First things first...obviously, I survived Amsterdam. Sucks for you, that just means more pointless rambling and thousands of words you never wanted to read in the first place. But here you are anyway because I have a mesmerizing way of making you come back, time and time again, even though you really don't know why you click the link in the first place. Sucker...
My brief thoughts on Amsterdam:
1. It is fucking expensive. I was there for a little over two days and spent well over two hundred Euros and really have nothing to show for it. Before you ask, no – I did not buy a hooker and I did not buy any pot. As far as you know...
Seriously...ridiculously expensive. I also did not have a single drink bought for me...apparently I'm not the kind of guy gay dudes go for...oh well...
2. The easiest way to describe Amsterdam: think of Vegas on meth, coke, and ecstasy and throw in an alcoholic blackout session and you're getting pretty close. Then add hookers. Yep...that's Amsterdam.
3. Walking around Amsterdam was very confusing for me in many ways.
- First, there are so many fucking canals it makes it nearly impossible to know where you are without a map. Even with a map, it's pretty fucking difficult (as I found out Saturday night/Sunday morning) and as soon as the destination is in sight, it's like a ray of sunshine and rainbows and boners. I can't tell you how happy I was when I finally made it to the hostel on Sunday morning...I nearly wept because I was so happy after being lost for as long as I was.
- Second, that city is a total mind fuck for a man (or, let's face it...boy masquerading as man) because of the sheer amount of prostitutes in the red light district. Walking down a street or an alley is simply mind-boggling because of the nature of the profession. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. Countless women standing in doorways showing off as much as possible in order to get you to drop your pants and what I can only assume is an obscene amount of money.
Between them knocking on the inside of the glass to get attention, the “come hither” finger curl, and the “fuck me” eyes, my mind could simply not process it. Call me old fashioned, but it takes more than a skimpy outfit, a sexy look and money exchanging hands to get this kid's attention. Okay, not much more...but still – a guy's got his principles. One of those principles just happens to be not paying for sex.
Enough about Amsterdam...I survived in one piece and of relative sound body/mind – just a little light in the wallet. It's vacation...that will happen.
Dammit! I always fucking do this...I totally had something else to write about after I was done with Amsterdam. Oh, got it!
London Riots:
Again, I lost what I wanted to say...I swear it was pointless and redundant, but I guess you'll just have to settle for me randomly rambling again. Basically, the riots aren't near the area I'm in at all and everywhere closed early because there were rumors of the riots coming near Old Street. Which resulted in my gym closing early, which in turn resulted in me being not happy and unfulfilled.
I really don't know what I'm talking about, but for what it's worth, it's really stupid that something like this has spun so out of control. I understand the reason for getting so pissed (for those who don't know, read the news instead of hearing my unsubstantiated claims) but it simply escalated to the point where the police could not handle it. Which made it spin even further out of control. Also, the looters and people setting the fires are complete fucks...we don't live in Columbus, Ohio, people.
Anyway, I'm pretty much done here, so do whatever you want now.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
This Might Be My Last Post
Okay, kids...this might be my last post.
Before you get all teary eyed from sheer joy in never having to suffer through my ramblings again, I feel like I should explain. Tomorrow will begin my last trip in Europe as I have less than twenty days left in the UK. Since I have precisely zero days of vacation left and am rapidly running out of the pitiful stipend this company pays on a monthly basis, I simply don't have the time, finances or patience for any more visits to European countries. Therefore, it was decided a few weeks ago that my last trip this year would be to Amsterdam, Netherlands.
The reason this might be my last post ever is because I'm fully expecting to die this weekend. We leave tomorrow morning and are scheduled to return Monday evening, but I'm fully expecting to miss my return flight since I'll be dead. I have heard many stories about Amsterdam, but almost all of them involve painful amounts of alcohol and some other stuff as well. Before we continue, I feel like I should make one thing clear: I am not going to Amsterdam because a certain substance is widely rumored to be legal there. In fact, I have a very negative attitude toward this substance. I have never been interested in it and I don't think it's “cool” to brag about how high you are or have been in the past. This might be a surprise to some, but for those of you who know me, it really shouldn't be since I'm usually quite vocal in my opinion (shocking, I know). The reason I'm going is because I want my last trip to be as fun as possible and this seems like the right city to end on. Not only that, but I feel it would be socially irresponsible of me to be this close in proximity and not make a visit. It just seems...I don't know...it seems like you kinda have to go.
So why am I going to die? I don't really know...I just feel like it's a probability. I have no evidence to support my premonition much like the majority of my feelings and thoughts, but I feel like I have a pretty decent track record of my predictions. Ok, probably alcohol poisoning. Happy? So here we are, mere hours from my death...and I feel like I've given life a pretty decent ride. If it ends here, I'm good with it...I've done a lot and I can't point to anything I would say I regret, so I feel like that's a solid indicator of a good time.
On a side note, I was recently informed this weekend is gay pride weekend in Amsterdam (not that there's anything wrong with that), so that tidbit should make it even more interesting. Much like the majority of men in this world, I have never been in the circumstance where a woman who was interested in sexing me up buy drinks all night in an effort to seal the deal. As we all know, this is the man's job. That being said, I'm not above accepting some free drinks to make up for the hundreds (okay, dozens) of drinks I've bought for women in unsuccessful efforts to make me a tiny bit more attractive (let's be honest here, you can't polish a turd). Let me be clear here: I'm not expecting people to buy me drinks because that would be narcissistic and completely out of character (haha...riiight), but I will accept them without question. Before you get all judgmental, let's explore this for a bit. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this sentence come out of a woman's mouth:
“He's buying me drinks, so of course I'm going to keep talking to him. What? Sleep with him? Haha...don't be silly.”
Yes, I realize how sexist it sounds. No, I don't care. Because it's absolutely accurate. And none of you can dispute it. It's a widely accepted fact that men buy women drinks because they want to get down. If women have a problem with it, stop taking free drinks from strange men. Whoa...when did this get so serious? Ok...think of a dick joke...quick! Shit...I'm all out.
Anyway, due to the dubious amounts of alcohol I'm expecting to consume in the next 72 hours, along with the sheer dumbassery I expect to partake in, I pretty much expect to die. My liver will give out, my kidneys will quit on me, or I might get stabbed in the neck. Either way, I fully expect my clock to expire thus negating the rest of my travel plans and life expectancy. Like I said, it was a fun ride...and I very much appreciate all two of you who shared this experience with me.
By the way, in case anyone asks: Don't waste your money on a funeral or any bullshit like that. Just throw a gigantic kegger and pour one out for your ol' buddy Rufus. Oh, and Justin too...he'd like that. Also, make sure to hire The Used to play the wake...they might need the gig.
Later, fuckers...it's been real.
Before you get all teary eyed from sheer joy in never having to suffer through my ramblings again, I feel like I should explain. Tomorrow will begin my last trip in Europe as I have less than twenty days left in the UK. Since I have precisely zero days of vacation left and am rapidly running out of the pitiful stipend this company pays on a monthly basis, I simply don't have the time, finances or patience for any more visits to European countries. Therefore, it was decided a few weeks ago that my last trip this year would be to Amsterdam, Netherlands.
The reason this might be my last post ever is because I'm fully expecting to die this weekend. We leave tomorrow morning and are scheduled to return Monday evening, but I'm fully expecting to miss my return flight since I'll be dead. I have heard many stories about Amsterdam, but almost all of them involve painful amounts of alcohol and some other stuff as well. Before we continue, I feel like I should make one thing clear: I am not going to Amsterdam because a certain substance is widely rumored to be legal there. In fact, I have a very negative attitude toward this substance. I have never been interested in it and I don't think it's “cool” to brag about how high you are or have been in the past. This might be a surprise to some, but for those of you who know me, it really shouldn't be since I'm usually quite vocal in my opinion (shocking, I know). The reason I'm going is because I want my last trip to be as fun as possible and this seems like the right city to end on. Not only that, but I feel it would be socially irresponsible of me to be this close in proximity and not make a visit. It just seems...I don't know...it seems like you kinda have to go.
So why am I going to die? I don't really know...I just feel like it's a probability. I have no evidence to support my premonition much like the majority of my feelings and thoughts, but I feel like I have a pretty decent track record of my predictions. Ok, probably alcohol poisoning. Happy? So here we are, mere hours from my death...and I feel like I've given life a pretty decent ride. If it ends here, I'm good with it...I've done a lot and I can't point to anything I would say I regret, so I feel like that's a solid indicator of a good time.
On a side note, I was recently informed this weekend is gay pride weekend in Amsterdam (not that there's anything wrong with that), so that tidbit should make it even more interesting. Much like the majority of men in this world, I have never been in the circumstance where a woman who was interested in sexing me up buy drinks all night in an effort to seal the deal. As we all know, this is the man's job. That being said, I'm not above accepting some free drinks to make up for the hundreds (okay, dozens) of drinks I've bought for women in unsuccessful efforts to make me a tiny bit more attractive (let's be honest here, you can't polish a turd). Let me be clear here: I'm not expecting people to buy me drinks because that would be narcissistic and completely out of character (haha...riiight), but I will accept them without question. Before you get all judgmental, let's explore this for a bit. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this sentence come out of a woman's mouth:
“He's buying me drinks, so of course I'm going to keep talking to him. What? Sleep with him? Haha...don't be silly.”
Yes, I realize how sexist it sounds. No, I don't care. Because it's absolutely accurate. And none of you can dispute it. It's a widely accepted fact that men buy women drinks because they want to get down. If women have a problem with it, stop taking free drinks from strange men. Whoa...when did this get so serious? Ok...think of a dick joke...quick! Shit...I'm all out.
Anyway, due to the dubious amounts of alcohol I'm expecting to consume in the next 72 hours, along with the sheer dumbassery I expect to partake in, I pretty much expect to die. My liver will give out, my kidneys will quit on me, or I might get stabbed in the neck. Either way, I fully expect my clock to expire thus negating the rest of my travel plans and life expectancy. Like I said, it was a fun ride...and I very much appreciate all two of you who shared this experience with me.
By the way, in case anyone asks: Don't waste your money on a funeral or any bullshit like that. Just throw a gigantic kegger and pour one out for your ol' buddy Rufus. Oh, and Justin too...he'd like that. Also, make sure to hire The Used to play the wake...they might need the gig.
Later, fuckers...it's been real.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Alcohol + Awkward Situations = Hilarity
Holy shit! Two posts in three days?! Yep...better watch out, this might become a regular thing...and then you're all fucked.
Really, this shouldn't be a shock to anyone, but I've been drinking again (gasp!) and I have some thoughts on what just happened in the previous 6 hours. For the dense folks in the crowd (and new readers...could it be?!), the past 11+ months have seen me in an entirely different country than I am used to, living in London, UK (I swear, it's not a brag...this place kind of sucks) and working at an investment bank (sounds way more prestigious than it really is) while scraping a living and counting my pennies to survive. Tonight marked the celebration known cleverly as “leaving dinner” for the program I'm involved with and will be the last time I see or speak to 90% of the people I've come to loathe for the last year-ish of my life.
The point of this entire entry is the wonderful powers of alcohol. Inserted in the right situation (read: any) and consumed in moderation (excess), it makes nearly every situation tolerable. I had every intention of skipping this dinner since I have almost zero desire to see anyone in this program again, but I was persuaded otherwise by the promise of free booze. Turns out, the free booze was shitty wine (which I absolutely hate) and the only other option was a “half price” happy hour which featured prices one would only encounter in strip clubs of the classiest design. A regular bottle of beer cost a stout 2.40 GBP (roughly 4.00 USD) at half price. You're goddamn right I went straight for the wine with a hard and heavy fury.
Now, granted I'm pretty well off at this point, and there are a few people I do actually enjoy hanging out with who are scattered about...but for the most part I want nothing to do with anyone at this entire gathering. Don't try telling this to Rufus (my blacked out counterpart) because he's a fucking social butterfly. Just in case you're keeping track, a handful beers along with a few glasses of wine with no food equals Rufus. He doesn't give a fuck about anyone and will say any and everything that comes to his pretty little head. Suffice to say I had a bit of fun tonight with ol' Rufus' help and I can't imagine a scenario where they'll be sorry to see me go. The feeling is most definitely mutual at this point.
Now that I'm a few paragraphs into this entry, I forget what I was meaning to say. I don't remember saying anything in particular that would have pissed anyone off or that was especially inappropriate (unfortunately), but I do remember spending way too much money on overpriced alcohol. Those last few sentences make me sad...what good is a night out without multiple people absolutely infuriated with you over something you may not remember?
The lesson here is simple, as always: alcohol + horrible people + awkward situations = hilarity. Follow that simple formula and you can never go wrong. Trust me...would I lie to you?
Really, this shouldn't be a shock to anyone, but I've been drinking again (gasp!) and I have some thoughts on what just happened in the previous 6 hours. For the dense folks in the crowd (and new readers...could it be?!), the past 11+ months have seen me in an entirely different country than I am used to, living in London, UK (I swear, it's not a brag...this place kind of sucks) and working at an investment bank (sounds way more prestigious than it really is) while scraping a living and counting my pennies to survive. Tonight marked the celebration known cleverly as “leaving dinner” for the program I'm involved with and will be the last time I see or speak to 90% of the people I've come to loathe for the last year-ish of my life.
The point of this entire entry is the wonderful powers of alcohol. Inserted in the right situation (read: any) and consumed in moderation (excess), it makes nearly every situation tolerable. I had every intention of skipping this dinner since I have almost zero desire to see anyone in this program again, but I was persuaded otherwise by the promise of free booze. Turns out, the free booze was shitty wine (which I absolutely hate) and the only other option was a “half price” happy hour which featured prices one would only encounter in strip clubs of the classiest design. A regular bottle of beer cost a stout 2.40 GBP (roughly 4.00 USD) at half price. You're goddamn right I went straight for the wine with a hard and heavy fury.
Now, granted I'm pretty well off at this point, and there are a few people I do actually enjoy hanging out with who are scattered about...but for the most part I want nothing to do with anyone at this entire gathering. Don't try telling this to Rufus (my blacked out counterpart) because he's a fucking social butterfly. Just in case you're keeping track, a handful beers along with a few glasses of wine with no food equals Rufus. He doesn't give a fuck about anyone and will say any and everything that comes to his pretty little head. Suffice to say I had a bit of fun tonight with ol' Rufus' help and I can't imagine a scenario where they'll be sorry to see me go. The feeling is most definitely mutual at this point.
Now that I'm a few paragraphs into this entry, I forget what I was meaning to say. I don't remember saying anything in particular that would have pissed anyone off or that was especially inappropriate (unfortunately), but I do remember spending way too much money on overpriced alcohol. Those last few sentences make me sad...what good is a night out without multiple people absolutely infuriated with you over something you may not remember?
The lesson here is simple, as always: alcohol + horrible people + awkward situations = hilarity. Follow that simple formula and you can never go wrong. Trust me...would I lie to you?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Rules Don't Apply to Bicyclists
Okay, we're starting this way off topic, but my elation was just at a daily high and then squashed in the span of three minutes. What I was going to start this entry with was something along the lines of: “in this moment of time, for me, there are few things that make me happier than walking into a roommate-less flat.” For approximately three to four minutes, I was bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet like a spastic rapper at the thought that right now I am alone in this residence. Sweet, intoxicating solitude...but alas, it was not to last. Not ten seconds after I sit down to write this entry, one of the roommates struts in to ruin my happiness. Oh well...there's always hope for tomorrow.
Now, on to the meat of this entry: I hate bicyclists. I'm not exactly sure where I first heard this little anecdote, and I'm probably totally butchering it (I'm para-phrasing, here), but here it is: in regards to usage of roads and sidewalks, motorists hate pedestrians, pedestrians hate motorists, but fucking everybody hates bicyclists. If anyone knows exactly where this came from, let me know so I can properly credit this person/entity.
Anyway, from what I can tell, the rules do not apply to bicyclists in London. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about bicycle laws in this city or country. However, I'm pretty sure there are rules about running red lights, cycling in the middle of the road, cycling on the sidewalk, going down the wrong way of a one-way street, etc. I have seen each and every one of these instances on a daily basis on my walk to or home from work. I only know one person who cycles on a regular basis (I'm not sure he reads this, but I'm calling you out, Smitty), and I don't know if he follows the rules of the bicycle code, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Aside from the aforementioned friend of mine: fuck you, bicyclists...fuck you.
As with everything that happens on this page, a story prompted this entry. So here it is: while walking back from the gym tonight, I find my normal path through the graveyard has been closed off (early, I might add – you fuckers) so I end up taking the alternate route. As I'm crossing the street in a heavily construction affected area, I'm nearly completely decimated by some fuck-face cyclist. Now, here's where I would normally say “it totally wasn't my fault; that guy's a prick,” but I'm not going to say it. I might be completely at fault here, I don't know. I had my ear-phones in and turned up to “I'm definitely going to be deaf later in life” volume so I probably didn't hear his stupid fucking bell that all riders have (I'm so jealous though...I want one for walking so people get out of my damn way) to warn pedestrians they're about to fuck their world up. Also, I failed to look to my right to check for on-coming traffic because I was lazy and stupid. Basically, if this guy would have plowed his bike into me, I pretty much deserved it.
At this point you should be asking yourself one question: why is this guy a fuck-face? The answer, dear reader is the same reason why I'm taking partial blame here: I don't know the rules for cyclists, so I just assume he was breaking them. Here are the facts: I could be (read: probably) wrong, but last I checked, you're not allowed to drive the wrong way down a one-way street right in the middle of the fucker. Maybe cyclists are immune to that little-known rule. Also, after he nearly took my leg off with his front fender, he did not stop and say anything...nothing at all. If it were me on the cycle, I believe I would have stopped and apologized profusely even if it were not my fault. The least I would do is stop to make sure the person is okay and not having a fucking heart attack from their brush with near death. Not only did this guy not stop and see if I was mid-coronary, but he flipped me the bird while simultaneously pointing to his head profusely as if to say “get the fuck out of my way you dumb-shit pedestrian. I'm on a bike, you should know better than to get in my way because I ALWAYS have right of way.” At least that's what he said in my head. It may not have even been the middle finger...he could have just been pointing to his ear implying that I shouldn't listen to my music so loud or I could get destroyed by a cyclist. I don't care, I prefer the former. He's a dick.
However, after I got over my near bone-crippling encounter, I starting thinking about how awesome it would be if I was actually hit by that guy. I have nineteen days left on this continent and have yet to be injured in a way that would require a hospital visit. With less than three weeks left, it would be sweet, pure hilarity that I would probably, at the very least, have a broken bone or two after making it through the year relatively in-tact. I can see the headline now:
Stupid American forced revered British citizen to hit him with his bicycle. The cyclist is alive and well; we think the American is still in the road somewhere.
Okay, that's a long headline, but can't you just see it? I can...
Anyway, I'm done with the cyclist. I don't like him, he doesn't like me...but I'm pretty sure neither of us know the actual laws of cycling.
Side note: I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but have you ever noticed people with baby strollers can do whatever the fuck they want with no repercussions? Next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention to what they do and how little regard they have for others around them. I've seen this phenomenon in three separate countries, so you can't tell me it's just an American or British thing. The only example I have right now is what happened after that dick on the bike almost shattered my pelvis. Going down yet another construction riddled road (they're getting ready for the Olympics, so I'll allow it), a woman with a stroller and two kids in tow sees me coming up a very narrow sidewalk and busts it in there right before I get to her sidewalk entrance point. The next fifty feet are spent weaving back and forth looking for an opening like the driving scene with Borat and Will Ferrell in Talladega Nights. Zero regard for strangers...because she has a stroller. Seriously – next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention. I promise you won't be disappointed.
As always, questions/comments – you know what to do. I have seriously been lacking in responding, so my apologies. I promise I'll do better.
Now, on to the meat of this entry: I hate bicyclists. I'm not exactly sure where I first heard this little anecdote, and I'm probably totally butchering it (I'm para-phrasing, here), but here it is: in regards to usage of roads and sidewalks, motorists hate pedestrians, pedestrians hate motorists, but fucking everybody hates bicyclists. If anyone knows exactly where this came from, let me know so I can properly credit this person/entity.
Anyway, from what I can tell, the rules do not apply to bicyclists in London. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about bicycle laws in this city or country. However, I'm pretty sure there are rules about running red lights, cycling in the middle of the road, cycling on the sidewalk, going down the wrong way of a one-way street, etc. I have seen each and every one of these instances on a daily basis on my walk to or home from work. I only know one person who cycles on a regular basis (I'm not sure he reads this, but I'm calling you out, Smitty), and I don't know if he follows the rules of the bicycle code, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Aside from the aforementioned friend of mine: fuck you, bicyclists...fuck you.
As with everything that happens on this page, a story prompted this entry. So here it is: while walking back from the gym tonight, I find my normal path through the graveyard has been closed off (early, I might add – you fuckers) so I end up taking the alternate route. As I'm crossing the street in a heavily construction affected area, I'm nearly completely decimated by some fuck-face cyclist. Now, here's where I would normally say “it totally wasn't my fault; that guy's a prick,” but I'm not going to say it. I might be completely at fault here, I don't know. I had my ear-phones in and turned up to “I'm definitely going to be deaf later in life” volume so I probably didn't hear his stupid fucking bell that all riders have (I'm so jealous though...I want one for walking so people get out of my damn way) to warn pedestrians they're about to fuck their world up. Also, I failed to look to my right to check for on-coming traffic because I was lazy and stupid. Basically, if this guy would have plowed his bike into me, I pretty much deserved it.
At this point you should be asking yourself one question: why is this guy a fuck-face? The answer, dear reader is the same reason why I'm taking partial blame here: I don't know the rules for cyclists, so I just assume he was breaking them. Here are the facts: I could be (read: probably) wrong, but last I checked, you're not allowed to drive the wrong way down a one-way street right in the middle of the fucker. Maybe cyclists are immune to that little-known rule. Also, after he nearly took my leg off with his front fender, he did not stop and say anything...nothing at all. If it were me on the cycle, I believe I would have stopped and apologized profusely even if it were not my fault. The least I would do is stop to make sure the person is okay and not having a fucking heart attack from their brush with near death. Not only did this guy not stop and see if I was mid-coronary, but he flipped me the bird while simultaneously pointing to his head profusely as if to say “get the fuck out of my way you dumb-shit pedestrian. I'm on a bike, you should know better than to get in my way because I ALWAYS have right of way.” At least that's what he said in my head. It may not have even been the middle finger...he could have just been pointing to his ear implying that I shouldn't listen to my music so loud or I could get destroyed by a cyclist. I don't care, I prefer the former. He's a dick.
However, after I got over my near bone-crippling encounter, I starting thinking about how awesome it would be if I was actually hit by that guy. I have nineteen days left on this continent and have yet to be injured in a way that would require a hospital visit. With less than three weeks left, it would be sweet, pure hilarity that I would probably, at the very least, have a broken bone or two after making it through the year relatively in-tact. I can see the headline now:
Stupid American forced revered British citizen to hit him with his bicycle. The cyclist is alive and well; we think the American is still in the road somewhere.
Okay, that's a long headline, but can't you just see it? I can...
Anyway, I'm done with the cyclist. I don't like him, he doesn't like me...but I'm pretty sure neither of us know the actual laws of cycling.
Side note: I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but have you ever noticed people with baby strollers can do whatever the fuck they want with no repercussions? Next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention to what they do and how little regard they have for others around them. I've seen this phenomenon in three separate countries, so you can't tell me it's just an American or British thing. The only example I have right now is what happened after that dick on the bike almost shattered my pelvis. Going down yet another construction riddled road (they're getting ready for the Olympics, so I'll allow it), a woman with a stroller and two kids in tow sees me coming up a very narrow sidewalk and busts it in there right before I get to her sidewalk entrance point. The next fifty feet are spent weaving back and forth looking for an opening like the driving scene with Borat and Will Ferrell in Talladega Nights. Zero regard for strangers...because she has a stroller. Seriously – next time you're around someone with a stroller, pay attention. I promise you won't be disappointed.
As always, questions/comments – you know what to do. I have seriously been lacking in responding, so my apologies. I promise I'll do better.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Get Over Yourself Already
It's been a while...too long, in fact. I've had a fuck of a day thus far, but you know what? Let's play “story time” because I have one to tell and you're bored enough to read it.
Fair warning: I've had a few drinks (of the alcohol nature – gasp!) and this might come across as a little more aggressive than I intend...but for those of you who have read before, it really shouldn't be anything new. So, without any further ado, the story of the night:
I went out for drinks with some co-workers tonight because a fairly important person was in London doing some business that has something vaguely related to a process I perform on a daily basis. Fine by me, I'm all about free drinks and making an ass out of myself after ingesting a few adult beverages. Prior to embarking on this adventurous evening, I was slightly nervous because this person could potentially have some kind of impact on my career in the future since he works in New York and has a little pull in who gets hired and who does not. I was naively thinking since I am one of five or six people in the entire world who know how to do this process, this person might have some interest in keeping my services at the company I currently work. It became extremely obvious early in the evening this would not be the case because there are very few positions available in the US, especially in my given area of “expertise.”
So, here we are a few drinks into the night (compliments of mystery NY man, thankyouverymuch) and I have yet to eat a single morsel of real food since lunch and the stories are flowing like a freshly discovered period. The people in attendance are Mystery NY man, two co-workers, and my boss's boss. At some point, Mystery NY man tells a story about his recent adventures on the tube (London's underground subway system for the slow people in the crowd) and how he was sweating balls carrying his unnecessary luggage around. Eventually, a random stranger (is there any other kind?) offered him a seat as he can be considered an older gent and might require a rest as to avoid a coronary. This prompts me to recall a story where something similar happened a few months prior involving an older (but not really that older) man when I was cursing myself for riding the tube back from Heathrow (fucking again) after depositing yet another visitor in the safe hands of Overpriced Airline.
I begin my story by saying I'm riding the tube back from Heathrow and some random woman notices a middle-aged man who might look like he's having a little trouble standing. Upon noticing middle-aged man, she turns to me (earphones in and turned up to near ear-bleeding status and reading a book) and tells me I should give up my seat because he looks like he might need it. As I'm recounting my story, I reference my boss saying “this guy was young, probably middle-aged like you” and didn't seem like he needed any charity in me giving up my seat. Not for nothing, but if this woman was so concerned about this guy sitting down, why not give up your own damn seat, you selfish bitch? End of story...except not really. Apparently “middle-aged” isn't a term thrown around lightly as my boss seemed fairly disturbed and potentially offended by the categorization.
As far as I know, my boss is late 30s and has a few fuck trophies (kids) as well. Let me ask you, dear reader...what would you consider “middle-aged?” From what I can tell, middle-aged is mid to late thiries to mid to late forties. Am I wrong? Please tell me...I beg you...I implore you...if I'm wrong – do tell. Give me a viable definition that tells me I'm incorrect in my assessment and I will walk into work tomorrow (or more likely Monday) and sincerely apologize to my boss for calling him such a dirty word.
As you can well imagine, the rest of the evening was spent telling stories with the preface of “Well, since I'm middle-aged” and “Oh, I can't do that anymore since I'm middle-aged.” Fuck. You. Get over yourself already. People get old...you're not special. Just because you're clinging onto your last semblance of hope of being considered “young” does not mean you are. Why not throw on some Dickies and a Quicksilver shirty with a flat-billed fifty-nine fifty Dodgers hat while you're at it? When I'm 40 and employing little shitheads such as myself and buying them drinks since they can't afford it themselves, I expect to be called old because I fucking am.
Do me a favor, readers (all two of you), if I ever lose what small sense of humor I have, especially if it involves me being old as fuck all, just kill me. Take a shotgun and blast me in the face. You'd be doing everyone a favor and you have my personal guarantee I will not press charges. Because when we lose our funny, we might as well be dead anyway...
I'll probably regret posting this tomorrow (whatever, at the end of the day, we're all attention whores anyway) but fuck it...it's written and I haven't posted anything in a while. Plus my last 15 posts have been depressing as shit anyway, so here's a little light hearted post to let you know your life is and always will be better than mine.
Questions? Comments? You know what to do...
Fair warning: I've had a few drinks (of the alcohol nature – gasp!) and this might come across as a little more aggressive than I intend...but for those of you who have read before, it really shouldn't be anything new. So, without any further ado, the story of the night:
I went out for drinks with some co-workers tonight because a fairly important person was in London doing some business that has something vaguely related to a process I perform on a daily basis. Fine by me, I'm all about free drinks and making an ass out of myself after ingesting a few adult beverages. Prior to embarking on this adventurous evening, I was slightly nervous because this person could potentially have some kind of impact on my career in the future since he works in New York and has a little pull in who gets hired and who does not. I was naively thinking since I am one of five or six people in the entire world who know how to do this process, this person might have some interest in keeping my services at the company I currently work. It became extremely obvious early in the evening this would not be the case because there are very few positions available in the US, especially in my given area of “expertise.”
So, here we are a few drinks into the night (compliments of mystery NY man, thankyouverymuch) and I have yet to eat a single morsel of real food since lunch and the stories are flowing like a freshly discovered period. The people in attendance are Mystery NY man, two co-workers, and my boss's boss. At some point, Mystery NY man tells a story about his recent adventures on the tube (London's underground subway system for the slow people in the crowd) and how he was sweating balls carrying his unnecessary luggage around. Eventually, a random stranger (is there any other kind?) offered him a seat as he can be considered an older gent and might require a rest as to avoid a coronary. This prompts me to recall a story where something similar happened a few months prior involving an older (but not really that older) man when I was cursing myself for riding the tube back from Heathrow (fucking again) after depositing yet another visitor in the safe hands of Overpriced Airline.
I begin my story by saying I'm riding the tube back from Heathrow and some random woman notices a middle-aged man who might look like he's having a little trouble standing. Upon noticing middle-aged man, she turns to me (earphones in and turned up to near ear-bleeding status and reading a book) and tells me I should give up my seat because he looks like he might need it. As I'm recounting my story, I reference my boss saying “this guy was young, probably middle-aged like you” and didn't seem like he needed any charity in me giving up my seat. Not for nothing, but if this woman was so concerned about this guy sitting down, why not give up your own damn seat, you selfish bitch? End of story...except not really. Apparently “middle-aged” isn't a term thrown around lightly as my boss seemed fairly disturbed and potentially offended by the categorization.
As far as I know, my boss is late 30s and has a few fuck trophies (kids) as well. Let me ask you, dear reader...what would you consider “middle-aged?” From what I can tell, middle-aged is mid to late thiries to mid to late forties. Am I wrong? Please tell me...I beg you...I implore you...if I'm wrong – do tell. Give me a viable definition that tells me I'm incorrect in my assessment and I will walk into work tomorrow (or more likely Monday) and sincerely apologize to my boss for calling him such a dirty word.
As you can well imagine, the rest of the evening was spent telling stories with the preface of “Well, since I'm middle-aged” and “Oh, I can't do that anymore since I'm middle-aged.” Fuck. You. Get over yourself already. People get old...you're not special. Just because you're clinging onto your last semblance of hope of being considered “young” does not mean you are. Why not throw on some Dickies and a Quicksilver shirty with a flat-billed fifty-nine fifty Dodgers hat while you're at it? When I'm 40 and employing little shitheads such as myself and buying them drinks since they can't afford it themselves, I expect to be called old because I fucking am.
Do me a favor, readers (all two of you), if I ever lose what small sense of humor I have, especially if it involves me being old as fuck all, just kill me. Take a shotgun and blast me in the face. You'd be doing everyone a favor and you have my personal guarantee I will not press charges. Because when we lose our funny, we might as well be dead anyway...
I'll probably regret posting this tomorrow (whatever, at the end of the day, we're all attention whores anyway) but fuck it...it's written and I haven't posted anything in a while. Plus my last 15 posts have been depressing as shit anyway, so here's a little light hearted post to let you know your life is and always will be better than mine.
Questions? Comments? You know what to do...
Saturday, June 25, 2011
You Can't Get the Pretty Without the Boom
When I left you last, I was on the cusp of welcoming the entire family to London for an entire week of visit-related fun. I really don't have much to say about it other than it went as near to what I expected as possible and I think it's safe to say we're all glad to be back to whatever level of normalcy can be expected from our daily lives. Without going into much detail, there were a lot of fun times, some yelling, a lot of annoyance, but overall a successful visit, especially since everyone made it out alive. If you want stories, ask someone who was there to give the top three moments (they're probably all the same) and I'm sure they'll have no problem giving their version of what happened...myself included. That's about all I have to say about that...
Anyway, other than the family trip, things have been fairly hectic for me as well. After finding out the work offer had been revoked (I swear, the last time I'll mention it), I started my own job search with a frantic quality only seen in meth addicts. In the last few weeks, I have secured my very own recruiter based in Chicago and New York, my bosses have massaged a few leads (also in those cities), I have acquired a UBS lead in Chicago, applications/resumes/CVs have been feverishly sent to nearly thirty jobs in about a half dozen companies in four or five cities in the States. As you would probably expect, I have yet to hear from anyone regarding an interview or even the slightest interest in my services. Insert the normal excuses about the job market, timing, relocation costs, etc...but I do realize I have a few months here still and shouldn't really be worried too much..at least not yet. But the word “yet.”
Lets get away from the boring job stuff now and talk about something more fun...or at least what I would consider fun. The last few weeks have seen me in more different countries than probably the last 8 months combined, which is nice and also annoying at the same time. It may sound strange, but I'm not really the biggest fan of traveling...at all. It just seems more of a hassle than anything and I enjoy my comforts of home entirely too much to leave them very often. However, as I now only have a limited time over here, I feel like I have to take advantage of it by going as many places as possible in the next few weeks before the job search consumes my entire thought process. As a result, a few weeks ago I went to Poland and the Czech Republic over a long bank holiday weekend and last night I just returned from Spain. A few highlights of each place:
Prague, CZ: I was in both Prague and Krakow for a few days over the last bank holiday weekend with two of my flatmates, Art and Brian. We left on a Thursday afternoon getting into Prague around 10PM. Upon arrival of the hostel, we discover there is a bar located on the ground floor where we sampled the local offerings almost immediately. Another member of our program had been in Prague for a day earlier and we met up with him near the bar area. About a half hour later, Brian was scanning the bar when he turns to Art and me and says he recognizes a few of the girls from the end of the bar. Turns out, a few girls he went to college with in Texas were randomly in Prague the same weekend we were and two of them are doing a study abroad program for a master's type degree, or maybe the CZ equivalent. Naturally, we end up meeting them at another bar later on where all kinds of madness ensues, especially since the Czech Koruna is an extremely weak currency compared to the British Pound, meaning a beer at a higher end bar/club is about the equivalent of a pound and a half. Madness indeed...
The next night we partake in a bar crawl which starts at our hostel, takes us to one of the same bars we were at the night before along with three others. On the crawl, we meet a multitude of people, many being from the US on vacation. Side note: casual readers of this blog who may not know me personally might not know what happens sometimes when I have a bit too much to drink. I have what I call an alter-ego named Rufus who kind of takes over my psyche under certain circumstances and generally speaking...it can be quite interesting. Rufus has his own back story that completely differs from mine and there are quite a few people around the Bowling Green and London areas that know me only as Rufus. It's almost like split-personality disorder, except I know it happens and allow it...does that make sense? Eh...who cares, nobody's listening.
Anyway, there was a particular person on this bar crawl that made it known she graduated from Penn State. It was at that moment that Rufus decided he graduated from the University of Michigan and took it upon himself to completely belittle and destroy this woman's Alma Mater and the opinion she held it in. Don't ask me why...it's just kind of what he does. Safe to say she's not a fan, but that will happen. Aside from this woman coming up and repeating the same sentence about fifty times (“I really enjoyed my college experience”), the night proved to be extremely fun. The last club on the bar crawl was a five-story joint right on the river which supposedly had a different vibe and type of music on each level. Needless to say, I didn't stay very long as it's not exactly what could be considered my “scene.” On the way out, we caught up with one of the crawl tour guides named Yon (not too sure on the spelling) and he decided we shouldn't be done just yet. He proceeded to take a small group of us to four additional places (all of which I couldn't find again if I were paid) which sent the night into a spiraling downward slide. We ended up so far from the hostel it was necessary to find a cab to get back, and we were given the tourist “discount” (a mere 500 Koruna!) to travel the mile and a half back. The next day we took it easy, did some tourist junk and caught the over-night train to Krakow, Poland.
Krakow, Poland:
The train was something out of an Agatha Christie novel all the way down to the seedy train operator and impending sense of doom. It was an experience...that much is certain and despite having a sleeper cabin, not much sleep was had between the three of us. No, not like that...perv. We didn't have much of an agenda and not much happened while we were in Krakow except the obligatory trip to Auschwitz. The entire reason we went to Krakow was because of Auschwitz and it may have been the most psychologically and emotionally powerful place I've been to in my entire life. There is no need to re-hash the details, but I will say this: if you ever have the opportunity or means to go...do it. You will never be the same. It is my opinion that every single person should be required to go and see this place because you will never interpret your life the same again. Whether you were personally affected by what happened at this hellish place or not, it will alter you in one way or another. Definitely a must in my book.
Other than Auschwitz, we had the required food staples: Polish sausage, perogies, and vodka. Being as picky an eater as I am, it was food heaven...you can't get much better than kielbasa, meat and potato filled perogies and bread. It gives me half-stock just thinking about it...
Barcelona, Spain:
Last night at 11:30PM, we landed at London-Stansted airport to weather one would normally expect from London: cold and rainy. Normally this wouldn't be a big issue as those who have been around this city for an extended period of time would know it's inevitable, but I had just flown in from Barcelona where it was an incredibly amazing mid-nineties and sunny every day. Three glorious days where I saw the sun in its full force for the first time in eight or nine months. Barcelona was just about everything you could expect from it: superb weather, great food and drink, and many relaxing hours on the beach. The events in Barca would take an entire post in itself, so again, the highlights:
I met up with friends from here and one of their friends from the US on Wednesday (they had been there since Monday) and we undertook the prerequisite bar crawl. Again, I won't go into many details (mostly because I don't remember, although I believe Rufus made an appearance again), but there were many bars, many drinks, many laughs and more embarrassing dancing than I would care to admit. The night ended with a long walk back to the hostel after most of my party were yelling at the crawl organizer for not taking us to the amount of bars he promised (he took us to four...and four were promised, for the record) while he was slinking into a cab. The two girls were staying at a swanky hotel on the beach while the two guys were at a seedy hostel in the city, so we walked the girls to a common meeting place (the backward statue of Columbus) and sent them on their beach journey while we stumbled back to the hostel. As we were walking up La Rambla, on three separate occasions, the hoards of prostitutes walking the streets decided to take their chances and see if I was desperate enough to get herpegohnasyphiaids and hand over some precious monopoly money. Sorry ladies...it wouldn't happen even if you paid me. Just a few blocks later and I was able to melt into my bed for the next 10 hours, attempting to ward off the inevitable headache and/or hangover.
The next day, we met up with the ladies and had a nice quiet day on the beach. Well...quiet isn't exactly the word. Literally every three to five seconds this was heard a few feet from where we were laying: “beer, cerveza, fanta, co-cola, co-cola light” or “massage?” by what seemed like hundreds of “vendors” walking the beach trying to make a quick euro. Fuck. You. Stop ruining my beach experience with your senseless chatter.
The night wasn't much better. We met for dinner (which was nice) and then went down to the beach where apparently the entire city of Barcelona met and set off obnoxious fireworks while getting loaded. Yes...normally it would sound like a pretty sweet time, but I was not in the mood for it and literally hundreds of thousands of people + alcohol + fireworks + me = not good. We walked the entire length of the beach (while one member of our party had her hands to her ears the entire time) and afterward, said our “see you laters” and made the walk back amid the firework blasts that sound oddly like gunfire. The only solace of the night was we were far enough from the beach where the fireworks didn't cost me any sleep, but that may have just been because I was so tired from the heat and walking a few miles that day.
The next and final day in Barcelona consisted of typical touristy crap, trying to kill time till the flight left at 10PM. After a long day of walking, we made it to the airport, waited, made the flight to London and discovered the cold and rain. Another lovely night in London...
Well, that's just about all I have on this today – it was a bit longer than I wanted, but if you made it this far down, thanks for reading and as always, any questions/comments/etc, go ahead and put them where you see fit.
Anyway, other than the family trip, things have been fairly hectic for me as well. After finding out the work offer had been revoked (I swear, the last time I'll mention it), I started my own job search with a frantic quality only seen in meth addicts. In the last few weeks, I have secured my very own recruiter based in Chicago and New York, my bosses have massaged a few leads (also in those cities), I have acquired a UBS lead in Chicago, applications/resumes/CVs have been feverishly sent to nearly thirty jobs in about a half dozen companies in four or five cities in the States. As you would probably expect, I have yet to hear from anyone regarding an interview or even the slightest interest in my services. Insert the normal excuses about the job market, timing, relocation costs, etc...but I do realize I have a few months here still and shouldn't really be worried too much..at least not yet. But the word “yet.”
Lets get away from the boring job stuff now and talk about something more fun...or at least what I would consider fun. The last few weeks have seen me in more different countries than probably the last 8 months combined, which is nice and also annoying at the same time. It may sound strange, but I'm not really the biggest fan of traveling...at all. It just seems more of a hassle than anything and I enjoy my comforts of home entirely too much to leave them very often. However, as I now only have a limited time over here, I feel like I have to take advantage of it by going as many places as possible in the next few weeks before the job search consumes my entire thought process. As a result, a few weeks ago I went to Poland and the Czech Republic over a long bank holiday weekend and last night I just returned from Spain. A few highlights of each place:
Prague, CZ: I was in both Prague and Krakow for a few days over the last bank holiday weekend with two of my flatmates, Art and Brian. We left on a Thursday afternoon getting into Prague around 10PM. Upon arrival of the hostel, we discover there is a bar located on the ground floor where we sampled the local offerings almost immediately. Another member of our program had been in Prague for a day earlier and we met up with him near the bar area. About a half hour later, Brian was scanning the bar when he turns to Art and me and says he recognizes a few of the girls from the end of the bar. Turns out, a few girls he went to college with in Texas were randomly in Prague the same weekend we were and two of them are doing a study abroad program for a master's type degree, or maybe the CZ equivalent. Naturally, we end up meeting them at another bar later on where all kinds of madness ensues, especially since the Czech Koruna is an extremely weak currency compared to the British Pound, meaning a beer at a higher end bar/club is about the equivalent of a pound and a half. Madness indeed...
The next night we partake in a bar crawl which starts at our hostel, takes us to one of the same bars we were at the night before along with three others. On the crawl, we meet a multitude of people, many being from the US on vacation. Side note: casual readers of this blog who may not know me personally might not know what happens sometimes when I have a bit too much to drink. I have what I call an alter-ego named Rufus who kind of takes over my psyche under certain circumstances and generally speaking...it can be quite interesting. Rufus has his own back story that completely differs from mine and there are quite a few people around the Bowling Green and London areas that know me only as Rufus. It's almost like split-personality disorder, except I know it happens and allow it...does that make sense? Eh...who cares, nobody's listening.
Anyway, there was a particular person on this bar crawl that made it known she graduated from Penn State. It was at that moment that Rufus decided he graduated from the University of Michigan and took it upon himself to completely belittle and destroy this woman's Alma Mater and the opinion she held it in. Don't ask me why...it's just kind of what he does. Safe to say she's not a fan, but that will happen. Aside from this woman coming up and repeating the same sentence about fifty times (“I really enjoyed my college experience”), the night proved to be extremely fun. The last club on the bar crawl was a five-story joint right on the river which supposedly had a different vibe and type of music on each level. Needless to say, I didn't stay very long as it's not exactly what could be considered my “scene.” On the way out, we caught up with one of the crawl tour guides named Yon (not too sure on the spelling) and he decided we shouldn't be done just yet. He proceeded to take a small group of us to four additional places (all of which I couldn't find again if I were paid) which sent the night into a spiraling downward slide. We ended up so far from the hostel it was necessary to find a cab to get back, and we were given the tourist “discount” (a mere 500 Koruna!) to travel the mile and a half back. The next day we took it easy, did some tourist junk and caught the over-night train to Krakow, Poland.
Krakow, Poland:
The train was something out of an Agatha Christie novel all the way down to the seedy train operator and impending sense of doom. It was an experience...that much is certain and despite having a sleeper cabin, not much sleep was had between the three of us. No, not like that...perv. We didn't have much of an agenda and not much happened while we were in Krakow except the obligatory trip to Auschwitz. The entire reason we went to Krakow was because of Auschwitz and it may have been the most psychologically and emotionally powerful place I've been to in my entire life. There is no need to re-hash the details, but I will say this: if you ever have the opportunity or means to go...do it. You will never be the same. It is my opinion that every single person should be required to go and see this place because you will never interpret your life the same again. Whether you were personally affected by what happened at this hellish place or not, it will alter you in one way or another. Definitely a must in my book.
Other than Auschwitz, we had the required food staples: Polish sausage, perogies, and vodka. Being as picky an eater as I am, it was food heaven...you can't get much better than kielbasa, meat and potato filled perogies and bread. It gives me half-stock just thinking about it...
Barcelona, Spain:
Last night at 11:30PM, we landed at London-Stansted airport to weather one would normally expect from London: cold and rainy. Normally this wouldn't be a big issue as those who have been around this city for an extended period of time would know it's inevitable, but I had just flown in from Barcelona where it was an incredibly amazing mid-nineties and sunny every day. Three glorious days where I saw the sun in its full force for the first time in eight or nine months. Barcelona was just about everything you could expect from it: superb weather, great food and drink, and many relaxing hours on the beach. The events in Barca would take an entire post in itself, so again, the highlights:
I met up with friends from here and one of their friends from the US on Wednesday (they had been there since Monday) and we undertook the prerequisite bar crawl. Again, I won't go into many details (mostly because I don't remember, although I believe Rufus made an appearance again), but there were many bars, many drinks, many laughs and more embarrassing dancing than I would care to admit. The night ended with a long walk back to the hostel after most of my party were yelling at the crawl organizer for not taking us to the amount of bars he promised (he took us to four...and four were promised, for the record) while he was slinking into a cab. The two girls were staying at a swanky hotel on the beach while the two guys were at a seedy hostel in the city, so we walked the girls to a common meeting place (the backward statue of Columbus) and sent them on their beach journey while we stumbled back to the hostel. As we were walking up La Rambla, on three separate occasions, the hoards of prostitutes walking the streets decided to take their chances and see if I was desperate enough to get herpegohnasyphiaids and hand over some precious monopoly money. Sorry ladies...it wouldn't happen even if you paid me. Just a few blocks later and I was able to melt into my bed for the next 10 hours, attempting to ward off the inevitable headache and/or hangover.
The next day, we met up with the ladies and had a nice quiet day on the beach. Well...quiet isn't exactly the word. Literally every three to five seconds this was heard a few feet from where we were laying: “beer, cerveza, fanta, co-cola, co-cola light” or “massage?” by what seemed like hundreds of “vendors” walking the beach trying to make a quick euro. Fuck. You. Stop ruining my beach experience with your senseless chatter.
The night wasn't much better. We met for dinner (which was nice) and then went down to the beach where apparently the entire city of Barcelona met and set off obnoxious fireworks while getting loaded. Yes...normally it would sound like a pretty sweet time, but I was not in the mood for it and literally hundreds of thousands of people + alcohol + fireworks + me = not good. We walked the entire length of the beach (while one member of our party had her hands to her ears the entire time) and afterward, said our “see you laters” and made the walk back amid the firework blasts that sound oddly like gunfire. The only solace of the night was we were far enough from the beach where the fireworks didn't cost me any sleep, but that may have just been because I was so tired from the heat and walking a few miles that day.
The next and final day in Barcelona consisted of typical touristy crap, trying to kill time till the flight left at 10PM. After a long day of walking, we made it to the airport, waited, made the flight to London and discovered the cold and rain. Another lovely night in London...
Well, that's just about all I have on this today – it was a bit longer than I wanted, but if you made it this far down, thanks for reading and as always, any questions/comments/etc, go ahead and put them where you see fit.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Final Chapter...and the VanAusdale Clan Comes to London!
Well, here we are everyone, the final chapter in “Justin is a whiny bitch” is finally here. This is the last time I will be writing about the permanent position in London because a final decision has been made...and I know it's a final decision because I'm not the one making it. So here we are: the end. I know, I know...it's about damn time, but you really should know better by now known to stop reading ages ago.
Some of you have heard this story since it happened a few weeks ago and I've been too busy to broadcast it to the world, but for those of you who haven't heard, here it is. Those of you who have heard it...tough shit, read it again. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my work area, minding my own business and toiling away at yet another work day when I get an email notification from one of my bosses for a “catch up” meeting. As soon as I saw the notification, I knew exactly what it was about: they finally figured out their end of the visa/job situation and this was the meeting that settled once and for all if I was staying in London or leaving for some unknown part of the US.
So, as I sat there over the next 27 hours wondering what the outcome would be, contemplating my unknown options, I John Kerry'd the fuck out of the decision as is my usual style. I went from being certain I would be taking the offer if there was one, to being certain I would decline, to completely indifferent on the situation as a whole, and back to just seeing what would happen and taking it from there. Pretty much the last 3 months worth of thoughts and worry just rehashed in a shorter amount of time.
Turns out, it was all for naught as they said what I had been expecting for months: the visa would be impossible to get and therefore, I would not have the option to stay anymore. They offered their apologies, blah blah blah, and I didn't have to be the bad guy and tell them I was having second thoughts about staying. Basically, it worked out for the best because it would not come down to me making a decision. The decision was made for me and I'm happy with how it happened because I'm a little bitch who can't get his mind right enough to make a final choice. Regardless, I now get the added benefit of them taking the blame for the situation, so they'll be helping me get a job somewhere in the States with UBS should I decide to go that route. Turns out everything I wrote and the hours I spent agonizing about this decision were all for nothing...but it can always be worse. So, congratulations, USA, I'm coming back to stay after all. I'm sure you'll all agree with me when I say I'm glad this whole fucking mess is behind me. No more talk about this...I'm done.
Now that we're all done with that, the news of the hour is the VanAusdale clan is currently at the Columbus airport about to make their way across the Atlantic (notice, I did not use the bullshit cliché saying that EVERYONE makes...it's tired...let it go) to visit for the week in London. If everyone makes it out of here alive, I'll be truly shocked. All six of us in one city for 10 days in VERY close quarters is going to take its toll on all involved. I'm certain we'll all be glad to get back to our regular lives after this time is over.
The last time we had a family vacation, it was July of last year consisting of visits to Philly, New York city, Boston, and Niagara Falls (USA side). Lets just say tempers flared just a tad during that week and we were all glad to get back to normal life and some kind of solitude. Now add the mental mindfuck of international travel, the complications of a different currency, one of the most expensive cities in the world, and everyone being completely out of their comfort zone and I'm fairly certain we can expect frequent and more spectacular fireworks this time around. It will be an interesting week, that much is certain.
Now, don't get me wrong. As regular readers of this shitstorm I call a blog will know, I'm a big fan of my family. However, we are all very strong willed individuals, fairly argumentative, and quite bull-headed in our opinions especially when we know someone else has one that differs from ours. So, I offer a metaphor of sorts: picture a gigantic barrel of dynamite with six sticks of varying amounts of gunpowder (does dynamite have gunpowder? It does now...) and different lengths of fuses. London is the match that has been thrown into the barrel and at some point, one or more of those sticks will ignite and blow everyone to smithereens. It is a fact...this I promise you. Once the explosions are done, we can then examine the fallout, pick up any survivors, and start repairing the damage.
And now, we have a live update, breaking news, if you will...holy shit, this is my first live blog. History in the making, everyone! I have just been informed their flight from Columbus to Newark has been delayed by 30 minutes which gives them a stout 10 minutes to catch the connecting flight to London. This is the equivalent of pouring a gallon of gasoline into the aforementioned barrel and chucking an old school vampire search party torch in there for good measure. One can only hope their seats on the flight aren't booked next to each other, otherwise we may have a new record for vacation temper explosions.
So, in case you're wondering, (I'm sure you're not, but you're reading this far down, so you kind of have to finish...sucker!) the events for the week are as follows:
Saturday: Flight (tentatively) arrives around 10AM GMT, then check-in at the accommodation and probably a light day, just checking out some of the bigger touristy areas downtown.
Sunday: Potentially going on a hop-on hop-off bus tour of the major sights.
Monday: No plans as of yet (this is a trend), but hopefully something like St. Paul's cathedral or checking out Churchill’s War Rooms.
Tuesday: Train to Windsor for Windsor castle and more tourist crap.
Wednesday: Free day, potentially going to a concert, but nothing set in stone.
Thursday: Stafford/Stoke-on-Trent to see some family heritage stuff. We even have our own local tour guide!
Friday: Free day, potentially another concert (Escape the Fate) at the Underground Garage and if not, hitting the town with the brothers.
Saturday: Most likely taking it easy, tourist stuff again since the flight leaves early Sunday morning.
Sunday: Flight leaves at 1PM GMT, arriving in the States at around 3PM. Grocery shopping for me, more travel for everyone else, then driving back to their respective residences thanking christ they're still alive and kicking.
Monday: Back to work...with a smile on my face.
This is long enough for now, but in other news, I just got back from a trip to Eastern Europe to Krakow, Poland and Prague, Czech Republic. If I get bored, I'll write up a detailed report on the happenings...it was a pretty interesting trip, and definitely one of the best I've gone on thus far.
Until then...you know the deal...any questions – leave them in the comments.
Some of you have heard this story since it happened a few weeks ago and I've been too busy to broadcast it to the world, but for those of you who haven't heard, here it is. Those of you who have heard it...tough shit, read it again. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my work area, minding my own business and toiling away at yet another work day when I get an email notification from one of my bosses for a “catch up” meeting. As soon as I saw the notification, I knew exactly what it was about: they finally figured out their end of the visa/job situation and this was the meeting that settled once and for all if I was staying in London or leaving for some unknown part of the US.
So, as I sat there over the next 27 hours wondering what the outcome would be, contemplating my unknown options, I John Kerry'd the fuck out of the decision as is my usual style. I went from being certain I would be taking the offer if there was one, to being certain I would decline, to completely indifferent on the situation as a whole, and back to just seeing what would happen and taking it from there. Pretty much the last 3 months worth of thoughts and worry just rehashed in a shorter amount of time.
Turns out, it was all for naught as they said what I had been expecting for months: the visa would be impossible to get and therefore, I would not have the option to stay anymore. They offered their apologies, blah blah blah, and I didn't have to be the bad guy and tell them I was having second thoughts about staying. Basically, it worked out for the best because it would not come down to me making a decision. The decision was made for me and I'm happy with how it happened because I'm a little bitch who can't get his mind right enough to make a final choice. Regardless, I now get the added benefit of them taking the blame for the situation, so they'll be helping me get a job somewhere in the States with UBS should I decide to go that route. Turns out everything I wrote and the hours I spent agonizing about this decision were all for nothing...but it can always be worse. So, congratulations, USA, I'm coming back to stay after all. I'm sure you'll all agree with me when I say I'm glad this whole fucking mess is behind me. No more talk about this...I'm done.
Now that we're all done with that, the news of the hour is the VanAusdale clan is currently at the Columbus airport about to make their way across the Atlantic (notice, I did not use the bullshit cliché saying that EVERYONE makes...it's tired...let it go) to visit for the week in London. If everyone makes it out of here alive, I'll be truly shocked. All six of us in one city for 10 days in VERY close quarters is going to take its toll on all involved. I'm certain we'll all be glad to get back to our regular lives after this time is over.
The last time we had a family vacation, it was July of last year consisting of visits to Philly, New York city, Boston, and Niagara Falls (USA side). Lets just say tempers flared just a tad during that week and we were all glad to get back to normal life and some kind of solitude. Now add the mental mindfuck of international travel, the complications of a different currency, one of the most expensive cities in the world, and everyone being completely out of their comfort zone and I'm fairly certain we can expect frequent and more spectacular fireworks this time around. It will be an interesting week, that much is certain.
Now, don't get me wrong. As regular readers of this shitstorm I call a blog will know, I'm a big fan of my family. However, we are all very strong willed individuals, fairly argumentative, and quite bull-headed in our opinions especially when we know someone else has one that differs from ours. So, I offer a metaphor of sorts: picture a gigantic barrel of dynamite with six sticks of varying amounts of gunpowder (does dynamite have gunpowder? It does now...) and different lengths of fuses. London is the match that has been thrown into the barrel and at some point, one or more of those sticks will ignite and blow everyone to smithereens. It is a fact...this I promise you. Once the explosions are done, we can then examine the fallout, pick up any survivors, and start repairing the damage.
And now, we have a live update, breaking news, if you will...holy shit, this is my first live blog. History in the making, everyone! I have just been informed their flight from Columbus to Newark has been delayed by 30 minutes which gives them a stout 10 minutes to catch the connecting flight to London. This is the equivalent of pouring a gallon of gasoline into the aforementioned barrel and chucking an old school vampire search party torch in there for good measure. One can only hope their seats on the flight aren't booked next to each other, otherwise we may have a new record for vacation temper explosions.
So, in case you're wondering, (I'm sure you're not, but you're reading this far down, so you kind of have to finish...sucker!) the events for the week are as follows:
Saturday: Flight (tentatively) arrives around 10AM GMT, then check-in at the accommodation and probably a light day, just checking out some of the bigger touristy areas downtown.
Sunday: Potentially going on a hop-on hop-off bus tour of the major sights.
Monday: No plans as of yet (this is a trend), but hopefully something like St. Paul's cathedral or checking out Churchill’s War Rooms.
Tuesday: Train to Windsor for Windsor castle and more tourist crap.
Wednesday: Free day, potentially going to a concert, but nothing set in stone.
Thursday: Stafford/Stoke-on-Trent to see some family heritage stuff. We even have our own local tour guide!
Friday: Free day, potentially another concert (Escape the Fate) at the Underground Garage and if not, hitting the town with the brothers.
Saturday: Most likely taking it easy, tourist stuff again since the flight leaves early Sunday morning.
Sunday: Flight leaves at 1PM GMT, arriving in the States at around 3PM. Grocery shopping for me, more travel for everyone else, then driving back to their respective residences thanking christ they're still alive and kicking.
Monday: Back to work...with a smile on my face.
This is long enough for now, but in other news, I just got back from a trip to Eastern Europe to Krakow, Poland and Prague, Czech Republic. If I get bored, I'll write up a detailed report on the happenings...it was a pretty interesting trip, and definitely one of the best I've gone on thus far.
Until then...you know the deal...any questions – leave them in the comments.
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