nickpwaytobe

A Brand called Nick

2009-05-21T14:11:00.001-04:00

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.

Now you can vote!

2009-05-18T12:19:00.001-04:00

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!

48 Hours to Cannes

2009-05-17T15:27:00.005-04:00

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!

What's worse?

2009-05-14T23:46:00.003-04:00

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.

H+Mean

2007-10-08T00:06:00.000-04:00

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.

Gone Phishing

2007-10-05T10:15:00.001-04:00

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.

Rippppit... Rippppit...

2007-10-04T22:41:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-10-04T09:54:00.000-04:00

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

We're back. All right.

2007-10-02T14:00:00.000-04:00

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

Read This if You Dare, or Have a Lot of Time to Kill

2006-07-14T08:37:00.000-04:00

(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.

History of Rome: Arch to Part II

2006-06-29T08:27:00.000-04:00

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).

History of Rome: Part I

2006-06-27T18:08:00.000-04:00

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)

Digital Wednesday/Triumphant Thursday/Funny Friday, June 14-16th

2006-06-16T08:48:00.000-04:00

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.

AmsterDAM.that.was.a.great.weekend... June 8-11th

2006-06-11T11:31:00.000-04:00

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).

Sunday Bath-ing, June 4th

2006-06-05T19:17:00.000-04:00

We woke up Sunday at 8AM tired and sort of smelly, so we decided to do what any Roman would do - go to Bath to indulge in the secret and mystical healing powers of natural spring waters, and to get naked and scrape olive oil off one another's backs.

The Celts believed the natural hot springs found in Bath possessed supernatural powers, and the town became the place of worship for the deity Sulis, life-giving Mother goddess. Like the rest of the known world, the Romans invaded and conquered the land, preserving the town as well as the adoration for the goddess Sulis (identifying Her with Minerva, hence Sulis Minerva) by constructing temples and intricate bathing complexes. If you know me, you know I heart Roman civilization and the Latin language (which I no longer know because I am a puerum molsetum). Anyway, Bath eventually became the site of British aristocracy, famous residents such as Jane Austen, and major movie productions like Vanity Fair (starring Reese Witherspoon) and Pride & Prejudice (starring Keira Knightley - who we, unfortunately, did not meet on the day's excursion).

The beauty of Bath is the city itself; with amazing architecutre and serene, lush landscapes, every step through the city brings you through different folds of history. I've always loved the city because it is so timeless and untouched - I visited Bath after graduating high school in 2003 and the town hasn't changed one bit.

Anyway, after touring the bath houses (which are awesome) Dan, Julian, Matt, Mike and I went upstairs for a taste of Bath water (not like soapy Bert & Ernie bath-water; more like bubbling warm water with a strong taste of sulfur, a hint of fluoride and a pinch of salt). The water is a bit hard to get down so, like most beverages in this country, we decided to chug it. The water is pumped up 22 miles from the ground through a beautifully decorated fountain, in a grand dining room where you can stay for breakfast, lunch or dinner. The decor is complimented with the sweet ambience set by our friend, the McDonald's High Kensington Street Pianist.

After exploring several different, interesting streets and taking in more scenery, we grabbed a pint at the Boatery Pub (the same pub I grabbed a pint/fish&chips with David "Sam" Sarch, the Scourge of Singak and Pat Costello in 2003) and sat by the river. We slowly made our way back to the bus, where I was greeted by the sassy wank of a bus tour guide who deserves a paragraph of his own:

The story of the tour guide starts off at a rest stop somewhere near Swindon (the setting for Ricky Gervais' The Office, the hit BBC show). After Dan, Matt and I constructed very large, very expensive and very delicious breakfast sandwhiches (eggs, beans, sausage, bacon and hashbrowns on a roll), the bus driver walked up to me and gave me a pompous scolding for being late for the bus - which I was not yet late for. Once on the bus, well.. I do have the uncanny ability to fall fast asleep within minutes of being on a moving vehicle (I awoke to the entire boat cruise pointing and laughing at me for drooling all over my sweatshirt last week). I prefer to look at this more as a talent than an offense to my peers and hosts. The tour guide, apparently, views it as a transgression of his guiding skills, as he chose to single me out over the loud speaker and compare me to a zombie from George A. Romero's Land of the Dead. Again, I awoke as the butt of my fellow passengers' hysterical laughing.

So, after what felt like ten minutes after leaving Bath, I awoke in Avebury. The main attraction in Avebury is a series of rocks arranged on neighboring fields in a large circle (much more spread out but similar to Stonehenge), forming the largest stone ring in the world. Unlike Stonehenge, however, you can go up to the rocks, hug them, love them and pick them up (not really). Two of the largest stones are said to lie on the same electromagnetic line as the Pyramids of Giza, and possess some pagan powers. Dan, Julian and I ran between the stones - holding hands, of course - and survived. Dan and Julian then posed near what is called "the devil's chair," on the backside of the larger stone. I opted not to sit on the devil's chair for fear of the local legend that one who sits on the devil's chair for 9 months will conceive - and I CANNOT get pregnant right now.

Then we discovered the most popular enchantment in Avebury: the nearest and only pub, the Red Lion. After getting a couple Old Speckled Hens with Matt, and sitting with Dan, Julian, Mike and the bus tour guide (who did not finish his beer) we were forced to sprint back through the bright green fields as we were almost, again, late for our bus departure.

In the evening Matt and I met up with my friend from home, Kadie, who is staying in London for the summer under very unlikely circumstances. The UK is regarded very highly in the international nanny and au pair circuit, boasting such reputable stars as Supper Nanny and Nanny 9-1-1. Paradoxically, Kadie (whose record includes 10+ years of babysitting experience, lifeguard and CPR certification, swim instructor license and an aversion to cigarette smoking) was recruited via the Providence College student newspaper for a position as head nanny-mistress for the rich Chelsea parents of a 2 year old girl. Anyway, after a week and a half of being stuffed up with a toddler, and little-to-no other human interaction, Matt and I seized the opportunity as a great excuse to go grab a pint.

Afterwards, Matt, Kadie and I returned to The Crofton and joined Dan, Julian, Mike and our friends Jaime and Jess (who also go to BU, but we did not meet until London) on the 3rd floor for the first ever legit (official) Crofton beer pong exhibition. After beer pong, or Beirut for those of you who think you are cool, we played Kings as an excuse to tap into the 2nd case of Carlsberg that we bought for, what I explained to the liquor store clerk was referred to back home as, "mad cheap."

Favourable Firday, June 2nd

2006-06-03T09:47:00.000-04:00

7AM - Alarm clock goes off.
7:30AM - Alarm clock goes off.
8AM - Alarm clock goes off.
8:10AM - Dan goes off: "Are you going to your interview?"

Most people prepare for a crucial interview by conducting extensive background research on the hiring company and waking up early after a solid night's rest to undertake a vigorous grooming process, so as to reach his or her highest possible level of aesthetic social presentation. I prefer to wake up drunk, put my clothes on and leave.

Dan and I left together early in the AM for our respective interviews (Julian had already taken names, interviewed and kicked some ass last week). Apparently I was incoherent for the first thirty minutes after getting out of bed. I was told later that, after lots of stumbling and mumbling around, I asked Dan and Julian (who was still sleeping, having had his interview last week, as previously mentioned) if they wanted me to make them toast and marmalade as I got dressed. Having only 3 hours of sleep, it was clear that the celebration from the night before was going to continue on through my interview.

After a very emotional parting of ways at the Gloucester Tube station, where Dan went West, I went East towards London Bridge, where I am applying for an internship at a small creative agency, called B'LOWfish (www.blowfishnet.com). Over the past week I have executed several behavioural studies of London culture (including adding u's to certain words, and replacing z's with s's). Among the fascinating findings, exists a pattern in which people in London refuse to speak to each other on the Tube (further investigation is being funded to determine whether or not this behavior is imitated across all forms of public transportation). The English are very serious about keeping complete train car silence - this has been confirmed, moreover, by Marketing Professor Jackie Bishop, who was shocked to find out students in our class have been approaching fellow Tube patrons.

Anyway, despite the toast and marmalade that I may or may not have had in the morning before we left, hunger was steadily creeping up on me throughout my 20 minute commute. Minding the gap and stepping off the train at my stop, London Bridge, I was now totally arrested by the command of my stomach. Luckily I am working in the area of London known as the Media and Creative Center (similar to a financial center, but cooler); the significance of my location lies with the phenomenon known as marketing promotion, and the high concentration of marketing and advertising agencies in the area. Upon walking through the exit turnstiles, the light of day shining through from the street, I was approached by a team of uniformed samaritans. The wishes of my grumbling stomach had been answered by a promotionial box from Lurpak Perfect Breakfasts... thank you marketing gods. The box contained a fresh croissant which rest atop a neatly folded napkin and plastic knife, not to mention a single serving glass container of jam and butter.

After a very satisfying snack, I toured the area for a while before ringing up from the iron-cased, snake encrested gates that separate B'LOWfish from the street and guard against intruders. After a young girl with the sides of her head shaved, leaving the top of her scalp with a long, flowing ponytail, came down to collect me, I waited in a conference room for a few minutes. After turning down several drinks, I finally agreed to some water which I sipped ceremoniously as I stole furtive glances of the main floor of the agency through the door. There were thick 10x12 drawing pads that contained the agency logo in the bottom right-hand corner laid neatly in front of every seat at the conference table, and the walls of the small room were a sporadic combination of bleach-bright white sheetrock and exposed brick. Then the three head creatives/partners walked in.

They were all really cool, down to Earth, and easy to talk to. We went over my resume and campaigns I've worked on, I told them what I was looking for at their agency, the ads I liked and why, how I've been spending my time in London (as if not apparent by my image) and just joked about a lot of things. Less of an interview, our hang-out session ended after, roughly, 45 minutes.

Extatic, I walked over the cobblestone path and left through the iron gates, wide-eyed and quite content. It was still early, and such a nice day, that I decided to walk around the area a bit and check out the sites. Right near the River Thames, I checked out some now familliar landmarks that I've mentioned before: the Mayor's Testicle, the Fishnet Condom (which was peaking the tip of its head out over some buildings in the distance... oh please, you're sick) and, of course, London and Tower Bridge.

After lunch and a well needed nap, Julian, Matt and I walked a few blocks to the Museum of Natural History. We were enammored by the Dinosaur Exhibition, which featured many fossils and a life-sized moving/sneering/roaring T-rex. It was a lot of fun, and I enjoyed breaking out the raptor moves that have been extinct now for about 2 semesters.

By the time we got back to the room, after the grocery store, around 5:45pm, Dan was just waking up. We made dinner and hung out in the room with a bunch of our friends. After the 20th person walked by to ask us what we were doing/where we were going, we decided it was about time to stop having fun and leave. We caught a bus to Leicester Square and, after hitting up Club B.K. (Burger King) for use of their world renowned facilities, made our way through the city, visiting new places.

Miracles Can Happen, Mo' Money Thursday, June 1st

2006-06-01T16:29:00.000-04:00

Do you believe in fairy tales? Do you believe in wizards and witches, ghosts, elves, or Vin Diesel? When you were little, did you stay up all night waiting to catch Santa Claus, or to ask the Tooth Fairy what her deal was and WTF she was doin' with all your teeth? Today's post is a story of magic and wonder; a tale of mystical romance and great fortune; a story about a boy and miracles, and how he bounced back from a hard-knock-life.

First and foremost, I was surprised at the number of people who inquired as to why I have not posted since Monday. I can't tell you how grateful and fortunate Dan, Julian and I are to have friends who take away precious Facebook time to check up on us. Thanks, guys. I honestly was not planning to keep a day-by-day record of our debauchery because I felt that you (the reader) would find copious amounts of text and sarcasm too overwhelming. Right then, here we are:

Tuesday & Wednesday: Over the past two days I have been impoverished and financially segregated from my colleagues. Smothered with work, and lacking the ability to purchase food and beer (because I spent all my money on food and beer, and my Mom/Dad/bank hate me - just kidding, I love you Bank of America. No, I'm just kidding again, I'm sorry Mom/Dad) I haven't been able to go out, which really wasn't a problem because no one was going anywhere, anyway. Despite the two-day drinking hiatus, the main issue has been affording breakfast, lunch and dinner (not to mention the brunch, 2nd lunch and late night snack cycle of which I am accustomed to). I have been eating English Baked "Beanz" (apparently the bean marketing team are all fifteen year old Xanga userz), soup and toast, and drinking toilet water. That's not true, I drink bottled water.

The root of my dilemma lies with the non-existance of my Visa checking card. The card was supposed to arrive Monday, but did not due to Bank Holiday. The card was then sent to the local FedEx station after its rejected delivery on Tuesday because, although we live here, we cannot collect mail addressed to The Crofton.

Tuesday, after the proposition of renting a car with which we could drive to Paris and sleep in, so as to avoid hotel charges (which I thought was a relatively solid idea), was turned down, Julian, Dan, Matt, Mike and I pursued our aspirations of traveling by booking a flight to Amsterdam. But, as if the food and checking card situation wasn't mildly depressing enough, Matt and I discovered on Wednesday that an extra Marketing class was added to our schedule, interrupting our Amsterdam trip. As attendance is taken very seriously in the BU program, we would have no choice but to cancel the flight. After speaking with Expedia (dot commm) I informed the others that if Matt and I cancel we lose half of our payment.

I had yet another depressing episode Wednesday evening, whilst attempting to drown my sorrows and ease my hunger with a warm can of soup. In my desperate and malnourished state, adrenaline pumping, I pulled at the soup can top with such force that I ripped the pull-tab straight off the can. After a brief crying fit, I tried to coax the soup out of the can by throwing the can on the floor and yelling obscenities. Needless to say, that did not work. So, finally, I used the sharpest knife in the kitchen to puncture a hole through the impenetrable can, eventually cutting around the perimeter of the lid.

Thursday - A New Beginning: Things really came together today, and my luck totally rallied. After yet another enlightening and interesting class (no, seriously, I truly enjoy it), Matt and I had a go at the professor (...haha). Due entirely to the fact that she is awesome, feeble groveling was unnecessary as Prof Bishop empathized with our situation ("What is our situation.. DAD?" - Todd Cleary, Wedding Crashers). Prof Bishop bargained that we would read a chapter of any text book, any text book at all (as long as it relates to International Marketing), talk to her about it, and we would obtain permission to miss class. Sweet.

It gets sweeter. After class I walked across the foyer and picked up my shiny, mint checking card which FedEx delivered to the BU Student Life office. I proceeded immediately to the nearest atm to take out mad cash, money. After gettin' loot from some hole in the wall, Matt and I hit up the supermarket. Surprisingly enough I relearned an important life lesson over the past two days - the value of money/food/beer. That being said, I have decided to continue the frugal habits acquired during my depression, and all I wound up buying were several cans of beanz and soup.

Later in the evening I succumbed to the vices of the night, or, shall I say, dusk - because it stays light out until about 9:15pm every night. After agreeing to celebrate our good fortune with one or two pints, I wound up going to Kavanagh's with Julian, Matt, Bryan, Mike and our friend Joi. One pint turned into two; two turned into three; three turned into 9 and a shot that some bloke bought me at the bar. I met a lot of cool people, including a bunch of girls who go to Marist in Poughkepsie, New York. Obviously the first thing I asked was whether or not they knew Pat Collins, the original Keeblarin monster, Babiren Monger and puerum molestum extrodinaire. Not surprised, they did in fact know the goose. Also not surprisingly, they "knew of" but did not directly know Mike Mahoney, another best childhood friend and Prep graduate. For some reason I found this all too amusing and persuaded one girl into letting me call Pat with her cell phone. Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris.

Eventually we made our way back to The Crofton, to find Dan sleeping soundly in his bed - until I tripped and fell on top of him... naked... just kidding, I was wearing a leotard and puffy, white pirate shirt. Just kidding, again. I found my way to my own bed, hoping to get a few (three) decent hours of sleep before the big interview at B'LOWfish tomorrow morning.

Do you believe in the highly improbable or extraordinary? I do. The past few days, and the past few months have proved to me that miracles do happen...
If Steve can get in the bucket, then anything can happen.

Monday, Monday, Monday, May 29th

2006-05-30T13:05:00.000-04:00

Today I came back from the j-ihm? to find our RA, Jess, in our room talking to Dan and Julian. Unfortunately and inexplicably the power of Flat Captain was bestowed upon me. Besides reserving the right to have my way with any member of Flat 6, at anytime, I was granted the awesome powers of planning out and enforcing a cleaning rotation for the kitchen, as well as the privilege of walking around to each room to determine and document any existing defacements or necessary repairs.

Regardless of my complete and utter contempt for this unprovoked and, albeit, random assignment, I've decided to use my newly appointed position to exploit my friends and flat members by making them call me, "The Captain." Just kidding, that's not really true. I did recall, however, the wise words of Peter Parker (aka Spiderman's) Uncle Ben: "With great power comes great responsibility." So, naturally, this led me to ponder... W.W.B.R.C.D. (what would big ron coleman do)?

I came to the conclusion that the best possible route to maintaining a clean kitchen and common area was to: 1. (With the help of Dan and Julian) clean up the existing messes left by uncaring flat members and inform them that everyone must, from hereon in, be responsible for looking after his or her own dishes, so as to begin anew with a clean plate (pun intended); 2. Intimidate and threaten everyone in the flat both verbally and physically; and 3. Concoct a story that the person we discover guilty of taking advantage of our communal kindness will be reported to BU StudentLife and subject to a 220 pound fine.

In the evening we decided to take a walk about a club called Walkabout. Can't beat 1 pound pints, especially when you (me) have only 15 pounds left, because Bank of America has screwed up your Visa checking card and you do not have access to (Wilmer Valderrama accent)"Cash, Money."

Recovery Sunday, May 28th

2006-05-29T17:22:00.000-04:00

It's pretty tough waking up at the crack of 5:00pm, unless your name is Dan Agar. Buddy, we all commend you for a valient and successful endeavor which ended no more than 12 hours ago.

While Dan slept off his birthday bash, Julian, Matt, our friend Marisa and I took a trip to Hyde Park - where we were forced to sit on the ground (and not in chairs) because we are American and did not feel like spending 3 pounds an hour. We spent the first genuinely sunny day sitting by the pond and reading/writing. We met some interesting swans that, bless their tiny bird hearts, would not stop staring at me.

Thanks to two kids with an RC motorized boat, I had my revenge on said Swans. Thanks dudes.

Later, Dan, Julian, Matt, Mike and I set out for McDonald's and X-Men 3, a traditional American Sunday evening. Now, I know what you're all saying, "Nick.. eating McDonald's? Did they go to London or some really messed up alternate universe and start hanging out with awesome people like Jack Bauer and Patrick Swayze?" It's true.. During the wee hours of the morning, post Dan-Agar-Extravaganza, I promised Julian I would go with him to McDonald's on Sunday evening. Actually the pact went more like this: (5:20am) "Oh my God. Oh my God I am so hungry. Dude. Julian, wake up. Dan. Let's stay up and go to McDonald's - it will be open in like 2 minutes ago, I swear. Please. I need to eat... Yea, ok, I'll go tomorrow.. I'll stay up and wait. Oh my God I can't wait.. Dan let's go to the girls' kitchen."

Anyway, my dawn ramblings must have invoked some mysterious British wizardry because the cosmos seemingly aligned as the McDonald's server accidentally gave me 3 double cheeseburgers... HELL YEA! I should have read the signs earlier on, upon stepping foot in the eatery. After entering, I detoured from my beeline to the counter, bewitched by the sight and sounds of a grand piano fit with a tuxedo clad pianist, who played awesome popular movie theme songs (such as The Godfather, James Bond, etc..).

X-Men 3 cost about 20 American Dollars (and wasn't playing for about 2 American hours), so we decided to come back to The Crofton, where I began an extremely tedious process of logging the events of the past week.. Cheers, thanks for reading :)

Saturday, May 27th 1985 - The Birth of a Legend, Daniel Agar's Story

2006-05-28T17:09:00.000-04:00

The Big Guy. The Big Day.

The night began when I presented Dan with a 2 liter plastic bottle of Strongbow (a type of cider beer) and the instructions that he had to finish the entire bottle before we left for the Wincester. The Wincester is a pub up the street from us, and the actual name of the pub is the Gloucester Arms (if you've seen the awesome movie, Sean of the Dead, then you know what the Wincester is and will understand why I call this pub as such - because we always want to go there and it is infested with man-eating zombies).

After lots of pints and some fish & chips, we headed back to the room where it was my mission to make sure Dan would have a birthday that he'd never remember.

We headed over to an Irish pub, Kavanaugh's (yea Sapna), with a bunch of guys we've become good friends with. Outside the bouncers asked to check our IDs and then asked why there were so many Americans. The bouncer who checked my ID told me he was from Morristown, New Jersey. When I started making loud noises to acknowledge what he had just told me, the other bouncer responded by telling me, in a thick accent, to "shut the fuck up and go inside."

Inside the place was pretty much dead, save a bunch of local regulars and a two-man Irish band. It was phenomenal. We passed around a lotta Heineken and Grolsch drafts, and after hitting on two 50 year old British women, who told me they were "with the band," the girls from our floor showed up. We all had a couple rounds of shots and left to hit up a club in Piccadilly.

Da' Club was ridiculously expensive and openly sexist (discriminating against males and not letting a majority of them in), so we decided to continue our imbibing at other junctures. After walking around a lot, meeting and talking to lots of random people, and incessant mass public urination, we headed back to South Kensington (where we reside).

Most of the local pubs have last call at 11:00pm (23:00pm), and it was now 2:30am so even Kavanaugh's was closing up. We decided we would make do as true American college students - by drinking in our dormitory (which is really what it is, but I call it a "Flat" because it sounds cooler).

I got inside and realized I had lost 75% of the crowd. So I gave the birthday boy a call and he told me they were all outside The Crofton, having an "argument." It was late... we had been out all night... so I ran downstairs full of anticipation and overly eager to participate. At the door a girl told me there were a lot of loud, rowdy locals outside trying to break into The Crofton.

When I got outside I gave a few, loud "'ey.. 'ey whad-da-fuck? ey' whad-da-fuck - how you doin'?"s to the crowd of English. They immediately responded by running over to me with huge silly grins. To give a brief synopsis of where this story is going - I spent the next 2 hours hanging out with a bunch of English highschool kids who were in town for a rugby game.

Being the most immature member of our group, I immediately identified with the 17 and 18 year old drunkards - mostly because I am now, officially, the only underage, non-adult loser in my current circle of friends. So I went back to the English kids' flat, where I found Matt and our other friend Adam - the only two from the party who had gone with the highschool kids earlier when the argument originally began. Once inside, I was provided with an ice-cold Foster's and sat down and talked about lots of different things. The guys started playing "knee rugby" which was basically just crawling around on the carpet, drunk, grabbing eachother and throwin people around. It was awesome. Then they got a huge spaghetti pot and poured any type of alcoholic beverage (wine, wounded soldiers, etc..) into the pot. We then passed the pot around and, of course, Matt and I drank from it - a lot.

Dan found his way down eventually, which was good because, judging by the amount of tick marks on his forearm, he was well on his way to passing his UK equivalent of 21 American drinks. So after Dan was given a Foster's, one of my mates ran and grabbed an un-opened bottle of vodka. Julian came in and we encouraged Dan to take some shots by doing it with him. It was delicious.

After some very primal male bonding (not like R. Kelly bonding, I mean like drinking heavily, laughing, and swearing type bonding) we said it was time to get back to bed. We went outside and chilled for a bit; took some pictures, we said our goodbyes (about 5 times with each person), took some more pictures, said goodbye again, and finally left.

Happy Birthday Dan.

Freaky Friday, May 26th

2006-05-28T16:21:00.000-04:00

Today we took a boat cruise down, and back up, the River Thames - at about 2 American miles per hour (roughly 33 dollars Canadian). The River Thames, we learned, is one of the cleanest rivers in the world, with roughly 80 differnt species of fish and an average of 65 unknown bodies and several dismembered limbs being discovered by an elite team of underwater divers assembled by the River Police, who explore the murky green depths three times a year.

Among many other sights, we chilled with Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, passed beneath London and Tower bridge, putt-putted by the "Mayor's Testicle" where the mayor's office is located, and caught a glimpse of the recently constructed English architectural accomplishment, which Londoners refer to as the "Fishnet Condom."

Dan, Julian, Matt, Mike and I walked around the city a bit more, talked to a variety of characters including a police officer who told us to check out a specific pub for a good lunch. The pub was very traditional - great people, a plethora of pints to choose from, and the most disgusting cheeseburger I've had in my entire life. I don't even want get into the grease dripping description of the burger for fear of not wanting to eat for another day and a half.

Later that night Dan and some people we met on the program came with me to meet Emma, my friend from grammar school who is studying in London also. We drank openly on the tube (regardless of the dirty looks we got doing the same thing the night before - when I found out that, although legal, exploiting the advantages of not having open container laws in London is heavily frowned upon) and went up North to Camden.

We wound up going to the craziest punk/indie rock club we will most likely ever go to. Carved out of an old theatre, the venue has a huge concert stage and opera hall, with red and gold trim walls and chandeliers. The bands were great, the people were insane (if you can imagine being in a My Chemical Romance video for 4 hours then you're spot on in picturing the scene), there were dj's all the way on the top 2 floors, separated from the main hall. Everyone seemed pretty messed up, and several people were not keen on a few "American homeboys," as one guy explained to me, desecrating the scene. Despite them, I got along with everyone else I spoke to - one huge guy walked up to me, gave me the cigarette he was smoking with a hug and a big smile. My friend Emma tried to take it from me, but the man persisted and refused to leave until I took it. So I said thank you then disposed of it when he turned around.

Tasty Bunker Thursday, May 25th

2006-05-28T16:09:00.000-04:00

For the second day in a row, Dan, Julian, Matt and I have finished class by hitting up the grocery store and buying several whole-rotisserie chickens and sides of rice to eat for lunch. Also being the second day getting back to the j-ihm?, I was very hungry when I got back around dinner time. Luckily the girls on our floor decided to make dinner for us (what the hell were they thinking, I know).

Along with the pregame, we had the most excellent Chalupas I've had probably ever (chalupas are a mexican dish, similar to the enchilada). Then we headed out to Bunker Bier Hall, near Leicester Square. The cause for celebration was the arrival of.. well, us. BU StudentLife organized the welcoming event - and kindly made us pay 6 quid and fiddy pence to get in. With my ticket I was awarded a pint and a shot of sambuca... no, really, thank you.

At one point (there was a lot of dancing goin on) an English woman fell over. So, being the chivalrous American that I am, I picked her up. She then properly thanked me by saying, "Fuck off!" I thought, perhaps, I missed something in the translation - my English is a little rusty: "Excuse me? Dude.. I just picked you up." - me / "Fuck off!" - woman, again. I took her advice.

Upon arriving back at The Crofton, with a bit of encouragement from Matt and Dan, I regretably unleashed the eating fury. Matt, Dan, our friend Mike and I fumbled our way through the girls' kitchen until we recovered the Chalupas, rice and other eating essentials. The operation was carried out flawlessly. Despite our stealth and cunning, the girls stormed in and accused us of eating their food. The fact that I had just finished washing all the dishes we stole from the girls' kitchen and had not yet put them back may have been viewed by many as somewhat incriminating evidence... luckily we are all very charming.

In the wise words of Dan Agar: "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

Mobile Wednesday, May 24th

2006-05-28T15:58:00.000-04:00

Wednesday marks the day of our first class (and the day Dan and I finally got our kickass Razr mobiles - which resemble the miniature phone Will Ferrell uses in that SNL Jeffrey's skit). My marketing class is so awesome. The professor is a very intelligent and sharp Irish professional woman who owns her own marketing company. We watched a cool video that I fell asleep during (I say it was cool because all I remember is that Arnold Schwarzenegger was featured in the video a few times).

After class we rode the bus over to Camden with Julian on his quest to find a new guitar - which he did. Along the way we used the opportunity, of course, to meet some cool new people and check out some hott spots like Trafalgar Square.

Later I checked out Club Kensington, Club K, or the j-ihm? as I prefer to refer to it as. Although its dankness level is very high, its dungeon-like qualities do not make up for its disorder or the fact that the weights are in kilograms... Ronnie Coleman would not be pleased.

During the evening Dan, Julian, our friend Matt and I made a big dinner and hung out, got some Stella, Grolsch and Heineken for the flat. Yea we are pretty cute like that.

Sporty Tuesday, May 23rd

2006-05-28T15:45:00.000-04:00

I had a great sleep the night before - except for the ten minute interruption when I had to walk over for the second day of orientation lectures, find a comfortable seat, and fall back asleep. Meeting different people everyday, Dan, Julian, our newfound friends and basically every American in London headed over to the Sports Cafe for one-pound-pints (the currency here is the pound, it's not like the pints we were ordering weighed one pound.. I think that would be a contradiction of two different units of measure anyway).

In addition to a 2:1 American to Non-American ratio, the Sports Cafe featured other genuine novelties, such as ESPN programs and pornography playing on the televisions. All in all it was a great night. Julian made lots of new friends, and we both made a cool friend from Africa. I dance battled our African friend, and held it down for the USA.

Our First Monday, May 22nd

2006-05-28T15:24:00.000-04:00

This morning we were woken, for the second time, by a fire drill. After sleeping through the first day of orientation lectures, and having a few ham & cheese sandwhiches, the evening slowly came. Julian went out with some people from The Crofton to check out Matisyahu, a Jewish Orthodox reggae singer, who is quite good. Both without cell phones, Dan and I decided this provided us with no other option but to go explore London the traditional way - by drinking heavily and jumping on the Tube.

After a few local pubs, we rode the T (Tube, whatever) to Piccadilly Circus, where we did, in fact, get silly.. in Piccadilly. We stumbled our way to a kareoke bar up a side street, where there were about a hundred potential future United Kingdom Idol super stars. The music, singing, and beer was great. I praised a few of the contestants and made small talk, picking out one in particular who I thought was the best.

So we continued on our merry way to another pub, where we met some more random people, with whom we chatted and they, in turn, brought us to an Irish pub, O'Neil's (go figure), which stays open 'til 3am. Dan and I were having a blast, until one of the girls that we met segueyed the conversation I was having with her in this way:
"So.. do you guys have any diseases?" - Girl
"No... and we plan on keeping it that way." - Me
Right... In addition to the bar closing soon, I thought it would be a good idea to head back at this point.

On our travels we ran into some English Blokes who were just as, perhaps even moreso, smashed as we were. We walked around Leceister Square making fun of people, having deep philosophical conversation, chattin about how one their mom's is a m.i.l.f. and that she would love to put us up for a night (wink-wink, cough-cough, say no more), and repeatedly singing the theme song to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. After (you guessed it) a few ham & cheese sandwhiches, a slice of disgusting pizza, and a slice of even more disgusting hawaiian pizza, we headed back to The Crofton.

Captain's Log: Sunday, May 21st 2006

2006-05-28T13:02:00.000-04:00

After a long and pleasant Virgin Atlantic plane ride, which I survived by playing video games and watching several high quality films (Rize, The Matador, but unfortunately not Get Rich or Dye Tryin' because everyone I know still refuses to watch it with me) Dan, Julian and I made our way to our flat at The Crofton, 13-16 Queen's Gate, Kensington, London SW7 5EN. First order of business.. explore the local pubs.

Within the first five hours of our arrival in foggy London town, we had gone through many pints of beer, my first (of an endless variety and series) ham & cheese sandwhich, and made it apparent to everyone on our RA led walking tour that we had been drinking. On the way back from the tour, Julian and I were in such pain that we decided to go to the bathroom in the park, literally. After one last pint at Goat Tavern, we came back, fell asleep and missed a couple mandatory meetings. Disoriented and still slightly intoxicated, our RA took revenge on us by assembling a fire drill around 8:30pm.