Today's story comes from the cheesy TV-movie-of-the-week file.

I was in a bad mood as school let out today, having just served as a doormat for 30 fifth graders who were more unruly than usual during music class. Walking to a nearby bus stop (as I didn't have a vehicle to drive home in today), I was actually looking forward to some time alone...maybe a jaunt through the bazaar. It might help defuse my frustration, I thought.

I reached the nearby bus stop, and who should I see approaching at the same time but Ahmed, the most obnoxious, disrespectful student in 7th grade.

Oh, great. He was the last person I wanted to see, let alone ride on the bus with. Sure, he's not without his charm, but for the most part, he's just loud, pushy, and hot-headed, and he annoys me more than anyone else in the entire school. Quite frankly, I'd secretly been hoping he'd get kicked out of school for his seemingly out-of-control behavior.

But what could I do? I am his teacher, and considering the bus was entirely empty at this point, it would've been quite rude of me to ignore him. So I gave it a shot. ( read more... )

I've written at length about getting treated like a rock star around here. Well, yesterday provided another example of this strange (yet enjoyable) treatment; in fact, I hadn't felt like such a celebrity since...well, perhaps ever.

One of our Kurdish friends, Ari, invited us to a flower show at a school he used to teach Arabic at. At first, we had no clue that this was taking place at his former school.

We also didn't find out until arriving there that this was an all-girls high school.

We arrived, and after waiting in a back office for some important-looking individuals to arrive, we all proceeded together through the flower display in the main part of the school. The thousand or so girls that attend the school were either in the building or standing outside, every last one of 'em dressed to the 9's in their jhily kurdies. They literally packed the inside of the building.

We were then directed to make our way outside, though it was raining just a bit. This is when things got outta control.

We walked through a greeting line/human tunnel consisting of numerous girls from the high school cheering and throwing confetti at the guests as they walked through. We made it through the line, and found ourselves in a courtyard-like area, where we were able to admire more flowers. All the while, we (and by "we," I'm referring mainly to the two tall American guys here) were the focal point of the hundreds of girls that were standing around the courtyard. I walked around, smelled the flowers, all the while knowing that my every move was being tracked by many, many, many females.

Which, let's be honest here: is not the worst feeling in the world.

Some Kurdish dancing started up in the courtyard. Ari and I are pretty much incapable of turning down the chance to jump in line, shake our shoulders, and dance the Kurdish Two-Step...and so we did just that. This just added fuel to the fire, considering we were--for a while--the only two men in the dance line. Cameras--still and video alike--were fixed on us the entire time, with countless pictures undoubtedly being taken.

After the dancing, girls started to flock around the Americans, asking to have their pictures taken with us. I swear, it was like movie stars had descended upon their school. Their adoration and attention was quite unreal. I posed for a good 20 pictures, and then--as the rest of my group had started making their way back inside--had to push my way through the mob that had since coalesced (several hundred girls strong at this point), flashing my best movie-star grin, waving, and apologizing all the way that I couldn't take any more pictures.

I managed to escape to the food area, where I joined the rest of my friends. This was a temporary safe haven, as it was only open to the invited guests. But all the while, the girls were peering through the glass doors. This must be how animals at the zoo feel, I thought; again, every move of mine was under close surveillance by the high school girls there. I started to wonder if they'd ever seen a twenty-something American dude before.

It was finally time to leave, but our way out required us to go through yet another throng of several-hundred girls. We were advised not to talk to the girls on our way out, but they continued to clamor for pictures with us. I would politely decline, tell 'em "we're leaving" in Kurdish, and shrug my shoulders as I walked by. Oh--and of course--I'd flash the big smile. It was the least I could do for my adoring fans!

I do love the feeling of celebrity--even if it is totally undeserved, as it usually is over here. I told one of my friends--only slightly tongue-in-cheek--that God must be using experiences like this to prepare me for a life lived in the spotlight, which has always been a desire of mine (in case you hadn't heard). The adoration countless people lavish upon you is certainly a very nice feeling. But nice as that is, my sincere hope is that my life will always, always bring glory to God, and joy and inspiration to others...whether I'm an A-list celebrity or some nerdy guy who giddily recounts tales of breaking teenage hearts in Northern Iraq on his blog.

Postscript: a friend just informed me that he saw footage of me and Ari dancing at the school on the local news tonight.

The treatment continues!

Yesterday's 5th grade music class was one of those life-imitating-art moments. It could easily have passed as a scene from "School of Rock", though I promise it wasn't entirely intentional.

It was my first music class with the 5th graders. They only get music once a week, and last week the period was spent climbing up the hill.

We've taken the class out on another hike or two, which the kids have really enjoyed (despite the fact that one of last week's hikes ended with a terribly unfortunate incident in which one of the girls wound up breaking her arm). So when I came to teach music yesterday--instead of taking them up the hill yet again--they seemed ready to mutiny.

I had to quickly rethink my poorly-devised game plan. I was just planning to start by teaching basic note theory (whole, half, quarter notes, Do-Re-Mi, EGBDF/FACE...you know the drill), but with the mounting opposition, I realized I needed to come up with a better solution to introduce music and music theory to the kids. I needed to come up with a good way to really engage them and pique their interest.

Awkward and fumbling as I was at first, I managed to get the raucous class to begin listing their favorite artists. The list read like a veritable Who's Who of Disposable American Pop/Hip Hop Music, save for the class brainiac's contribution of Beethoven. This led way to a pretty--for a lack of better terms, elementary--discussion on why we like listening to music. My hope was that the kids would understand that music is a combination of different tones, sounds, and rhythms working together...and that the beauty of music comes from that "working together." (Of course, I'm articulating this much better now than I was at the time.)

Running out of ideas about how I would tie all of this together (I swear, I was flying by the seat of my pants after throwing out the original plan), I decided to talk about my experience of playing in a rock band. And wouldn't you know...the kids were awestruck. At one point, after I'd weaved a few tales about my rock n' roll exploits with Mr. Thom, Mr. Anthony, and Mr. Brian, my brainiac ran to the front of the class, and, acting the part of MC, announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. David aaaaaaaaaand... PROFATE!" Oh, how I wish Thom could've been there for that moment! The entire class began to chant "PRO-FATE" for a good 30 seconds.

I'd found my hook.

I spent a good 5 minutes playing air-guitar and talking about the virtues of, as Rev. Lovejoy would say, "rock and/or roll." And then, since the class was now more or less fully-engaged, I let 'em have it: "So...this semester, I'm going to teach you guys to play instruments, and we're going to play in a BAND!"

Another 30 seconds of cheering ensued.

I had to clarify, tell 'em we'd have to start simple and learn to play recorders together. But I liked the idea of getting the kids--some of whom can play other instruments--to put together a little makeshift band as well. I even floated the idea of having an end-of-the-year concert for their parents. The kids were now throwing out ideas of their own...a small vocal ensemble here, maybe a piano-guitar duet there.

I'd won 'em over. They were sold.

Of course, now the real work begins (such as tracking down enough recorders/instruments for the entire class). But no matter: these kids are ready to rock.

OK, one more story before I go to bed (I can't believe I'm still up).

So I was going to give a music lesson to the 5th grade today, but our field director thought we should take the kids out on a hike instead. It turned out to be quite the experience.

You see, our school is right at the edge of town, and if you cross the highway that runs alongside the school, you come to a meandering slope that eventually turns into a set of very lovely hills with a remarkable view of the city. So a hike up into the hills can be a fun activity that can last even one 45-minute class period.

Of course, it also can be quite an ordeal when you're trying to manage 30+ rambunctious 5th graders. The endeavor required our school's armed guards to escort us up the mountain (they must've figured the kids would eat us alive, so they came along as reinforcements). Our director lead the charge up the hill, and I covered the rear flank, making sure no one fell too far behind. For a minute or so, it actually did seem like a moment out of "Kindergarten Cop," as Pat (a former Air Force captain) led the troops in a rousing "I don't know, but I've been told..." chant. The kids had to hear it a few times to know how to respond to the "Sound off!"

We got to the point where the gentle slope turns into a high-grade ascent up the hill, and stopped there. Some of the kids--having stuck to the trail pretty well on the way up--started to wander about in a patch of light green grass just off the beaten path. Suddenly, pandemonium seized the group as a few kids began to shout: "A bomb a bomb a bomb!!!" Kids began to run in all different directions, getting as far away from the patch of grass as they possible could.

Oh, right, I remembered; this was the range where Saddam planted something like 6 million landmines to keep the Kurds from leaving the city years ago. Since 2003, the South Korean army has cleared up a good portion of the explosives, but--as Pete Wrigley once said, you can never be too careful when it comes to landmines. From where I stood, I couldn't tell if the object in question was indeed an explosive. I would've assumed that this particular hill--bare, and a stone's throw from the edge of town--would be completely cleared out by this point. And besides that, why would our director have even considered taking the kids up the hill if it wasn't safe? My guess was that it was a false alarm, but in this country, you get used to that, it seems. Either way, it was back to the trodden road for everyone. We had about 15 minutes left before the end of school, anyway, so after a few minutes' rest, we began our descent.

Now I was leading the pack, and the kids were clamoring to sing another song. Since I didn't know any good marching songs (of course, I do know some rather inappropriate marching band songs), I asked the kids to think of something. A group of students, followed soon after by the entire class, spontaneously began to sing:

Oh come, all ye faithful!
Joyful and triumphant
Oh come ye, oh come ye
To Bethlehem...

Yup, they sang the entire first verse and chorus to--of all things--a Christmas song. I tell you, if that wasn't one of the most surprising, entertaining, and downright impressive moments during my time here, I don't know what would be.

We made it down the hill, across the busy highway, and back to the school. We all made it back alive! High fives and "Xwa hafiz"es ensued as the kids got their backpacks and left for home. Several left me with a "Thanks, Mr. David!"

You know exactly how I replied. "No. Thank you."

Thus ended the most memorable 45-minute hike ever. My dress shoes are now covered in mud from the experience, but to be honest with you, I almost don't want to clean 'em. Almost.

When I chatted with my parents the other day, they told me about the record-setting blizzard that NYC had just experienced. To be honest with you, I was rather saddened by this news, as I wasn't there to experience it myself (why is it that all the interesting stuff happens in New York while I'm gone?).

Well, the Lord must've heard my unspoken lament, because--lo and behold--after several weeks of fairly decent weather, today we got hit with a nice snowstorm ourselves!

The snow started falling while we were driving to the school after our visit to the clinic. At first it was wet, sleet-like snow, so we didn't expect it to stick. But less than an hour into the school day, the snowflakes became more sizable, and you could see it was starting to pile up.

The announcement that school would be cancelled for the rest of the day came rather haphazardly around 8:40. I was in 8th grade, trying to start a follow-up discussion on yesterday's pH experiment, when the door opened behind me. A teacher and student stood in the entrance and blurted out a few words in Kurdish. The ENTIRE 8th grade class erupted in rapturous cheering for a good minute.

My lesson for the day was dead where it lay, but I couldn't really be upset. I remember what a euphoric feeling it is to hear that school is cancelled on account of snow. C'mon, who doesn't remember what that feels like? (Oh. Right. Sorry, SoCal readers.)

Students went to call their parents/drivers to come get them, and though classes probably should've continued for the next hour, not a shred of learning took place in the entire building. Instead, kids and teachers alike roamed the halls. A good three or four inches of snow had now dropped, and I for one was ready to instigate a good snowball fight.

That snowball fight eventually happened, in the tiny courtyard in the middle of the school. Ed--another one of the American teachers here--grabbed the arms of a Kurdish teacher in an attempt to take her outside, and, finding that she wasn't going so willingly, asked me to help out. I did, and we dragged her outside, dropping her in the snow. Some kids followed us out, and the snowball fight began. At first, the kids seemed a little timid...as though they wouldn't dare hit a teacher with snow. But once that teacher (i.e. me) started throwing snowballs at them, it was on.

We'd throw snowballs for a while, then Ed and I would run inside and grab another teacher to throw into the snow. More snowballs. Once we got going, I seemed to have all the kids throwing 'em at me. I was ducking and running and otherwise dodging 'em fairly effectively, until THWWWOP! I got nailed beside my left eye. It stung quite a bit, and apparently it looked pretty bad as well. I kept going.

Just then, another THWWWOP! Snowball to the left ear. Two solid hits to the head, and since I couldn't feel my bare hands at this point either (it was so bad, I couldn't pick the snow out of my ear), I decided to take a quick break. The pain from the two hits quickly went away. I returned moments later and fought some more, and later instigated another big fight in the front of the school, just as we were about to leave.

Afterwards--upon changing into some clothes that were better-suited for snow--Jeremiah, Ed, Ed's daughter, her friend, and I drove up to the top of the mountains north of town, where there was plenty of snow for some wintery tom-foolery. We encountered a lot of crazy Kurds along the way. We met one guy at the top of the hill who was sipping whiskey...as he sat in the driver's seat of his truck! (I'd heard about this...whenever there's snow, folks go up the mountain and start drinking. Kinda like in the States, right?) We eventually found ourselves a nice patch of snow to play in. Snow angels, snowman, snow sledding, and yes, another snowball fight all ensued.

Between the snow and the crazy blood test this morning, what a glorious, memorable day this has been!

Alright, alright...you read through this ridiculousness: ( now here's your picture )

We pulled up to the clinic this morning, trudging through the mud to get to the entrance. Inside, a cold, blank room that didn't offer any sense of comfort or serenity. We went up to the desk, and signed in, our driver/translator taking care of the details. We sat on hard wooden chairs for a few minutes, and then were called in for the blood test.

We walked into a room roughly the size of a classroom. Twenty to thirty Kurdish men and women filled it. Some of them were holding cotton balls on their arms, some were getting blood drawn then and there. It didn't have a pleasant smell, to say nothing about its appearance. Now I'm getting a little worried.

They lead us into a smaller, adjacent room. Four or five Kurdish doctors (or, if not doctors, at least men and women wearing lab coats) all stood up to greet us. The room was much more appealing than the last. Well, if I have to get my blood drawn in Iraq, I guess this is as good a room as any, I thought to myself.

The four of us sat down on the long, cushioned, communal chairs that stretched out along the walls. The doctors lab coat-wearers went to work. Ed and Jeremiah were first. Ed was sitting next to me, and so I glanced over as they brought out the needle. On the one hand, I was thankful to see it was brand new; on the other hand, it was a thick freakin' needle; I could clearly see the hollow part in the middle. Sudden flashback to pre-teen years, to a particular moment on The Ren and Stimpy Show: "This. Will. Hurt. You." I watched them get Ed, and though he seemed to handle it well, I was sure he and Jeremiah were just putting up a good front.

It was now my turn. I made some cheesy remark and flashed a big, goofy Dave-like grin just to lighten the mood: "Please be gentle!" The guy facing me with a needle in one hand laughed. He tied the rubbery thing around my ginormous upper arm, swabbed the crook of my elbow with something (it didn't smell like alcohol), and swiftly stuck the needle in.

Wait a second. It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt!!! OK, so maybe it hurt a little, but it honestly hurt less than the needle sticks I've received in the States. I must've sighed the biggest sigh of relief. I watched him pull back on the syringe pump to fill it up (I know, so old school, huh?). He removed the needle, placing the cotton ball in its place, and we were through! I could've done like the Kurds do and kiss the guy on both cheeks. I opted instead for a simple hand-over-heart (another, more general, gesture of friendship amongst the Kurds). As the spoiled Americans left, we verbalized our amazement at how relatively painless (and quick!) that was.

And now, because you were so faithful to read through such a long, boring story about something so mundane...here you go: ( behind the cut )

I started working on these notes last night, but then we lost power, and by the time it came back on I was too tired to do anything. I'm leaving 'em as is, so when I say "today," know that it wasn't today (I have some good stories to tell about today, and I will do so after this). Here goes:

The War to End All Wars
As far as we can tell, the Great Human-Rodent War ended today. It wasn't pretty, let me tell you. This afternoon was our Normandy; it was pretty intense. At one point during the battle, a rat almost landed on me after my roommate knocked him off the side of our house. The good news, of course, is that I'm now much less-afraid of rats than I was one week ago. Chasing them around the house and having one come this close to landing on you will do that.

I won't tell you how we defeated them. Just know that it wasn't pretty. Like they say, war is hell.

"Search your heart, search your soul..."
I was asked by one of the teachers today to write out the words to Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do (I Do it For You)." Don't worry, I'm pretty sure it was an innocent request; the song played on the radio in the teachers' lounge yesterday, and it turns out she's a big fan of the song. I figured I'd be able to remember all the words by heart, considering this was my favorite song in 5th grade (I remember asking the girl I was madly in love with to dance to this song with me at our class' first dance, held that year...she said no, as she'd danced with me for the previous two songs. There was only so much of 5th Grade DT one could take!). Let me tell you, it's been a long time since I was in 5th grade--I couldn't remember the first verse to save my life. Thankfully, this teacher has the song recorded on her cell phone, so she played it for me, and the words came back pretty quickly.

If you'd told me I'd be writing down the words to Bryan Adams songs while in Iraq, I'd tell you you was crazy.

The Guilt-Ridden Pack of Gum
One of the 7th graders gave me a gift after class today: a pack of gum. Seeing her with a piece of gum after school yesterday, I made some goofy remark about the fact that she hadn't brought any for me. I told her I was only kidding, but, being the sweet girl she is, she brought me gum today.

It was very kind of her, and I told her as much, but I also feel kinda bad about it. See, you have to be careful about what you say when you're around the Kurds. If you tell them that you admire something of theirs, they're likely to give it to you. They're so incredibly generous, and I'd hate for them to feel obligated to give me stuff (if anything, I should be doing more giving myself). Yet, there's also a whole other aspect to this. In some cases, if you compliment Kurds about their possesions in a particular way, they might think you're secretly cursing their possessions. It's a strange superstition, but it's quite prevalent here: many people even have these weird ornaments that--according to them--ward off the spirits that come from the "evil eye," as they call it.

I'm sure this is a case of the former, not the latter. Then again, she might've been trying to butter me up with a gift. Kids are always doing that to their teachers, aren't they?

Still Haven't Found 'Weaksauce' in It, Though
One of the teachers at the school owns an American Slang/Colloquialism Dictionary. It's incredibly comprehensive; among other things, it includes pretty much every variation of the f-word you can think of. Needless to say, it's quite an entertaining read. I'm even learning about the phrases that I never understood myself (be it because I never used them, or because I was too naive to figure out what they meant).

"Mr. David, can we drink the Coke?"
We did a very clumsy version of the acids/bases/pH experiment today in 8th grade. I brought in some tap water, distilled water, ketchup, Coke, milk, baking soda, and soap, and someone brought vinegar and lemon juice. It was pandemonium for about 10 minutes, but I think the students enjoyed it, and they might--just might--have learned a thing or two about acids and bases. Don't ask me why they actually need to know this stuff...I have yet to figure out a practical application for the acid/base knowledge I've acquired. All I know is that it's fun to dip litmus paper into different liquids and see what colors you can come up with.

If I Contract Some Disease, It'll Be the Irony of Ironies
Tomorrow the Americans on our staff are going to get our blood tested at an Iraqi clinic. This is the final hurdle in securing our residency/visa paperwork to keep working here, as they need to check for HIV/AIDS (and probably some other diseases) before they allow us to stay. From the stories I've heard, I can't imagine this being the most sanitary place in the world. I'm just hoping the needles will be clean. Another case where I'm not sure exactly how safe I am here. I'll give you all the gory details of it tomorrow.

Hey, if Woodrow Wilson was wrong, I guess I can be too.
Maybe I spoke too soon. I just heard some scratching and chewing noises underneath/behind our fridge. I guess I was being too idealistic and foolish to think that, given the fallen world that we live in, we can be without war. Or just rats in my house.

The youngest son of our field director and his wife is an adorable sandy-haired 7-year old who could pass for Dennis the Menace. He does a pretty mean impression of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite (his "Peace out," complete with sideways peace sign, is spot-on), and he loves playing guns with his two older brothers.

One of Mikey's favorite expressions is "Rats," uttered with a hint of mischeviousness whenever one of his devious plans has been thwarted.

I'd been meaning to share this cute little anecdote with my readers for quite some time now. The timing couldn't be better, though; Mikey's cute "Rats" quip is the perfect little introduction for a decidely less-cute update.

Yup, you guessed it. We have rats in our house. One's hiding behind the fridge right now. I first spotted a rat on Wednesday night, though I wasn't quite sure if it was actually a rat, or if my mind was playing tricks on me. Jeremiah confirmed it last night, and since then we've discovered how they're sneaking into the house. The entrance happens to be, of all places, in the entryway to my bathroom. Great...that's just super.

Hopefully we'll be able to take care of this problem in the next day or so. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the peaceful co-existence of human and rodent. But I do hate a freeloader...these guys think they can come in and live here, without paying any of the rent? Huh-uh. They gots to go.

...

OK, how's this for a live update? No sooner had I finished that last paragraph when I heard some rustling behind the shelving unit next to the fridge. I jumped to my feet, grabbed my flashlight, and started shining it underneath the shelves. To my amazement, the rat just sauntered out like he owned the place. To be honest, I thought he was actually kinda cute. Still, I stood about six feet away and started yelling at him, telling him he couldn't stay because he was a bad roommate--eating our food without permission, leaving a mess, not paying rent, etc etc. Well, the showdown lasted a good minute, and then--in what I thought was a ballsy move--the rat just walked over to the corner where we keep our bottled water and cans of soda. He jumped up on two cans of Diet Coke, and by this point I called Jer to come in and see this. I thought he was going to get away, but instead, he started wheezing sporadically. He wasn't planning on going anywhere. He must've found some poison or something akin to it. I started to feel kinda sad for the guy.

But not sad enough to not make light of his predicament. (to my PETA readers: please forgive me for what you're about to read.) He was hanging his head over the other side of the Diet Coke cans, and it looked as though he was sticking his head in a toilet after a long night of drinking. Jer had gone to get his camera at this point, and, well, if history has taught us anything, it's that I can't resist setting up a funny picture. I pulled out the bottle of Cockburn's that we'd just purchased, and set it next to him. Jer found the can of Guiness and the rip-off Corona from the same purchase, and laid them on the floor next to our sick little friend. Laughter and picture-taking ensued. We then waited until he stopped moving altogether before we disposed of him (I mean, we do have some decency).

...

Now, our rat problem isn't over, lest you think otherwise. The one we just found wasn't the same one that Jeremiah spotted yesterday, and there's still a way for them to get in (I'm going to work on that tonight). But finding this one was a bit of a relief; I'm not as edgy as I was two hours ago.

Let this be a lesson to anyone who ever told me I was a brave person for coming here: the fact that I get freaked out at the prospect of rodents running rampant in our house should prove how "brave" I really am.

Huh. This post turned out to be a lot more entertaining that I originally expected it to be.

UPDATE: OK, for all you twisted individuals: ( click here to see a picture of the 'drunk' rat )

"Mr. David, you don't want to eat that sandwich. It has bad meat."

So said Tiray (one of my 7th graders; pronounced "Teré") this afternoon after I took my share of the sandwiches that were ordered in for a handful of teachers and administrators. I didn't believe her; I'd eaten said sandwiches the previous two days, and in both cases the meat was tasty and I didn't experience any negative effects (apart from possibly getting a piece of meat stuck in my teeth). I told her that I thought it would be OK to eat this one as well.

Her response, a well-used Kurdish expression: "As you like."

She left with one of her friends, and I took a long stare at the sandwich. All of a sudden, I realized that this wasn't like the previous sandwiches I'd eaten from the lunch delivery. It was round, whereas the previous ones had been oblong. I pulled the top slice of bread off to inspect the meat. It didn't look like the tasty meat I'd grown accustomed to in two short days; in fact, it did look pretty gross.

Oh great. Lunch had suddenly turned into an ordeal today.

I asked Rizgar, our curriculum director if the sandwich came from the same store as last time. "Yes, yes," was his response. I didn't want to ask him if it was safe to eat, and run the risk of sounding ungrateful. No, I waited until another one of the teachers came into the director's office. Another Rizgar--the teacher I work alongside for several hours a day in the 7th and 8th grade science classes--came in and immediately offered me some of his peanut butter cookies. I then asked him if he thought my sandwich was kosher (note: I didn't actually use the term "kosher"). His response: "Yes, yes."

So it came down to an act of faith. The meat did look kinda nasty, and Tiray certainly wouldn't have lied to me, but Rizgar and Rizgar both made it seem as though I shouldn't be concerned.

I prayed a short prayer--"Lord, bless this food, and moreover, protect me from any sickness it may cause me"--closed my eyes, and took a bite.

Now, maybe I had already psyched myself out, but the sandwich did taste pretty bad. I choked it down, and then, because I was pretty hungry at that point, decided to take another major step of faith and go for the second sandwich. It tasted as bad as the first, and as I was eating it, I started to feel kinda gross. Great. I should've listened to Tiray after all. I probably would've finished it anyway (if I was indeed getting sick, what would it matter if I ate one whole sandwich of bad meat or two), but as it was time to go to 5th period math, I discarded the last half of the sandwich and went on my way.

Part Two to come as the rest of the story plays out. I just figured I had to post the first part while it was still...uh..."fresh."

And so, your intrepid hero narrator whatever loaded up the humongous family wagon that he's been carting around Nashville this past week or so, and made a short trip to Athens, Georgia. Yes, those of you who are knowledgable about college alternative indie whatever rock will know that Athens, GA is the hometown of many a band that came out in the early '80s, the greatest of which is R.E.M. Being the obsessive fan that I unabashedly am, I wanted to see the legendary hometown of my favorite band. Now I'd made the trip with Jules several years back on our 2nd leg of the "Roadtrip to End All College Roadtrips," but we didn't really get a chance to experience Athens.

This time I did, thanks to Meagan, who now lives and works in the fair college town. She was gracious enough to show me around town, including several sites related to the R.E.M. lore. Here now are a few highlights from the trip:
( read about it here )

(Yes, the quote above comes from The Simpsons, and yes, pretty much every reference to Germany that I might make is going to be a Simpsons quote.)

We arrived in Frankfurt on Tuesday morning after a long long day of flying and hanging out in airports. Though I got very little sleep on the flight 'cross the Atlantic, I did manage to sleep for a little bit, albeit through the last 30 minutes of the in-flight movie, Batman Begins (making it the second time I've fallen asleep through the movie...if I actually could stay awake long enough to watch the whole thing, I'd probably like it a lot). Anyway, we arrived in Frankfurt, went through customs, picked up luggage, exchanged dollars for euros, and picked up our rental car to drive down to Riedlingen. The 36 hours since then have been quite interesting--amazing, really--and have whetted my appetite for more travels through Deutschland in the near future. And now, a few stories:

"Vee Germans are not all smiles and sunshine."
We get the car (a Mercedes, natch) and Lisa--the school/NGO administrator in our three-person team--takes the wheel and begins our trek down the Autobahn. She spends practically the entire time in the left-hand lane on the two-lane freeway, despite the fact that every few minutes we have a carload of angry Germans pulling right up behind us, flashing their lights and honking until either we or they pull into the right-hand lane. Every single driver that then passes us in this manner--and I mean every single driver--proceeds to either give us a dirty look, yell at us, shake their fist (seriously!), or do all of the above. I kept hinting that perhaps we should stay in the right-hand lane, but Lisa would have none of it; the right-hand lane was always much, much slower than the left-hand lane, and she wasn't about to do a mere 95 kph. So in the left-hand lane we stayed, and I found myself hiding my face every time a car passed us on the right. You should know that this was the exact moment in my life in which I realized why the rest of the world views Americans the way it does. Granted, Lisa was probably just super-tired and maybe wasn't thinking--I'm sure she really wasn't intending to piss off all the other drivers in the left-hand lane. But piss them off she did. Welcome to Germany!

( read on for more shenanigans. )

Yesterday, the band played what I'm calling a warm-up gig for tomorrow night's show at Sin-é. We played a four-song set--including the first public performance of "Governor" (very very rough 1-minute sample here)!--at a 10th anniversary celebration for (our bass player and drummer) Brian and Anthony's church.

Now here's what I loved about this--and another reason why I love New York (and Queens, in particular): Brian and Anthony, being Burmese, attend a church with an entirely Burmese congregation. So Thom and I were two of maybe five white folks among 200+ people in attendance...and we had a blast! It was quite the multiculti experience: all the signs were written in Burmese (which, if you've never seen it, looks like a cross between Korean and Arabic), everyone was speaking in Burmese (though they could also speak to us in English, which was nice), and there were at least 15 different Burmese dishes to try. I won't even attempt to tell you the names of the things I'd tried, but they were all quite exotic and tasty.

And though it was great fun to perform for everyone, I think I had more fun watching Brian and Anthony jam with some of their Burmese friends. They and two of their friends--all of whom are no older than 20--are excellent musicians; they would all swap instruments, and all of them could shred on the guitar (seriously, they could all put me to shame). It was so very entertaining, not only because these guys are incredibly talented, but also because they were playing metal and punk rock (in Burmese, of course) for the crowd of mostly 30- to 40-something churchgoers.

Their punk rawk rendtion of "What a Wonderful World" (in English) was absolutely priceless. As was a spot-on cover of the Cranberries' "Zombie."

I guess what I'm saying is that, overall, there was just something really cool about being a part of this gathering on Saturday. And something extraordinarily cool about seeing a bunch of young guys--all of whom were born in Myanmar--rock out like you wouldn't believe on a sunny Saturday in the middle of New York City.

This was originally going to be a late-night ramble, but I got back way too late last night to do any blogging. Here now are some jumbled thoughts on nothing in particular:

Just Like Any Other Self-Respecting Rock Band - Last night we had a rehearsal session from 11-1. That's probably a relatively early night compared to other bands, but it's the latest we've ever practiced. The rehearsal space itself was, to quote Napoleon D., freakin' sweet--the folks at Astoria SoundWorks upgraded us to one of the big, cozy, well-kept rooms with big Marshall half-stacks. But it was late, and I didn't get to bed 'til much later, which I'm regretting today. Not to mention the return of tinnitus, for which I have no one to blame but myself. And possibly the Marshall half-stacks.


The Whole Point of the Late Night Practice - I should've mentioned this before, but we've got a gig on Monday night, and it's in Manhattan! The Lower East Side, to be more specific. The venue is Sin-é (pronounced shi-NAY), which was voted last year as "Best Place to See a Local Band's First Gig." This is our second real gig, but our first one in Manhattan, so I'm excited that it happens to be at this spot.

We go on at 8 PM. I think it's $10 at the door...in case any of my NYC readers would care to drop by and show some love. More band info at profate.com if you're interested. Also, Thom just created a profate page on MySpace (which, though I've held out for so long, I find myself inching closer and closer to joining...what do you guys think?).


Is it late-August already? - Yesterday the Village was noticeably busier than it had been in recent months. The whole area was teeming with people--lots of kids that looked really young (well, "young" meaning late-teens/early-twenties), as well as some assorted middle-aged folks, pleated khakis and all.

Then it dawned on me: school starts next week. These are NYU undergraduates. (And their parents).

And then I started to feel kinda old. (In that odd mid-twenties / really-not-that-old-at-all sort of way.)


Adventures in Talking to Girls #1 - Well then. You remember paraphernalia girl, don't you? The one that always smiles at me, and I, her, whenever I walk by her table of bongs and pipes and what-not? Well, believe it or not, I actually talked to her yesterday. It was a very brief, "Hello, how are you?"-type exchange, though, so nothing to get excited about, folks. And again, unless she's selling those wares to raise money for missions trips (as thelpslayer suggested), I'm sure we'll come to find we have nothing in common. Anyway, next time I see her I think I'll throw some deep Ralph Wiggum-inspired prose and ask, "So...you like...stuff?"


Warm the House for Me, Boys - Tonight is the house warming party for the brand new AGO house on the Row at USC. I cannot begin to tell you how much I wish I was there to celebrate with the brothers who've shared this dream with me since we started the fraternity in 2000. And from what slayer says, it sounds like it'll be an incredibly fun party with an insanely good slideshow.

So I spent last night preparing a little last-minute house-warming gift to send the boys on this momentous ocassion. I won't ruin the surprise, in case any of them are reading this before the shin-dig, but I hope they enjoy the lil' gift.

Enjoy the party, boys--I'll be there with you in spirit, with a bottle of Code Red raised in your honor.


Adventures in Talking to Girls #2 - To get home last night, I took the 6 train up from Astor Place. On the Astor Place platform, I noticed a really cute girl. A daily occurrence when out and about in NYC, to be sure, but in this case I developed what I shall call a "subway crush." Now, the whole premise of subway crushes is a delicate one to approach. First, it's pretty much based on nothing more than physical attraction. Next, dealing with said crush is quite a balancing act: on one hand, you're hoping to come up with a good excuse to strike up a conversation, but on the other hand, you don't ever want to come across as That Creepy Guy (Lord knows there's plenty of TCGs in NYC), or worse. Seriously, girls put up with so much crap from guys in this town. And finally, everyone on the subway is, in effect, a wild card--it's possible that the only thing you might have in common with someone else on the subway is that you're both riding the subway. And yet, people develop subway crushes all the time (don't believe me? Consult craigslist.)

Anyway, we got into the same train car, and inside, I think we made eye contact once or twice (we were both reading books, so you know how that goes). Sadly, at Union Square, she got off our train and went to the Express train across the platform. Ah well, I said to myself. I figured she'd ride the Express train up to the Upper East Side, whereas I'd be swapping trains at Grand Central to head back into Queens. I seriously doubted that she'd be going to Queens as well.

The 6 Local pulled into Grand Central, and I walked down to the 7 train platform, hoping I might possibly catch a glimpse of the young lady (and in so doing, muster the nerve to say something stupid like, "Hey, I just saw you on the 6!"). The chances were slim, and sure enough, I didn't see her. Ahh well. To home on the 7, reading my 2Do book and thinking up new things to add to my list.

The train pulled up to 46th Street, where I got off. Sure enough, as I turned my head as I bounded down the steps to the exit, who should I see but my subway crush! She must've been in the car behind mine. What were the chances of that happening?!? OK, so should I say something, especially now that we have at least one more thing in common (i.e. Sunnyside)? I kept mulling it over. I exited the station, and walked north. She did too. I turned right on Queens Blvd. She did too. What if she's stalking ME? Ha!...wishful thinking, my boy. And yet, this can't go on forever, I told myself; if I'm gonna speak up, it's gotta be NOW.

I turned up 48th Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she walked past 48th and continued to walk down Queens Blvd.

...

I'm not beating myself up here. But I swear, one of these days I'd really like to find the courage to just say "Hi" to a subway crush, consequences be damned. Maybe I should put that on my "To Do List for Life."


And that, my friends, is one random collection of anecdotes. I hope you enjoyed it.

As previously mentioned, Mom and Dad stayed in a room at the New Yorker, one of the classic old-school New York hotels, located on 34th Street and 8th Ave. (kitty-corner to Madison Square Garden). They flew into JFK, arriving late on Friday night, and I picked them up and drove them to the hotel (taking them right through Times Square, as that's quite an awesome introduction to New York City). Once checked in, a bell boy took their luggage, and up we went to the 20-somethingth floor. The room...well, we were trying to be positive about it at the time, but let's be honest here: it was pretty lousy. It was a cramped room that was almost entirely taken up by the queen-size bed--there was very little room to move around at all. The window faced into another part of the hotel, and though you could get a glimpse of 34th Street if you pressed your face entirely against the glass, it was a less-than-impressive view. The bathroom, on the other hand, had a great view of the Empire State Building...but to access this great view, you had to open the frosted window as far as it would open--4 inches--and then crawl into the bathtub and get on all fours to peek out the cracked window. OK, so it wasn't that great after all. I believe there were other problems/issues with the room--suffice it to say that it was rather disappointing all around.

A blessing-within-a-curse came a couple nights into their stay, as my dad discovered a cockroach roaming around the bathroom floor, and I subsequently discovered one in the bedroom itself. In both cases, we made our killings as discreetly as we could, as we both knew it would freak Mom out to know that the room was infested. However, once Mom wasn't around, we conferred with each other, and I told Dad that he should report the bugs (he had figured that roaches were a normal part of the "New York City experience"...man, what a bad rap this city gets!). So he went to the front desk and complained.

That's when the experience at the New Yorker turned around.

To make up for the infested room, they hooked Mom and Dad up with a serious upgrade: one of the hotel's fancier suites. It was on the 22nd floor; a spacious two room (bedroom/living room) suite with two TVs, a fridge (sorely missed in the previous room), a window that offered an amazing view down 34th Street, and a very large balcony that looked out over the City. Stepping out onto it, and looking down to see people scurrying about below, you couldn't help but feel like royalty. I could picture celebrities and world leaders that stayed here over the years standing on that same balcony, looking out over the bustle and bright lights of the City, and thinking to themselves that they'd made it. There's something about a private view from up on high that--even if it's temporarily yours during a hotel stay--that gives you a certain feeling of importance. Also thrown in on the upgrade--vouchers for the special continental breakfast that was located on the 39th floor of the building, in a room with an even more exquisite view. Again, you can't help but feel like you're somebody important when you've got a view like that.

I should point out that once the folks were hooked up with the new room, I decided that I would temporarily move into Manhattan for a few days and take up residence in the other room of the suite. After all, I figured it would be a long, long while before I get to stay in a room as charming as this.

And we have a couple of cockroaches to thank for all of this. Or, more appropriately, we have the Lord to thank, for in His providence and wisdom, He sent the cockroaches that got us the great hook-up. The week was all the more memorable because of that suite.

A Bleat-like post follows...it's long and it meanders aimlessly, but you might find it kinda entertaining. Or not. However, to the intrepid reader (or cheater), there's a nice treat at the end.

( Here we go! )