I'm about to embark on an epic journey. Which, in normal people's language, comes down to me going to Bologna for a week and a half. This means that (1) I'm going to be sweating my ass off for 11 days, (2) that I will be majorly dissapointed - yet again - in the quality of Italian record stores specifically due to the lack of Zucchero-stuff-I-don't-already-own they won't have in stock and (3) I won't be blogging in that period (it also means I can work up new frustrations with traveling, planes, trains, politics - not really related but it just happens - and Italian guys, to write about later).
And it means that before leave monday I need to go through both my To Pack and my To Do list. The To Do list includes everything that has to be done for the world not to go to damnation (obviously with 'the world' I mean my life specifically, if I'd care for the world I'd recycle) in the time I will not be in the country. This list contains such timeless classics as "buy shoes", "buy clothes", "e-mail professor" and "find place to live in Zeeland" and, perhaps excluding the last one, should be no problem.
The To Pack list is a lot more important. It is important because it needs to be done right or else I'll spent the first four days of my vacation thinking "I know I forgot to pack something!" the fifth day finally realizing which item I've forgotten and the last six days thinking "Why the hell did I forget [insert item]???". Even if it is a totally meaningless thing, I'd still be left feeling the trip would have been so much memorable if I hadn't forgotten my toothbrush.
Granted, things have gotten easier throughout the years. In 2001, when I went on a vacation with friends for the first time we spent weeks e-mailing eachother on who should bring which CD, and once in Italy we spent days looking for a boombox (we found one that was extremly expensive and utter crap). Thankfully, I now have a (also pretty crappy) Mp3 player to help me through that, but unfortunately it runs on batteries. (Ooh! I have to bring batteries with me!)
Books remain a hazzard however as are remembering to bring my mobile phone, the thing that puts power into my mobile phone (which reminds me the position of being my human dictionary is still open, everybody that looks like Orlando Bloom is welcome to apply), my toothpaste, my shampoo, shower gel, flight information, telephone numbers, cash etc.
Anyway, the big "What Will Boris Forget?" game is open from now on, good luck on betting.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Football
I got a text message from my friend Becky yesterday evening about the Football World Cup. The Netherlands was playing and she informed me that she was watching the game with her boyfriend Elvin (the otherwise nice guy who my friends might also know as "The Cuban" (he's actually from Puorto Rico... or Mexico... or Hong Kong or something) or "The Guy Who Shot A Rubber Band At My Face In A Milan Airport" (bitter? I'm not bitter) ) and her grandparents.
I'm not sure about her grandpa, but her grandma is a huge Netherlands fan. I am not one hundred percent sure about how much (if any) Dutch blood she has in her, but despite being an American she is more nationalistic about the Netherlands than anybody I know here. She loves us. She loves our food (love makes blind), she loves our countryside, she loves our music and she loves our football. Becky informed me that she was wearing, and I quote, a "crazy windmill hat in Dutch colors" (not trying to be too specific here, but are there windmill hats in Dutch colors that aren't crazy?). I texted her back saying that if the hat won't make us win, than I don't know what would.
The reply came quickly and read "She laughed and asked why you took your eyes away from the TV!". Which is sort of the problem. The game was on, but at the same time I was watching Der Untergang on my notebook (great combi really). You see, I am not a big football fan. Usually I can get away with that quite easily, all I have to do is start myself up with hooligans, government money being pumped into big football clubs and before you know it the rant automatically moves to anti-gay slogans, too much media attention and "general pathetic behaviour".
But during the World Cup, this is a bit more difficult. Basically, it's considered treason and although there's no death penalty for it (yet), it will make your social life a lot more difficult. During parties, most lunches, or general conversations with family members (I tend to select friends on them not talking about football) football pops up everywhere.
I personally have found a way out of this problem, by using one simple catchphrase that will get you through discussing every football match you did not see:
(ready)
(here it comes)
REFEREE!!!
Say it like something horrible has been done to your cat by the person in question and the other people in the group will knod knowingly and say "God did you see that..... blablablayadayadayada", after that all you have to do is agree wholeheartedly with the man with the biggest beer belly (he knows best, he clearly spends the most time getting drunk while watching other men be active). Use the force wisely my children.
(Oh, and the end score was 2;1 yesterday, all goals were made in the first halve, the Netherlands weren't playing that great and spent most of the second halve defending which - if you ask me - is always a very unwise thing to do. )
I'm not sure about her grandpa, but her grandma is a huge Netherlands fan. I am not one hundred percent sure about how much (if any) Dutch blood she has in her, but despite being an American she is more nationalistic about the Netherlands than anybody I know here. She loves us. She loves our food (love makes blind), she loves our countryside, she loves our music and she loves our football. Becky informed me that she was wearing, and I quote, a "crazy windmill hat in Dutch colors" (not trying to be too specific here, but are there windmill hats in Dutch colors that aren't crazy?). I texted her back saying that if the hat won't make us win, than I don't know what would.
The reply came quickly and read "She laughed and asked why you took your eyes away from the TV!". Which is sort of the problem. The game was on, but at the same time I was watching Der Untergang on my notebook (great combi really). You see, I am not a big football fan. Usually I can get away with that quite easily, all I have to do is start myself up with hooligans, government money being pumped into big football clubs and before you know it the rant automatically moves to anti-gay slogans, too much media attention and "general pathetic behaviour".
But during the World Cup, this is a bit more difficult. Basically, it's considered treason and although there's no death penalty for it (yet), it will make your social life a lot more difficult. During parties, most lunches, or general conversations with family members (I tend to select friends on them not talking about football) football pops up everywhere.
I personally have found a way out of this problem, by using one simple catchphrase that will get you through discussing every football match you did not see:
(ready)
(here it comes)
REFEREE!!!
Say it like something horrible has been done to your cat by the person in question and the other people in the group will knod knowingly and say "God did you see that..... blablablayadayadayada", after that all you have to do is agree wholeheartedly with the man with the biggest beer belly (he knows best, he clearly spends the most time getting drunk while watching other men be active). Use the force wisely my children.
(Oh, and the end score was 2;1 yesterday, all goals were made in the first halve, the Netherlands weren't playing that great and spent most of the second halve defending which - if you ask me - is always a very unwise thing to do. )
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
On/Off
I appear to have been dumped yesterday night.Well, technically it wasn't "dumping" because for that to happen you need to be in a relationship, it was more a situation of ripping the unborn foetus of a potential relationship from the save womb that was two dates (three if you count the pre-date, which technically you can't 'cause it's a pre-date) and leaving it on the cold floor, waiting for its little heart to explode (why am I pro-choice again).
Yes, indeed. He wants to be friends.
Actually, I have no right to complain since (1) the guy in question is really nice and its always best to just be open and fair about these things and (2) I once just stopped answering calls and text messages from a guy I did not really like (I panicked! Stop judging me!), but I think we can safely say that when something like this happens to me, it's much sadder by definition.
It's not like I was head-over-heels-LAYLA!-YOU-GOT-ME-ON-MY-KNEES-take-me!-take-me-here-and-now!-YOU'RE-BEAUTIFUL!-YOU'RE-BEAUTIFUL-IT'S-TRUE! in love with him, but the common sense part of my brain figured that any person you can discuss Gilmore Girls with for an entire hour is someone at least worth considering to have a crush on.
And so, as I was walking home (Sarah Jessica Parker refuses to answer my calls, but when she does she's going to do the voice-over part there) with a rather depressed mood taking over I came up with a rather novel idea:
Dear God/Allah/Buddah/Elvis, could we arrange for my feelings to have an on/off button? Because quite frankly I'm through (this is where Tina Turner takes over and Oprah stands in the background saying "You go girl!")
I'm through feeling alone
I'm through feeling sorry for myself because I feel alone
I'm through wondering if I'm doing stuff right
and for fucks sake
I'm through having crushes on people who don't love me.
Can I get an AMEN people?
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Mirror
Last Tuesday I went to see Kees van Kooten. If you’re American you’ll have no idea who I’m talking about, but if you’re Dutch you legally have to, and good manners should make you envy me. Van Kooten used to make tv sketch shows with a guy called Wim de Bie and they were must see tv for the entire country on Sunday night. Unfortunately they stopped some years ago, but van Kooten has recently released a book with his favourite American and English short funny stories.
These stories (think David Sedaris but he’s not in there for some reason) are all “little man” humour and based upon the stupid things men and women (but lets face it, mostly men) do to themselves and others. Stupid things like trying to open a bank account but getting so nervous you screw it up. Or making a complete mess out of somebody else’s medicine cabinet. They’re stories that make you laugh (reeeaaally hard), but at the same time you know that it so could happen to you.
One of the stories he read from was by an American author in the early 20th century (I think) who wrote a piece about him punishing objects that hurt him; if he walks into a door he decided to ‘hurt’ it back by slapping it. You know that a door can’t feel pain, but yet you automatically put human emotions into it; How dare you attack me! I never did anything to you! *BANG* Feel my wrath!. It’s weird but not uncommon; dogs think all other animals are dogs too (which is why they find horses so scary yet attractive), and I spent a few years in high school sitting next to a friend of mine who tried to make his pencilcase open and close itself (he claimed he was kidding, but honestly who was he kidding).
Anyway, I found the hurt-non-living things very fitting to how I felt about the mirror in my parents bedroom this evening.
I have a date (it’s not really a date actually: the date is on Sunday but we decided that we should have a pre-date get together so that we can see if we scare each other to death… and seeing that he’s the cuter one, with “we” I mean “I” and with “each other” I mean “him”) in exactly 1 hour and 45 minutes and my face looks puffy, my hair like crap and my clothes look funny. And while I’m standing in front of the mirror, being absolutely convinced the guy I have a date with is going to run off screaming, I can’t help but think at the mirror:
“Traitor! We bought this place you know! You’d be nothing without us! MAKE ME LOOK LIKE ORLANDO BLOOM!”
Guess what, didn’t work. Anyhoo, wish me good luck.
These stories (think David Sedaris but he’s not in there for some reason) are all “little man” humour and based upon the stupid things men and women (but lets face it, mostly men) do to themselves and others. Stupid things like trying to open a bank account but getting so nervous you screw it up. Or making a complete mess out of somebody else’s medicine cabinet. They’re stories that make you laugh (reeeaaally hard), but at the same time you know that it so could happen to you.
One of the stories he read from was by an American author in the early 20th century (I think) who wrote a piece about him punishing objects that hurt him; if he walks into a door he decided to ‘hurt’ it back by slapping it. You know that a door can’t feel pain, but yet you automatically put human emotions into it; How dare you attack me! I never did anything to you! *BANG* Feel my wrath!. It’s weird but not uncommon; dogs think all other animals are dogs too (which is why they find horses so scary yet attractive), and I spent a few years in high school sitting next to a friend of mine who tried to make his pencilcase open and close itself (he claimed he was kidding, but honestly who was he kidding).
Anyway, I found the hurt-non-living things very fitting to how I felt about the mirror in my parents bedroom this evening.
I have a date (it’s not really a date actually: the date is on Sunday but we decided that we should have a pre-date get together so that we can see if we scare each other to death… and seeing that he’s the cuter one, with “we” I mean “I” and with “each other” I mean “him”) in exactly 1 hour and 45 minutes and my face looks puffy, my hair like crap and my clothes look funny. And while I’m standing in front of the mirror, being absolutely convinced the guy I have a date with is going to run off screaming, I can’t help but think at the mirror:
“Traitor! We bought this place you know! You’d be nothing without us! MAKE ME LOOK LIKE ORLANDO BLOOM!”
Guess what, didn’t work. Anyhoo, wish me good luck.
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