Hynes (big up son, holler at your boy) the entire mess was seeped with a slapdash squeezing of Heinz Ketchup. America, fuck… yea…
Moving on, of course we went to the most generic, touristy American Bar in London: Sports Café. It was great. Whilst there we bumped into (literally) some of Dan’s coworkers… English blokes who (literally) left work and went to any American-ized bar in London that provided the possibility of meeting the man who puts the ‘Mac’ in ‘Macintosh,’ Dan Agar. Creepy? Boarding on stalkerish and slightly queer? Perhaps. I bought them all pints. I felt justified when I learned that the following morning the employees of the London branch of Dow Jones FSI came into the work to find a manager and three other coworkers in the same clothes, asleep at their desks.
One-pound-pints led us into further demonstration of good ol’ fashioned American values and determination to drink beer then pointlessly try to find T Anthony’s, which is closed because it’s way too late to be open, not to mention the fact we’re not even in Boston. We all had a great time, need I say anymore? Well, I mean I’m not going to, so deal with it.
If memory serves me correct we spent a night in Shoreditch – an area I’ve been dying to go to and, with a lot of convincing and luck, where I will return (with the company of others and not by myself). Shoreditch is an awesome place – Google or Wikipedia it (ahem, viral sponsorship). It’s a land full of hip hop/electronica/trip hop/indie/punk music and loads of weird people with angular haircuts. I love it. I have to say I had a lotta fun that night, but all I can remember is waking up in Tabitha’s kitchen wherest she nursed me back to full strength with two lovely sandwhiches. Thank you Tabitha.
The next most important overnight drunk that we went on was our trip to Ireland. But first, let me give a shout-out to B’lowfish, my b’lowjob, where I spend my days working with really fun, creative, all around excellent people. I’m really experiencing and learning so much – and having a great time in the process. Friday was.. Friday, so naturally we went out for lunch and a pint. We went to Borough Market where – stop the presses – they have GOOD food. I kid you not. It’s only open Thursday/Friday/Saturdays and it’s a market full of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses, breads, cakes, wines, fish, MEATS, etc.
We went by one of the huge butcher stands, where we met a real stock, mean looking soccer hooligan/butcher by day. Turns out Jason, my Account Director is friends with him. The bull-dog butcher had just returned from Germany (after England’s recent defeat in the Worldcup). The man turned out to be both a scholar and a gentlemen. After telling a chef to give us all free burgers (huge hunks of meat with onions and cheese, on freshly baked bread) we went over to the pub and talked about soccer.
After soccer I stuck around with Jason and Ben and we watched some magician do some street magic. Then Ben left, but Jason and I were persistent. 6 more pints later we decided to go back to the office. Then I headed back for Dublin.
Ok. Dublin. Dublin down the pints. Nick go bragh. Simply the best. Better… than all the rest. Ireland is quite possibly the best place in the world (it’s up there with Italy, Greece and New Jersey).
Dubliners. The Irish immediately embraced us with kindness, generosity and constant swearing (I fit right in). From the moment I tried (for the millionth time in my life) to be cool, this time by using my Irish citizenship to pass through customs unquestioned, up to the meeting of many characters and leprechauns in the street, everyone was hospitable, outgoing, happy and (at night) quite drunk.
The first night we had an awesome time in Temple Bar. We met up with Steve, Mastey, and an English guy who happened to be staying in their hostel with them. The English guy’s name was Richard – and he was awesome, a paragon of dry British wit/humour. We went to some pretty pubs and some crazy club. At the club Julian discovered a goodie bag that found itself orphaned by one of the fifty bachelorette parties taking place over the weekend (seriously, we know because they all wear ridiculous matching outfits).
After leaving the seven-floor club and open roof-top terrace, we made our way out to the cobblestone street, where we met and hung out with two crazy irish hooligans. They were soo funny, and rank among the top 3 most memorable parts of the trip.
We ended the night with some of the worst Chinese food I’ve ever had the misfortune to eat and a long walk back to our beautiful, fully furnished, 4 start hotel (which cost even less than a hostel, boo-yea!).
The next day we went sight-seeing. Well, only if you consider ‘sight-seeing’ spending all day in the Guinness Storehouse; however, the historical attraction does boast a ‘Gravity Bar’ which is a bar surrounded by glass walls. The circular glass perimeter allows the drinker to look out and take in the breathtaking normality of the rather undeveloped city.
The food was also pretty impressive. Instead of eating in the hotel, we walked to a sweet little organic food market for breakfast (pre-Guinness). I had a huge sausage, a big potato pancake, a scone, and some freshly brewed apple cider (to which the vendor added a complimentary shot of Whiskey). For dinner we had some traditional Irish food. I know… this could have gone very wrong. It didn’t. I loved it and all I want to do is go back to eat more. I had the nicest brown bread with the best butter (yea, I can definitely believe that was butter) along with fish & clam chowder, followed by a heaping bowl of Irish stew. Oh man… oh man, it was really good. Like it was really fuckin’ good. The desserts looked equally as stunning but we had to put our silverware down. We needed to save what little room we had left to drink our dessert.
After a brief stint in Temple Bar, where we caught most of the Germany v. Portugal game, we decided to walk over the Liffey [River] and see what we could find. After passing the Dublin Spire and James Joyce (his statue), we came to a quiet little dive – very traditional pub, not crowded, and exactly what we were searching for. That’s also where we met… Branden.
Now.. this is a three-page story in itself. All I’m gonna say is we met Branden, a 75 year old man, who we got to talkin’ to. After switching it up from an already great night of Heineken drinking, I shared with the other guys and Branden five rounds of Guinness (which was actually quite good and we have all acquired not only a taste for, but a strong liking of Guinness) until we were closed out of the pub. We then decided it would be a really fun idea to go back to Branden’s house for some more beers.
So there we found ourselves, 3-4 miles outside of Dublin without a clue of where the heck we were, drinking beers in 75 year old man’s house and listening to Dean Martin. This is a really great story but, again, haven’t got the time for it.
On the way back (I am told) I thought it a brilliant idea to suddenly tell the driver to stop the car and jump out by myself and wander off into the night. Sources tell me the exchange went as such:
‘Nick, please don’t go off by yourself’ – Mastey
‘…Yeah, I think I’m gonna go see what’s going on, maybe get something to eat.’ – Me
‘Let him go. It’s his destiny, everyone has to find themselves.’ – Steve
‘…Nick, I would really like you to come back to the hotel with us.’ – Mastey
‘Thank you.’ – Me ::jumps out of cab and walks away swiftly::
‘..Your friend is pretty drunk, haha!’ – Cab driver
I wound up meeting strange people, eating way too much because (as I like to rationalize at that time of night) I had to try as much of the local cuisine before I leave – this meant schwarma, chips (French fries), kebabs and Pepsi MAX, which are not traditionally Irish at all but it was what the Irish were all eating.
Next day we got up, had some awesome crepes – Dan and I both had Irish Breakfast Crepes which were tastetastic. Then we had to race to the airpot, as the cab ducked in and out of traffic narrowly avoiding the extermination of many Gaelic Football fans, who were all out and drunk since the crack of dawn in celebration of a huge match – ‘Gaelic.. you know.. a game played with the hands and the feet?’ – Cab driver.
Back in London I hadn’t much time before Dan/Leanne/Matt and I could go get some delicious Thai food and then head to the Queen’s Arms to catch the world cup. It was awesome, and, thanks to the drunk old Italian man who was going around handing out £20 notes to anyone rooting for Italy and buying bottle upon bottle of wine for the girls from our floor, all while standing on a table and taking his shirt off/spinning it around his head like a helicopter, it was a very sloppy night. I should also mention that his equally old girlfriend rather fancied me, dubbing me the ‘alpha male’ and giving me her number so she could set me up with her grand daughter who is sixteen (sweet).
After Italy won and Zidane took a stand for bald men everywhere (‘Fuckin’ French wanker, fuck.’ – Phil, the creative director at work/awesome), I went back to The Crofton and stayed up way too late with Pam, Megan, Kim, Yuli, Riddikah and Bryan for no logical reason at all. Needless to say everyone was destroyed the next morning, Pam even missed class. I was fine because I have class at 2pm (haha).
Monday brought a ton of surprises in itself. After Shakespeare class with my awesome professor, who is a cross between Hagrid, game and groundskeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, and Peter Jackson, the director of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I bolted over to the Waterstone’s in Piccadilly. It was at this bookstore that I went to a talk and met Jasper Fforde, author of perhaps my favourite book, The Eyre Affair, and the entire Thursday Next series, and Nursery Crime series. He was there for the publication of his new book The Fourth Bear, which was released in London that very same day. It was so much fun – he is an extremely funny, witty and knowledgeable dude.
On my way back from the talk, I got a call from an unknown number. It turned out to be my childhood friend Adrian, who has been travelling for a year, and just got wind that I was in London. We decided it only right to meet up before he left for Amsterdam. So Bryan accompanied me for another late night adventure. After having an awesome time drinking and catching up, we parted ways with Adrian and his new girlfriend (who is Brazillian and whom he met in Thailand five months ago… the kid never ceases to amaze me; he is an aspiration for us all).
As we were leaving, since the pub had closed, we bumped into two women who were hell-bent on taking us for more drinks. Ok, so it’s been about two months since this first happened so I knew what I was was prepared with an arsenal of get-out-of-jail-free tactics. We walked about a block to the sketchiest looking shithole I’ve been privy to. The inside resembled something out of Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights (which I’ve never seen, but I’m sure this is what it would look like; if my association is incorrect, try to imagine Yoda’s hut from Star Wars). The shittiness came complete with juiced-induced bouncers on the outside, who wanted to give us a hard time and charge Bryan and me £10 each to get in. No problem since… I didn’t want to go in, in fact, all I’d wanted since we split up with Adrian was to go back to The Crofton and get to bed. But I like adventures, and was curious to see how the night would unfold.
So the girls put up the money (why??) and we went in. Then I went to the restroom, and when I came back they had gotten us weird looking drinks (…why??). Anyway, that puts them up to about 35 quid to get us there, and if you’re not aware of exchange rates… that is mad cash money. This isn’t really a long or important story, but the kicker is great. We were ushered upstairs to the ‘dance floor’ which was really just a barren room with no furniture or wall decoration, a boombox on the floor and some type of animal that resembled a donkey in a small, adjacent room (not true, there was no boombox). The sketch-o-meter, at this point, burst and (despite my laughing at the pure bizarreness) I said: ‘right then, Bryan, do exactly as I do.’ Seizing the moment in which the two ladies hovered over a mobile phone reading a text message, Bryan and I put our untouched drinks on the floor and tip-toed backwards to the wall. Pressed up against the wall, we then inched slowly and deftly towards the exit. We rounded the corner, ran down the steps, flew past the bouncers and made our way to the bus stop. Then we somehow wound up in South Kensington where we stole liters of fresh milk - it being so late that the milkman had just finished his early morning rounds, leaving doorsteps ripe with milk for the picking.
Tuesday night I forced myself to take it easy and get some sleep, for once. I indulged in a 4 person serving (1 American) of lasagne and a pot of tortellini, followed by a viewing of Wedding Crashers with Dan/Leanne/Mike and vanilla/chunky munky ice cream.
The entire week since then has been spent enjoying/working at B’lowfish and continuing the trend of eating good food while in London. The guys here are really cool, and they’ve let me take a stab in preparing creative briefs and (as it eventually leads to) handling some accounts. On Wednesday I went out with them after work to ‘help entertain clients.’ That means going down to a microbrewery, drinking gallons of beer brewed on-site for free and basically talking/getting pissed with the client. This is the conceptual foundation that bolsters my love for advertising.
I had a great time just talking to people from Lloyd’s Bank (the specific client we were with at the time) and an online agency called Modem (…clever guys, stick to networking and site construction, just kidding). But I really had fun with Jason (Account Director), Chris (Acc Dir), Phil (Creative Dir) and Ben (Acc Manager, just graduated University a little over a year ago and is the man). The later it got the more the group diminished, one by one. Eventually it was me, Ben and a bunch of bankers. We decided to bounce. We hit up the Globe, the pub dubbed after Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and eventually said peace out/parted.
I got home that night quite content, but I figured I would continue the trend of actually eating the way I would in the states. So I had a tray of Moussaka and another pot of tortellini.
Well, there you have it. I know you’re all probably cursing me (if you’ve actually made it this far) for putting down so much but, honestly, this is just the tip (just for a second… just to see how it feels). Well, it’s Friday about 13:30 so I need to get back to work… ;)
Brief update - after I finished this post ( about 3 hours ago, I went down to the market where i had amazing burgers - one lamb, one venison. I also had a conversation with a cider-master, who told me everything i never wanted to know about apples, and then gave me a couple pints of cider he said clock in at around 10.5% abv... thank you God for allowing me to be introduced to Borough Market.
It's been a long time
We shouldn't have left you
Without a dope blog to step to
Step to, step to, step to
Step to, step to
Freaky-freaky
We interrupt your irregularly scheduled Rome posts for a rather poor attempt to catch up on the last couple weeks. For all ya’ll that think balancing class, work from 9am-6pm and then incessant intoxication, electronica/trip hop and clubbing/pubbing from 9pm-4am while maintaining a blog is possible – well, you’re wrong, because it’s not possible, so I haven’t been doing it… the blog part I mean. What you will find below is a flee-frowing (yes that was a typo, but I thought I could pull it off as being witty, so I’m leaving it in) regurgitation of the memories that first flutter to mind. For the faint of heart, I suggest you read this in steps (designate a chunk, read it, come back for seconds later when your brain isn’t as frazzled). For the bold, I challenge you to read the entire post in one sitting (without breaks for food, toilets or self-gratification). That said, I’ll trust you will find today’s blog slightly brief, totally longwinded and completely contradictory.
I also need to apologize for lack of artwork; since I’m taking some time off while at work to write this I will be unable –for the time being– to post any pictures. But on with the storie(z).
Let’s see… how far back can I remember… hmm… not a good sign. Well, let’s begin with the arrival of Andrew Mastey (BU Bio-Office Employee and esteemed Gardner St. Domestic) and his colleague, Steven Kovalck (the Thunder from Down Under, descendant of Her Majesty, Grandma K, and direct heir to the throne of the Bucket).
Right then. Early morning Tuesday, 4th of July, the streets of Kensington were flooded with clamour and the cries of ‘The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming.’ That’s not true. However, what could be faintly heard on that fateful morning, were the distant and sweet, majestic melodies of the mystical word of the Keebler Elves. Ernest J could have performed no better under the sticky circumstances of a sweaty, early morning arrival to London, with no form of communication nor access to shelter, money or food.
Using the calling card of the mystical Keebler Knights, Steve and Mastey were able to attract the attention of a nearby commoner and flatmate, Michael Thell. It went something like this:
::Stuck outside The Crofton with no way to contact Dan/Julian/me for we were on our way to work:: ‘Keeb. Keeb?’ – Steve & Mastey / ‘Hey. You guys must be Nick’s friends’ – Mike.
This story continues, but we haven’t time for that. What is important, is that that night was spent in revelry and protestation and pronunciation of our independence from the British – most notably displayed by my refusal to make tea at work and, instead, dumping all the tea in the middle of the studio and pouring water all over it. That’s not true, I threw it in the toilets.
After spending a delightful sunset through dusk in Hyde Park, we returned to prepare and chaperone an American dinner for 20 some-odd people from our flat (plus outsiders). Cheeseburgers w. all the trimmings/ beans/ tuna & macaroni salad/ French fries/ onion rings/ guacamole and chips - real chips, not fuckin’ French fries for Pete’s sake.. speaking of Pete Hynes (big up son, holler at your boy) the entire mess was seeped with a slapdash squeezing of Heinz Ketchup. America, fuck… yea…
Moving on, of course we went to the most generic, touristy American Bar in London: Sports Café. It was great. Whilst there we bumped into (literally) some of Dan’s coworkers… English blokes who (literally) left work and went to any American-ized bar in London that provided the possibility of meeting the man who puts the ‘Mac’ in ‘Macintosh,’ Dan Agar. Creepy? Boarding on stalkerish and slightly queer? Perhaps. I bought them all pints. I felt justified when I learned that the following morning the employees of the London branch of Dow Jones FSI came into the work to find a manager and three other coworkers in the same clothes, asleep at their desks.
One-pound-pints led us into further demonstration of good ol’ fashioned American values and determination to drink beer then pointlessly try to find T Anthony’s, which is closed because it’s way too late to be open, not to mention the fact we’re not even in Boston. We all had a great time, need I say anymore? Well, I mean I’m not going to, so deal with it.
If memory serves me correct we spent a night in Shoreditch – an area I’ve been dying to go to and, with a lot of convincing and luck, where I will return (with the company of others and not by myself). Shoreditch is an awesome place – Google or Wikipedia it (ahem, viral sponsorship). It’s a land full of hip hop/electronica/trip hop/indie/punk music and loads of weird people with angular haircuts. I love it. I have to say I had a lotta fun that night, but all I can remember is waking up in Tabitha’s kitchen wherest she nursed me back to full strength with two lovely sandwhiches. Thank you Tabitha.
The next most important overnight drunk that we went on was our trip to Ireland. But first, let me give a shout-out to B’lowfish, my b’lowjob, where I spend my days working with really fun, creative, all around excellent people. I’m really experiencing and learning so much – and having a great time in the process. Friday was.. Friday, so naturally we went out for lunch and a pint. We went to Borough Market where – stop the presses – they have GOOD food. I kid you not. It’s only open Thursday/Friday/Saturdays and it’s a market full of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses, breads, cakes, wines, fish, MEATS, etc.
We went by one of the huge butcher stands, where we met a real stock, mean looking soccer hooligan/butcher by day. Turns out Jason, my Account Director is friends with him. The bull-dog butcher had just returned from Germany (after England’s recent defeat in the Worldcup). The man turned out to be both a scholar and a gentlemen. After telling a chef to give us all free burgers (huge hunks of meat with onions and cheese, on freshly baked bread) we went over to the pub and talked about soccer.
After soccer I stuck around with Jason and Ben and we watched some magician do some street magic. Then Ben left, but Jason and I were persistent. 6 more pints later we decided to go back to the office. Then I headed back for Dublin.
Ok. Dublin. Dublin down the pints. Nick go bragh. Simply the best. Better… than all the rest. Ireland is quite possibly the best place in the world (it’s up there with Italy, Greece and New Jersey).
Dubliners. The Irish immediately embraced us with kindness, generosity and constant swearing (I fit right in). From the moment I tried (for the millionth time in my life) to be cool, this time by using my Irish citizenship to pass through customs unquestioned, up to the meeting of many characters and leprechauns in the street, everyone was hospitable, outgoing, happy and (at night) quite drunk.
The first night we had an awesome time in Temple Bar. We met up with Steve, Mastey, and an English guy who happened to be staying in their hostel with them. The English guy’s name was Richard – and he was awesome, a paragon of dry British wit/humour. We went to some pretty pubs and some crazy club. At the club Julian discovered a goodie bag that found itself orphaned by one of the fifty bachelorette parties taking place over the weekend (seriously, we know because they all wear ridiculous matching outfits).
After leaving the seven-floor club and open roof-top terrace, we made our way out to the cobblestone street, where we met and hung out with two crazy irish hooligans. They were soo funny, and rank among the top 3 most memorable parts of the trip.
We ended the night with some of the worst Chinese food I’ve ever had the misfortune to eat and a long walk back to our beautiful, fully furnished, 4 start hotel (which cost even less than a hostel, boo-yea!).
The next day we went sight-seeing. Well, only if you consider ‘sight-seeing’ spending all day in the Guinness Storehouse; however, the historical attraction does boast a ‘Gravity Bar’ which is a bar surrounded by glass walls. The circular glass perimeter allows the drinker to look out and take in the breathtaking normality of the rather undeveloped city.
The food was also pretty impressive. Instead of eating in the hotel, we walked to a sweet little organic food market for breakfast (pre-Guinness). I had a huge sausage, a big potato pancake, a scone, and some freshly brewed apple cider (to which the vendor added a complimentary shot of Whiskey). For dinner we had some traditional Irish food. I know… this could have gone very wrong. It didn’t. I loved it and all I want to do is go back to eat more. I had the nicest brown bread with the best butter (yea, I can definitely believe that was butter) along with fish & clam chowder, followed by a heaping bowl of Irish stew. Oh man… oh man, it was really good. Like it was really fuckin’ good. The desserts looked equally as stunning but we had to put our silverware down. We needed to save what little room we had left to drink our dessert.
After a brief stint in Temple Bar, where we caught most of the Germany v. Portugal game, we decided to walk over the Liffey [River] and see what we could find. After passing the Dublin Spire and James Joyce (his statue), we came to a quiet little dive – very traditional pub, not crowded, and exactly what we were searching for. That’s also where we met… Branden.
Now.. this is a three-page story in itself. All I’m gonna say is we met Branden, a 75 year old man, who we got to talkin’ to. After switching it up from an already great night of Heineken drinking, I shared with the other guys and Branden five rounds of Guinness (which was actually quite good and we have all acquired not only a taste for, but a strong liking of Guinness) until we were closed out of the pub. We then decided it would be a really fun idea to go back to Branden’s house for some more beers.
So there we found ourselves, 3-4 miles outside of Dublin without a clue of where the heck we were, drinking beers in 75 year old man’s house and listening to Dean Martin. This is a really great story but, again, haven’t got the time for it.
On the way back (I am told) I thought it a brilliant idea to suddenly tell the driver to stop the car and jump out by myself and wander off into the night. Sources tell me the exchange went as such:
‘Nick, please don’t go off by yourself’ – Mastey
‘…Yeah, I think I’m gonna go see what’s going on, maybe get something to eat.’ – Me
‘Let him go. It’s his destiny, everyone has to find themselves.’ – Steve
‘…Nick, I would really like you to come back to the hotel with us.’ – Mastey
‘Thank you.’ – Me ::jumps out of cab and walks away swiftly::
‘..Your friend is pretty drunk, haha!’ – Cab driver
I wound up meeting strange people, eating way too much because (as I like to rationalize at that time of night) I had to try as much of the local cuisine before I leave – this meant schwarma, chips (French fries), kebabs and Pepsi MAX, which are not traditionally Irish at all but it was what the Irish were all eating.
Next day we got up, had some awesome crepes – Dan and I both had Irish Breakfast Crepes which were tastetastic. Then we had to race to the airpot, as the cab ducked in and out of traffic narrowly avoiding the extermination of many Gaelic Football fans, who were all out and drunk since the crack of dawn in celebration of a huge match – ‘Gaelic.. you know.. a game played with the hands and the feet?’ – Cab driver.
Back in London I hadn’t much time before Dan/Leanne/Matt and I could go get some delicious Thai food and then head to the Queen’s Arms to catch the world cup. It was awesome, and, thanks to the drunk old Italian man who was going around handing out £20 notes to anyone rooting for Italy and buying bottle upon bottle of wine for the girls from our floor, all while standing on a table and taking his shirt off/spinning it around his head like a helicopter, it was a very sloppy night. I should also mention that his equally old girlfriend rather fancied me, dubbing me the ‘alpha male’ and giving me her number so she could set me up with her grand daughter who is sixteen (sweet).
After Italy won and Zidane took a stand for bald men everywhere (‘Fuckin’ French wanker, fuck.’ – Phil, the creative director at work/awesome), I went back to The Crofton and stayed up way too late with Pam, Megan, Kim, Yuli, Riddikah and Bryan for no logical reason at all. Needless to say everyone was destroyed the next morning, Pam even missed class. I was fine because I have class at 2pm (haha).
Monday brought a ton of surprises in itself. After Shakespeare class with my awesome professor, who is a cross between Hagrid, game and groundskeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, and Peter Jackson, the director of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I bolted over to the Waterstone’s in Piccadilly. It was at this bookstore that I went to a talk and met Jasper Fforde, author of perhaps my favourite book, The Eyre Affair, and the entire Thursday Next series, and Nursery Crime series. He was there for the publication of his new book The Fourth Bear, which was released in London that very same day. It was so much fun – he is an extremely funny, witty and knowledgeable dude.
On my way back from the talk, I got a call from an unknown number. It turned out to be my childhood friend Adrian, who has been travelling for a year, and just got wind that I was in London. We decided it only right to meet up before he left for Amsterdam. So Bryan accompanied me for another late night adventure. After having an awesome time drinking and catching up, we parted ways with Adrian and his new girlfriend (who is Brazillian and whom he met in Thailand five months ago… the kid never ceases to amaze me; he is an aspiration for us all).
As we were leaving, since the pub had closed, we bumped into two women who were hell-bent on taking us for more drinks. Ok, so it’s been about two months since this first happened so I knew what I was was prepared with an arsenal of get-out-of-jail-free tactics. We walked about a block to the sketchiest looking shithole I’ve been privy to. The inside resembled something out of Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights (which I’ve never seen, but I’m sure this is what it would look like; if my association is incorrect, try to imagine Yoda’s hut from Star Wars). The shittiness came complete with juiced-induced bouncers on the outside, who wanted to give us a hard time and charge Bryan and me £10 each to get in. No problem since… I didn’t want to go in, in fact, all I’d wanted since we split up with Adrian was to go back to The Crofton and get to bed. But I like adventures, and was curious to see how the night would unfold.
So the girls put up the money (why??) and we went in. Then I went to the restroom, and when I came back they had gotten us weird looking drinks (…why??). Anyway, that puts them up to about 35 quid to get us there, and if you’re not aware of exchange rates… that is mad cash money. This isn’t really a long or important story, but the kicker is great. We were ushered upstairs to the ‘dance floor’ which was really just a barren room with no furniture or wall decoration, a boombox on the floor and some type of animal that resembled a donkey in a small, adjacent room (not true, there was no boombox). The sketch-o-meter, at this point, burst and (despite my laughing at the pure bizarreness) I said: ‘right then, Bryan, do exactly as I do.’ Seizing the moment in which the two ladies hovered over a mobile phone reading a text message, Bryan and I put our untouched drinks on the floor and tip-toed backwards to the wall. Pressed up against the wall, we then inched slowly and deftly towards the exit. We rounded the corner, ran down the steps, flew past the bouncers and made our way to the bus stop. Then we somehow wound up in South Kensington where we stole liters of fresh milk - it being so late that the milkman had just finished his early morning rounds, leaving doorsteps ripe with milk for the picking.
Tuesday night I forced myself to take it easy and get some sleep, for once. I indulged in a 4 person serving (1 American) of lasagne and a pot of tortellini, followed by a viewing of Wedding Crashers with Dan/Leanne/Mike and vanilla/chunky munky ice cream.
The entire week since then has been spent enjoying/working at B’lowfish and continuing the trend of eating good food while in London. The guys here are really cool, and they’ve let me take a stab in preparing creative briefs and (as it eventually leads to) handling some accounts. On Wednesday I went out with them after work to ‘help entertain clients.’ That means going down to a microbrewery, drinking gallons of beer brewed on-site for free and basically talking/getting pissed with the client. This is the conceptual foundation that bolsters my love for advertising.
I had a great time just talking to people from Lloyd’s Bank (the specific client we were with at the time) and an online agency called Modem (…clever guys, stick to networking and site construction, just kidding). But I really had fun with Jason (Account Director), Chris (Acc Dir), Phil (Creative Dir) and Ben (Acc Manager, just graduated University a little over a year ago and is the man). The later it got the more the group diminished, one by one. Eventually it was me, Ben and a bunch of bankers. We decided to bounce. We hit up the Globe, the pub dubbed after Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and eventually said peace out/parted.
I got home that night quite content, but I figured I would continue the trend of actually eating the way I would in the states. So I had a tray of Moussaka and another pot of tortellini.
Well, there you have it. I know you’re all probably cursing me (if you’ve actually made it this far) for putting down so much but, honestly, this is just the tip (just for a second… just to see how it feels). Well, it’s Friday about 13:30 so I need to get back to work… ;)
Brief update - after I finished this post ( about 3 hours ago, I went down to the market where i had amazing burgers - one lamb, one venison. I also had a conversation with a cider-master, who told me everything i never wanted to know about apples, and then gave me a couple pints of cider he said clock in at around 10.5% abv... thank you God for allowing me to be introduced to Borough Market.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
History of Rome: Arch to Part II
It's hard to take time to post everyday, but I did promise. I've had a bit of spare time at work this morning (yes, I'm working at B'lowfish and it's b'lAWESOME), so I thought I'd update with this bridge (or arch) for part II of the Rome trip. I hope it sufficiently whets your appetite, or wets your pants, until I can do it proper (or do it dirty).
NOTE: This article was written using a British version of Word. Please ignore any irregular spellingz.
Moving on… inside the aeroporto was a stern-looking driver sternly awaiting our arrival, compliments of Eugenio. If the driver we had on the Amsterdam trip bore any resemblance to Jason Stratham from The Transporter, it would be that of Jason Stratham’s illegitimate, thrice removed, quirky uncle in comparison to our new driver, the Italian Job, who ripped through the streets, sparing no mercy for traffic laws/signs/lanes, nor pity for other drivers. The ride went by rather quick as we raced through the night, serenaded by the soothing Italian sounds of Usher and Ne-yo while clutching the ‘oh shit’ handles around the perimeter of the van to prevent serious concussions. As we entered the streets of Trestavere, a sort of Roman suburb across the Tiber River, I peered out the window and absorbed the dirtay-like inner-city surroundings as the van filled with hushed murmurs of “please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” And then we stopped.
The First Meeting of Eugenio: Poised on the sidewalk next to a red-clad, petite yet very curvy, Staten Island/Roman hybrid female companion, a smiling, gum-snapping, night time sunglass wearing Eugenio was eager to greet us (so he could immediately leave his socks on and get back to bidness, or so it seemed – if you know what I mean). After checking out our floral pattern regurgitated, Brady Bunch shag-pad with Eugenio, who gave me numerous handshakes and chest punches during the tour, we set off for a desperate yet wonderful 11pm Trestaverean dinner.
Walking out of the courtyard and turning onto the street, we passed several teenagers who were too busy defacing the side of our building with graffiti to look up and say “buona sera.” We talked about how some of us were (upon first impressions) less than pleased by staying in a shady part of the city, but I attributed the shadiness to the fact that it was night time and the sun was not up yet. Finally we discovered a savoury saviour of a trattoria, stolen away within a nook of a side street. Traditionally decked out with dark lit stone walls, a single, aged waitor, red and white checkered tablecloths, and completed by a Lady & the Tramp-esque ambience, we were convinced we had found the right place. Then, after asking if we wanted anything to drink –to which we responded yes and nothing more– the waiter shuffled off and came back with two bottles of house wine (€4 each). Now we knew we found the right place. Then we ate… bruschetta, pizzas, pastas, and we thought “what would we have ever done without finding this place.”
After the best meal we’ve had since leaving the U.S., we strolled down the cobblestone streets and piazzas of Trestavere, seeping through locals. Then, very late, as everything closed up for what was left of the night, we made our way back to bed (& breakfast).
NOTE: This article was written using a British version of Word. Please ignore any irregular spellingz.
Moving on… inside the aeroporto was a stern-looking driver sternly awaiting our arrival, compliments of Eugenio. If the driver we had on the Amsterdam trip bore any resemblance to Jason Stratham from The Transporter, it would be that of Jason Stratham’s illegitimate, thrice removed, quirky uncle in comparison to our new driver, the Italian Job, who ripped through the streets, sparing no mercy for traffic laws/signs/lanes, nor pity for other drivers. The ride went by rather quick as we raced through the night, serenaded by the soothing Italian sounds of Usher and Ne-yo while clutching the ‘oh shit’ handles around the perimeter of the van to prevent serious concussions. As we entered the streets of Trestavere, a sort of Roman suburb across the Tiber River, I peered out the window and absorbed the dirtay-like inner-city surroundings as the van filled with hushed murmurs of “please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” And then we stopped.
The First Meeting of Eugenio: Poised on the sidewalk next to a red-clad, petite yet very curvy, Staten Island/Roman hybrid female companion, a smiling, gum-snapping, night time sunglass wearing Eugenio was eager to greet us (so he could immediately leave his socks on and get back to bidness, or so it seemed – if you know what I mean). After checking out our floral pattern regurgitated, Brady Bunch shag-pad with Eugenio, who gave me numerous handshakes and chest punches during the tour, we set off for a desperate yet wonderful 11pm Trestaverean dinner.
Walking out of the courtyard and turning onto the street, we passed several teenagers who were too busy defacing the side of our building with graffiti to look up and say “buona sera.” We talked about how some of us were (upon first impressions) less than pleased by staying in a shady part of the city, but I attributed the shadiness to the fact that it was night time and the sun was not up yet. Finally we discovered a savoury saviour of a trattoria, stolen away within a nook of a side street. Traditionally decked out with dark lit stone walls, a single, aged waitor, red and white checkered tablecloths, and completed by a Lady & the Tramp-esque ambience, we were convinced we had found the right place. Then, after asking if we wanted anything to drink –to which we responded yes and nothing more– the waiter shuffled off and came back with two bottles of house wine (€4 each). Now we knew we found the right place. Then we ate… bruschetta, pizzas, pastas, and we thought “what would we have ever done without finding this place.”
After the best meal we’ve had since leaving the U.S., we strolled down the cobblestone streets and piazzas of Trestavere, seeping through locals. Then, very late, as everything closed up for what was left of the night, we made our way back to bed (& breakfast).
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
History of Rome: Part I
Rome... the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Dan/Julian/Leanne/Mike/Matt/Nick. Its continuing mission: to explore strange new countries, to seek out new food and new forms of alcoholic refreshment, to boldly take compromising and lude pictures where no one has taken compromising and lude pictures before.
Where do I begin? I guess the beginning is a good start. After a few sleepless nights chock full of writing papers, studying, procrastinating, Starbucks Banana Caramel Coffee Frappuccinos with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso, and anticipation, the final final exam was finally- actually, the beginning isn't a good place to start. Let's establish a prologue.
For some students the days leading up to the final final exam were coated with anxiousness, frustration and uncertainty; for me the time basically constituted apathy until a major problem in our Rome travel arrangements required me to contact our inn keeper and use two years of broken high school Italian to figure out the deal'yo. From then on my days were peppered with a sweet sprinkling of Eugenio. Eugenio, keeper of keys for the bed and breakfast we planned to stay at, had accidentally overbooked our lodgings and, as a courtesy, put us up in another b&b. Of course this just would not do, so I told Eugenio we were "very happy to be sleeping with him, look forward to hold you on the 22nd." Anyway, despite the language barrier, Eugenio must have understood what I was saying because he bumped a group that had made earlier reservations, and called/emailed and text messaged me 5 times (through each form of communication, respectively) per day for the three days leading up to our arrival in Rome (and a basis of 1 call/3 text messages thereafter, while in Rome). So, segueying back to the beginning of the story, our collective excitement to meet Eugenio (and, for the others, observe Eugenio's reaction upon meeting me) carried us through tough times.
Where do I begin? I guess the beginning is a good start. After a few sleepless nights chock full of writing papers, studying, procrastinating, Starbucks Banana Caramel Coffee Frappuccinos with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso, and anticipation, the final final exam was finally finished forever (fuckin' flowery flavorful fuck yea I love alliteration). Next stop (after the Tube/the bus/the check-in/the frisk/the boarding/the take-off/the landing): Rome. But first... find Julian's keys. To make a long tangent very short, Julian's lost keys (hidden beneath his bed covers) were finally discovered after Matt used the serrated kitchen knife to cut a hole through the back of Julian's locked closet, so that we could retrieve Julian's passport.
Before I continue, let's meet Leanne. Leanne, whom you may remember from Team HMV, joined our group of flunkies about two weeks ago. She is from California (and Hawaii) and goes to school at the University of Michigan. Over our trip to Rome Leanne assumed many positions, one of which being Team Mom - in other words, Kathryn, she has replaced you; but don't be upset, it was only because we were lacking a dominant female figure who can lead our collective indecisiveness. Anyway, prior to the penetration of Julian's closet... Dan and I were telling Leanne what she had just signed up for: namely our frequent tardiness and record of just barely arriving at the gate before missing the flight. Ironically, this time... we actually missed the flight.
Let me break you off with a bit of knowledge about Ryanair: they Ryanstink (no offense, Ryan). After being informed that we were only 35 minutes early, and not 45 minutes early, Dan/Julian/Leanne/Mike/Matt and I paid a double whopping 40 pound fine, with cheese. We were put on the next flight to Rome, no big deal.. oh hey, aren't those girls on the BU program? Yea.. yea they are, they're going to Rome too, on the next flight - oh wait, no.. no, they're not, because Ryanair just gave us their spot (and they are only 35 minutes early) - boo-yea!
The Rise of Rome: Let's forget about the whole boarding issue for a minute, and reflect on the extremely low, haphazard landing. Like something out of the Twighlight Zone, Matt and I, the only two from our group sitting by the wing, happened to notice how unnecessarily close to the ground we were flying; so much so, that the end of the wing was grazing the short golf-course-green grass before the black stretch of runway. Finally, touch down. Being 'that guy' that I am, I started the 'slow clap' in relief. Joined by Matt we quickly gained a substantial following - until the captain addressed the cabin over the loudspeaker: "::static:: Please don't clap. We are all aware that we have successfully landed."
Walking off the plane onto the runway, we then took the airport trolly for a journey like that of an Austin Powers movie (from the plane to the door of the airport, literally 20 feet away - yes, I'm completely serious, in fact this is probably the only time I've been 100% truthful without any embellishment of such a trivial detail... I'm just kidding, I wouldn't lie to you - I'm proud of the fact that these stories require little to no elaboration).
Hey, you're still reading... either you have nothing better to do or are willing to put up with all this nonsense just to find out why Rome was the best trip we've ever taken...
To be continued (Thursday, June 29, 2006)
Friday, June 16, 2006
Digital Wednesday/Triumphant Thursday/Funny Friday, June 14-16th
I know, I know - thanks for asking again: what could I have possibly been doing all week in place of keeping up with the blog? I hate being repetitive but I can't tell you enough how surprised and glad I am that you guys are semi-interested in checking up on us, and that those of you who are employed by BU have chosen the blog over away-message-checking as your number one source of work distraction (you like to sing, 'rep' New Bedford, wear dress shoes and an ample amount of denim - you know who you are, Mastey). Anyway, it's great to see that the blog is becoming more popular and gaining interest from others on the internet. I got an email this Thursday from Ma$e, acclaimed Bad Boy Records turned G-Unit rap icon and born-again Christian, who was also wondering what we've been up to since our return from Amsterdam. Below I have reproduced his message:
Dear Nick,
How's London? What have you guys been up to since you got back from Amsterdam?
If you had twenty-four hours to live just think
Where would you go?
What would you do?
Who would you screw?
And who would you wanna notify?
Or would yo' ass deny that yo' ass about to die?
Love,
Ma$e
Thanks, Ma$e. Well, without going into too, too much detail, I'll try to break the past week down right quick.
Monday through Tuesday was spent literally and figuratively running the cm521 Marketing gamut. Traveling all over London searching for the City Business Library, and after asking every knowledgeable person/cab driver/police bobby where the Library was, I found myself lost for the first time since we arrived in the UK. After 3 hours I began to get a little anxious since I knew the library would close soon. Eventually I found the library 15 minutes before closing. Needless to say, I wasn't able to record all the research I came to pick up. With 3 minutes left before closing, the librarians conspired and turned both the copy machine and library lights off on me after I clearly said I "only have 18 pages left to copy."
Wednesday: Somehow Leanne, Tabitha, Nicole, Matt and I (by our powers combined, we are team HMV) managed to cram 3 weeks worth of marketing, promotional planning and advertising into 2 hard days of work. On Wednesday, dressed up in our smart clothes, we gave an exciting and fun 30 minute pitch for our client, HMV, the leading music and DVD retail superstore in the UK & Ireland. After a couple hard days of work and a few sleepless nights, we had finally reached freedom (except for the 2 papers, 2 finals and presentation I have due next week). We were very excited with a job well done so, after going home and eating a huge feast, we went out later that night.
First stop was Kavanaugh's to meet up and rendevous in a very Ocean's Twelve-ending fashion. After a few pints we headed over to the Mullet-Bar, the Zetland Arms, which is a bar operated by scary, confrontational, no-nonsense lesbians with mullets (not that there's anything wrong with mullets). In fact, we dropped by the Zetland Arms last week when, after last call, one bar tender came over to our table, took Matt's pint from him and poured it out.
The bar has a great selection in local beers - including the one I ordered for Dan, which tastes just like vinegar. Dan really enjoyed it. Leanne, Tab, Nicole, Matt and I cheers-ed our better tasting drinks a few more times and called it a night. Congratulations HMV, we did it baby! (I don't even know what that means..)
Thursday: After catching up on all the missed sleep from the previous week, we headed out to the pub for the England v Trinidad 'n' Tobago game. I have to say, although a frequent occurence, watching an England World Cup football match at a local pub in London is the best way to spend a Thursday afternoon. The Guinness was extra cold; the bar was extra crowded and extra smokey; and the game was extra exciting. Finally scoring in the later half of the second.. half.. England finished up the match 2-0 in an action-packed victory.
At night Dan, Julian, Leanne, Matt and I hung out in the room then headed over to Piccadilly, to O'Neil's. Somehow we got in without paying a heavy cover charge (5 pounds, yea that was a joke) and went upstairs to the third floor. As we reached the third floor landing, the doors flew open and 4 guys came crashing down in front of us, grappling and brawling. Trying to separate ourselves from the very close, very violent fight, we stepped around and walked in. The third floor was playing the same dance music as the other two levels, but it soon changed over to an awesome band with a big, sweaty front man. The band played crazy covers and had the entire pub jumping. Matt and I rushed the stage and spent so much time at the front that we were given the mic to sing part of a song (Londoners seem to be obsessed with Kaiser Chief's "I Predict a Riot," consequently we hear it all the time and know the words). After the band sang its last song, the dance music came back on.
Matt and I stuck it out and met up with Emma, who is going back to the US next week. The dancing got very intense, and after a couple of stuffed animals stopped dancing and started doing some really raunchy things on the dance floor, we decided to check out the 2nd level of the pub. Then Matt and I went to the WC where we noticed exactly how seriously they take football (soccer) across the pond - they practice bending it like Beckham in the bathrooms (see picture of urinal).
On the way out we decided to smuggle some really sweet Heineken glasses by hiding them in our pants; mine was in the front thus greatly contributing to the massive bulge you see in the picture we took with the band, who we happened to meet outside on the street. The band was really appreciative of our support and taking over for them/singing (just kidding) and told us to email our pictures to them.
Now very late, and very hungry, Matt easily persuaded me to get a large, filling sausage and onions (no innuendos please)from one of the infamous London sausage vendors. Thanks, Matt, all that did was make me even more hungry. So after the sausage we went to Burger King.
Friday: Very briefly, Friday we went to the Comedystore - an awesome comedy club. After hanging out around Covent Garden with Kadie (who is stilly nannying) and getting some fish & chips, Dan, Julian, Leanne, Mike, Matt and I headed over for the midnight show, where we met up with Emma again. The host and all the acts were phenomenal. All acts were exceptional... except for one TERRIBLE American. I laughed for 2 and a half straight hours, minus the period when the American guy was on stage. Apparently not having any material or forming any jokes is acceptable as long as you relate everything to a statement about how you hate America or why America is ____ (fill insult here). Well, as we told the host earlier when he was picking people out of the crowd - we were, in fact, from America. So in the midst of dead silence (this guy was really awful, nothing he said was remotely funny), faint shouts of "shut the fuck up and get off stage" were stirring, oddly enough, from the area in which Dan and I were sitting. Anyway, I was just really annoyed that the guy was wasting everyone's time - and in a great demonstration of international unity, our fellow British and Australian audience members joined in until, finally, the guy walked off.
The other comedians were so good they totally brought the crowd back and redeemed the lack of comedy put forth by the tool who just got off stage. Afterwards we grabbed sausages (that's still not funny) and jumped on the bus back to The Crofton.
Dear Nick,How's London? What have you guys been up to since you got back from Amsterdam?
If you had twenty-four hours to live just think
Where would you go?
What would you do?
Who would you screw?
And who would you wanna notify?
Or would yo' ass deny that yo' ass about to die?
Love,
Ma$e
Thanks, Ma$e. Well, without going into too, too much detail, I'll try to break the past week down right quick.
Monday through Tuesday was spent literally and figuratively running the cm521 Marketing gamut. Traveling all over London searching for the City Business Library, and after asking every knowledgeable person/cab driver/police bobby where the Library was, I found myself lost for the first time since we arrived in the UK. After 3 hours I began to get a little anxious since I knew the library would close soon. Eventually I found the library 15 minutes before closing. Needless to say, I wasn't able to record all the research I came to pick up. With 3 minutes left before closing, the librarians conspired and turned both the copy machine and library lights off on me after I clearly said I "only have 18 pages left to copy."
Wednesday: Somehow Leanne, Tabitha, Nicole, Matt and I (by our powers combined, we are team HMV) managed to cram 3 weeks worth of marketing, promotional planning and advertising into 2 hard days of work. On Wednesday, dressed up in our smart clothes, we gave an exciting and fun 30 minute pitch for our client, HMV, the leading music and DVD retail superstore in the UK & Ireland. After a couple hard days of work and a few sleepless nights, we had finally reached freedom (except for the 2 papers, 2 finals and presentation I have due next week). We were very excited with a job well done so, after going home and eating a huge feast, we went out later that night.
First stop was Kavanaugh's to meet up and rendevous in a very Ocean's Twelve-ending fashion. After a few pints we headed over to the Mullet-Bar, the Zetland Arms, which is a bar operated by scary, confrontational, no-nonsense lesbians with mullets (not that there's anything wrong with mullets). In fact, we dropped by the Zetland Arms last week when, after last call, one bar tender came over to our table, took Matt's pint from him and poured it out.
The bar has a great selection in local beers - including the one I ordered for Dan, which tastes just like vinegar. Dan really enjoyed it. Leanne, Tab, Nicole, Matt and I cheers-ed our better tasting drinks a few more times and called it a night. Congratulations HMV, we did it baby! (I don't even know what that means..)
Thursday: After catching up on all the missed sleep from the previous week, we headed out to the pub for the England v Trinidad 'n' Tobago game. I have to say, although a frequent occurence, watching an England World Cup football match at a local pub in London is the best way to spend a Thursday afternoon. The Guinness was extra cold; the bar was extra crowded and extra smokey; and the game was extra exciting. Finally scoring in the later half of the second.. half.. England finished up the match 2-0 in an action-packed victory.
At night Dan, Julian, Leanne, Matt and I hung out in the room then headed over to Piccadilly, to O'Neil's. Somehow we got in without paying a heavy cover charge (5 pounds, yea that was a joke) and went upstairs to the third floor. As we reached the third floor landing, the doors flew open and 4 guys came crashing down in front of us, grappling and brawling. Trying to separate ourselves from the very close, very violent fight, we stepped around and walked in. The third floor was playing the same dance music as the other two levels, but it soon changed over to an awesome band with a big, sweaty front man. The band played crazy covers and had the entire pub jumping. Matt and I rushed the stage and spent so much time at the front that we were given the mic to sing part of a song (Londoners seem to be obsessed with Kaiser Chief's "I Predict a Riot," consequently we hear it all the time and know the words). After the band sang its last song, the dance music came back on.
Matt and I stuck it out and met up with Emma, who is going back to the US next week. The dancing got very intense, and after a couple of stuffed animals stopped dancing and started doing some really raunchy things on the dance floor, we decided to check out the 2nd level of the pub. Then Matt and I went to the WC where we noticed exactly how seriously they take football (soccer) across the pond - they practice bending it like Beckham in the bathrooms (see picture of urinal).
On the way out we decided to smuggle some really sweet Heineken glasses by hiding them in our pants; mine was in the front thus greatly contributing to the massive bulge you see in the picture we took with the band, who we happened to meet outside on the street. The band was really appreciative of our support and taking over for them/singing (just kidding) and told us to email our pictures to them.
Now very late, and very hungry, Matt easily persuaded me to get a large, filling sausage and onions (no innuendos please)from one of the infamous London sausage vendors. Thanks, Matt, all that did was make me even more hungry. So after the sausage we went to Burger King.
Friday: Very briefly, Friday we went to the Comedystore - an awesome comedy club. After hanging out around Covent Garden with Kadie (who is stilly nannying) and getting some fish & chips, Dan, Julian, Leanne, Mike, Matt and I headed over for the midnight show, where we met up with Emma again. The host and all the acts were phenomenal. All acts were exceptional... except for one TERRIBLE American. I laughed for 2 and a half straight hours, minus the period when the American guy was on stage. Apparently not having any material or forming any jokes is acceptable as long as you relate everything to a statement about how you hate America or why America is ____ (fill insult here). Well, as we told the host earlier when he was picking people out of the crowd - we were, in fact, from America. So in the midst of dead silence (this guy was really awful, nothing he said was remotely funny), faint shouts of "shut the fuck up and get off stage" were stirring, oddly enough, from the area in which Dan and I were sitting. Anyway, I was just really annoyed that the guy was wasting everyone's time - and in a great demonstration of international unity, our fellow British and Australian audience members joined in until, finally, the guy walked off.
The other comedians were so good they totally brought the crowd back and redeemed the lack of comedy put forth by the tool who just got off stage. Afterwards we grabbed sausages (that's still not funny) and jumped on the bus back to The Crofton.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
AmsterDAM.that.was.a.great.weekend... June 8-11th
Waking up extra early on Thursday after a long.. long night of pub crawling was challenging yet vital for a weekend full of great beer, clean boxers and the Dutch. Bearing this knowledge, I spent the 30 minutes before class on Thursday morning in a trance, balling up a few articles of clothing (a considerably insufficient amount for traveling in any country except Europe) and collecting essential traveling implements (passport, tooth brush, camera, turkey sandwhich).
Immediately following class, Dan, Julian, Matt and I jumped in our preordered taxi and headed to Heathrow (Mike came later due to afternoon class). We were surprised at how easygoing (perhaps I should call it "efficient") the check-in and security process is compared to the U.S., having literally walked through the different checkpoints with little more than a glance at our American passports. I, however, am always the sketchy one, and was therefore "randomly selected" (yea, right) for a new screening process. Luckily, the guards were gentle with me. After standing in front of a large full-body x-ray machine, the guards instructed me to skip the entire line and move directly to the departure area - me: "Do not pass GO; do not collect $200!" The guards, the woman I skipped and the girl near the duty-free counter, no one found that joke funny (and most likely neither do you).
The flight was very bumpy and over quickly (kind of like sharing a bed with Dan/Tim/Al and James in the Domincan Republic during spring break, just kidding). We arrived in Amsterdam around 4pm to beautiful, progressively hotter, sunny weather that lasted for the remainder of the trip. We were driven to our hotel in one of the millions of brand new Mercedes Benz'z taxis that grace the Holland highways. We made it to the hotel in record time thanks to our well dressed, Bulgarian driver, whose appearance in a black suit and tie contributed to and furthered my mental comparison of our auto-voyage to a scene from the Transporter, starring Jason Stratham.
Our hotel, The Beufort, was the most awesome crap hotel each of us has ever stayed in. Not quite a crackhouse but not much more than a hostel, the hotel featured itsy-bitsy spiders crawlin' up the water spout in the bath tub, a one-man rotation of sleeping on the floor due to lack of beds (in total there were 5 of us), an imaginary air conditioning unit that was seemingly stuck on the setting "hot as balls," free continental breakfast that was never out when we came down in the morning to eat, and a bathroom that flooded like the colosseum everytime we took a shower (together). I have no complaints about the hotel; I thought staying in The Beufort was the best way to jump feet first into the proverbial shoes of the average down-on-his-luck Dutchmen as the hotel accomdations provided an excellent chance to really immerse myself in that culture.
Now that we had settled, what was there to do? Amsterdam is notriously known by many as the sex/drugs/wooden clog capital of the world. If, however, you do not frequent coffee shops (wink, wink), are not keen on eating baked goods like brownies and space cakes (ahem), hate milkshakes and bon bon's (eh? eh?), and can't stand the taste of mushrooms... I assure you Amsterdam has much more to see and experience (besides the Red Light district). It's called: Heineken.
Turns out Amsterdam is also a really beautiful city. With the help of an extremely boring boat cruise, we were able to take in all the aesthetics Amsterdam has to offer: the great architecture, regal scenery, bustling squares where you can sit around and hang out, a series of canals that dissect the city, and lavish parks full of green grass, ponds with very friendly ducks and well kempt shrubbery (yes, I used the word shrubbery). But, if you continually read this blog then I know you have no interest in reading about stuff like that; nor do you care about the amazing artwork on display at the Van Gogh Museum and the Rembrandt & Caravaggio exhibit, both of which I was admittedly eager to see. So let's get back on topic:
The Heineken Experience. Whilst on the prowl for the mecca of my Dutch pilgrimage, the Heineken Factory, the anticipation in my mouth and stomach was getting the better of me. Walking along underneath the hot sun, I had to squint to look up and into the distance where I thought I saw the letters "ineken" peaking out atop a big brick building on a curvy street. Sure enough it was, in fact, the Heineken factory. Like little kids in a candy shop we hopped and skipped through the first floor of the self-guided tour. After taking in the rich history and spending more than enough time watching a wall of all the past Heineken television commercials, I followed everyone else up the green neon-lighted stairway to heaven. Bouncing from room to room, chasing the aroma of hops and barley, we were eventually ushered into a dark room which was the stage for an interactive ride where you follow the life of a Heineken bottle from its conception all the way through to its demise in da' club (or on the couch or back deck of 87 Gardner). After the ride finished, the doors were pulled open to reveal the factory's old distillery room and a bar in the loft above the room. After a break from the tour (and a few complimentary half-pints) we continued on our merry way.
Finishing the rest of the tour (which was awesome), we came to the second and last bar. We hung out for a bit until the bar tenders refused to accept our tokens and asked us to leave because they were closed and we were clearly exceeding the estimated amount of time one has in the last part of the tour. The tokens I'm referring to are provided upon purchase of a ticket to the Heineken Experience: one token is given for the 1st bar, two are given for the 2nd bar, and one is given for a Free Gift! We, however, had acquired extra tokens from girls we met on the street, thus we had all intentions of spending as much time at the second bar as we could.
Speaking of Heineken (which I used practically as a substitute for water throughout the trip - much like the British did with their Indian colonies, because beer is easier to preserve and survives a lengthy voyage much better than fresh water), I'd like to present you with the running debate during our time in Amsterdam: does Heineken in Holland taste better than Heineken in, say, the U.S.? Do the Dutch brewmasters use a separate process for the beer that stays within their borders and those of their friendly neighboring countries? Even within the Netherlands, does Heineken Ice draft taste any colder than regular Heineken draft? Who was the Notorious B.I.G. and is he really dead? Can you tell which is fact or fiction? Or is it simply beyond belief?
Now, I didn't just sit around and revel in the masterpiece that is Heineken beer all day - I also got to EAT! Yes, EAT whole meals of food! It was phenomenal. Unlike England, Amsterdam offered a large number and wide variety of different cuisines and simply edible food. From Dutch Pancake Houses to Mexican/Italian/Greek/Thai restaurants and Steakhouses to old school take-out Chinese food (Featured: Wok to Walk, much like a Chinese stir-fry wok version of Qdoba, mastering in the various Chinese styles, we had between one to two meals here per day). In addition to these fine selections, there was plenty of late night waffle and ice-cream snacking, not to mention the last night's trip to Burger King, where a very, very hungry and ashamed Nick ordered an XXL Big King meal and an ice cream sundae... quite possibly the most satisfying meal of the trip.
If restaurants don't directly french-tickle your fancy, there was, obviously, the Red Light District. Unfortunately one cannot take pictures in the Red Light District so you're gonna have to take my words on what goes on there (from my perspective, anyway). You've just read about all the great food we finally had the chance to eat, but you may have noticed I didn't mention anything about bananas. I love bananas. You know I love bananas. I know you know I love bananas, and you know I know you know I love bananas. Bananas with peanut butter, bananas in oatmeal or ice cream, bananas sliced up in a bowl of cereal, bananas in pajamas coming down the stairs. The one way I do NOT like bananas, however.. is inside a Dutch stripper in the Red Light District. This is why I was very upset everytime I passed the BananenBar, where we were offered not only to watch, but participate in the destruction of poor, innocent bananas (and wax candles for an extra price). Shame on you people.
So, yea, it's pretty dirty. And I don't just mean "dirty," I mean full fledged "dirrtay." In addition to the women standing pressed up against the floor to ceiling windows, lit only by red neon lights, knocking against the glass to get our attention, we often encountered men who insisted upon calling me "Charlie." I finally built up the courage to tell one said gentlemen that my name was not Charlie. After a very awkward and confusing conversation, the man rather rudely informed me that "Charlie" was code for coke, ex or any various type of hard drug. I was very taken aback, and after I said no thank you/walked away, it suddenly dawned on me why all those guys were following me around calling me "Carlos" when we were in Acapulco over spring break.
Anyway, there's a lot to see - too much to see, in fact - just by walking around the streets of the Red Light District. Sticking mostly to bars, while accompanied by Dan, we discovered some very elegant little places. Our favorite, where we all hung out Saturday night with some dudes from the BU program who we happened to meet in Lidseplein, The Hole in the Wall, was an Irish pub (of course) with friendly service and great outdoor seating where it was still possible to watch the World Cup soccer games. We also found our way into: a smokey, dive bar occupied mostly by underage Dutch girls (no, that is not entirely as cool as it sounds); a "70's 80's Bar" where they had a DJ who played great classics like "Whoop, There it is," "Grindin'" by the Clipse, and other monumental Hip-Hop and Reggaeton songs from the 90's...; and, how could we go without, a Kareoke bar.
Exploring is the best part about visiting any new country or city. But walking around in Amsterdam in general, forget sight seeing, is a hindered process due to the 600,000 bicycles owned and operated in the city (no joke, everyone rides a bike, literally everyone, and sometimes two at a time). It is impossible to walk 5 feet without the threatening "ring-ring" of the bike bell screaming at you from behind. There are special bike lanes between the sidewalk and the street, designed specifically for cyclists and scooter/moped users. Even if you figure out how to cross the street you are still very susceptible to being plowed from behind (crossing the street required a brief adjustment period because in Amsterdam cars drive on the right side, the correct side, of the road - and we are now accustomed to doing the opposite of our instincts when crossing the street in London).
The departure on Sunday morning was early, 8:20 am. Waking up early (6ish) in Amsterdam is even more confusing than London as the sun sets around 11:15pm and is up around 5:30am. After a solid hour of sleep on a comfortable wooden, Dutch floor, I got up with the rest of the gang and set out for the airport. After a good nap in the airport, and a good nap on the plane (which apparently was taxi-ing around for a spot in Heathrow for two hours), we took a shuttle bus to the tube - which, of course, had to let us out 7 stops early regardless of the full out-of-zone fair we had to cough up. We then had to walk several miles in the now prevalent English heat and sunny weather, which we are not complaining about despite the sun burn received by some of our travel partners (namely Dan Agar).
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