If a blog post gets written and nobody reads it, does it exist?

Remember that day the cleaning lady woke me up and I was 45 minutes late for my "appointment" at the Czech Foreign Police Station that took me an hour to find because it totally lacked any sort of identifying characteristics? And remember how I didn't bring my passport because I thought the program leader had it?

Well, today, I went back. This time I was accompanid by a Czech citizen, so the transportation went smoothly, but unlike last time when I just left in a fit of hungover frustation, this time I actually had to succumb to the frustation by the hand of the extremely well organized and expeditious bureaucratic agency indoors. And by extremely well-organized and expeditious, I mean ass-slow and traumatizing.

The three of us unfortunate souls (Czech, myself, another American) arrived at the station around 11a. We used the entrance that led to the room where the program-wide visa processing happened the last time, and unsurprisingly, the entire room was a queue. Not really a queue, so to speak, but more a sea of bodies desperately jocking for position in the direction of the service booth.

At this point, I was almost in the very back of the line, which sperm-tailed off the nucleus that was the 300 hundred person jostle in the distance.

After 30 minutes of standing in exactly the same spot, I decided to call a CIEE official and find out what the penalty was for not registering my Visa, because at the rate that fucking sea was moving, I would have had to wait for people in front of me to die before I got serviced. Good thing I placed that call because Miss Official told me there were two separate registration services within the agency: one for EU citizens (and caucasian-looking-enough Americans) and one for citizens of non-caucasian countries. Can you guess which one I was in?

The latter.

The racial dichotomy is pretty fucked up, especially considering the floor manager of the third-world branch was herding the patrons like sheep, but I was not concerned with liberte, egalite, and fraternite at this point -- I was concerned with getting my Visa registered before the close of business, which still almost didn't happen.

The white people branch had about 8 people in it when we arrived and took a number. Yet it still took the bearded man on the other side of the glass FOUR FUCKING HOURS to get to and through our numbers. I was astounded. Having lived here for a month, I've become pretty accustomed to slow service. And having acquired a driver's license and a car registration from the DC Department of Motor Vehicles, I am no stranger to slow bureaucratic agencies. But this guy redefined slow (pretty tall though).

Double-but, it's done. And as crazy aggravating as it was to watch this asshole chat up his female coworkers for 10 minutes between each customer, it's water under the bridge. Woo-Sah.

I got back to Vysehrad (neighborhood of my dorm and CIEE) around 4p (5 hours later, mind you) to discover that a scene from the upcoming Mission Impossible 4 was being shot underneath a large, open-air, stone edifice that I have to walk through to get from the dorms to class. Instead of following through on my strong urge to halt production of the fourth fucking Mission Impossible by hiding in the brush and making bird calls all afternoon, I went to class. But I did snap a memory on my way back down the hill:




Yup, I was within 7 feet of crazy-ass Tom Cruise's trailer, which was not very impressive, might I add.

And then I came back to the dorm and downloaded a bunch of music. I haven't really been much of a hypem hound lately, but today I felt I had to fill the void (because I'm a douchey music hipster, I know). Here's what I found, and here's what else I've been listening to the past couple weeks:

[Note: Blogger won't allow me to upload .MP3 files, and I'm not quite ready to make the move over to learning HTML for notverytallbutslow.com, so I'm just going to provide titles, and I'll leave it up to you to scour hypem or itunes.]

[Double-Note: As I have spent the past 2+ years of my life as a pretty dedicated, blog-obsessive music snob, I can't help but feel phony taking what I've found through hypem or elseware and just listing it on my own fledgling blog. But then again, I do love being the music guy, so I'm gonna do it anyway. Just as long as you know I feel kinda guilty, but not cripplingly guilty.]

From Hypem:

Wagon Wheel - Mumford & Sons [OCMS Cover] - A MUST download

Sunday Morning [Questlove Remix] - Maroon 5 - Funky beat under an old familiar. Questlove could remix Avenged Sevenfold and make it sound good.

The Nosebleed Section - Hilltop Hoods - UK hip-hop. Rhymes are dec, beat is nice.

Worry About You [Xaphoon Jones Remix] - 2AM Club - Not my man's best remix but I still think he's the most talented beatsmith out there right now (Did I just say out there?).

I Know You Want Me [DJ Napad Electro Remix] - Pitbull - I got this a while ago, but I don't think it's made a splash yet. It's most definitely late-night-basement-grungefest caliber.

Teething - Love Thy Brother - Shit is plain raw.

Show Me One [Laidback Luke Bootleg] - Swedish House Mafia - An excellent refix to an already legendary track.

Damn It Feels Good To Be A Taylor - Wiz Khalifa - I fuckin' dig his style. He could do well to rhyme about something besides smoking a shitload of weed, but if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Pretty dope video too:



Los Mashers:

Get Outta My Dream [Katy Perry vs. Kylie Minogue] - MD Officials - this is a winner.

I Want You Back vs. Starry Eyed [The Jackson 5 vs. Ellie Goulding] - Hulk Mash

Miracles - Norwegian Recycling - A DJ Earworm collage-type mashup. It get's pretty annoying after a minute and a half, but I gotta respect dude's technical ability. I once tried to mash up Tik Tok with Hypnotize (my musicianship knows no bounds...), and at no point did it sound coherent or melodic. It actually flabbergasts me that someone could take snippets from 18+ songs and make it sound somewhat enjoyable.

And a tribute to the song/artist I am guaranteed to hear every time I go out:

Ray No Speak Americano [Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP Vs. Ray Charles] - FAROFF - Clever, and not bad sounding.

Gypsy Moves [Original Mix] - Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP - Newest single from the most overplayed duo since Hova and Alicia Keys. A nice track, but pretty similar to We No Speak.

Afro Nuts [DCUP Remix] - Yolanda Be Cool - Funky, international-flavored, house song.

We No Speak Americano [1ino1eum Remix] - Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP - Dubsteez/thick synth remix. I like it.

From iTunes:

Hustle - Tunng - great happy jam.

St. James Infirmary - Allen Toussaint - I think I've listened to this every day for the past month. A delicate, mellow New Orleans classic that just sounds fucking right.

Hey Jude - Wilson Pickett - Better than the original in my opinion. My man Wilson had some pipes.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da - Beatles - Need I say more?

Enjoy the selections.

Marty

Blogtoberfest

I am beat. In every sense of the word imaginable. [Note: I started this on Sunday. I've slept for probably 38 of the previous 52 hours since, though, so now I feel extremely rested at 3:25a, snacking on PB&J's and facebook stalking]

Let's start from the beginning.

I got up early on Friday morning so I could pick up some things at Tesco before we departed for Munich. I thought purchasing 400kc worth of snacks was an economical decision, but I actually didn't eat anything all weekend, and then I left everything I didn't eat in the hotel room. I guess I temporarily forgot how terrible the food was here in the Republic because I did not take advantage of the myriad wursts and schnitzels and pretzels and countless other fantastic smelling foodstuffs on sale at Oktoberfest. Instead, I'm relegated back to shitty Prague cuisine, like this poor excuse for a homemade tuna salad sandwich I just ate.

Would it be the worst thing in the world for the dorm kitchen to have a toaster? I love toasted stuff.

So, Oktoberfest.

On Friday morning, we tramvaj'd out to the van rendezvous spot and packed these 7 bros



 into this red van.

Yes, I was too lazy to walk 30 more feet and properly frame the picture.

We began this trip like we begin all good things: with a breakfast pitstop at Wackdeezy's. I accidently ordered an egg mcmuffin without any meat on it, which was more underwhelming than I could possibly put into words. Just a warm egg patty on a semi-toasted english muffin. I just don't get these europeans. Who would eat just a chemically altered egg-patty when you have the option of a sausage or bacon or ham accompaniment? But it was still the best breakfast I've eaten in this country. Did I mention that I don't like breakfast in this country? I don't like breakfast in this country.

2 and a half hour snooze. Alisch (our Czech buddy of a Czech buddy and chauffeur) rolled us into a Munich suburb around 12:30p, and after I spent half an hour interpreting the mind-bottling Munich transportation system, and after I saw what had to have been a 6-year-old child drinking a beer, I was on route to the Sheraton Westpark to meet up with Emily, Matt, Charny, and co.

I arrived and my male compadres had wisely dipped out of the hotel room in search of libation. I say wisely because there were 4 women occupying the room and one of them is certifiably fucking nuts (and her name is not Emily, Lauren, or Isabel). So nutty and Emily's two friends from Rome headed to Oktoberfest, and soonafter, Matthew and Michael returned to the room with some beers. We ye olde friends shot the shit for a while and once another one of Emily's friends arrived and dolled herself up, we five left for the Oktoberfest grounds.

Cute couple.

Cuter couple.

Cutest couple.

Oktoberfest is a very very large event. And I'm pretty sure I only saw (or only remember seeing) a small portion of the grounds. Some photography:

You could not have paid me $1000 to ride this demon. It went so high you could pretty much see it twirling from any location in Munich.  

I can't tell which is growing more quickly: my beard or my gut.

Da Band

For all of you that haven't had the pleasure of sitting, standing, singing, sweating, swaying, or swearing inside an Oktoberfest tent, "Ein Prosit" is the Oktoberfest anthem (I know I sound like a major honky for saying anthem) and I slumbled (slurred + mumbled) my way through it probably 200 times over the course of the weekend.

When we arrived on Friday, we had no problem walking right into Hofbrauhaussen, which is apparently the most English language friendly tent at Oktoberfest. We ran into Miss Margaret and her really really friendly Gettysburg companions. Just kidding. They were not friendly. Actually, all but two of them left the table scowling as soon as we sat down. But I just as well could have smelled like turd or something because they were not the only group of people I met last weekend that I did not hit it off with. Read on.

But who cares if they were bitches or if I smelled like a duece. 3 steins later I was standing on a table chanting "Seven Nation Army." And so was this guy:



You can't tell because of the angle but the shirt he's wearing is an American flag. I don't think he was American, so maybe he was making a political statement about how lazy and obnoxious Americans are. Which is valid, because I yelled at him from across the room to get he and his sweet shirt's attention.



Not long after I took that picture were we escorted out of this section of the tent, which was apparently reserved. Usually I try to drunk haggle with or bribe authority figures to let me stick around areas I'm not supposed to be in, and I'm also usually unsuccessful, but I was not even about to attempt any negotiation with the Oktoberfest security guards. Each of them looked like extremely strong versions of what would happen if Bruce Willis mated with a Bullmastiff.

And like my friend Bruce, they were all wearing black jumpsuits. I really wanna make a comment about the modern day SS, but methinks it's a bit too soon?

Bottom line, these were some scary ass German dudes. But as I found out the next day -- when I got pulled down from doing a jig on a table and was literally dragged out of the biergarten, but walked right back in where I had just come out -- that these gentlemen were more fond of using their giant arms than their tiny eyes.

So it's probably 5 or 6p, and we're no longer in the section, but somehow I got my hands on an auxiliary stein (you can only acquire a beer if you're seated at a table, but at this point there was less room at the tables than my two hams in a size 32 pair of jeans), so I made laps around the tent and the biergarten taking pictures of friends and random people and mumbling along with the band.




Friends.



Random people.

I lost Matt and Charny around lap 2 or 3, so Emily, Katie, and I took a few more laps, and I got to see firsthand how poor European dudes' game is. I have never in my life seen more persistant, aggressive, blatant attempts at fondling girls, which, as the psuedo boyfriend of one of the female targets, was not in the least bit frustrating. But I digress.

By this point, it had started to rain, which only added to the steamy, greenhouse-esque heat inside that tent. I was sweatin' ass by lap #5 or 6, so I walked outside (effectively ending my access to the inside) and parked myself under a tree to cool off. This guy had the right idea:

And Emily was so impressed by his great idea that she wanted to spoon him.

After a pleasant chat with Emily, the two of us found our way back to the hotel room (how the fuck happened I have NO idea), she passed out, and I sat in the room grumbling as I aggressively BBMed people that were still kickin'. Neither Matt nor Charny has a Blackberry (*scoff*), but I made contact with some of the aforepictured bros, who were at a hotel bar somewhere not remotely near where I was. But I figured I should go anyway.

I must have stomped around Munich in the god damn rain for an hour and a half before I found this place. I don't know whether or not it was actually located at the below intersection, but if it was, I can see why it took me 90 minutes to find it.

Everything is the same fucking word.

Soonafter I snapped the above photo, I snapped the below photo:

Exactly how I feel about pedicabs, no matter where in the world:
http://nyc.barstoolsports.com/random-thoughts/does-anybody-actually-take-pedicabs-around-nyc/

And because it's related and fucking hilarious:
http://nyc.barstoolsports.com/random-thoughts/the-war-between-pedicabs-and-horse-carriages-rages-on/

My prolonged search for the hotel also probably had something to do with how ham-boned I was at this point in the night.

Regardless, I KNOW my ham-bonage at this point in the night definitely had something to do with why I got my ass whooped about an hour later. Remember how I said I didn't hit it off with some of the new people I met? Yeah, I was referring to this.

I arrived at the hotel bar and was introduced to a Prague friend's friends (Americans), as well as a friend of those friends (also American). But I could tell from the get-go that we would not all be friends.

The tension escalated for probably 45 minutes, during which I had more than one vodka-tonic, and during which I distinctly remember not being particularly friendly to the friends of a friend. And they weren't being particularly friendly right back. Our unfriendship blossomed shortly after I polished off a vodka-t and said something about being someone's boss one day (sweet, Dolan), and before I knew it I was outside with my face on the wet pavement and a number of foots up my ass. Some feet (and/or hands) definitely found their way onto my face as well, because I walked away from the entrance to that hotel with two very black eyes.

Now as I have said once before, I am not a fighter. I'm a talker. And as a talker, and a pretty large target of a talker at that, I have seen my fair share of ass whoopings. Let me say that this particular ass-whooping makes every other ass-whooping I've ever given (there was one), gotten, or witnessed look like a spa-day. Right now, I myself look like a monster racoon, if racoons had freckles and walked upright and got their ass walloped on by two or three dudes outside a hotel in Munich.

The foots eventually made their ways out of my ass, and then I made my testosterone-fueled way back to the Sheraton for another drink before going to bed (actually, I had to leave the Sheraton for our other hotel -- not worth explaining, but we had 2 hotel rooms between 8 people -- with Emily, Matt, and Charny at 4 in the morning because the aforementioned women were occupying the bed). But then, after the four of us requested a futile 6:50a wake-up call so we could get to the tents early, we went to bed.

We woke up at noon. We got to Oktoberfest by 4. And there was no strolling into the Hofbrauhaussen as there had been yesterday. Instead, there was a mob of people out front waving Euros in the air trying to bribe the Brucemastiffs to let them in. We opted for the less crowded open air biergarten adjacent to the tent structure.

And we found a table. And we prosted adamently. And we got drunk. And then some guy wearing a squirrel hat sat down at our table. And then the saga of the squirrel hat began:

The founder of the squirrel-hat bloodline.

I absolutely could not get enough of these guys. There were like 12 of them visiting from India, and they taught me how to say cheers in Indian (I remember it sounded like "Mas'ladou"), and every fifteen seconds I'd bust out a "Mas'ladou" and these guys would go fucking nuts. In retrospect, I would not be surprised if I was actually saying something that roughly translated to "I have a small penis."

Bald, German Oliver Hardy has got the blood hands pretty down. I, on the other hand, am reppin' the two modified thumbs up gang.

Mr. Dempsey very well could be threatening me to stop asking him to invest in my non-existant film production company.

Because I sure as shit remember asking him. If there's one way to get a shrewd business man to loan you some money to establish a company in an extremely competative and risky business, it's done by drunk-pestering him at Oktoberfest when he's trying to visit his daughter. Man, I am goin' places.

And then we all left Oktoberfest. Somehow I ended up on the subway with just Matt by my side, and when we finally made it back to Heimerenplatz (Sheraton stop), I exited the train face first. I probably tripped in the gap I've been taught to watch, because I superman dove out of the train and landed square on my face. It was one of those drunken, embarrassing moments that at the time you think is the funniest god damn thing since MASH. I must have rolled around on the concrete platform for 2 minutes giggling like Nox Harrington the video artist.

After a breif vodka-tonic (drink of the semester, so far) at the Sheraton bar, Charny convinced me to come to a strip club with him. And then somehow we convinced two more old German dudes to come with us.

I'm fairly certain this was one of them. He kept his hat on the entire time.

I think the subway was closed by this hour, though, because I remember taking a cab there. And for some foolish reason I was blurting out spells of "Nein Nein Nein Nein Nein," which the German dudes thought was the funniest thing since the Indian dudes thought I was the funniest thing since MASH. But unfortunately, when we got dropped off, our elders chose Burger King over the strip club.

Some of Charny's friends from Rome had been at the smut establishment for some time, so when we were walking in with one of the kids, Charny did what Charny does best and weaseled us in without a cover. Kid's good.

But the strip club was not. This was my first time in a strip joint, and I was extremely uncomfortable. Call me old fashioned, but the sight of a half-naked, emaciated woman strutting around a circular stage using her tits to pluck Euros from the mouths of fat, sweaty European dudes in goofy Oktoberfest hats just does not appeal to me. Plus, I could not shake the tought of being in a small, mirrored room full of dudes with boners. And I paid 22 Euro for two vodka-tonics. Not my kind of joint, to say the least.

And then I made my final trip back to Heimerenplatz and fell asleep on the floor.

Fare thee well, Munich. I will never forget what I don't remember.

In current events, my old friend and big-NVTBS-fan Mike Nunez asked for a shout-out, and he wasn't the only one. My older friend Ryan Amons also requested some NVTBS love.

Ryan, the starting goaltender for the Campbell University Fighting Camels' soccer squad, recently made a big splash in the soccer world by almost winning the Atlantic Sun Conference Defensive Player of the Week Award. Congrats, Ryan. Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand-grenades, and small, private, southern college athletics.

Ryan and I at middle school graduation. We actually hated each other until 10th grade, but we both wore douchey seersucker suits to graduation, and my father made us take a picture together.

Mike hasn't done anything remarkable since he affirmative-actioned his half-cuban ass into Vanderbilt three years ago, but he's a pretty cool guy, and in high school he could beat most people in a footrace.

Mike and I being awesome.

Mike also showed me this youtube video, which I always bust out when a youtube competition heats up.



And because I won't hear the end of it from him if he isn't included in the shout-out game, a little love for my man Walter.

g2g,

Marty

Sunday Sunday Sunday

Sunday was the most lustrous day of my lackluster weekend.

I woke up at 10a (having stayed in the night before) and almost considered going to church because I've been a pretty unholy felluh these last few weeks. But then I said to myself, why break rank now, after 6 years of dutifully avoiding Mass. And then I walked outside and God struck me down with a single rod of lightning. Just kidding, but if by chance I am the victim of a smiting some time in the not so distant future, I prehumously understand why.

Instead I went to the grocery store. I was hongry. Not a big shopping trip -- I would have qualified for the express-lane except there's nothing express about service anywhere in Prague -- but I did have something in my basket that I've been trying really hard not to buy: Nutella.

Now I don't normally eat Nutella in the states (look at me, calling America "the states" -- For shame!). I've eaten Nutella, and I've enjoyed Nutella when I've eaten it, but I'm not yet comfortable with the idea of a chocolate spread, especially when peanut butter is a perfectly excellent accompaniment to jams, jellies, and all other members of the preserve genus. But I'm no fool. It's almost universally known that Nutella is better in Europe (or maybe their peanut butter just sucks, which is an equally possible claim). So I cracked. 1 empty jar and just shy of 3 days later, I can testify: Nutella is better in Europe.

I transacted at approximately 10:40a Sunday. I finished my jar of Nutella at approximately 1a Wednesday. That means I dipped, spread, dolloped, and scraped 400 grams of Nutella into my mouth in less than 72 hours. That's in addition to the 2 sleeves of butter crackers and 1 loaf of bread I used as vehicles to transport the delicious, almond-Chocolately crack paste to my fiending mouth.



Raw Materials



Finished Product.

Nutella, Peanut Butter, and Strawberry Jam on a Tuc cracker. I ate 40 of these Sunday afternoon.

I haven't been this smitten by a sweet since my early youth when, during every Lenten season, I'd go grocery shopping with my mother solely so I could steal upwards of 5 Cadbury Creme Eggs from the Giant seasonal section and immediately devour them in the handicapped stall of the Giant public restroom. Again, if I'm ever struck by lightning or if I ever fall through a sewer grate, I understand.

So after my intimate evening with the first half of Season 1 of The Sopranos and the PB-N-J combo, I figured I should probably put on some pants and go talk to people.

The Drunken Monkey was proudly streaming any and all NFL games on their projectors, and considering most of every single Bro in CIEE is either a die-hard Jets fan or a die-hard Pats fan (the latter outnumbering the former), a bi-partisan contingent and more made the trip north to our favorite American bar in Prague.

A number of things that I just said, and a number of things that happened after what I just said happened, require further explanation.

First up: The Drunken Monkey. Simply put, this is the American bar in Prague. It's run by a team of dudes that moved here at some point in their young adult life and are now living the dream -- milking every semester's shipment of American wallets studying abroad and getting kids and themselves wasted nightly on cheap Czech booze. And before I lambast it for being exactly the kind of bar American students studying abroad should not have at their disposal, let me say that I gotta respect these dudes' hustle. They get hammered, or facilitate others getting hammered, 24/7/365 in the dingy, large room they've clearly busted their ass to assemble. Replete with fold out pong tables and a giant projector screen, this place is a cash cow for American students eager to get fucked up, and not eager to deal with any Czech people in the process.

Granted, most of the people I've associated myself with thus far are not the discover culture type, and I'm not quite that type myself. But as far as I can tell, there isn't much Czech culture to be discovered in Prague. It's either local culture, which is essentially inaccesible because of the language barrier, or tourist culture, which is entirely accessible if you're willing to shell out a few clams. The Drunken Monkey falls somewhere in between, with football on Sundays and beruit at the drop of a hat, which creates a warm, albeit artificial, environment for Americans. And I've had warm, artificial fun there. I've also had a poor, artificial time there. I can't really identify what Sunday was, but at the very least I was entertained.

The Jets-Pats game was being projected in the back room, and a group of American guys had already posted up before our bigger group of American guys arrived. But while we guys were merely trying to slam some beers and watch the game (as the pregame for the Tiesto concert happening later that night), they guys were in full-on party mode. And by full-on party mode I mean half of them were sitting at a table watching the other half storm through a 65 minute game of 10-cup beruit.

Now I'm not necessarily in a position to judge. I myself have played prominent roles in some notoriously slow and painful ruit matches. You know the kind that drags on for so long that when winning cup is sunk everyone breathes a major sigh of relief and without saying anything commandeers the table for flip cup? That was this, except worse, because there weren't any girls to play flip cup with.

These guys were fucking awful. And not only were they awful, they thought they were God's gift to pong -- fuckin' oohing and ahhing and shakin' it off and air-packing-the-tin every time their errant shots fell somewhere in the general vicinity of the other side of the table. Finally, about 8 minutes after the initial lob, my mainest man in the checkered shorts-checkered golf shirt get-up (read that twice) got wet. And he went nuts. You would have thought someone from the International Department of Awesome officially added fat and sweaty to the International Department of Awesome Awesome List.

And then I had to watch all four of these jabronies (props: Brady) revisit this scene 19 more times over the course of the next barn-burning 55 minutes.

And then every once and a while I'd watch some of the football game. I have the utmost respect for the NY-Boston rivalry, and I think football is awesome (read: I love watching football highlights), but it's just not my bag. Growing up in a DC household that always put precedence on reading, I've never really had a reason to watch sports. Not only because my mother and father could not give less of a shit about sports, but also because in my lifetime DC sports franchises have consistently disappointed.

Alright this is incomplete but I've been struggling through this guy all day and now it's time to shower and hit Radost hard. Thursdays, Radost, standard. And in 10 hours I will get on the sausage van to Munich for Oktoberfeez. Looking forward to redesvouzing with Matthew Spilliams, Emily Dempsey, Large Marge, and Charny's bitch ass, and then gettin' German rowdy all weekend. A hell of an entry is in my near future. Hopefully I can bang it out before I get smote by the heavy hand of the Lord.

Faithfully yours,

Martin Jay

Snoozeday Tuesday (lazily finished on Wacky Wednesday)

Ahhh, Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen!

I don't have class on Tuesdays, I haven't done shit today, and I feel fantastic.

After I awoke just shy of 1p, I made myself a PB, Nutella and Jeezy, got back in bed, and watched the series premiere of Boardwalk Empire (SideReel is keeping me sane). I liked what I saw. The production value is phenomenal, and the setting is inherently intriguing -- the Volstead Act, the AC boardwalk long before it got Jersey Shoreized, Al Capone before he was Al Capone -- it's American history at its sexiest point in time. But I've got my misgivings. Mostly just that too much happened in that first episode. Like 10 dudes died by the hands of 10 other different dudes. I realize, Terence Winter, that life was cheap before the sexual revolution, but sa-low down. Let shit fester a little.

But what do I know. He's the one that writes $20 million HBO pilots, and I'm the one that writes about myself on a blog.

So I'm sure you're dying to know what's going on with me. Not a whole lot, frankly. Been out of bed twice so far today.

After Boardwalk Empire, I imported and organized all the photos I've taken here. Almost all of them are of places or food because I'm not trying to be camera guy every night I go out. All you other straight 20-year-old men know exactly what I'm talking about. But I'll make the obligatory Facebook album and you all might 'next' your way through it in 90 seconds because there are almost no pictures of the people I've been carousing with. And that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Armed with all these imported pictures, I've decided to introduce two new media-interactive series on Not Very Tall But Slow: "Things Thursday" and "Bomb Food I've Eaten Abroad."

Things Thursday won't be limited to Thursdays, but if the muse strikes me on a Thursday the alliteration is at least semi-fulfilled. In a nutshell, Things Thursday will be pictures of things I do and/or do not like about Prague (or other places) accompanied by the funniest explanations EVER. EPIC.

"Bomb Food I've Eaten Abroad" will feature pictures of anything I've recently injested that I suspect has residual Soviet nuclear capacity. LOL. But seriously, it'll be pictures and stories of good-ass (or bad-ass, if I find something so terribly worthy) food I encounter. And you know I know food.

To recap the weekend:

Friday:

I got my debit card! Oh wait, no I didn't. I got a toy debit card with only my first name on it.

Who am I, fucking Seal?

Really TD Bank? A mere 13 and a half days after I submit my request for a new debit card you finally send me this?! How are you actually a company?

But of course I still tried to activate this plastic microcosm of irony and frustration BECAUSE I'VE BEEN IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY FOR TWO WEEKS WITHOUT ACCESS TO ANY OF MY OWN MONEY. I said this and more to Rich, the TD Bank customer service representative, and after he listened to me berate his job, his moral compass, and his company, he put me through to his supervisor, Nancy.

Nancy was "real sorry" I was havin' all these troubles. She was also real unable to be of any assistance. After she overrode the system and temporarily activated my child's play debit card, she hung up without telling me what my PIN was. Thanks, Nance. The only reason I'm not still crazy furious about this and not still trying to blog TD Bank into the ground is because a functional card arrived on Monday and now I can misspend my own money.

So as soon as I finished hassling Rich and Nancy, I dolled myself up for the group-wide Opera night, which was captivating, riveting, inspiring, hilarious, you name it. **Thumbs Down + Mouth Fart Noise**

Considering this opera was sung in Czech, my eyes weren't exactly glued to the stage, but from the general dramatic emotion on display, I could glean that a regular-Josef type was feelin' lowly, and then he struck a deal with a moustachioed, miscreant fellow in a cape, who before long over-sung our man Josef through the stages of Czech hell, one of which I'm almost certain was breakfast.

After the opera (technically, after half of the opera), I left and reconvened with some folks at the dorm before departing for a pub -- U Sudu, a former wine cellar turned pub/smoky maze of corridors connecting a number of filling stations -- followed by a club -- Lucerna, a Friday-Saturday hotspot that bumps strictly 80s/90s music. The dance floor at Lucerna looked and sounded eerily like a Girl Talk concert sans the toilet paper dispensers and sweaty Greg Gillis screaming nonsense into a microphone. I had a fine time at Lucerna, but I'm officially over the club scene.

Having logged more than 3 weeks time in the local debauchery factories, I've determined that Prague clubs are a great place to spend money and then maybe get ass. Anyone that knows me knows I'm very good at spending money and not very good at getting ass. And that's my cross to bear. So Saturday saw more of the same from ya boy, who spent waaay too much money and didn't even sniff getting ass (there's a getting in there).

I decided to stay in Saturday night and recharge the batts, which was a wholeheartedly good decision. I didn't hear any rave reviews about the night, which always makes me feel better about not being included (but if someone had said something was sweet, you know I would have regretted the decision).

Sunday was a bit more eventful, but I've been working on this particular post for almost 36 hours, and I think it's time to set it free. Look forward to Sunday's recap, as well as the inaugural editions of "Things Thursday" and "Bomb Food I've Eaten Abroad" in the coming days.

For now, a stack of shit on passed out Jake takes us out.

Never Not Funny: Middle School Marty

I'm pretty sure a great man once said that it's important to acknowledge when you've done some wrong. (Marion Barry maybe?)

I agree with him. Friends, let me acknowledge that that last entry was wrong. Well, not so much wrong as simply not very good, though it was wrong in a number of places, and I will do my best to hold the untruths up to light in the coming days. But for now, an entertainment softball that can't possibly not be funny: me playing middle-school CYO basketball.

This sirloin cut of a story has been marinating in me since January '04, and I genuinely believe now is the perfect time to put it to flame. Not only because I want to redeem myself after that aggressive, half-inebriated abombination of an entry, but also because today marks my first day (and possibly only day, depending on whether or not Coach Miroslavc keeps me on the squad) that I practice with the CIEE basketball team. [Note: I wrote this much before I left for practice on Friday.]

I want to tell you all a little-known diddy about my 8th grade CYO basketball career, which requires that I tell you a little bit about my former life as a porky, pre-pubescent ball of awkwardness and excess-confidence (standing opposite my current life as an almost husky, post-pubescent gentlemen and scholar with excess-confidence).

I started 6th grade at St. Anselm's Abbey School. My parents were lovingly foolish enough to give me power of attorney over my own middle-school choice. I picked St. Anselm's (over Holy Trinity, where I would transfer to a year and a half later) because they had a killer buffet spread at their open house. I didn't think I would mind the all-boys environment, especially if I had access to Sushi and cocktail weiners every day of the academic week. It should come as no surprise that a young man who makes important life choices based on the quality and quantity of edible miniatures looked like this in sixth grade:


Almost 3 chins. And a combed out Irish-Afro. Whatup, ladies.

So to cut a long story shorter, I hit the St. Anselm's snack bar hard every day of sixth grade, packed on a few more L-beezys, and made almost no friends. For these reasons, I transferred to Holy Trinity (fondly, HTS) after a third semester at the Abbey.

HTS was a whole new ballgame. I was now going to school with girls for the first time since I started "liking" girls, and also for the first time since I had become almost as wide as I was tall. In case I haven't been clear enough about this yet, I was fat. So fat that I was about 3 double-quarter pounders (or dinner, whatever you wanna call it) away from developing Type-2 Diabetes. Seriously, my parents had to sit me down in seventh grade and say something along the lines of, "If you don't lose this weight soon, you will develop type-2 diabetes. Like your retired grandfather has."

So I took this to heart and started to involve myself more actively in athletics, such as basketball.

Unfortunately for me and the 7th-8th grade C team, I transferred into HTS after the 02-03 squads were set in stone, so me on the hardwood had to wait until November. But I took the off-season very seriously.

Between January 03 and October of the same year, I was down the block hoopin' whenever I got the chance. Shootin'-around, runnin' lay-up lines by myself, 1 on 1, 2 on 2, 3 on 3, pretending I was at the Verizon center running point for the Wiz -- no matter what the circumstance, I was balling hard. And, naturally, along with all my hard work came my new, harder image.

I downloaded Get Rich or Die Tryin' and the Blueprint 2 onto my brand new 2nd gen iPod (the one with 4 buttons above the wheel), and I started wearing jean shorts and baby blue Jordan t-shirts, among other questionable garment decisions.

I watched 8 Mile 200 times in between hours and hours logged on NBA Ballers 1 and 2.

Stephan Marbury: Oh, How the Mighty Have Fallen

I had a fantasy basketball team and I watched every minute of both televised rounds of the 2003 NBA draft (Bron-Milko-Melo year. By the way, Detroit, you REALLY fucked that one up).

I followed the NBA not only because I had to keep pace with my flashy, wigger image, but because I wanted to see what I was up against when I declared myself for the draft a few years down the road. Sure, I was a little thick, but I honestly believed that if I grew 7 or 8 inches and stuck with the fundamentals, I had an outside chance of being picked up in round 2 of the 2012 draft. That would be after I spent my mandatory 1-year of college at a respectable, private basketball powerhouse like Duke or 'Nova. As far as I knew, I couldn't be stopped. I was a baller, a shot-caller, and I wasn't quite sure what 20-inch blades were, but you better believe I wanted them on the Impala.

Fast forward through spring and summer, to when my new swag and improved jumpshot came back-to-school. Well, let me tell you, hard work pays off. I brought my A-game to every single 20 v 20 pick-up basketball game in the HTS recess area, and by the 2nd week in September I was no longer in the bottom three of the pre-game selection pool. By the 3rd week in October, when a ringer or two wanted to talk to girls instead of hoop, I was actually a captain. Things were lookin' up for ya boy, and we were only two weeks away from tryouts. I couldn't dig up any photos in the Marty Dolan archives, but here's approximately what I looked like in my 8th-grade basketball digs.

Having owned my new PC laptop for 3 months now, I've decided that access to "Paint" remains the only clear-cut advantage over the Macintosh brand. 

A - My hair color probably best resembled the color orange, but there were a lot more shades goin' on. During the summer between 7th and 8th I developed this fantasy with "shag" hair (I don't think I was alone, considering the shag was the quintessential 9th grade purple eagle hairdo), and I figured all shags had to be blonde, so that summer I regularly assaulted my thick, curly, brown hair with a Sun-In like substance, creating a few blond-orange patches that gave way to my blatantly brown roots. Of all the regrettable things I did in Middle-school (and were talking a LOT of things), I think the Sun-in debacle ranks cheifly among them.

B - At the time, I was keeping my perpetually unstoppable unibrow at bay by taking my father's razor straight down the bridge between my thick, Belushi-esque brows. There's a tremendously embarrassing 8th-grade school photo of me proudly on display in my living room at home that testifies to my poor brow management. I really wish I could post that guy, but in case you forgot, I'm still in Prague.

Bam.

C - I never could, nor will I ever be able to do this.

D - Chin #2.

E - I actually wore #23. Nuff said.

F - My shorts fell well below my knees because the "baby fat" resting on my waistline required a 2X waist while my femur require a mere M length.

G - My black, NBA logo crew socks I rocked at every game. I also had a matching headband and wristbands that I frequently wore, but I forgot about those when I moused this masterpiece.

H - My Reebok Answer 1's. You know how I do.

I - That's supposed to be a Reebok logo.

J - I only made my calves actually look like calves for the sake of the naked eye. Seeing as I am a proud member of the chicken-leg community, I'm pretty sure my calves will never have that nice, back-shin ledge. But I can dream, can't I?

K - Also, apparently my right eye was four times as large as my left eye... Cut me some slack this is the first time I've used paint since like 4th grade.

Let me breifly step off the beaten path here to school you DMV-challenged folks about CYO basketball in the greater Washington, DC area. Above all else, we DC Catholics take our competative basketball very seriously. Whether it be the every-other-Saturday clinic at BS until you were 10, the glory days of organized middle school competition, or the pasture that is the high school league, we show up twice a week in the winter -- one practice, one game, that simple -- to showcase the skills we really wish we had. At this point in my pious, Catholic life, I was in the thick of things, CYO-basketball-wise. 8th grade tryouts -- the fuckin' Catalina Wine Mixer of Catholic middle-school athletics.

If I recall correctly, HTS fielded three teams for 7th and 8th grade boys. "Mid-Atlantic" was the A-team, "Varsity 1" was the B, and "Varsity 2" was the C. Why they couldn't have the balls to just call a spade a spade and go with the A, B, C denotation is beyond me now, but I guess you have to sugarcoat everything for fat, squat wiggers that don't make the A team. Which is precisely what I ended up being.

I was broken. I cried audibly for hours, and then on the inside for days. All that time in front of the basket -- early mornings, late nights, blistering heat, freezing cold, that strange, dirty smell you get on your hands from dribbling a basketball on wet pavement -- for nothing. Varsity 1. I suck.

But I sucked it up. Against my initial threats of suicide and never leaving the house again and killing coach whateverhisnamewas, I soldiered on and played with Varsity 1. And we killed it. We went undeafeted until we lost the B-league championship and I cried in front of every girl in my class.

But that's neither here nor there. The story I want to tell you is about my one shining moment in the Mid-Atlantic spotlight. My one basketball achievment that most of the people in the St. John's gym on that beautiful winter eve have probably already forgotten, but that I will remember forever. And it goes a little something like this.

Most of the HTS basketball community, myself especially, thought I got robbed at tryouts. I knew, and I knew they knew, that I was Mid-Atlantic caliber. My suspicions were confirmed when one day, nearing the halfway mark of the season, Mr. Tom something, our athletic director (who I think still holds the title for worst BO ever), asked me to dress with the Mid-Atlantic team. Some people might have been sick, or some people might have just felt bad for me. Either way, I was in the big leagues, even if it was only for one game. And here's why it was only one game.

I arrived at the St. John's gym that Sunday night -- the Mid-Atlantic squad got to play on the nice hardwood court at St. John's on Sunday nights while the Varsity 1 squad spent their saturday mornings in the St. Elizabeth's athletics room (could not possibly call this place a gym. It was a little bit larger than the first floor of my house, which is not large.), which was floored with that stale, rubber-eraser type material and covered in innumerable different colored line markings just in case anyone wanted to play volleyball, squash, baseball, badminton, or indoor crickett after their round of hoops. They cover all the bases, those Catholics.

Anyway, when I got to St. John's I was filled with more angst and gusto and butterflies and caterpillars and birds and many more metaphorical creatures than I can possibly explain in words. The lights were so bright, the gym was so big, there was only one set of colors on the floor -- it was showtime, baby, and boy, did I put on a show.

I don't remember my stats, but I remember I played surprisingly well. Well enough for coach to run me during most of the third and the start of the fourth. But my time was cut short by a tiny, little incident, and here now I finally arrive at the story. Whew, I really love to talk about myself.

So that night the HTS Crusaders were pitted against the Holy Redeemer somethings. Now this won't make much sense to anyone not from the DC area, but let me clarify something. This wasn't Kensington Holy Redeemer. This wasn't even College Park Holy Redeemer. This was Sursum Corda Holy Redeemer, and everyone on that team was very black. They also happened to be very small and I think they were all in 5th or 6th grade, so it was a pretty close match throughout.

Their fans were also very black, and they were also very loud. This is not a stereotype of black people. It just so happened that these particular black spectators were louder and more aggressive fans than the yuppie moms and dads on the HTS side of the pond. Because not only was the HR cheerleading squad in the house, but I'm pretty sure everyone from Sursum Corda was in the house too.

As the game progressed, the tension rose. My Crusaders were playing down to our underaged opponents, and those fucking cheerleaders would NOT shut the fuck up. I got sent in for releif about 5 minutes into the third, and wasted no time establishing my presence on the court (as if my sheer physical size was not presence enough).

I used my fresh legs to get the advantage in the paint, and before I knew it I was bringing a new fire to the HTS side. And I was not being humble about it. Mixed in with all my rebounds and layups were a number of chest-slaps, "yeah, baby's," and raise-the-roof arm flaps, among other emotionally-charged, awkward gestures. I was making a fucking scene, and the Holy Redeemer cheering section was eating it up and spitting it back out at me ten-fold. I distinctly remember one mother jumping up in a fit of rage and yelling something at me really fast. I don't remember what she said, but I probably yelled something offensive back. Or just grinned, as I am apt to do in conflict-situations. I thought I was Reggie at the fucking Garden. And she was Spike. And I loved it.

So this back and forth stuff went on for 5 or so minutes. They'd score, they'd make a big whoop, we'd score, we'd make a big whoop, they'd turn it over, we'd make a big whoop, we'd turn it over, they'd make a big whoop, and so on. But then the ice broke.

Early in the fourth quarter, I went up strong under the basket and someone came down strong on my head. Technical foul. Two shots. This is the moment you've been waiting for Marty. Your moment in the sun. You could be the hero, or you could be the goat.

Well, turns out I was kinda both.

Much to the pleasure of the Holy Redeemer fan section, I missed the first shot. All sportsmanship was LONG gone at this point in the game, and those HR moms were bringing down the house behind me. Everyone in the general vicinity of my left ear wanted me to miss that second shot, and they were vocalizing their desires. Loudly.

I iced it. Big time players make big time fucking plays, baby, and I was so big time. But not for long. After I saw the ball swish past the iron, I twinkle-toed my little fatass over to the Holy Redeemer cheering section and let out a big, fat, "SHUTUPPPPPPPP!"

Technical foul. Two shots. I got pulled, and I never saw the Mid-Atlantic floor again. But we won the game, and to this day I like to think I played a formidable role in that 8th grade, Mid-Atlantic, regular season, playoff-non-implicating victory.

As for Friday, I played alright. Did some good things, did some bad things; ran hard for the first five minutes, contracted a wicked cramp, then walked pretty much the rest of the game; made a couple shots, missed the majority of my shots; per usual, I attempted a number of almost-Steve-Nash-dirty no look passes that, in basketball, are technically called turnovers; also per usual, I almost constantly yapped "here's your help," even when I was double teamed and of no help, thereby creating more of a distraction for the poor, young Russian kid that ran the point for our side until I took over; but, to my credit, I did pull down every board I went up for. Every team needs a Rodman. Or a Birdman. I think I'm gonna go get a crazy-scary tatoo before our next game.

So I got that goin' for me. I'm unofficially part of the team (I slept through our game on Saturday so I don't really know where I stand), and I can only hope to bring the same fire to this squad that I brought to HTS Mid-Atlantic Crusaders almost 7 years ago. We'll see what's good at practice this week.

In other news, it's been pretty uneventful since I last posted. I went out Friday, and didn't go out last night. I'm getting weary of the club scene, and the dorms haven't had hot water all weekend, which is awesome. My morals and my wallet are both wearing pretty thin right now so I'm gonna lay low until I venture to Munich next weekend for Oktoberfest. Fuck to the yes.

Nashledanou (goodbye in Czech - definitely not spelled correctly),

Marty

Wacky Wednesday

I've stayed in two consecutive nights, and I consider that an accomplishment. Prague is the drain to my life as I used to know it. But at least I can still string together mildly comprehensible english sentences right?

I'll tell you what kind of comprehensible sentences I can't string together, and those are Czech sentences. I royally fucked up my second Czech quiz today, and I was ashamed until I remembered that even the internationally respected academic father of a kid that I went to school with 10 years ago and who presided over a university in Prague for 6 of the past 10 years explicitly told me to give up on learning Czech before trying. Thank you, Mr. Joe Drew, for consistently making me feel better about myself over the past three weeks.

After I foofed that quiz, I ventured up the hill to the CIEE study center for some self-management activity. I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting unforgivably slammed 5 nights a week or its because I'm trying to handle biz in a place that is inherently foreign to me, but the self-management I usually breeze through in NYC is getting exponentially more daunting by the minute here in Eastern Europe. And I haven't even smoked any weed yet.

But I handled biz despite the pressure. I'm now officially enrolled in two EU economics classes, and 3 FAMU (Prague Film School) classes. Let it be known that I am so god damn giddy about these film classes. I haven't been this excited and apprehensive about school since the night before my first day of K-1 when my little, curly-haired ass stayed up past 10p feverishly fantasizing about what this "school" thing could possibly be like (needless to say I was serverely disappointed, although 14 years later I still have a crush on Ms. Mahoney).

I'm taking "Producer's Craft," "Editing - The Realm of Montage" ("Show a lotta things hap'nin at once, remind everyone of what's goin' on..."), and "Introduction to Soundtrack." I have no idea what to expect --someone sorta famous (David Carr) told me that he thought the CIEE-FAMU curriculum was bullshit -- but I will provide detailed updates as they develop.

In other news, I STILL HAVEN'T GOTTEN MY FUCKING DEBIT CARD. Are you serious, TD Bank? Standard Mail my fucking ass. I know you duct-taped my new debit card to 97-year-old Phillipino sex-slave and told her to start swimming. It's been FIFTEEN DAYS since I've had access to my bank account. I'm starting to lose friends over this shit.

I'm gonna eat stawberry yogurt and paper towels for only so much longer before I report your slow-asses for only hiring semi-attractive, pretty-incompetant, very-below-the-legal-age-of-employment Puerto Rican girls to man the front desk at your Fordham Road branch. I bet if I talk to Fox 5 first your asses are grasses.

But I've got way too much self-management to focus on before I can make any more 2 dollar-a-minute phone calls to 1-800 numbers in the US. Let me divulge here for a moment and explain what's been going on with my cellular status these past three weeks.

In March, when my father proposed our family swap our reliable Verizon cellphone service for T-Mobile because they had a good promotion going on and T-mobile is rampantly established in Europe, I was almost totally on-board. Plus they carried the bold, which I currently own and which is still a fantastic little piece of personal-communication-technology. My beloved father and I spent 3 hours at T-Mobile Chevy Chase with Jose the eager, frost-tipped sales clerk before we finalized our contract and walked out of the mally-smelling mall feeling consumer-victorious.  That's because Jose-the-yes-man with gelled hair (I'm actually not stereotyping here. Even though the majority of cellular-phone distributors in the US predominantly employ latino dudes with gelled hair, this particular gelled-out, latino employee was actually named Jose), told me, verbatim, that I would be able to bring my Blackberry to the Czech republic, go to a T-Mobile location, and, "no problem" set my phone up for the exact same capability and cost I was accustomed to in the states.

Well Jose, you were wrong. There have been innumerable problems. You could have told me the moon was made of fucking cheese and it would have been more of a truth than what you talked out of your ass that fateful day in March. Not only does nobody at the T-Mobile Prague location speak any english, but apparently there are set-in-stone rules that explicitly forbid any T-Mobile American plans from having any applicability in the Czech Republic.

When I arrived, working off of Jose's good word, I made a stubborn point of not taking advantage of any of the CIEE loaner phones and instead waiting two days until I got clear directions to a T-Mobile hotspot, where I ventured with two peers at our earliest convenience. Between the 3 of us, it took 140 minutes to surmount the language barrier and discover that American Blackberrys cannot, in fact, be used as fully-functional smart-phone devices in Prague.

So I bit the bullet and stuck a T-Mobile CZ sim card into my shit and used my Blackberry as just a voice/text machine for the first two weeks here. No BBM, no browser, no email, no twitter, not even fucking competative-online soduku. Just the meat and potatoes of the mobile device family. And you wanna know what those meats and potatoes cost me over the course of 14 days? 3600 crown. That's roughly $180 (drop a zero, divide by 2), and that's a positively ludacris amount of money to spend on half a month's worth of cell-phone use. Granted, I made a couple calls to the states, and I'm a dumbass for doing that, but still. (In case no one has picked up on it, this is lesson #3)

It doesn't seem unreasonable to me that my Blackberry couldn't just work in another country. Time travel, teleporting, playing in the NBA, not staining something every time I wear it -- I've accepted all of these things as impossible farces that will not ever be achieved in my lifetime (though if I hit the gym hard for a year and work on my mid-range game, I think I'd have an outside shot at the league). But free-trade international phone use? That seems like a pretty achievable thing to me. But one man's achievment is another Czech entreprenuer's goldmine. Any whoever it was that milked me for $180 of prepaid cell phone credit during the first 14 days of my sojourn here, touche (and fuck you).

Two days ago I finally set my shit right and activated an international data plan (to all future study abroadee's, I beseech you to do this before you leave). Now I can BBM, but it might be costing me the proverbial arm and leg. We'll see when the bill comes.

pin: 21BB3101.

Holla atcha boi.

Also, I am indescribably jealous of anyone that got to the hip hop pantheon show at yankee stadium this past week. Who the fuck put that together, and does he need someone to get him coffee and compliments next spring?

Czech out a dope cover of "Seven Nation Army" by Ben l'Oncle Soul. Great tune, and I really like this dude's style.

Martin

"How to Prepare As Poorly As Possible For Studying Abroad" - Rough Draft

I haven't been this flustered and frazzled since April of my freshman year when I slept through my seventh and potentially flunk-inducing "Philosophy of Human Nature" class (Professor David Zoller, if you're reading this, you're still a douchebag) and spent the entire day shuffling between the Health Center, the dean's office, and David Zoller's office with a very fake sinus infection. But at least my 18-month-old flusters and frazzles paid off -- got medically excused (not surprising, considering my fat, high ass was assaulting my nasal passages with 4 grav bong rips per day at the time), didn't fail philosophy, and got a bottle of amoxicillin out of it, which I've actually been dipping into this week in order to keep the leg infection at bay. But really, it's been a very very hectic long-weekend.

First and foremost, to the masochist that manufactured the already blog-famous bed, fuck you. Today marks the fifth consecutive day that I've woken up two hours before I wanted to with an excruciating combination of numbness and soreness in every part of my body. I'm gonna find out where you live, track you down, and throw a patented Marty-Dolan-errant-roundhouse (a la the hurricane) your way. And unless you're a parapalegic, learning-disabled descendent of Joseph Stallin (which I think you have to be in order to create this fucking torture chamber of a bed), and unless my stronger, more agile friends are with me, you'll probably kick my ass. But you know I'm goin' down swingin'.

Today, I woke up at 6 am with said excruiating pain and rolled around for two hours before I finally surrendered and hit the shower. After a pleasant scrub in my very close-quartered shower, I started phase one of my extensive, multi-phased dental hygiene regimen. Had myself a hall-of-fame floss, a terrific tongue scrape, a rinse as good as any man could ask for, and then an uncharged electric toothbrush. I was so bummed I didn't even reach for the Listerine.

I don't know how many of my beloved readers have graduated to the electric toothbrush -- for your sakes, I hope most -- but once you've tasted the forbidden fruit of personal electronic dental hygiene, there is no going back to manual. Honestly, my mouth has felt plaquey and homeless all god damn day, and it will continue to feel plaquey and homeless because I'm pretty sure I blew a fuse in my toothbrush charger. Lesson 1 of "How to Prepare As Poorly As Possible For Studying Abroad": don't bother actually learning about european voltage, just buy some shit from Brookstone and do what feels easiest. With any luck, you won't be able to use your electric toothbrush, your lithium camera battery charger (ergo your digital camera), AND your beard trimmer within two weeks of touching down in the old country.

Dressed myself and walked over to the class building early for breakfast. I'd complain about how shitty the spread was again, but there wasn't actually anything there. I'm guessing word about the free, limp-dicked breakfast buffet got out to non-dormitory residents, because there were a whole lot of dudes in there I did not recognize. It took me a whole 2 seconds to decide to abandon the funky-ass basement (I'm working on putting a word to the smell, but I haven't hit it right yet. In good time.) cafeteria and headed just down the hill to the cafe/bar that sells decent coffee and pretty delicious pastries. 1 coffee and 2 pastries later, I was sitting in class mentally preparing for a new week of "Intensive Czech" lessons.

Now this Intensive Czech business probably deserves an entry of it's own, but the words are flowing like milk and honey right now so I'm gonna get right to it. In 6 days and approximately 32 hours of intensive Czech instruction, I have not absorbed a fucking word of Czech. Not one. My daily effort to learn this totally unlearnable language resembles the effort I've always not put into my Imagenes or Atando Cabos spanish workbook assignments, but with less thinking. And it's not only because I'm lazy and/or hungover, it's because this language will 1) never serve me any purpose, ever, 2) could not be any less intuitable, and 3) consistently features words with 3 or 4 consecutive consonsants, which require me to make noises that my tongue will never, ever be able to make.

Consider the word for "four/4": čtyři. How the FUCK is that a human sound? Phonetically, it's supposed to resemble: cheh-teer-ree, but it doesn't, because my romance-language-learned brain can't remotely concieve of how to convert the sound my professor makes into cognizant letter-form. Lesson 2 of "How to Prepare As Poorly As Possible For Studying Abroad": be sure to choose a country in which only 12% of inhabitants barely speak your native-tongue, and also be sure that the native tongue of your abroad destination is biologically impossible for you to speak.

Say that five times fast

In a word (or two), I'm perched on that chair for 4 and 1/2 hours each day like a confused parrot, mimicking the sounds that come out of my teacher's mouth while I pout about how I'll never learn Czech and try to compensate for my intellectual shortcomings by thinking up creative ways to rant about the language on my really awesome blog.

I wish I could school ya'll with lesson 3: how to not activate a Blackberry international data plan before you leave and spend $180 on prepaid credit in 14 days, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Brady's 21st birthday tonight at the drunken monkey, which will be a rip-roarin', inebriated, American time.

Brady's Czech accent takes us out...[totally using stool's one-liners until I think of something cooler] -- Oh, and by the way, makers of the Flip Video Camera, HD my ass. This shit looks like it was taken on the third iPhone ever made.