Yummy Delicious Horse Meat

During Obama’s free trade address, he talked broadly of a free trade deal with Europe. Both countries, besides Germany, don’t really make anything anymore, so I don’t understand what that will accomplish.  But, I do pray that such a deal happens.  We in Europe are under a blanket of fear.  Somebody killed and ground up Mr. Ed.  The horse meat scandal is reaching a fevered pitch here. One food company, Findus, (ha. Find-Us. ) found that 100% of there all beef lasagna’s was more like 20% beef, 80% horsemeat. Whoops. Somebody has to repeat Kindergarden. In fact, it’s the Romanian Barber of Fleet Street. Findus was buying there product from a French company called Cormel, who in turn was buying it from a Romanian butchery.  The meat game of musical chairs has left those fortunate few with the taste of horse in their mouths. 

Honestly, in most parts of Europe they don’t mind a bit of Philly. But in the UK  (where they have used horses to kill Foxes and other animals for hundreds of years) it’s the worst thing since the Beatles broke up.  Now the British Parliament is screaming for investigations.  Lynchings may be brought back. A reinstatement of the rack as corporal punishment is possible. The Tower may be closed as a museum and re-opened for its “true” purpose. These ideas are being met in the House of Lords with hearty cheers and golf claps.  Pretty soon the BBC will somehow be blamed for everything. Meetings about possible investigations will air live on BBC 1,2,3,4,5, with consequent replays every hour, and live updates every 20 minutes, followed by the weather in Mongolia. There, the horse tribes of Gengas Khan still run around shooting arrows at each other, which is OK because they love horses. 

High off the fumes of the Olympic flame and the old bags Birthday, the little island that used to be are ready to rebuild the empire.  An invasion of Romania is completely possible.  After hundreds of more meetings, and thousands of hours of public tribunals with B-List celebrities like David Beckham, Elton John will be nationalized and forced to sing “A Candle in the Wind” forever.   The war drums will again resonate from Whitehall to the Isle of White.  The Generals, who forgot why they actually wore a uniform, will methodically assemble in top secret locations to prepare the invasion plan. These top secret meetings over division placement and pincer movement will of course all be available online within minutes. No need for phone hacking here.

After days of cucumber sandwiches and tea with milk, David Cameron will call President Obama to ask if it is “OK” to invade Romania. Of course he will say no, and after some pouting, Cameron will go live on BBC 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9.  He will proclaim to the British people that “NATO” and the world need to bring an end to the tyranny of Romanian horsemeat.  That this Libyan like crisis needs to be met with the shield and sword of world opinion.  That Rolls Royce engines are being used in most of the fighter aircraft ready to bomb Romania, and that everyone should stay tuned for a special Horse Meat concert performed by Robbie Williams.  The Queen will take to her royal barge and float down the Thames to the English Channel.  Prince Phillip will simultaneously ride out naked from Buckingham Palace, galloping along the banks of the Thames in some sick show of solidarity.  The British people will all get completely drunk and wave there flags proudly as Phillips raisin-like textured skin flashes before there moist eyes. 

When all is said and done, after 100 days of fireworks, and a few more barge trips by the Queen, the Horse Meat War that wasn’t   will culminate with a live broadcast of the Elton John’s funeral. Worked to death after nationalization, the public will cry out for justice.  Meetings will begin in earnest. Parliament will hold special meetings about who should be involved in those meetings. Subsequent meetings will be held about when those meetings should take place. All of the meetings will be broadcast online and live via the BBC. Elton’s funeral broadcast will be a hot topic of debate. Rupert Murdoch will swoop in to buy the exclusive airing rights for 2 billion pounds. More meetings will be held. A trial will be held live in Trafalgar Square, by 14 wigged judges. Led by Simon Cowell, they will find the BBC guilty of 37 different charges.   A hologram of Elton will be constructed by the same people who brought Tupac back to life at Coachella. And as the last note of Rocket Man airs out over London, Elton’s hologram will be seen by the masses of punters riding on a beautiful black thoroughbred. Monty Python will then air for 100 straight days on BBC 4, 5 and 6 and Romania will be safe to carve up horses again.  The future has never looked so bright.  

SPY GAMES

I am convinced everyone in my language class is a spy.  There I said it. Outwardly, they are all too nice.  It’s as though they are all competing in some sick spy game. The winner gets to kidnap the American.  Of course this pessimism has much to do with my New York heritage, but surprisingly there is more factual evidence then just conjecture .   Number 1: This is and always has been the edge of the western world.   Next stop, the former Iron Curtain.  Number 2: Just over 2 decades ago, spy’s and assassins used this part of the world as there private play ground. If there were a stat for spy’s per capita, Germany would have more professional bullshit artists than there are rice paddies in China. To this day, it is no doubt one of the most important junctions where east meets west.  Number 3: The huge volume of international travel going through the airport is probably the most important factor in  supporting my unease.  With governments slicing and dicing budgets faster that Zorro,  spy’s are flying economy more than ever these days.   I bet the majority are even flying with layovers.  It’s cheaper AND more importantly, it gives a great guise for top secret meetings where the micro film can be transferred.

All of my classmates seem to know something that I don’t. I get the feeling they are all watching me, waiting for me to say something personal so they may text their handlers about it.  The other day, the Syrian began asking me where I lived. I gave him nothing. Vague answers leave vague impressions.    I want each spy in my class to suspect that my incredible ability to evade there interrogation techniques can only be because of my own super spy training.  That perhaps I  very well maybe the O.G. spy.   00 times 10.  James Bond’s top secret son ready  and willing to thwart there terrorist plot with a bit of some nationally financed bullshit, and a big huge gun.  When I enter the room, everyone smiles, and says hello to me. Strange.  Those smiling eyes are hiding something damn it.  The Persian I swear is packing more than just pencils in her purse. The Ethiopian is constantly on her IPHONE looking up to see if anyone is watching her.  What’s with the new attractive Ukrainian huh?  She just happened to come into MY class.  I’ve seen the Manchurian Candidate, and Men in Black.  I know full well they have mind altering, mind erasing thing-a-majigies these days!

The danger reached a fever pitch on Wednesday. The Iranian got up to go to the bathroom AT THE SAME time as me.  As I walked down the hall, I could hear her behind me shuffling through her purse looking for the chloroform.  With panther like quickness, I made it to the bathroom drug-free which was a miracle.  I waited 7 whole minutes, and when I exited, guess who was there!  Thank god for the receptionist at the front desk. Her baring witness is the only reason I am not hanging upside down being electro shocked like Riggs in Lethal Weapon. 

Now that I know I am a target, I have been doing my best to brush up on my spying techniques in order to save my own life.  After watching  Tailor, Tinker, Solider, Spy, I can consider myself an official graduate of I-AM-A-BAD-ASS-SPY University.  If you can stay awake, and understand what the hell is going on, than you can be a bad ass spy too.  Watching Cobra while doing pushups has really been a huge help in developing my confidence.  Even though Cobra has no spying in it, the gun fight at the end is one of the finest pieces of gratuitous violence ever in a 1980’s movie. In honor of Sly and my new found confidence, I now carry a knife with me at all times. Though it’s only a butter knife, it still feels good.  These movies have been essential to my spy training, but most importantly, I try to look mean as hell. I’m talking crack head violent mean.   That seems to at least rattle the elderly Polish lady with the liar eyes.

After today’s class, I believe my teacher is working for British intelligence.  What is a Polish-German women doing eating Cadbury chocolate eggs in May? The distinctive manner in which she rattled off the pages and exercise lessons  for homework leads me to believe  she was speaking in some sort of code.  Friendly? Doubtful.  I now suspect the receptionist maybe working for the Romanians, or maybe the Romulons. The only reason she prevented the Iranian from putting me to sleep, rolling me up in a carpet and throwing me in the back of some van, is because she wants to torture me herself. Who knows? Perhaps all of this is just a lie, a fantasy concocted from a mind filled with too many hours of cable TV.   Perhaps the blue van parked outside for the last 36 hours is just a construction crew doing some work. Perhaps this weird eye twitch I’ve had for the last 12 hours is NOT the after effects of sodium pentothal being slipped into my water bottle.  Perhaps. 

THE FEVER DANCE

Living in this country has done a number on my immune system. Understandable when considering the fact that I am new to the continent, but odd because I am no stranger to the magical world of deadly microbials.  A single NYC subway car when swabbed, and sampled, probably holds enough virulent virus to rival a CDC lab. All of the Purell and hand swipes in the world couldn’t keep a cold away in the Big Apple.  New illnesses and zoological plagues are born each day under the wooden benches  found on the 21^st avenue subway stop in LIC. The only thing that has prohibited a massive outbreak are the bums who sleep and bath on these very same benches daily.  Their populations have been decimated by these super germs (which has sadly taken the thrill and danger of robbery away from  Time SquareL).  Yet there collective sacrifice has kept the rest of NY’ers safe and 8^th avenue free of most loitering for the past 15 years.  (Conspiracy theorists have ascertained that Disney, with its enormous financial stake in the Broadway rendition of The Lion King, with former Mayor Giuliani’s enthusiastic blessing, released Ebola Zaire into the bum population in the mid-90’s but this of course has yet to be conclusively proven.  Many still ascertain he pulled a Robert Irsay and trucked all the homeless people secretly too New Jersey in the middle of the night.)  

Despite all of my immune systems heavy lifting over the years in the mean streets of cold and flu, nothing could prepare me for the biological warfare currently found in the Old World.  The cold strains found here are weaponized ! Escaped germs from former Soviet Lab’s run amuck causing mass hysteria from Kindergartens to Senior centers.  The Germans, well aware of the dangers of living inside a hot zone by now, ride bikes and wear strange equipment when outside in order to evade the deadly diseases.  When riding in parks, these “professionals” whisk past you like Russian diplomatic motorcades indiscriminately knocking down anyone that dares to get in there way.  The elderly go to great lengths in order to ensure their own sanitary sanity.   Traveling in groups through heavily populate areas, they use strange walking canes to protect there fragile immune systems from infected individuals.  The clack-clack sound of these special canes  collectively hitting the pavement is a warning to even healthy patrons to get out of the way!  This healthy train is making no stops for you!

Speaking of the elderly, I now have an all too clear understanding of what Grandma’s everywhere mean when they say they have “caught a chill”. I used to laugh when hearing this seemingly benign phrase mumbled  through old chapped lips. Now, I worry. A chill is no joke!  I caught my first chill a few weeks after landing and it knocked me into another dimension.  Completely broken, bent over and made that cold’s bitch, most of that particular day was spent feeling as though the Borg from Star Trek was attempting to assimilate me.  Sitting there in my mother in laws house, alone, in pain, with withdrawal like symptoms that would make the late Kurt Cobain blush, was not a picture of pretty.  Having no crayons to color in my fever drawings, and with nothing else to do, a rudimentary list was compiled of Things That I Would Rather Do Then Sit In My Mother-In-Laws House Sick Alone 1) play tag on the autobahn blind folded in a fog, 2)play golf during a severe thunderstorm warning while simultaneously flying a kite,3) go mall shopping with my wife.  As I pondered my top 3, a dread began to fill my bones.  At the same time, Vincent Price’s recital of The Raven poem began to play on continuous loop in my mind interlaced with a fierce dance beat. The fever had come.  Now usually, I love a good fever. The sweating. The shaking. The visuals.  It’s like eating mushrooms at a club except you never have to leave your couch.   The scary thing about THIS fever was that it made me feel old.  I’m talking 80 years old, man diaper on, IV drip steady, Seabond subscribing old.  

My body began to stall like a Chevy volt.  Buddy began to smell death in the air.  He climbed up onto my belly and began to look at me with the sympathy of a priest reading the last rites.  I knew all he wanted was a bowl of Aldi’s finest dog food (or for me to take him shit), but  I pretended that he really did care anyways. Shit anywhere Bud!  Godspeed my good friend.  The big ol’ unicorn in the sky will be coming down pretty soon to ride me away to a world of all you can eat China Buffet and unlimited free Champions League soccer games.  Do they use blankets up in heaven, or do the dead just wrap themselves in clouds?  After a few more psychic visions and some alien abduction nightmares, I started watching Top Gun. Being the only English movie that I had, the choice was simple andsomehow kept me alive until the girls got home. 

One good thing has come out of all this disease and depravity; With every sniffle, cough and shudder, a deep connection with the Native American’s has developed.   Let me explain. Here they were living in utopia, one with nature, wearing loin clothes every day (love those), having drum circles and painting each other’s bodies different colors.  Basically, what Greatful Dead and Phish fans have payed handsomely to do for decades.  That is, until my forefathers, the Europeans showed up on their shores.   With their incurable ailments, and bad fashion, they burst that bubble. Like a fat man in an airplane seat, it wasn’t a pretty sight in the America’s after 1609.  White was right, Indian was wrong. Empathy for the systematic destruction of their way of life in that age of innocence is now my new mantra.   When sick in bed, these war painted spirits appear to me, jolting me in the ribs like an old lady’s cane.  After peeing myself, I always apology to these feathered chiefs for the invasion of their lands by my arrogant forefathers.  There greedy hands planted colorful flags in a soil they knew nothing about. The chief always seems to appreciate my sincerity, and has never once raised his massive war axe in anger. Praise god!

Waking up drooling, and incoherent with fever madness, I allow these spirits to take control of me like Whoopi Goldberg in 1990’s Ghost staring the late great Patrick Swayze.  Doing the rain dance stark naked in the middle of the night too my wife’s wide eyed amusement is my way of saying thanks. I think we in this modern pill popping world of treating symptoms, have lost the true definition of what health really is.  We have a lot to learn from the peoples of the past, like my very own Chief Scares -The-Crap-Out-of-Me. Or maybe, this entire blog is simply the Nyquil talking and my impromptu performance is the barbiturates effect on my brain. Regardless, I’m going to keep fever dancing,  talking to the imaginary chief and waking up my neighbors in the middle of the night. 

LAST NIGHT

A couple of beautiful girls took me to a hookah bar downtown last night. Promises of the place turning into an orgy with sex swings falling down from the ceiling after 11pm were sadly unfounded (liars). The Mosaic Bar was locked upon arrival, and a man actually opened the door to let us in. Fascinating. Luckily we got the secret password of the night right (Frodo), and the cavity search was surprisingly gentle which made entry a breeze. The ambience I can characterize as Moroccan chic. Arab inspired chandlers with candles found within their mazes were hanging down from the rafters. Shadows danced across the room and draped each drunk face in a veil of mystery. Every time I looked at Doreen, I couldn’t help but imagine her being a Soviet spy sent to seduce secrets out of me! Sadly the only secrets I had at the time was a bit of indigestion. Doubting my divulgance of such intel would be good enough for her spy handlers, we ordered drinks! Persian blankets were weaved through each beam to give the appropriate feeling of a tent located somewhere in the desert. A side room where two people sat enjoying a hookah were lined with red pillows bathed in elegant candle light. The harem feel was appreciated but the seats were not. It was as though I was magically transported back to Grandma’s house, Thanksgiving 1986. It seems my banishment to the kiddie table for the last time in my extensive holiday career was still a sore spot in my heart. Some indignities can sadly never be forgotten.

Service was slow, served by a mid-50 ish gay Arab in a lime green shirt, with Steve Urkle pants who loved to touch my arm every time he came by. His flamboyant demeanor was surprisingly appreciated, and made me reminisce about the rave scene in the mid 90’s. Visions of drag queens sexually harassing me at Club E Buffalo, NY circa 1999 flashed through my eyes as the drinks were served. The physical damage was however worse than the emotional one, 7.50 EURO per drink. Atrocious. Yet, the Singapore Sling was potent. No whiskey Jim? When in a fake Moroccan harem in Germany, you don’t order whiskey out of principle :) 

The gin, cherry brandy, and grenadine mixture allowed our newly instituted fiscal spending plan to get fuzzy, which was a welcome digression from the memories of my language class earlier in the day. The teacher believes in the philosophy of calling you out. Questioning an individual at random, and then working out the answers through your mistakes. My class is a Level 2, so the mistakes come in tsunami like waves. Today I just didn’t have the patience, and initiated my own personal Arab Spring. Throwing my pen up in the air in protest over her teaching methods and refusing to answer was childish I’ll admit, but I am an asshole. When treated like a child, I act accordingly. Rising above it and getting my jesus on is not something in my daily plans. The only answers she was getting out of this angry Irishmen was a big fat middle finger. Thank god for Friday night, and the second Singapore Sling. It dissolved away my anguish like a big fat tablet of Alka-Seltzer, and was the perfect accompaniment to the nights entertainment! Our gay waiter decided to stand proudly on top of the table, gyrating his hips and flailing his arms around like he was drowning. This was all done amazingly with lite sparklers in his hands and in perfect unision to the bass drops of hard techno music now rupturing my ear drums in the background. Impromptu? Amazingly he seemed to have fans, so this maybe a nightly occurrence. We can only hope and pray this is fact. Whatever the uncertainnty surrounding the schedule of the waiters Oscar worthy choreography, it certainly made me feel better. His magical moves took me from zero to hero, and filled my half glass empty attitude up to the brim with joy. I am very fortunate to be where I am, and to have such great people sharing these adventures with me.

As we left the place,and headed back home down the Zeil, the square was packed with drunk custom clad characters celebrating Fasching, loitering among the park benches getting even more drunk. Along the way I saw a fight, a pirate, and some guy eagerly eating a whole bucked of KFC. Poor bastard. The morning shit will be chock full of pain and the colonels secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices. These same people will storm the government office some time later today, and put the mayor in chains in celebration of carnival! A thousand and one WW2 jokes can now go right here________ Please choose your best one, and insert away. Ah Germany. The fun never ends.  

The Grammy's Suck. See Here Why :)

The Grammy’s were last night. Honestly, who cares?  The Grammy’s aren’t telling you who’s hot anymore (not that they ever did).  Sure the stars show up, because it’s an old fashioned dress up party! Every little girl and boy remembers playing house when they were 5, sitting in there undies sipping imaginary tea. (was I the only one?)  And who doesn’t want an award?  Most of these artists are ego-maniacs, so playing to their vanity with a gold statue is easy. The hypocrisy lies in the fact that they do show up.  Being on the fringe got you to the Grammy’s and now you’ve decided that society’s opinion matters? And the biggest bullshit is when the artist says they are taking this award on behalf of all there “fans”. Why would they want to be honored by an institution that stands against everything that got them those fans to begin with?  Lady Gaga at the Grammy’s? Come on.  If she wanted to be really trend setting, she should have  publicly denounced them and no showed. But then again, Gaga’s “trend setting” seems to be another way of saying, I rip off Madonna, so little can be expected from her.  Until that day when artists stop participating, were going to have to deal with the likes of Skrillex winning a Grammy for Best Dance Album.  Something that you listen to bugging out on E should not be given a Grammy. I realize that they are trying to diversify their audience, but Skrillex?  That’s not trend setting, that’s pandering.  How can you take an institution seriously which took 15 years to choose a Hip Hop release to win Album of the Year (Lauren Hill)?

The Grammy Awards are like listening to music in Europe; the song comes out 8-9 months AFTER it breaks big in the States. Simply celebrating Adele for what she did last year and calling it a night is ridiculous.  The Grammy’s should be pushing new and unsigned talent.  They should be trendsetting, not piggy backing.  Yea you can sprinkle in current stars and hand out awards, but taking the time to create something new should be the Grammy’s true goal. The Grammy’s should pin the winners from all the music shows against each other.  I’m talking about the super bowl of music competitions; having the winners of Idol, X-Factor, The Voice, and America’s Got Talent battle it out in an old fashioned sing off.  Getting the networks to agree to such a thing would be difficult, but an alternating cycle of which network air’s the awards would help.  But who am I kidding. Just as a playoff system in college football makes too much sense, so does creating the biggest music competition on the planet.  How about popular artists nominating a true amateur and having them battle it out on stage.  You can form brackets like in the NCAA basketball tournament. Vegas could put out a line.  Adele’s favorite new artist against Lady Gaga’s?   LL Cool J’s girl vs. Puff Daddy’s. Voting could be done via text by viewers and by the celebrities in the audience.  People would have  direct involvement in the advent of someone’s career in one night. They would then be more inclined to invest in that person’s career in the form of album sales and tickets.  An idea such as this would keep people talking about the Grammy’s all year.  It’s sad that the biggest thing to happen at last night’s awards for content purposes was Whitney Houston’s death.  That’s the real tragedy.

The Grammy’s are the so-called recording industry’s night, but the industry is dead. According to the Economist, between 1999-2008, music revenue in the US dropped  from 14.6 billion to 10.4 billion.  In response, the industry did what any too powerful industry does that doesn’t want to hold itself culpable; they blamed Napster.  It became there Salem Bitch.  Instead of seeing the future of MP3’s and file transfer sites, they sued it, in the hopes of preventing the inevitable from happening for 1 or 2 more years. CD’s are dead, payola doesn’t work, and countless record companies are going out of business.  Maybe these experts should get together and have a meeting about the survival of their own industry!  How can you be an expert if your fighting for own job? When his band Pearl Jam won a Grammy in the category Best Hard Rock Performance in 1996, singer Eddie Vedder commented on stage: "I don't know what this means. I don't think it means anything."^[13  Well said Eddie.

When the Grammy’s talk proudly about how they have gone from 109! categories to ONLY 79, there is a problem.  What the hell is a Best Regional Roots Album?  If you want an excuse to nominate Bruce Springsteen or some other ancient relic of the past who certain members of the panel have a crush on,  give them a lifetime achievement award.   What’s even more laughable, is that NARS members don’t even receive nominated recordings to listen too.  They are making an opinion based on a list sent to them by 150 “experts”. The members are voting on such a small fraction of the thousands of recordings sent in, that a fully informed opinion can’t properly be deduced.  Next year, do yourself a favor and boycott the Grammy’s.  They have overstayed their usefulness and welcome.  When a friend is in trouble with alcohol, you cut him off.  He needs to hit rock bottom to begin walking the new road.  Well, the Grammy’s are that drunk Uncle.   Nobody wants to watch just an awards show anymore.   What do I get out of that? The simple fulfillment that my star won?  That’s the stupidest thing in the history of the world. If you tried to sell the current Grammy’s format (without its pedigree) to a network today, they would laugh in your face, punch you in the gut, take a picture of you vomiting, and plaster it on You Tube so the entire world could know what a dick you truly are.  The Grammy’s should be so much more and could be, but first, it must die. Help me kill it?

War Crimes, A Gold Earring, And the Super Bowl!!!

Today was jammed packed full of excitement ,war crimes, and the Super Bowl. But before the skinny on that, there was fatty shaved meat in my mouth. The national dish of Germany is not wurst, not schnitzel, not even spaetzle.  It’s that delicious, juicy, crispy combination of meat and salad all wrapped up in a pita.  Aka the doner, and the best place in town to get one is found in Sachenhausen called Koylu Doner.  The place is nondescript, the workers speak no English, little German and there is no seats. With THAT out of the way, let’s eat! A single standing only bar lies against the far wall to the right.  On the left, lies the counter and IT. Glistening, revolving thick block of veal daring those that pass by within eye shot of its glory to not stop and pay tribute.  Wanting to fulfill maximum meat craving, I told the Turk to skip the bread, skip the rice and simply pile on the meat.  With a little salad of shaved onion, tomato, and kidney bean to round out the plate, at least some semblance of a health standard would be kept.  The rest of the standards would be caught up in a meat murder.  As I plunged my fork into this jungle of carnivorous rapture, and tasted my first bite, angels began to fall down from heaven riding unicorns on waves of light.  A blind man walking by threw his cane up in the air and proclaimed that he could finally see!  A bus full of terminally ill children collectively ripped out there IV’s and began break dancing over joy for being fully cured!   And then the Russian spoke, “You’re going to want to put some garlic yogurt sauce on that.” Garlic yogurt sauce? Why yes? I think I am going to want to put a whole LOT of garlic yogurt sauce on that. In fact, I’m going to draw a bath of  garlic yogurt sauce and just float the day away my fine sir.  It turned out the Russian had lived in Brooklyn for a time, and takes the pilgrimage weekly.  There was another tall yuppie lawyer type who chimed in stating proudly how he travels form Stuttgart with his family (the wife and kid were there) to come and be privileged.  After devouring every last morsel, and declaring this day a new national holiday (National Delicious Donner Day) I paid the Turk who tried to short change me. The heathen.  He stated acht euro fuenfzig. I handed him a 10 which he then deposited directly into the register, closed it, and said, “Thanks”.  I guess he was thinking that I was some schmuck American from Kansas here on a day trip, wearing a fanny pack, and Mickey Mouse underwear who was just simply going to walk away.  Kudu’s to him for the try, but he didn’t realize he was dealing with a professional asshole from NY!  I simply stood there staring a hole in the back of his  uni-browed head, with my hand out  while the yuppie lawyer let out a laugh  He seemed to understand what the thief was attempting to do.  After a few moments, he stopped acting like he was doing something else, looked up, popped open the cash register and gave me my 1.50.  Next, I politely thanked him for a wonderful lunch and then told him to go straight to hell.  Not understanding English, there was no threat of retribution by clever wielding Turks, and it made me feel better.  A fairytale ending! 

Feeling properly full, and vented, I made my way over to a small house found right on the Alte Bruecke. An exhibit titled Mengala’s Skull was showing. Sounded promising!  I decided that spending the rest of my day with one of the greatest perpetrators of the Holocaust would be a perfect lead in to the Super Bowl!  The exhibit opens into a dark theatre room, where a film called “The Kiss’ talks of the kidnapping of 20 passengers by a paramilitary group during the war in Bosnia in 1993.   Using forensic 3D technology,   Hito Steyrel’s installation reconstructs the events that led to their disappearance. I didn’t get it and more importantly I was suddenly depressed.  Simultaneously, the bottom dropped out of my meat high and a profound compulsion to go back for MORE doner began to emerge.  But first, to check out  the namesake exhibit upstairs. Passing two yuppie museum curators who looked hung over and in need of a cigarette, I walked up a thin stairwell to the upstairs exhibit which was fascinating. A huge screen showed a documentary based on a book by Thomas Keenan and Eyal Weizman titled after the aforementioned exhibit.  It goes into how the forensic identification of Dr. Mengel’s exhumed remains in 1985 in Brazil helped pave the way for the new era of forensic pathology in which objects, such as bones, act as the witnesses of past events.   A good hour was spent up there going over all the horrific details of the 1982 US backed genocidal ant-communist campaign in Guatemala that killed thousands of people.  That turned out be the perfect amount of flagellation for my earlier over indulgence of donner.

With penance paid, I made my way back across the bridge. I was nearly to the other side, when what juvenile prosecutors in South Side Chicago call a life defining moment occurred. A strange glimmer of light emanating off one of the stone pilings caught my eye. Upon further analysis, it turned out to be a 5 hooped earring that appeared to be gold.  The NY’er in me immediately wanted to put it in his pocked and proclaim “finders keepers, losers weepers”, but sense prevailed. What the hell was this doing here? Calling my wife for support, I asked her what to do. “Take it. You’re a freakin NY’er”, was her direct quote.  Ditto. But then there was the cynical Jim thinking it might be some kind of police sting.  Not knowing the details of entrapment in a country can make you think twice. “Your right, wipe your finger prints and leave.” Jesus Christ women. Wipe my finger prints and leave? Oh dear lord.  Deciding against spending the rest of such a magical day locked up in some police car for what turned out to be fool’s gold, I got the hell out of there and high tailed it home for the game!

From doner, to Mengala, to fool’s gold, and then to the Super Bowl.  What do these things have in common? Not a god damn thing! But deep into the morning, with 3:39 left on the clock, and my NY Giants getting the ball back with a chance to win the game, I realized that these events helped to preoccupy and settle my nerves for the coming heart attack of the 4^th quarter.  They helped me to focus, use my breathing like some yoga instructor, and find my inner chi.  They were what Tommy Lee in an episode of MTV’s cribs referred to as his koi pond.  His own place to go get away from it all, and enable the struggle to be endured.   When the clock ran out, and Tom “I-Can’t-Beat-The-Giants” Brady’s last second heave fell harmlessly to the ground, a silent prayer went out to the sucker who got nabbed in the gold earring drag net. Believing that I have the power to control football games with my mind through screaming, jumping, kicking and biting in my living room, I knew these events in some sick, unexplainable way helped me to achieve the ultimate victory for my big blue.  Another Giant victory over the favored New England Patriots, again! Go Giants!!!!!

HOME

A revelation came during my second spoonful of Thai Curry Soup, and no it wasn’t a glass of water.   I was talking to my home girl Lara during our break from language class, when the subject of missing home came up.  We are both natives of islands; she of Tasmania, I from Long Island.  As with all natives of islands, there is an innate need to be by the water.  The ocean air makes us complete. My youth was spent swimming in the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. Years of my life were spent body surfing, and getting sunburned.  Eating Frozen Fruit Bars, and reading on my back on a beach towel. The beach was my second home, and my greatest memories were born there.  While waiting for the slow ass waitress to give us the check, Lara began telling me how much she missed the beach and her own Tasmanian Sea. I concurred. She then stated how hard it would be too NOT live next to the ocean in her future life. I agreed, but wait! I AM, right now, living nowhere near the sea in my future life. Well I suppose the Meine, Rhein, and the shitty brown Nitter could be considered bodies of water, but my life blood the ocean, is so far away.  And then it occurred to me; my whole life I had the same notion. That I would never live but within a stone throw of the sea, and now here I am. Living in a land locked city in Northern Europe. What are the odds? How in the hell? Anxiety began to rage inside me like an American Idol Finalist.  Why was this factor not part of the plan? How could I have possibly over looked something so obviously important? By the time I swallowed my third spoonful of the fiery broth, a calm began to cascade over me, and no it wasn’t the sweat running down my back from the thai chilli peppers. A profound, simple thought sprouted in my mind and began to take root; It’s the people that made the beach so great. It was my family that made the sea what it was.  When I look at pictures of the ocean and wax poetic, I’m missing more the moments that I shared with them. Without those loved ones, the sea would just be another place.  Home is where good people are. It is comprised of all the smiles, tears, screams, and hugs that are found within your days and nights.  It is within the eyes of those sitting across from you and the family that you leave everything you’ve come to know behind for. As I sat there with Lara, and laughed my lunch away, that fact was never more evident.