the vacationalist

the condom of truth.

2008-07-29T15:11:00.000-07:00

This morning I returned to my room to get my phone before going into the bathroom. Was I expecting a call? Of couse not. I am not popular, no one ever calls me. And if for some reason I did get a call there is nothing that couldn’t have waited until my business in there had come to conclusion. Yet I still felt it necessary to maintain my electronic connection to the outside world.

I find it deeply disturbing to answer the telephone while taking a shit. Once I was told that being able to go the bathroom in front of someone is the highest form of intimacy, but the idea of forcing the unwitting individual on the other end of the line to be a part of that intimacy violates my Sagittarian sense of justice. I try to operate on the principle of full disclosure, a fact that I believe is doing considerable damage to my love life. Conceptually speaking, people always insist they prize honesty but in practice it terrifies them. People seem to be more comfortable with the idea of a STD than honesty. A transmittable disease can be wrapped in plastic, but there is no condom of truth.

Having done my duty in the bathroom I return to my room and check my email. No messages their either. (and no, mom, I don’t have any transmittable diseases.)

Jerky and the civilized world.

2008-04-15T17:18:00.000-07:00

As I clamp down and tear my fist away from clenched teeth my friend looks at me with disgust. His judgment is quick and brutal. He sees the pile of beef jerky lying loosely in a plastic bin in 7-Eleven, with only a flimsy sneeze guard protecting it from the world. There are tongs to retrieve them, but let’s be honest here; It’s three in the morning. No one uses the tongs.

“That’s disgusting. You know you are eating a meat stick that has just been sitting out, only edible because of the chemical processing.”

I shrug it off. My friend’s judgment comes only from his own ignorance. The ability to cure meat was a revolutionary development in the history of mankind. So shove it.

Occam’s toothbrush.

2008-02-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

My roommate left town for the weekend. Coincidently my toothbrush has gone missing.
A tooth brush is not something you misplace. You use it in one specific location then put it back. It is not like the remote control that can be lost to god knows where until one day you stumble across it on a book shelf or in the refrigerator. Ok, I only found it in the fridge once and I only had to look for a few minutes. But a tooth brush going missing seems odd to me. It wasnt in the trash. Seemed a reasonable place. Careless roommates may have knocked it onto the floor and not wanting me to use it again threw it away. I would have just put it back, but they might have been more thoughtful.

Roommate leaves town and my toothbrush goes missing. There are moments when we all would rather the simplest solution not be the case. hmmmmm.....

When my father and I shared a bathroom he would often steal my toothbrush claiming it to be his. It became such a problem that I finally took a bottle of my mother’s nail polish and painted the end of a fresh toothbrush. About a week later I went to brush my teeth only to find my brush was already wet with use that day. When confronted about the situation, my father exclaimed that it wasn’t my toothbrush but his. He knew because his was the one with nail polish on the end so he wouldn’t mix them up. In all fairness the man is colorblind so these things happen. Whenever retaliation was needed it was just as easy to go into his sock drawer and mismatch his black and brown socks. Something his secretary learned to watch out for.

I texted my roommate to see if she had actually taken my toothbrush. She had, and promised to bring it back with her. I told her not to worry, as I would need to get a new one anyway. Though I do wonder, how long had she been using it?

a matter of context.

2007-06-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

So Patryk and i are at a Häagen-Dazs restaurant. and yes a do mean restaurant. Patryk was feeling dehydrated and wanted a smoothie. And according to the chivalrous boyfriend handbook, when your baby wants a smoothie: buy your baby a smoothie. (sidenote: nobody puts baby in a corner.)

It was strangely difficult to find a smoothie establishment, and the pressure was on. I was in a foreign city, didnt know my way around, and had a parched Polish queer on my hands. The only place we could find was the aforementioned Häagen-Dazs restaurant. We walked in and looked around. The place looked like it was straight out of the IKEA Nightclub catalogue. It was more of a posh-trendy lounge than a place where one would buy frozen milk in a cone. We are not seated on one of the low rider couches on the main floor, instead a table in the corner. (sidenote: posh ice cream joint put Adam's baby in the corner.)

Our menus are brought to us, and I order a lemon sorbet smoothie and Patryk orders a strawberry/banana smoothie. Patryk is then informed that it is a strawberry/banana/raspberry smoothie.

Patryk: "ok, i will have the banana/raspberry smoothie then."
Hot waiter: "no, no. It is a strawberry/banana/raspberry smoothie."
Patryk: "yes, the strawberry/raspberry smoothie."
Hot waiter: "no, no. it is a mix. strawberry/banana/raspberry."
Patryk: "THAT IS FINE, I JUST WANT A SMOOTHIE."

Patryk is overwhelmed by the interaction and becomes terrified that Hot Waiter is going to spit in his strawberry/banana/raspberry smoothie.

Adam: "So what if he spits in your smoothie."
Patryk: "you joke! it is spit! that is disgusting!"
Adam: "Patryk if you has the opportunity, would you make out with that waiter?"
Patryk: "oh yes, he is very hot waiter."
Adam: "then why do you care if he spits in your drink? obviously you dont mind the idea of his saliva."
Patryk: "it is a matter of context."

chemical fires and Canadian Pete.

2007-03-18T18:21:00.000-07:00

When the internet was new to the general public, my father bought a computer for the family. He did it in the hopes that it would improve our education. At that time, there was a sort of reverence towards anything that was posted on the internet. It was a vast, bottomless encyclopedia that didn't give paper cuts, or take precious shelf space away from the movie collection on the book case. The day he connected it marked that last day our edition of the World Book was ever opened again. Since then the 29 or so books have sat collecting dust on the bottom shelf. We don't really pay much attention to them anymore; a couch is in front of that part of the book case. The space is no longer coveted for videos. We now regard bulky videos with disdain, calling them VHS, and carelessly throw them to the side in favor of a system that takes up less space, and includes hours of useless commentary over the directors cut of Joey Tribiani in "lost in space." Forgive me if I do not know his real name.

I didn't take too much interest in the internet. I was not a driven student and I didn't see the value in learning to type, so I left my sister Allie to explore the world wide web of endless communication. I had tried it once, just to see what it was like, but exploring involved needing a specific answer to a question, which I didn't have. Instead, I spent my computer time playing Load Runner. In this game, a small blocky figure ran slowly through a blue and black world, climbing up and down ladders, picking up gold before the red monsters ate you and stole your money. At the time the shadow of a capitalist undercurrent escaped me. I didn't pay much attention to the internet until Allie came across what she called, a "chat room". For some reason, she had stumbled onto a rollerblading website that was devoted to hardcore teenage rollerblades.

Over the next several months, Allie developed a sort of internet relationship with a young blader named Tristan, from Olympia Washington. With permission from our mother, Allie dropped her alias, Strawberry, and gave him her real name and address. The two of them began sending each other photos in the mail. His were of rollerblading, and his rollerblading buddies, and hers were pictures I took of her in the backyard by the giant trampoline we had; before it burned down one fourth of July when a stray spark hit it, turning our beloved toy into a ten foot ring of fire and molten rubber. Allie and Tristan kept in contact for the better part of a year, until chat rooms became such common place that their relationship faded into cyberspace. The box half full of the hard copies of her hundreds of emails printed from her romance across state lines now serves as a bed for the cat, who sometimes hides in the now abandoned room. I had never really put much thought into Allie's little affair. It was odd to see her so excited for a email from a skater in Washington when she wouldn't give the skaters in her own Leslie Middle School the time of day. But besides that it didn't affect me. I never really understood her connection to a complete stranger. The images I draw from meeting people online are those of older men looking for underage girls. You know, those guys on 20/20 who show up at the house of Kelly the sixteen year old cheerleader they just met on singles.com, only to be confronted by a camera crew asking them when they first realized they were a pedophile. It always made me nervous to think how frivolously we gave out our home address to a random stranger that met Strawberry on rollerblade.com. Although my mother dutifully reminds me that she personally inspected every piece of correspondence, though I question whether it was for safety rather than gossip.

I think of Allie’s internet friend now, because I have had my first internet friend. His name is Pete and he is from Canada. For a while I talked to him frequently, until it came to an abrupt end. I made a sarcastic comment that was not taken well. Sarcasm never goes as well in writing as it does in speech, and for a while I was very stressed that I had offended my friend. That is until I realized that he is a complete stranger to me, and I had more important things to worry about than what some random person thinks of me. I can just as easily waste my time with something else. The new version of Load Runner has teleport pads in addition to ladders, and a bucket of sticky slop you can drop on the ground to catch those dirty man-eating reds.

what a way to go.

2007-03-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

the most common cause of death among fruit flies is constipation. I have been thinking about this as of late. It is one of the simple facts about the world that I truly enjoy. I am not exactly sure why it has been a piece of knowledge that has stuck with me for so long, but it has, and who am I to question fate?

fruit flies have a very short life-span, no longer than about three days as i understand. They are heavy breeders who mature very quickly. within just a few hours of birth they reach adulthood, and are themselves capable of reproducing at a rate which allows them to be grandparents all in one afternoon. To you and I, it is only a brief moment. we blink, and a week goes by and not much changes from our daily routine. Yet in these moments, fruit flies are born, go to school, get jobs, get married, have children, retire, see the world, and pass on. in those three days they fight for life and thrive. each second is a new experience. and when their time in this world comes to an end they die because they are not capable of taking a shit. they never have done it before, and their bodies do not function that way. they have never needed to evolve that far because they have already procreated successfully without it being necessary. they have done so much, but never taken the time to just take a dump.

i know this is a strange thought, but i think there is something romantic in the plight of the fruit fly. not constipation that is. i in no way find that romantic. But it is the idea that so much can happen in what is just a moment in time. we can do anything we wish to, and every moment it precious.

yet i spend a lot of time sitting. i read books, and dont get out much. i will go from the work week to the weekend with nothing eventful. meh, what can you do?

Another random fact that i love, is that the Advertising agent who first thought of putting a commercial for a presidential candidate on television, was also the guy who came up with the slogan, "milk chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your hand." this is why i like NPR.

Super-Gay Sunday.

2007-02-05T16:47:00.000-08:00

My boss invited me to his super-bowl party this weekend. He invited me in front of another co-worker without inviting them. I thought this was a bit strange that I would be invited and my co-worker would not be, but as soon as I got to the party I quickly realized that why. My co-worker was not invited because he was straight. That’s right folks, it was a Gay Super Bowl Party. The invitation was extended to me for one reason and one reason only: I'm a fag. (hi mom!)

I really don’t think about things like this much. Most of my friends are gay, and I feel that it is just by coincidence. I live in a fairly gay part of town. There are several theatres and bistros, and that is where the homos congregate. But it really struck me when I realized that of the six people work at my coffee shop including the owner, four of us are gay, and a fifth is debatable. Yet I still tend to be ignorant of these things, and go on my merry way thinking little of anyone’s sexuality. So when I heard I was going to a Super-Bowl party, I thought I should study up on the rules so that I would not be completely lost. I went out to a bar with my token straight friend so that he could explain to me some of the basics. I have never really paid much attention to football, but knew that the ball was sometimes kicked through the big fork at the end of the field, or ran past it for points. He filled in some of the other details and sent me on my way.

When I arrived I discovered my newly acquired knowledge was a great help to everyone. The crowd consisted of a handful of fags between the ages of 20-40. This is when I realized my Christian co-worker was not invited for his own good. Refreshments consisted of gin and tonic, and deviled eggs. I did my best to explain the rules as I understood them to the group, with others eagerly filling in whatever details they might have discovered along the way. One fellow was thrilled he could tell the group what a “tight end” really was. Eventually all confusion on how the game was played was quickly cleared up when a lesbian finally arrived.

All in all, the even was a success. Highlights included the half-time performance by Prince singing “Purple Rain”, and the Flo-Max commercial with the side-effect of a decrease in semen. That one really got the guys laughing.

the patryk challenge......

2007-02-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

Patryk has completed the Patryk Challenge. Now i leave it to the bloggers:
__________________________________

In the corner of toothpaste wisdom

So as you all know, I wrote a blog entry yesterday, but it was not accepted by the blog manager. The reason: too much sadness - understandable. Here I go again with a new entry. A very happy one.
I write for living. It’s not a very social way of earning money but it works for me. Let’s put aside what I like most (doing mean theatre criticism) and have a closer look into my latest job. The job of a copywriter. One of my duties is writing short stories indirectly advertising the product (toothpaste) on a special web site. The stories are grouped into four wonderful sections: weddings, dates, meetings, jobs. I tell you – each of them is a splendid source of wisdom and joy. However they can bring much frustration into the author’s life.
Imagine yourself supposed to write twenty short texts. Twenty short and witty texts. Twenty short and witty texts promoting optimistic attitude towards life. Twenty short and witty texts promoting optimistic attitude towards life and advertising the toothpaste. Twenty short and witty texts promoting optimistic attitude towards life and advertising the toothpaste, all of them having a specific off-toothpaste topic. A bit scary, isn’t it? And a bit stupid, too. And now imagine yourself supposed to write three hundred such texts, because that is the amount wanted and expected.
I managed to write around one hundred so far. And I may consider myself an expert specially on: how to quit a job so that everybody loves you, how to seduce a friend from work, how to prepare a splendid coctail party, how to dress for a fast date, how to behave in a natural way, how to… And also on some other issues: wedding rings, mess on your desk, two pairs of shoes for dancing, poker with friends, downtown beauty, power of a good kiss, getting up with your left or right foot first, chaos in your head, wedding in India, New Year’s in New Zealand, and so on. God I had no idea one person can act as an expert in so many fields... Especially me – the person who knows how theatre and not real life works. This is truly amazing. But on the basis of what I’ve gone through, I tell you – it is possible.
One short text is ten zloty (that is around $3,30). So I am not making fortune on all this writing. But it is something. And as a bonus I get a nice portion of happiness and optimism produced by myself. Smile, smile, smile and show me your white teeth – this is the one and only recepee for making the ‘Life is beautiful’ sentence work. Even if you still have around two hundred short texts to write.
What else can I say? I really don’t know, but I am sure that in around half an hour I am gonna be an expert on presents for St. Valentine’s Day, wedding on St. Valentine’s Day, making your colleagues happy on St. Valentine’s Day, as these are the topics I am currently exploring. Yes my friends, the 14th February is really close and I have to be up-to-date. Otherwise all the toothpase fans in Poland will not only stop brushing their teeth but will also have a disastrous St. Valentine’s Day. And we wouldn’t like that, would we? So let’s get to work. Earning $3,30 for a life (and teeth) saving advice :)

_____________________________

Adam here. So now that my darling Patryk has published his first blog, you will have to comment and let us know what you think. Does this fulfill his obligation? Should he start translating toothpaste commercials to english? do you think he is cute? Would you like to marry him for citizenship?

Please let us know what you think. Silent blog-stalkers and first time readers encouraged!

Poland uses veto power.

2007-01-26T19:53:00.000-08:00

Last night I couldn’t sleep, and I decided to write a blog to fill my time. It was posted at around three in the morning, and by five, Patryk had sent me a message requesting that I remove a large portion of it from public eye. My first reaction was that of bitter resentment. Who the hell was he? Why should it matter what I write, even if it does concern him? But this thought was irrational. If he doesn’t want me writing things that involve him it is completely understandable. But he and I already had this conversation of boundaries. I asked him if it was a problem to write certain things. He told me it was fine, and should write anything I wanted to, and people who read it and didn’t like it would just have to deal with it.

This is the second point of contention my blog has created in our relationship. A mutual friend mentioned something about my blog in front of Patryk. He felt betrayed. He had been unaware that I even had a blog, let along people who read it. (hi mom!) He felt that I was leading, in his words, “some kind of double life.” But that was just momentary, and he began reading it, and every time I did something stupid, he would suggest it as a good blog entry. Bastard. But he made it clear he cared not what I wrote, and enjoyed that I had a new activity with which to employ my time. That is until last night.

So my boyfriend vetoed last night’s entry. Fine. Understandable. Not what we had agreed upon, but I am reasonable. Since you have removed one of my entries, now you must replace it with one of your own. This is your challenge: within one week from today, (1-26-07, 19:50 GMT-8) you must write your own blog to replace the one you have taken from me. So, my darling Patryk, if you fail to comply within the time given, the origional blog will be reposted.

And this time, the US holds veto power.

the bravery of men.

2007-01-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

One of my roommates car broke down. So the men in the house helped him push the car up the icy driveway and into the garage so it could be worked on. That is all of the men, save the boy who lives in the closet. (not the metaphorical closet, but the actual closet in the house which he rents for $100 a month.)

Now, I know absolutely nothing about cars. Well, I am not a complete idiot, but fairly close. I can jump start, and change tires, and I know about electricity. I would never consider myself knowledgeable about vehicles, and I would sooner repair my own car as I would rewire a microwave. In both cases I fear more danger of wounding myself or others than I fear any slight on the pride of the manly Mr. Fix-it that I am. So I helped the boys push the car in place then went inside, mentioning that I would help again if unskilled labor was required.

Two hours later I returned to see how things were progressing, and discovered that unskilled labor was the only labor to be had. My knowledge of cars was by no means below par. With a beer in hand, the repairs were conducted by hooking up jumper cables to an already running car, and looking to see where it would make the most smoke. To make it stop smoking, one only needed to hit it a few times (whatever it was) with a monkey wrench to see if it helped. If it didn’t, then the crow bar was used to pry something. More smoke, or sparks meant to stop what you were doing, and pull on or tighten wires.

By the end of the night the carbon monoxide in the garage was a level suggesting departure. It was perfect timing because now the car wouldn’t smoke or spark. It just wouldn’t start. So we decided it was the battery, then went inside.

return to OR, or, dependably co-dependent.

2007-01-10T23:30:00.000-08:00

On myspace, I changed the account location from Eastern Europe to Oregon. What I find interesting is that it automatically changed my height from centimeters into inches, but did not change the local time. What this means for my loyal readers (hi mom!) is that I am back in Portland.

Yes that’s right my friends! I am once again unemployed and living in PDX. Hopefully I will find a job soon, but in the mean time I have discovered an important fact about myself: I need a hobby. I enjoy photography very much, but darkroom costs are not something I want at the moment. Besides, the need for a hobby stems from the fact that I need something social. Once again, my severe case of co-dependence overwhelms me. I want someone to entertain me, and with Patryk on the other side of the pond, he is not able to fill the roll.

This is a common problem with my family. Co-dependence. My sister Allie solved this problem by getting married this New Years Eve. (cheers!) They are both co-dependent, like myself, and find happiness in each other. Always on the others’ hip, Ryan and Allie are content as two content things in close proximity. This Ryan/Allie combination, I now dub Rallie, in the grand tradition of creating one irritating appellation out of two otherwise pleasant forenames.

My other sister Lauren copes with her co-dependence in a different way. She ops for finding a counterpart in science-fiction television. Whenever she needs company she plops in a DVD of her tv show. In one year she has gone through all 11 seasons of Stargate SG1, the entire Firefly series, the entire Farscape series, and is now onto Stargate Atlantis. This solves the immediate problem with dependence, but I fear to tread into this world. I have seen what happens when she makes it through all of the available episodes without a new series to go to. Plus, the fanfiction community is full of weirdos.

So I brace myself, and try to tell myself that unrequited co-dependence is good for my character. Even reading is not the same without someone in the house. There is something comforting about reading a good book with Patryk in the background cooking naked. Well to be honest, he only cooked naked once, and that was by special request. (hi mom!)

the depths of boring.

2006-12-27T09:32:00.000-08:00

I am an incredibly boring person and i fully admit it. those reading this who think otherwise most likely know me from a working relationship, ie: a relationship developed at the work place. it is all part of my master plan. since i rarely have anything to contribute to any social situation besides AWKWARD, i make up for my shortcomings by always trying to stay very busy while doing a job. This way, i can talk a lot about work, with people at work, which also applied to classes while i was still in school. with this simple technique i can fool many people into believing that i am somewhat interesting while we are working on a common project.

and now onto the depths of my boringness.....

i do a lot of sitting. two weeks ago, while sitting, i decided i should invest in new underwear. now, for those of you who are unaware, this is a big commitment. so far in life, the only underwear i have ever owned is underwear almost exclusively found in my stocking christmas morning. that's right, underwear purchased by my mother. not that there is a serious problem with any of the underwear i receive, but there comes a time in ones life when one should not be wearing underoos purchased by mom. and that time might as well be the now.

Patryk helped me get two new pairs of underwear a few weeks ago, that were more fitted and adult style. I wont go as far as to say that they were more of a european style, because to be honest, he is my only frame of reference in that department. but they were a great contrast to the ones mom buys, which are more about the cute animals, or funny sayings that are printed on the boxers. but since i had decided that i was to purchase my own underwear from here on out i realized i needed to decide what type of underwear i wanted to commit to.

This is a decision most people arrive at well before their early-mid-twenties, but i work with what i've got. so i decided to do a little research in to underwear styles. since taking polls would be rather awkward, i did what any member of generation e would do, i looked on the internet. (generation e is the name i have giving my generation. not a part of generation x, or the less publicized generation next, i have decided that growing up in the world of email, etrade, and so on gives us the e title as well. i am using it now in hopes that it will eventually catch on, and that those who read this will remember it was I who coined it.)

where was i? right. undies.

so i went online to research what underwear i wanted to buy. after much deliberation, i decided. the official name for my underwear of choice is: the baskit urban sawed-off brief. which it kind of a low-rise boxer brief, but a bit of no-show trunk as well. if you are not familiar with undergarment jargon i fully understand. until recently such sophisticated terminology was beyond me as well.

now all i have to do is wait for them to arrive by mail. but they were put on back order until after Jan 1. i didn’t realize the urban sawed off brief was in such high demand. but the delay makes me anxious. i was hoping to have them before the new year.

perhaps i am not as boring as i think. but i know of no one else who stresses over such things as the underwear they ordered as a christmas present to themselves being a few days late. but i do my best to keep my anxiety to myself. my sister is getting married in under a week, and the stress level is rising in the house. though still valid, my underwear stress will not be considered on par with the stressors of the rest of my family.

christmas rant.

2006-12-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

As not to confuse anyone, I will begin by informing those who do not know that I am back in the states. My sister is getting married at the end of the month and I refuse to miss a fancy dress party. That said, I will continue on to the topic of this blog. Ahem.

Christmas music makes me want to hurt someone. Now don’t get me wrong here, I love Christmas. And I have nothing against Perry or Bing. But there comes a time when enough is enough. Every radio station is playing the same 20 Christmas songs on a loop 24 hours a day. Perhaps my memory deceives me, but was there not a time when Christmas gradually started rolling in a week after thanksgiving, and fully settled in around the 15th? I remember a few years ago complaining that all of a sudden everything was Christmas the day after thanksgiving. Now stores are full of red and green Santas a full two weeks before turkey day. And the level of Christmas used to gradually grow until the day was finally arrived. Now it hits the ground running, right our of the gates. From dawn till dusk in every store “here comes Santa clause” blasting like cathy lee on Ritalin. Forcing you to continue shopping at a hyper active rate. But God forbid anyone speak up against the insanity, else Fox News declares it a WAR ON CHRISTMAS.

I love this time of year because I can spend quiet evenings at home with my family watching movies and eating good food, with the smell of pine enriching the house, emanating from the dead evergreen in the corner. Hopefully without “the jingle bell rock” crashing through the air waves fourteen times a day. And as I change the channel on the station yet again for the day, I wonder what it would be like to be Jewish this time of year. Which is, by the way, the only time of year when you can bet money on the fact that if you don’t change the station for sixty minutes, you will hear a WAM song without fail. Oh George Michael if only you knew at the time.

cornflakes in the bathroom.

2006-11-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

I can’t sleep. It has been a fairly reliable inconvenience as of late. I have found that after a certain point it is best to stop trying. There are only so many sheep in the world and after you count them all once, it seems no use to give it a second go. So instead, I am eating cornflakes in the bathroom. It really seemed the lost logical place. I feel to guilty to force Patryk to stay awake with me. Again. Our apartment is very small and the kitchen is about six feet from the futon. Or poo-ton, as he calls it. I know some might think it cruel, but there are times I find it much more amusing not to correct him as he blunders through the English language. I feel it would be rude of me to take the enjoyment away from some future native English speaker when Patryk tells them that “it’s fojjy out”, when a heavy fog rolls in. My personal favorite is that for him a biscuit is really a “bisk-wit”. I think it is endearing, and one of the many reasons that make him deserving of a good nights’ sleep. So I quietly eat my cornflakes in the bathroom as not to wake him.

I am told that if you can’t sleep it is because you have something on your mind. Well, for the past hour all I have been able to think of are epilogues. I hate them. I feel for the most part that art should speak for itself. I hate it when artists inform you of what you were to divine from your newly received artistic experience. It reminds me of a show I saw where the program contained a bibliography of the director’s inspirations. Or maybe it doesn’t. I have been known to borrow memories, and I believe that one belongs to my friend Jon. But all the same I believe epilogues do the opposite of what they intend. If the work was good enough the point was already made and extra words at the end, tacked on to make sure you really understood, breaks the flow of it. It rots the mood.

My sister Lauren, before she ever kisses anyone new, first asks them whether they have any orally contractible diseases. Apparently she says it with a great deal of charm, but I am skeptical. That’s gotta rot the mood.

a Saturday afternoon.

2006-11-20T09:43:00.000-08:00

Before I leave the apartment, I remove my Swiss passport from my jacket pocket, and replace it with my American. Though I did not enter this country as an American, if something were to happen today, I would rather have the US Embassy behind me.
As I walk to the city center, things are much quieter than the usual Saturday in our neighborhood. Coming up on one of the main plazas closer to downtown the street has been blocked off, and I take the sidewalk around it. Looking into one of the police vans, I meet eyes with one of the men inside, helmeted and clutching a plastic shield. Riot Police have always reminded me of Storm Troopers.

There are thirteen vans in all, filled with them. They are far away from where the demonstration is taking place, so I figure they must be the reinforcements. Such police presence is not unfamiliar to me. While living in South America riot police were not uncommon. Though it was not an every day occurrence, it was not surprising if burning tires and demonstrations blocked roads and shut down neighborhoods, with troops not far off. But this was not a sight I had seen here yet.

The police are here to keep the order for the Gay Rights protest. Last years’ demonstration got out of hand when gay rights activists met Nazi Skinheads on the streets. From what I understand, police at the time watched idle as Skinheads attacked and threw stones at the protestors, arresting only 29 rights activists for being part of an illegal demonstration. Poland has been warned by the European Union that if it does not improve discrimination on sexual minorities, the EU will revoke voting rights.

Last week while walking home Patryk and I were cursed at and shoved in the street by three men with shaved heads. Shaken by this experience, Patryk has decided not to attend the protest, so I am going alone. Some things are too important to stay home. As I approach the plaza, there is a row of 20 or so police dogs separating the protesters from the spectators on the sidewalk. In the crowd there is little elbow room, but people give the dogs a good two yards of space. I make my way around the dogs, and head to a large group of people who have moved onto a rise of steps where they can better see the mob of banners and protesters across the other side of the plaza.

More riot police are arriving, and a dozen mounted officers ride there horses between the crowd I am in, and the protesters facing us. As I look on, a man pushes past me. He is wearing camouflage pants that tighten around the legs a they tuck into a pair of combat boots. He wears a leather jacket, and a shaved head. Back in the States I used to work in a coffee shop, where many of the customers dressed in a similar manner. There it meant only that the person probably played guitar in a band. Here in Eastern Europe it means something completely different. As I look around me I notice that many people in the mob I am in are similarly dressed. The leader of the mounted policemen yells something into a bull horn as a wall of horses step towards us. The Gay Rights Demonstrators are shouting behind them as they try to make there way to the very steps I am standing on. It has become abundantly clear that I am in the middle of standoff, and very much on the wrong side of if. The mob around shouts loudly in return, as I lower my head and slowly make my way out.

My heart rate slows as I slip past the plastic shields that have been moved in to keep the group contained. As I cross the sidewalk I decide to move into an open area well behind the police lines. There are five or six other people beside me, including a woman with a baby carriage, who have decided this was the safest place to view. Another line of plastic shields has been deployed between us and the crowd I just came from. To the left there is a row of the vans that brought the riot police, and to the right are vans with bars to remove unruly protesters. The few of us on the street corner have placed ourselves well into the Police staging ground. There is no place safer.

Over the next several minutes I watch on as angry words fly on both sides. Abruptly you can hear dogs start barking from across the other side of the plaza. The mounted policemen shout into there bullhorns as they start advancing towards the large mob engulfing the steps. The two rows of troop in front of me are visibly anxious. If anything is going to happen, it will be now. The horses slowly ride into the mob, guarded on our side by the plastic shields, and on the other by dogs. Everyone in tense, and but with a few angry shouts, the mob disperses. As the rainbow banners take the steps, the police pull only one shaved head into the van beside me.

After several minutes of cheers and camera flashes, the news crews focus on the center of the steps and the speeches begin. I stay for a few minutes before heading for home. I don’t speak enough polish to know their words, but I know what is said all the same. The cheers have a much different meaning than those I have heard during gay pride parades at home.
When I make it back to the apartment, I find Patryk on the couch. He had been very worried, and was glad I was home. I turned on the television to see what was on the news. One story dominated all air waves, local news, CNN and BBC. Every one wanted to know what the verdict was: Was the Tom Cruise- Katie Holms wedding really happening today?

conversations with Patryk: dogs

2006-11-17T12:51:00.000-08:00

Adam, what do you think of dogs?

What about them?

I don't know. The idea of them.

Well. I believe in dogs.

I think they are weird. They look at you with human like emotions and they would just as soon eat chocolate as dogshit.

You know Patryk, you are not supposed to give chocolate to dogs.

What? Why is that?

It is really bad for them.

Oh...... maybe this is why my mom's dog died.

My father and subtlety. This town aint big enough….

2006-11-17T12:34:00.000-08:00

My father is very good at what he does. He talks for a living. His job is to make others see his view of the truth is blatantly obvious as the only possible truth. The only problem with this is that he has apparently lost the ability to make his case anything other than blatantly obvious.
Case in point: before moving to another country for an undetermined period of time, my father gave me a collection of books. Three in all. He told me that it was very important that I read them, for they were wonderful novels and every young lad should read them when he comes to this period in life. The unemployed college graduate point in life? The sponge on society point in life? I didn’t ask. But the message was soon clear enough.

I have read two of the three so far, and both of the plots consisted of a young man leaving his family for another county, and upon returning home finds all the ones he loved have died in his absence. In both, the young man has completely missed the opportunity to be with the ones in life who are truly important to him, and he ends up being lost in the world, a foreigner to all he encounters, and bitterly alone.

Gee. Is there something you would like me to divine from these? I love you Dad, but I think I might skip the last one.

communist jars.

2006-11-09T07:22:00.000-08:00

We have a very small kitchen. Counter space is prime real-estate. The main congestion happens when it is time to make dinner and the dishes have not finished drip-drying, and because of the fact that Patryk never puts anything away. He often ruins a bag of sugar by throwing the paper bag on the wet counter, making a soggy, papery, sugary mess.

We also have several empty jars from various used products. I see a very simple solution here. Wet bag vs. glass jar. I purpose removing the sugar from said wet bag, and placing it inside said dry glass jar. Patryk does not like my solution. He does not want sugar in jars. Jars are communist.

What?

Jars are communist things. During communism they put everything in jars, and putting the sugar in a jar reminds me of communism.

So you would rather use capitalist wet bags?

Yes.

******

Now, those of you who are loyal readers will remember well my blog entitled “one lump or two?” where Patryk describes his coffee habits as a backlash of an over oppressive post-communist society. But this time I am not buying it. Sure, communism sucked I will admit that, and since I was raised in the land of capitalist pigs I do not have the same horrifying associations with Marxist storage containers that he does. But it’s a fuckin jar of sugar. And if he was so attached to his capitalist wet bags with bright colored packaging reminding him that there were several sugar purchasing options only limited by what he could afford with money he earned in a free market, then by god he could have cleaned up his own wet-sugar-bag mess. Our sugar, will be jarred.

wet feet and fire hazards.

2006-11-08T06:35:00.000-08:00

As we step off the train in Wroclaw, Patryk speaks loudly into his cell phone. He seems to be aggravated by the conversation, but why, or whom he is talking to I do not know. We left Poznan a few hours ago, and are in Wroclaw to see a show. Patryk is a theatre critic, and was hired by a national magazine to write an article on site-specific theatre productions across the country. So far, this is the third city on our national tour, and although my expenses are not reimbursed as his will be, I join him when I can. It is a good excuse to see more of Poland, and avant-garde theatre.

We head into the terminal, and he ends his call. Apparently it was from the theatre company cancelling the show we had just spent the morning in commute to see. The same thing happened in Krakow after waiting 20 minutes past the expected curtain time. They had technical difficulties. I asked Patryk if they said why the show was cancelled, and he said that it was because it was cold.

Cold? I ask. They are having a show outside in the polish winter and were not expecting it to be cold?

Apparently not. I zip up my non-gay jacket. Well, I am cold right now. And hungry. As Pat checks the schedule for a train home, I look around for something to eat. McDonald’s and KFC are the only restaurants in the terminal. All foreigners think we Americans eat McDonalds all the time. As if it was our traditional food. Last time I had McDonalds in the States it was with Patryk. He wanted to go- I didn’t. but he smiled and said, “But I’m loving it!”, so I caved on account of cuteness. But the point is, McDonald is everywhere here. As it is in every other country I have been to, and I assure you, they eat there far more often than we do. So I find it irritating when I am told it is all we Americans eat. I will take the blame for Starbucks, with no arguments, since the old joke about a coffee shop on every corner is incredibly accurate. In my home town we have TWO Starbucks on the very same block. But it is justified. We need that second Starbuck because of the plush couches it has.

We decide to leave the train station and get food elsewhere and at least see a bit of the city if we have come this far, even if we wont be seeing a play. This is when I briskly step into a puddle, completely soaking my left foot. The good walking shoes I brought to Poland are my river walking shoes, that have a fancy high tech design to let water escape through mesh on the side. Unfortunately when not river walking these shoes do a wonderful job of letting water in through the very same mesh if you happen to be oblivious enough to step into a puddle of almost freezing water. Shit. Hungry, cold, wet feet, and three hours in a train only to turn around and go home. Great day. But we get food, and end up getting another call from the theatre company. Patryk is able to tour the space where the performance would have been, so the trip isn’t a complete bust after all.

On the train ride home, I spend the time thinking about the differences between theatre in the States and Poland for my article. Yes, my article! When in Krakow we met Patryk’s editor, who said that if I was going to all of the shows with Pat, why don’t I write something from an immigrants’ perspective on Polish theatre. It was after a few beers, so I question his Polish sincerity, but there are a few interesting differences. First of which is drunkenness. At two of the three performances we have seen, the actors pass off as much vodka as they can to the audience during the show. Is this typical? Aparently so. Cheers for Polish tradition!

The second is fire hazards. In the states there are conditions as to how many people you can cram into a small space. If you break it, the fire department will shut you down as they did during Willamette’s production of Raised in Captivity, when our set was condemned as a “burning inferno, and audience death trap.” (sorry kay-la la)

One show we saw had seats for 20, but ended up seating about 45. We all shared laps.
Another show I saw was in the back of a Winnebago, where the max capacity for an audience is about 5. There were 12 of us literally stacked on top of each other like the final moments of a game of Jenga. The benefit to having a show in a moving vehicle is that you can hit the gas, and send the audience toppling over each other. Patryk took an elbow to the face, and I got friendly with the lady wedged between my legs. Ah, the intimacy of small audiences.

The third and final difference in Polish theatre tradition I will talk about (this blog is getting long winded) is the curtain call. If the audience likes a play, they show their pleasure by clapping loudly in unison. No joke. It is a very odd feeling, closer to what you hear at a high school pep rally or a beer guzzling competition than in your fancy dress at the theatre. There will also be at least three additional bows at the end. The actors bow, head off stage, run back on and bow. Multiple times. This happens at home as well, if a show gets an overwhelming response and the audience wants another bow. But here, the actors take over. If you don’t stop you clapping in unison immediately and get up and leave, the actors will just keep on running out and bowing again and again and again. But hey, if the audience is drunk on the vodka you gave them, and will be bottlenecked at the door from being over capacity, why the hell not take an extra bow, or five.

While getting off the train back home in Poznan, I try to figure out how to get this all into an article for the most prominent theatre magazine in Poland. Fat chance. I silently hope Patryk’s editor was too drunk to really have meant he wanted an article from me. Then I step in another puddle.

Patryk saw it too.....

2006-10-21T05:26:00.000-07:00

so i was riding the tram to the center today, and sitting near me was a man carrying a purse. now this is a very conservative country, and men do not carry purses, not even the gay ones. But this was distinctly a purse, there was no hiding it. it was blue with flowers. I couldn’t believe it, this old man sitting on the tram was holding a purse. I really try not to stare at people, but i was off to the side and there really was no way he was going to see me gawking, so i gawked away. that is precisely when i realized that is was not an old man carrying a purse, but an old lady with a moustache.

and we are not talking about grandma having a little hair under her lip. (grandma if you are reading this, i do not mean you specifically, you do not have a moustache, but the proverbial grandma little old lady with some chin hair that a person might recognize as a lady who might have facial hair in a reasonable way)

It was dark and bushy. I mean this moustache was better than mine, and the last time i shaved was sometime early last week. This was the kind of moustache that is the envy of teenage boys. you all remember high school, the prepubescent years when there was always that one kid who was able to grow a little facial hair before all of the other boys. the kind of facial hair that is patchy and awkward, that any sane person would shave or at least trim around the edges to make it look somewhat presentable. but if you can grow hair on your face in high school, you let if grow wild and free because each scraggly hair on your face is one more hair of sexual superiority when you are the only one growing it. the others dont realize it is unattractive, just as you dont because no one around you can grow it, but you can. you can.

that is the kind of moustache this woman had. it was a dark and patchy bush beneath her noise that was awkward and misshapen. the kind of facial hair that scott herman grows for those of you who know the reference. not realizing that everyone who sees it wants to pin you down and shave you for the good of society. black with spots of grey, like some bizarre silver fox woman, with the facial hair tinsel strength of wonder womans’ lasso of truth. i half expected to spot a piece of cabbage soup caught in the forest.

will you learn me english?

2006-10-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

so i just my first student. it was the beggining of what i hope will be a profitable venture into the land of private english tutor-ville. although i must say, it was a bit strange. my first students' name is Damien. he is a fourth year engineering student, who wants to pass his english certification in march.

lessons were not quite what i had expected them to be. i spent last night preparing, looking in english grammar books, and preparing a lesson. which we never got to. which is fine. i knew that since i didnt know his level of competence in english i would probably have to wing it, but we didnt go over anything that resembles a lesson. he just wanted to talk. good. that makes sense. if you are hiring a native speaker, it must be because you want to learn native speak. pardon, i mean native speach.

so i just talked to him for an hour. now i am not as bad as others in my family *cough* *allie*, but i hate small talk. i have always been horrible at it. there is a level of selfconciousness that comes with having nothing in common with the person you are talking to that makes me feel, well, selfconcious. but here i am the hired professional for small talk. to i gotta. because i am charging 50 zloty an hour for my casual conversations here. which is around 17 dollars i believe.

now charging someone for the pleasure of my company feel odd. as if i were some strange phone sex operator that didnt even talk dirty to you. conversations about school and pop music, of which i know nothing about, for only 28 cents a minute..... please stay on the line..........

_________________________________

by the way, feel free to point out spelling and gramatical errors. i didnt check it. no need to. i am the expert here.

can we have blue toilet paper like she has?

2006-10-14T07:36:00.000-07:00

there are moments in life when one says something, then questions what it would sound like out of context.

one lump or two?

2006-10-11T11:22:00.000-07:00

Ridicule is how I show my love. It is a trait of my entire family. A sarcastic quip, is as good as an “I love you”, and if you are not mocking your significant other you are not a Saucy. The fact that my boyfriend is currently my only lifeline in a county where I couldn’t even ask for toilet paper if I needed it does not stop me from making fun of him at every opportunity.

Patryk and I went out for coffee. I had a regular coffee, and he had a shot of espresso. Then he proceeded to empty the entire sugar container into his little cup of espresso. I was shocked that such a heap of glucose was able to dissolve in such a small amount of liquid. Without even thinking I said, “Why don’t you have some coffee with your sugar.” That is not even a clever remark; it is the kind of sarcastic statement akin to saying, “NOT!!” after a compliment. But I said it none the less without even realizing it.

Then he got quiet, and told me that communism didn’t fall in Poland until 1989, and before that they could never get sugar or sweets. Now that he can he puts in a lot because it meant so much to him in his childhood to get even a little bit of sugar.

I hate it when he does that.

there is a man under the table.

2006-10-10T04:20:00.000-07:00

I resent small children. This is a realization I came to yesterday. Don’t get me wrong here, I like children, I want children. Not now, but some day. Let me clarify: I resent Polish children. It is in no way their fault, so I cannot hold them in any way responsible for my resentment, and I recognize that is comes completely from my own inadequacy.

Yesterday in the Kiosk there was a small child in front of me. This was one of the stores where everything is behind the counter, and you can’t just grab what you want but instead you must know the word for it and be able to ask. This small child wanted a candy bar, asked for it, paid, and when on his way with his new bit of chocolaty goodness. At this point in my life here this is an accomplishment that is well beyond my current capabilities. When it was my turn at the counter, I made a series of grunts and poorly pronounced words that I had thought were Polish but apparently not. After a few hand gestures and pointing, the candy bar I wanted was placed on the counter. To pay for it I was unable to understand the price, so I held out a palm full of change so that the man could pick through to find the appropriate amount. I know logically that I should not resent the child for the ease in which he received his candy bar for the difficulty which it took to receive mine, but when I five year old is more capable than I am in the world it does hit the pride a bit. Though I am sure that I appreciated the chocolate reward in a deeper way. At least that is what I tell myself.

Polish is a difficult language and I am trying. I have a computer program to help me learn, but it is a slow going progress. My Polish consists of a series of words:

Man
Woman
Boy
Girl
Table
Car
Airplane
Dog
Cat

Then I have a few words to connect my nouns:

Jump
Run
Walk
Dance
Fly
Over
Under

So far is has proven difficult to enter into conversation. Two days ago, we went to the home of someone who had a cat. This was my chance. I knew how to say cat. So I waited…….
Finally my moment came! The cat leaps up onto the table! At that moment I proudly told everyone, “the cat is on the table!” They were very impressed. And with great luck the cat jumped down, and I quickly said, “Cat jumps!” For one brief moment, I was a hit. But it quickly passed and my moment forgotten.

So I continue to wait for such moments when my Polish skills with pay off, but these moments seem few and far between. I can tell you that the girl walks. That there is a man under the table. And my personal favorite: Patryk runs like a woman. But I am not allowed to say that in public.

It's a gay hair cut.

2006-10-09T05:12:00.000-07:00

Poland is cold. I need a heavy coat. And a pair of slippers, but that is another blog. Today I will stick to the coat. Anyway, I have been looking for a good coat that I like and is warm. This is a more difficult process than it may first appear. This is a coat that I will be wearing for a good portion of my days here, so I want it to be one I like a lot. So every time I pass a store window I am looking inside to see if they have what will one day be my winter coat. The problem is that I would like one that does not have a dead animal glued to the hood. I know this may be a lot to ask but I was raised in the northwest and there are a few things we will not do. We will not pump our own gas, and we will not wear fur. I have no problem with others wearing fur if they so choose, and I am not trying to attack Polish fashion, but I find it ridiculous that there is not a hooded coat that does not have fur, or fake fur stapled to it. That said, I have begun to try to understand Polish fashion.
Patryk cuffs his jeans. I haven’t the foggiest why people do this. It happens in the states as well, so we cannot blame Poland. But the man cuffs his jeans. So I started to look for it on others. Low and behold every once in a while there is a well dressed, attractive guy who has his jeans cuffed as well. So I suppose it is safe to trust Patryk’s sense of style here because mine has apparently not adjusted to the time zone.
Later the same day I saw my coat! It is a brown coat that is mid-thigh length, heavy but not fattening, with a fur and fake-fur free hood! I try it on and it fits perfectly! But Patryk’s face does not support my find.
“What’s wrong? Is the coat not good?”
“You don’t want that. It’s a gay coat.”
I quickly remove the coat to check for rainbow patches on the back which I might have missed, but found none.
“What do you mean?”
“The buttons. They are gay looking buttons.”
Besides the fact that I am indeed a homosexual, I have never been one to “flame it up”, no matter what Lauren says. So I put down the furless coat which I had previously thought to have buttons of an ambiguous sexuality back on the rack, and Patryk and I went off to get him a haircut.
I waited patiently while the flamboyantly gay hairdresser cut Patryk’s hair. I guess that stereotype is true in Eastern Europe as well. He might as well have been wearing my coat. When he finished, Patryk’s hair could only be described as a glorified mullet. Short on the front and sides, and fuller on the back and top. Not what I would call attractive by any means, but Pat was thrilled with it. I asked him why he would do such a thing to his head. He told me it was a gay look.
I looked across to the man who just cut his hair. He had the identical cut. I looked down and saw that his jeans were also cuffed.
I think I will go buy that coat after all.

failure to communicate.

2006-10-07T09:02:00.000-07:00

i have come to believe that there are two kinds of Polish people: those who find it amusing when a foreigner does not speak the language, and makes a fool out of himself making hand signals and noises, and those who do not, seeing it more and an un-needed interruption in there otherwise uneventful day.

Case in point- there is a small shop below our apartment. the women there are defiantly part of the second group. the shop is incredibly handy for its closeness. it doesn't have many options when it comes to any single item, but the variety of merchandise is quite impressive given its size. one may purchase chocolates, bread, wine, vodka, pasta, magazines, cigarettes, tampons, eggs, fresh veggies, cheese, milk, pastries, and meat.

the final item is what i was looking to buy. so i did what any self respecting person does when trying to buy pork, but has no idea what the word for pork could be. i squished my nose with my finger and snorted a few times. needless to say, the woman was not amused. she looked as though i were just one more rotten meat ball in her spaghetti bowl of life. but this is something one must expect from life as a foreigner, that if you do something strange it is inevitably the fault of your country, and has nothing to do with your own strange personality.

Luckily there is an actual butchers a few blocks away where the ladies love me. the meat is better, and when i make funny noises they laugh with me. There is a look of sympathy and understanding from behind the hanging sausages, and i take my pork and head home.