Pages of Euphoria

Home on the Range

2012-01-05T22:46:00.000-08:00

Judging from how New Year's Eve just was, I am having good vibrations for what 2012 holds. It was just the right stew of new (friendly) people, old bash brother (Coleski Wolski aka Night Hawk), the novel surroundings of a boat cruising through the dark water of Lake Union, and a wonderful yet utterly eclectic group of general populationers. Of course, I can't forget to mention the involvement of party juice which happened to be some white label Jim Beam, housed in a stainless steel flask. More about the ridiculous crowd: all walks of life were represented. From your gentleman rocking a three piece, pattern heavy, vibrantly colored suit with white crocodile skin shoes (complete with blue tooth device in his ear) to a pasty skinned, shaggy yet balding individual wearing glasses and a Mariners sweatshirt who looked like he called a wood shack in the woods home. The women were not dressed as extravagantly as these two, but they managed to look ravishing none the less. More interestingly about the female component of the crowd was the style of dance which seemed to spread like wild fire. It was just plain appalling. Had my grandma seen what played out on that boat, I think she would have projected the contents of her stomach overboard (and hopefully not on the boat captain) or used a fire extinguisher on the dancers who to her, seemed to have come down with a nasty case of demonic possession. I will let the picture at right do the talking here.

As the midnight hour approached, we gathered on the bow of the ship to admire the handsome Seattle city line lit up in the dark. My eyes were fixed on the iconic Space Needle which when the midnight stroke came, issued forth a decent fire work show, looking like a massive yet lone sparkler spiked in the ground. It was all beautiful and drunk, and it felt overwhelmingly good to be back in Seattle and in the company of people who I have known longer than three years.

My vacation from work and school was lengthy, being almost three weeks long. It included a quick visit to NYC to see another fellow bash brother E.Sonk. I heart NYC and all of its culture, fashion trend setters and delectable cuisine. The city just drips with coolness. Everything people do in NYC has an edge to it, and I can't help be touched by the city each time I visit. For example, one of the vixens in E.Sonk's veritable harem took it upon herself to start talking to girls at bars on my behalf. As my game needs all the help it can get, I welcomed her assistance with open arms and impish grins. The rest of the trip was equal parts indulging in delicious eats and recovering from late night benders. All in all, it was a successful and expensive tour. I am also creating a habit of boarding my plane from NYC to the next destination with about five minutes until take off. Not a good habit, but it is one that makes you feel alive what with all of the liquid stress coursing through the veins. I would land safely in the Pacific Northwest about six hours later.

Enter the Seattle tour. Truth be told, right after I booked the tickets, I was worried that two weeks at home might be too long for the sanity of Greenberg brothers, parents and pets combined. I thought for longer than just a moment that I might annoy my parents with my incessant bicep flexing or they might annoy me with their own creature habits of not throwing away banana peels and hoarding chachkis. This foreseen annoyance however did not happen, as both my parents are more than saintly. I did get into a few tiffs with the two younger Greenberg brothers though which I did not expect. Yet quite predictably, these tiffs would be over completely asinine issues. The main event involved myself, my youngest brother and the front passenger side seat of his car. Neither of us were driving at the time and as we approached his car, I realized that I really wanted to sit in that front seat. I informed him of this, to which he replied that he does not sit in the back seat of his car. I respectfully and kindly told him to "get in the f__cking back seat," to which he just sat and stared at me as if I was a giant scarf wearing twinkee. As he is bigger than me, I did not get my way. I think we resolved the issue by getting into a yelling match at 2:30am in the kitchen of our parent's house and then each storming off while brooding heavily and individually assessing how bad our manliness was hurt. Thankfully, we got over it quickly.

The trip home was too long in one sense: I quickly got used to how nice it was to be back with family. The kind of nice which seeps into your bones and makes you happy with complete and utter relaxation. There was no task more complicated than changing a light bulb or cleaning a dish that needed to be done. How amazing it was to completely unplug and bask in the company of my family. I was so spoiled over those two weeks it actually made coming back to Los Angeles a challenge, even when stepping out of LAX and into the 75 degree sunshine at 11am. My second semester at USC starts in a few days and I will be starting reinvigorated from a long and restful break. All I need to do now is convince the rest of my clan to move down where it is perpetually warm with palm tree lined streets.

Not Getting it Done on Halloween

2011-10-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

I actually have time to write some words that are not devoted to academia/grad school and it is kind of great. I write on the eve of one my favorite holidays, Halloween, as the date of this post does corroborate. That same date also verifies my neglect of this online writing piece, as if this was blog was a child, it would have ended up in Mexico or a salt mine a long time ago. I left my policy class at 9pm tonight glad to be done with a long day but a little downtrodden at not being able to celebrate the Pagan holiday in any kind of acceptable fashion. I barely saw any skulls, did not see really any scantily clad co-eds, and did not get to dressed up as Chuck Norris which I had planned to. I have even grown my beard out for going on four weeks now to make look more Chuck Norrisish. Walking to my car in the parking structure, something caught my eye that for some reason, really made my day. It was an orange paper sack with a jack o' lantern face on the front, traveling along the cement, blowing in the breeze in an empty garage.

Something about this image brought back memories of why I love this holiday so much. It's the delightful and mostly innocent mischievousness that the holiday inspires. I am talking more along the lines of hurling rolls of toilet paper and scaring little kids as you hide in bushes in a full gorilla suit kind of mischief as opposed to egg launching, property damaging and stealing bags of candy type as I can remember some hell bound hoods doing back in the day. The fact that the day of ghouls and goblins gives children and adults alike the excuse to delve into creative imagination to channel the energy and physical appearance of some character, usually dead, is kind of incredible.

Seeing the tiny orange bag with the pumpkin face left on the ground reminded me that I did see my 80+ year old policy professor in a decomposing vampire mask before class, my LCSW therapist co-worker engaging in therapy sessions wearing a ridiculous hot pink wig, and also eating enough processed sugar in the past 48 hours to warrant fasting for a month. I seriously feel like how Burt Reynold's face looks. No offense Burt. Realizing these things made me feel much less guilty for the lack of my Halloween experience in 2011. Anyhow, I hope everyone else saw some black cats, heard a lingering spirit rattle a chain, heard an owl hoot and otherwise had a fine and creepily mysterious time. There is always half way to Halloween parties, which I will be looking forward to. Until then, be good and get to the chopper.

Refresh

2011-08-17T23:18:00.000-07:00

There are on the number of millions of discussable and up-datable things that have gone on over the past four months and as always, the innocuous question of 'where to begin?' is bouncing around the inside of my brain like a shiny rubber ball. Actually, there are maybe 12 things worth talking about. In the interest of time, I will resort to a list, not organized in any order:

1. I got accepted into USC in June and I am in the middle of graduate school orientation for a Master's in Social Work program. There are 522 incoming students in this program, of which 84%, or 438.5 are female.

2. Also in June, I accepted a part-time position at the much maligned (at least by my Seattle friends), yet sometimes praised organization called Teach For America. Although this position has not afforded me a G6, it has provided some great experience and I have built some strong connections with an excellent staff.

It is worthwhile to make note of the fact that the staff makes regular use of phrases like "lets deep dive into this," and "I want to put this on your radar," and "thanks for flagging that for me." I am a huge fan of this lingo.

3. I am now in a new living arrangement with a new roommate named Noa. Noa has been great so far and our personalities are very similar, as in we both have an appreciation for magnets and deals. As you can read between the lines, I will keep this update to what it is as it is all still very fresh. This transition took place in the beginning of August.

4. I tackled my apartment's balcony today and I have a sunburned neck because of it. I feel like it was worth it though because the balcony got a face-lift which included Christmas lights, a personally potted garden of five small succulents or cacti, a flower producing vine called Mandavilla, a whole lot of sweeping and some organizational feng shui. All in all I consider it a success, even though it ended up eating my whole day.

5. Tomorrow, 8/18/2011, I will be exploring the neighborhood of Venice with the rest of my small cohort of USC students to understand some of the issues that are going on there. This is apart of my orientation at USC. It is being lead by a professor and licensed clinical social worker (LCSW) named Randall who is a gay man originally from NYC and now living in LA. I could tell within minutes that he is a passionate and captivating teacher.

Well that about brings things up to present, and I feel like I am writing an email to an old friend. Is that what is happening here in some indirect form? At any rate, these are some major changes that have taken place. Some exciting, some difficult and some challenging. I welcome them all as it has certainly been interesting and I am excited for what is to come. I stand before a tornado of education, experience and loans that I know will impart great things.

Street Parking Urban Warfare

2011-04-01T16:53:00.000-07:00

My bonding session with the city of Los Angeles has been going well over the last four months. I have been enjoying cultural crown jewels of the city like The Getty Center and the La Brea Tar Pits. The former is a combination of art, architecture and urban design that would make Leo da Vinci do backflips in his current state. The latter is a museum showcasing a ridiculous slice of deep-dish history from roughly 35,000 years ago that would make any dinosaur enthusiast weak in the knees.

Miriam Mishayev, content at 10,000 ft.

However, my experience thus far in the city of angels has not been completely absent of negative attributes or effects. Said differently, LA alone is largely contributing to a degenerative disorder that I refer to as Rabies Affected Driver Clusterfunk Onset Phobia, or RADCOP. I have diagnosed myself at stage 3 out of 4 of the disorder, and my condition is not seeing any sort of improvements, no matter how much Dr. Drew I listen to. Symptoms of the disorder include a level of anxiousness comparable to that of going skydiving with a fear of heights, an inability to concentrate, complete loss of listening ability to significant other, the current irritability level of Barry Bonds and a complete failure of car parking abilities.

I recently experienced a flare up of RADCOP when taking my sweet lady to the Pantages Theatre to take in Beauty and the Beast, Broadway style, for our two year anniversary. Between you and me, I had to drag her to the event, kicking and screaming. Yet there we were, all the way out in Hollywood to see the show, and it was time to find a parking spot in the furious vehicle war-zone that are the streets of LA. By this time, I could already feel the RADCOP tensing my body up like a hand balling into a fist. I'm scanning the packed streets like a hawk for an opening while driving fast enough to avoid holding up honk happy traffic. Cars are changing lanes all around me. Signs tower menacingly above open parking space with an overwhelming amount of confusing information about street sweeping, zones, permits and hours. I am worked up into such a frenzied state that I cannot even hear my girl pointing out available spots, which puts her in a similar state of discontent. Finally, I find a spot after enduring a ridiculous RADCOP induced stress load, which is then quickly washed away by a quality Broadway production.

There are a few main contributors to my street parking phobia in LA:

1. LA has the worst traffic out of any US city, as reported by Forbes in 2010. There is a ridiculous amount of cars on roads paved with finite pavement. And the fact that the drivers of those cars are not peace loving, altruistic, go with the flow, smiling people but engine revving, horn blasting, caffeine wired maniacs bent on driving their vehicle up your tail pipe, only makes the situation worse.

2. The state of the roads in Southern California is simply atrocious. There are pot holes big enough to swallow my poor Honda Civic whole. Driving around town sometimes I think to myself this is what it must feel like to drive in the moon rover what with all of the craters. Can someone tell me why the condition of Southern California (if not all of California) roads are in such deplorable conditions? Where are the funds devoted to infrastructure being invested?

3. Possibly the fact that I am on edge when I drive anyways.

Glen Ivy Hot Springs

With all of this said, I am learning to live with my RADCOP disorder and taking it one day at a time. I feel like am slowly adjusting and growing the skills necessary to compete in the war zone that is the parking scene in LA. I owe much of this recent improvement to the relaxation gained from engaging in hot yoga and getting outdoors to places like Glen Ivy Hot Springs. Maybe someday in the future there will be some form of efficient public transportation in this great city alleviating both traffic and road conditions. One can only hope. Or maybe write Arnold Schwarzenegger a letter.

Wine Tasting in S.L.O. Motion

2011-02-21T14:47:00.000-08:00

Plans for a weekend retreat began as M and I confronted the Internet drafting board from our comfy home office couch. It was about midweek before the approaching Valentines Day weekend. We hit the Google search engine with a barrage of Mike Tyson overhand right queries from a couple of laptops which found themselves perched on the tops of our laps. Heating my lap up to the point of discomfort. A course was soon plotted to the northern coastal college community of San Luis Obispo (SLO). Aiding in our decision to visit SLO was the information that it was right in the middle of a plethora of wineries and vineyards, it was just about 15 minutes away was the neighboring dive town (if I may apply that phrase synonymously with dive bar) of Morro Bay with some interesting geological formations, and the town of SLO itself was rumored to be pretty cool as well. Thumbs up, totes packed, we were in, and I was more giddy than a ravenous mouse about to feast on a fresh box of cheese-itz.

After a small bagel shop debacle, we were the two of us caffeinated with bagel thirst quenched and on the road around 9:15am, Saturday morning. The drive up took about 3.5 hours, and it was made memorable by my sub-par music mix, the grisly amount of road kill (5, on the way there) and the beautiful green rolling landscape being fed upon by happily grazing herds. We checked into our "Peach Tree Inn," in SLO, quickly lifted two bath/beach towels from an unattended house cleaner's cart, and got back on the road towards the town of Morro Bay.

Morro Bay Fisherman

We arrived in Morro Bay with the sun still high in a blue sky. Driving through the main streets, we breathed in the sleepy, laid back air of the place. The architecture of the buildings felt much outdated, the faces of the people feeling the same; as if in resistance or ambivalence to the constant change and adaptation of mainstream culture. The place automatically stood out as a gem to me. Upon entering the town, Morro Rock immediately becomes visible as it swiftly rises out of a point where the beach meets the ocean like the incisor out of some massive carnivores jaw. The huge rock was very similar to Haystack Rock in Cannon Beach, Oregon, made infamous (to me) in the movie "The Goonies." The town's harbor was everything picturesque, with smallish anchored sail boats dotting the seascape with various tour and fisher man's boats coming to and fro, hungrily trailed by sea lions and gulls alike looking for a free meal. I almost immediately fell in love with the town and it's sleepy faced citizens that seemed to be purposefully oblivious to anything outside their borders. They didn't seem to care much about Lil Wayne or Kim Kardashian much less suffer from Beiber fever which was fantastic to see. M and I perused the most extensive shell and sea life artifact shop that I have ever seen (which I am now livid that we made no purchases), bought some salt water taffy, watched the sunset and played air hockey in a small arcade, all in that order.

In classic rock star fashion, we got back to our quaint inn "creek side" room and promptly passed out around 7pm for a catnap which unfortunately turned into bear hibernation. We woke up like 4 hours later like a couple of rookies and had to settle for Woodstock's pizza joint as all the other respectable eateries in SLO had closed. We make this mistake far too often...it is just too easy to give into that nap! Focusing on the positives and looking at the glass half full (which it was about to be), we were well fed and rested for the adventures in vineyard land the next day.

Since the surrounding area of SLO is packed with something like 50 or more wineries (see red dots), all concentrated in tight geographic vicinity, we booked a tour service that basically picked you up and dropped you off at the wineries of your choice. It was a fantastic service which enables you to see and taste in large quantities and I would completely recommend it at hoponthewineline.com. We were able to see and taste from SIX wineries in one day, a feat that I have never even come close to accomplishing. I welcome any challenges. I think our favorite winery was the first one we visited named Castoro winery, which had delicious wines, with something like 8 complimentary tastes, served by unpretentious and accessible, laid back yet still knowledgeable wine stewards. As in they were basically in our age range. With all this tasting I can really feel the maturation of my wine taste buds. I look back with an amused smile at our days start on a van of a handful of quiet yet cordial couples, more or less keeping to themselves, to ending the day as a chirping and extroverted bunch oozing with friendship and euphoria. Always funny to observe the wine at work. All in all it was a successful and fun trip and I am looking forward to coming back in the near future to rehash these experiences. I think next on the list of SoCal Exploration may either be Pismo Beach or Carmel. Stay tuned and thirsty mis amigos!

The Wineline Crew

Deranged Landlord Chronicles, Vol. 1

2011-01-20T19:35:00.005-08:00

This year holds big promise at being entertaining. I think a large part of that entertainment will come from my, or I should say our, living situation and everything that comes with it. It will be an adventure upon the frontier of girlfriend cohabitation for sure, especially as it unfolds amidst the setting of Brentwood, Los Angeles. This place has been a far cry different from my old Pacific Beach, but change is good.

Leading the charge of entertainment thus far and since our move in on December 1, 2010 has been our landlord who I'll call Dunlap for identity protection purposes. I realize I am about to publish my opinions on a publicly powerful internet platform, and that this is most likely foolish, but what the heck. Dunlap only partially rubbed me the wrong way before we moved in, however after the lease was signed, and our sparse collection of furniture was moved in, Dunlap really let herself and her lack of professionalism hangout. After a month and a half, our relationship has regressed to one sentence email exchanges and quick, curt phone calls that end while I am in mid sentence. Literally and with no exaggeration or stretching of truth, she will ask a question, I will answer it and before I can continue, I hear a click and a dead line quickly following. It is seriously astonishing and each time that it has happened it makes me burst out in laughter from shock.

Just the other night, after a productive* outing at IKEA, Miriam and I were returning home to our garage which is shared by all the tenants from the 52 units in our building. As we pulled in, Dunlap and her family were making towards their car to go do what they do. It went as follows:

Miriam rolled her window down and said "Hey there," in a friendly voice.
Dunlap stops stomping towards her car, looked at Miriam and after a pause said "Hi."
"Do you know if the drywall guy will be coming by tomorr--," Miriam said before Dunlap blurted out "I don't know who you are!!" in a harsh and hurried tone.
"Oh...it's me Miriam from apartment 411. We had the leak in our closet remember?" said Miriam.
Dunlap lingered there for a second in a cloud of confusion, staring at us through her fake, obnoxiously blue colored contact lenses before she recognized Miriam, realized who we were and then confirmed that someone was coming to work in our apartment the next day. Cool.

There have been other memorable tidbits that speak more to the eccentricity of her character instead of her abilities as a landlord. Numerous times, while communicating with her, she will be in the middle of saying something normal over the phone and addressing a few points in a calm and collected way until blurting out things like "STOP PULLING MY HAIR!!" or "Leave me alone!!" or "the cat's legs don't go that way!! Stop it!!" These outbursts will come in the middle of a conversation and seem to be directed at Dunlap's apparently rambunctious five year old. She rarely acknowledges these outbursts and usually continues on talking about a garbage disposal or light switch as if nothing happened. Pretty funny.

I guess the joke is more or less on me for not heeding Dunlap's early warning signs or listening to my girlfriends intuition. However, with all that said, Dunlap does basically perform her job responsibilities, albeit in a highly unconventional and snail-like way. It has been more positive than negative thus far as our top floor apartment and building have been very enjoyable with things like a pool and a convenient trash shoot even though it has been six weeks and we still have not been entered into the front door entry paging system. Go figure. These shortcomings are also blurred out by the fact that Miriam and I went from a relationship divided by 135 miles of highway to living under the same roof :). With that said, I still foresee future volumes being added to the Deranged Landlord Chronicles (DLC), so stay tuned.

*Purchased a sweet throw blanket, huge lantern and candle, and a bookshelf that really helped to complete our living room.

A Coast to Coast Culmination

2011-01-12T21:52:00.005-08:00

With the ferocity of an adolescent's thirst for spirits, for the gateway, for the unknown, time wages its war onward. The never ending flow without the ebb. Enter year 2011 A.D. If I didn't wish you one personally, happy new year! I hope the transition from old to new was not seamless, and it stood out in memory in some way, whether negative or positive. As in you found yourself amidst a group of friendly faces, you were donning some fresh and fancy threads, perhaps feeling the tingling of alcohol's chemical fingers plucking at your synapses, maybe listening to some good music. Or you found yourself at 3:45am destroying the shower curtain of your host's house at after having one too many pig in a blanket hors d'oeuvres at a (trying to be adult) gathering. Either situation is memorable and fun in hindsight.

I brought in 2011 on the move. After counting down from 10 in a club in the meat packing district of Manhattan's lower west side, my entourage and I (if I may call them that) ducked out and made it to a much more personal apartment party. The group was sown by the bonds of collegiate friendship of the M.A.C.C., a band of raucous females named Miriam, Aimee, Caitlin and Chloe. The rest of the group was completed by the accompanying boyfriends myself, Danny and Jim.

The second part of the night was much more fun in comparison to the expensive club experience. The club kinda felt like trying to dance in a dark sauna with a bunch of people, mostly Asian males who were not my girlfriend. Sure there was an open bar, some balloons, an almost fight, some cool dance moves and buddy pictures, but that was about it. The apartment party was an environment much more conducive to bonding through taking the neck tie down a bit, stepping out of the five inch party heels, converting a beer bottle into a microphone, or jamming some cold cheese pizza into the old pie hole and letting the pooch protrude. There was some serious buffoonery going on, and mainly being perpetrated by the M.A.C.C. who were all gripped in the elation of female bonding.

The rest of the NYC trip was cool. It was marked by a lot of bagel eating, talking, gawking at the city's deplorable collections of garbage mountains on the frigid streets and trying very hard to do things a tourist would not do. As I said, it was cool. The trip lasted from 12/30/2010 - 1/5/2011.

Miriam and I came back to our work in progress Brentwood abode in Los Angeles around 11pm and were knocked out by around 1am I would say. After planning to leave and being distracted by the filth of Jersey Shore, I embarked at 11am on 1/6/2011 for San Diego to continue the festivities of the new year. On the ride down I stopped in the sleepy surf community and Jar Head frequented San Clemente to pick up esteemed friend Peter and continued on the road down to Pacific Beach, San Diego. Pacific Beach was my old stomping ground as of 10/15/2010, and setting up shop there was my other esteemed friend Andrew who was holing up in a housing structure that I had walked past maybe 150 times before his temporary sojourn. Thus started Dude Day 2011.

Andrew's dwelling was already affectionately named the 'Haunted House' for good reason. The entire time I knew of this dwelling conveniently located about 2 minutes walk from the Pacific, I was positive it was a squatting house for beach bums of the non-rent paying variety. The outside wood needed a new paint job in 1976. It was the kind of spot you could see Fester Adams living after taking a sudden interest in surfing. Or if the movie 'the Burbs' was to have a sequel in a beach town, this house is it. The two story structure was boxy with a flat roof and flanked with overgrown lush foliage. However, the interior was a different story. It was a spacious yet cozy feeling, with natural light pouring in through a wall of windows highlighting the hardwood floors, wooden walls and funky colors calling back to the 70's. Think cedar cabin meets beach bungalow and banana trees.

The dynamic duo of Andrew and Peter are redefining the phrase "Internet Advertising" with their business sense and international impact. Take a peek at what they are doing on www.kohadvertising.com. They are already accomplishing things that most people won't accomplish in their live times. Hopefully they have the bandwidth and server space to handle the Internet traffic generated by my mom and my South Korean stalker after that plug in the Pages. Dude Day/Weekend was a raging success, marked by hitting up the best spots in Pacific Beach like only we do. Most notably, we took over a make believe VIP section in Bar West and made other patrons believe it by acting like we were young money billionaires. The best way to pull this off is by wiping the sweat off your brow with a twenty, perching a five dollar bill on your shoulder like a parrot, or blowing your nose into a single. It really works, and is quite effective in making people think you are just plain weird. I look forward to celebrating old friendships and cultivating new friendships in 2011, and covering those stories on these here pages. Un gran abrazo, y nos vemos.

One Sweet Venitian Ride

2010-11-03T10:26:00.009-07:00

How about a nice steaming dish of bloggeroni right now? Good, because that is what the chef is serving up from the Tuscan heartland. We have been in Italy now for five days yet it has seemed so much longer. Our first destination was Venice which I aim to write about now. The city did not feel real with how scenic and picturesque it was. In Venice there are no cars, buses, vespas, roller skates or skate boards. There are no roads: only ambling pedestrian walk ways and tiny bridges that link them. The only mode of transportation are feet and ferry boats. Included with those ferry boats are the sleek and aerodynamic looking Gondolas that appear to cut through the water with the sharpness and ease of a razor's edge. The Gondolas of course are the famed and iconic canoe like vessels that glide through the myriad of canals that abound through Venice and interconnect it like the silken strings of a spider web. Whether you are just going for a ride by yourself, as a couple or as a group, it is basically mandatory to feel the magic of Venice, morning, noon or night.

The canals, bridges and narrow lanes have a mostly quiet and back alley feeling and divide buildings of historic architecture of varying stages of decay or repair. The streets and canals change names every 20 feet and only sometimes have a street number. Italians, and just about every other nationality on this trip that we have encountered, give directions about as good as a 5 month old baby, with a lot of grunting, non-distinct gesturing motions and facial expressions suggesting an overall sentiment of constipation. With that said, Miriam and I got lost with every intention over and over again and it was amazing.

Literally, every inch of the the tiny island city was worthy of a picture. The buildings which lined the grand canal, (major water way which snaked through the main island) had ground level doors with steps descending into water. Some doors looked like they were only inches above the water line. Add to that mix the as per usual centuries old European/Gothic architecture and you have one recipe for photogenic splendor.

The highlight for me were the Gondolas and their striped shirt wearing, straw hat sporting navigators. Due to the popularity of their rides, the Gondola boats and their drivers were everywhere and seemed to have banded together to charge a standard rate of 80 Euros or $115 for 40 minutes. Pretty steep, but as I have found on this trip, most of Western Europe is. More often we saw couples enjoying leisurely and romantic cruises, a couple of individuals who could not resist the solo ride and some groups of people who got together to the split the cost.

M and I decided to wait until after sunset to take our ride. After much searching and bargaining, we settled on an honest enough seeming Venetian who came down 10 euro from his price. We ambled our ways onto the narrow and jet black gondola, made it to the little love seat and settled in. The ride was simply ridiculous. We started off on the grand canal and our gondolier (this word actually exists, believe it or not) quickly made for the less frequented canals. Darkness had set in, and shrouded our ride with a quiet and eerie calm. The light from lanterns and windows cast enough shine for us to see while it played off of the waters surface. Our gondolier's skills were immediately felt as he gracefully made his way around impossibly tight corners, sparing only centimeters, while he effortlessly stabbed through the canal water with his oar. Down one stretch there was no light at all, and there was only our gentle glide and the sound of the Venetian tide lapping against the sides of our tiny boat. It honestly did not feel real and it is something I hope to never forget. Another incredible and spiritual thing occurred that night, but that part of the story can be told later.

I cannot say everything was peaches and cream unfortunately. No, Miriam and I did not get into any spats involving flying gelato or portions of lasagna to the face. However with the city's beauty and grandiose charm comes the raucous hoards of tourists, of which we are apart. The groups, crowds, lines, tours and fanny packs made navigating a little challenging, and on the second night, Miriam and I simply elected to hang out in Mestre, which was just outside Venice and where our Hotel Villa Dori was located. There we were able to experience Italy for the first time from a completely local level, and it was great, having just as much charm and splendor from a different perspective. We are just finishing up our time in Florence and leaving for the last city of this journey, Rome.

Rolling with the Parisian Punches

2010-10-29T23:41:00.005-07:00

I look across the cuboidal sleeper cabin at Miriam who is reading before she goes to sleep. The cabin is, thinking positively, a rather intimate space. We are on a night train. There is an Italian man, Mario, sleeping 3ft beneath me. Beneath him is a French woman, Paulina. She spoke excellent Enlgish. Miriam and I are both on the top bunks, and compared to the other sleepers in our cabin, our headspace which enables us to both sit up, feels luxurious. Beneath Miriam is Italian Antionita, and beneath her is French Hugo. All together there is a total of 6 people sharing this close quartered cabin, which feels both comfortable and cozy yet at the same time barrickish, close and coffin like.

Our two hour Easyjet flight from Paris has unfortunately tranisitioned into a 14 hour train ride in the above described sardine can. And all of this being completely out of our control. Thankfully we lucked out with fairly normal cabin mates. No one in our cabin was traveling with exotic animals, was obsessed with compulsively stroking their goatees, or gushed sinister laughs when nothing particularly funny was said.

This virgin Europe train experience is all thanks to one very characterisitc and often occurring cultural trait of the French: They go on strike and they go on strike as well as they make crepes. 3 hours before our flight, Miriam asked Olivier, a manager at the hostel we were staying at in Monmartre, Paris, what the best route would be to the airport. Oliver, or Oliv-ee-yay as he pronounced it, quickly asked have you checked your flight status? We hadnt, being too busy taking romancy couple pictures from every imaginable angle with the Eiffel Tower. Upon checking her email, Miriam found sitting there in her inbox, like a festering malignant tumor, an email from Easyjet Airlines informing us that they were cancelling our flight because of union workers in the travel industry were going on strike. We are now left without a solution in arriving in Venice. Awesome.

Our hostel friend Olivier absolutely came to our rescue. His Dracula meets Prince halloween costume should have been Superman. He was in his early 40s, balding, did not wear his retainer as a child, had a great high pitch and contagious laugh, began a great many of his sentences with "allo", and had large honest eyes. He dropped what he was doing (blowing up balloons for his hostels Halloween party) and really helped us out by using his office computers internet to help us free of charge, printing multiple documents out for proof and verification, and making phone calls. In about 45 minutes, and after exhaustively searching every option of how to arrive in Venice, Italy from Paris, France the fastest and most economically, we decided to take a night train, straight shot.

So that is how M and I randomly and by forces out of our control, ended up sleeping on a train car, with four complete European strangers. Falling asleep proved to be quite easy, being rocked back and forth from the gentle swaying of the train and lulled by the muffled sounds of wheels gliding over iron rail ties. The moment we stepped on the airplane from LA to Madrid, the adventure clock started, and every second that it ticks away, is complete and utter adventure. I am writing this entry in Venice, Italy, and my ear is filled with the beautfiful rise and fall of the Italian language. We are heading into the heart of ancient canalled city of Venice for our second day. We aim to travel safely and soundly with a taste for Italy!

Somos Madrileños

2010-10-22T07:46:00.004-07:00

Our time in Madrid is coming to a close. And of course, it has been awesome, rich with intense experiences that can only be had in an alien landscape interpreted through foreign eyes. We hit the famous Del Prado Art Museum, making up one of the three art museums called "The Golden Triangle" in Madrid. It had some intense religious art showing Jesus in a combination of every position /expression imaginable. Most notably was a Bosch triptic painting showing creation of the earth, a world of sin and earthly pleasures, and hell. Fiercely interesting, however at that point in the day, exhaustion had already begun to soak into our feet and legs as if it were water to a dry sponge.

Food has been interesting so far...not quite the gastronomic holiday I thought it was going to be. M and I had an extremely memorable experience ordering food in a joint off of Plaza Santa Ana at 10pm. Nothing really looked appetizing between all kinds of ham and fried anchovies so, after much questionning, the waiter, who became annoyed, helped us to decide on meatballs and empandadas with tuna. Both were tasty and inexpensive. I am not sure how or why the following took place but bare with me as I try to describe: Shortly after our first two items were dropped off, the waiter throws a heaping plate of completely whole and intact, assumedly boiled, shrimp. (eye muffs for koscher folk) Not sure how to interpret the gesture, M and I decided to make the most of it and try some of the little guys out. I could only handle a few of them. What happened next cannot be too much of a suprise. After the waiter saw that we had eaten only three of the bountiful pile of shrimp he had thrown on the plate, he was naturally curious as to why we didnt eat more. I babbled some spanish out, chuckled at his blank expression, and he left.

He then came back shortly with the check, and sure enough, the shrimp that we did not order, turned out to be the most expensive thing on the menu, 14€ or 18ish dollars. Awesome. Just awesome. Shocked, I explained to our waiter who looked like James Bond with his white tux like jacket, that we did not order this item, in butchered Spanish. Our waiter got hot. He started raising his voice and causing a scene spouting off lines like Si no queires, no comes!!! or if you dont want it, dont eat it!!! We had a pretty hilarious exchange, as all I could say were things like literally I thought it was a present or gift (regalo). I argued calmly with him back and forth for a bit and finally he caved, I think under the weight of the shear knowledge that we never ordered such a plate. The obvious lesson here is if you get a strange plate delivered to you, send it back if you dont want to be charged for it. He crossed off those 14€ from our tab and so much more weight off my monetary conscious, however the embarrassment was palpable in the room after he raised a rucus. All in all it was hilarious, and a special experience you can only get as a silly foreigner.

Miriam and I packed a day into Toledo, a 15th century medeval town that is very much a living musuem. It was originally a town settled by Muslims from north Africa. It is a city perched on a hill encircled with castle walls and laced with cobble stone streets. The town boasts one of the most incredible cathedrals that I have ever seen, coming close to the church of the holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, the church built over the believed location of the crucifiction site. Notre Dame will have to stand a comparative test which I am sure, from what I have heard, will pass with flying colors. Also in Toledo were the last two remaining synogogues in Spain. It was also very interesting and beautiful, but bizarre as well, as it was no longer in use as a temple, but solely a museum and intended for people who were learning about Judaism for the first time. Toledo was an absolute Jewel, and up until now, Miriam and I have both walked a combined 300 miles.

Seriously, traveling to new cities = marathon amounts of walking. We are hitting the Museo de Reina Sofia tonight and then hitting a tapas tour put on by our Hostel and then we are out in the morning on a 630am train to Barcelona for more Euro Exploration. Pura Vida, and this is the life!!

ps. I apoligize for the lack of editing and spell checking, this computer is operating with Spanish as the default language.

The Euro Newbies

2010-10-19T08:09:00.002-07:00

Good morning peeps. I will now attempt to chronicle as accurate as possible some fresh traveler experiences, very much in the moment. Europe is in our cross hairs, and my esteemed friends let me tell you, I shoot to kill. First leg of the trip is complete, as Miriam and I have made it to LAX without incident. Thanks very much to one Ilana "Lan Lan" Fix who was kind of enough to drive us after pressing snooze 37 times, according to her. Next up is Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, Venice, Cinque Terra, Florence and Rome. Maybe a few others, all in 20 days.

We are rolling off of 90 minutes of sleep, and made it through security and baggage check in, aside from a butter knife, intended for cream cheese spreading, was picked up and confiscated. We are now hanging out in the Delta Airlines "Sky Club" which offers miniature muffins, yogurt, an assortment of hard alcohol and beer, all complimentary. As such, I am working on a bloody mary which is either waking me up or putting me back to sleep, I am not sure which yet. It is 7:11 am, and our flight takes off at 9.

I can feel the unbridled excitement slowly growing as this trip is just beginning. I have my wonderful, beautiful girlfriend traveling with me and I cannot wait to share these experiences with her. Although to her slight dismay, it is apparently near freezing temperatures in Paris right now. Even with some chillier temps, this trip is going to be one of a lifetime!

Simple, Irresistable Funk

2010-06-27T15:33:00.003-07:00

N.E.R.D. does not turn out the most classically eloquent, beautiful or lyrically deep material. However it is a contained explosion of beat nastiness, sending funk shrapnel through your auditory cortex. Tell me you do not feel the base line of this track in your chest, causing the erasure of any negative impetus and that you can avoid nodding your skull. If this is not true, tell me and I will buy you a C.D. and an ice cream.
N.E.R.D. - New Music - More Music Videos

Vegas.Love.Fire.Uncomfortable Shoes

2010-03-28T21:09:00.015-07:00

Trips to Vegas have to make the light of blog, its just a rule. Traveling by car from LA, the city of sin is reachable by a mere 4.5 hours or so. When last there six years ago, I was a fresh 21 year old accompanied by fellow brothers of debauchery. A very fun and memory laden trip ensued, as three man-children danced in an adult play-land that was much darker than we knew.

Fast-forward almost 6 years and I was returning to Las Vegas, via Las Vegas boulevard entering the layer of the beast, the beast encrusted with fiery jewels and bright blinding lights that feasts on greed and reeks of lust. We cruised through the strip in a 2007-ish silver Hyundai Elentra, it was Miriam's 23rd birthday.

We stayed at the MGM grand, an average hotel now as Vegas standards go, having aged and been knocked down the list of affluence by other newer, flashier palaces of grandeur. The MGM is still incredible and as soon as I stepped foot inside the expansive marble lobby I could feel the electricity in the air. We had to do some quick uncomfortable explaining at check-in to work the system by getting more than the allowable amount of guests (5) into a room with two queen-sized beds meant for 2. Frugality, ingenuity and smooth talking combined to successfully get our room keys and we left our baggage at the concierge. Vegas had officially begun.

Of course in an eye blink, it was over. It was a quick weekend trip, which really wasn't an issue considering the city should not be endured for longer than four days straight in my opinion. We (about 7-9 peeps, with mostly Ilana and I planning) combined to give Miriam a pretty awesome birthday. I envisioned our hotel room with wall to wall, floor to ceiling decorations. So I went to party city, dropped $60, and made it happen. Some might say buying a helium balloon tank, wrapping its' immense box with paper so as to disguise it, and then sneaking it into an MGM Grand hotel room might be going too far, but I wanted to go big. The funnest part of the night seemed to be the getting ready stage (pre-funk), where Josh and I proceeded to slam tunes and steadily ingest alcohol while the girls primped, beautified, fought over mirror space, and eventually clad themselves as scantily as possible just to the point where anatomy was not hanging out.

Girls from every walk of life shed any kind of modesty in the city of sin. Something in their brains clicks or swells or bursts like a light bulb, and look out as ensembles quickly lose surface area. Clothing all of a sudden fits much tighter (not due to a hasty hoarfing of a McDonald's value meal), cleavages get unveiled, hips get hugged, trunk junk gets accentuated by high heels. I find it an incredible phenomena, not for the hedonism, not for pleasure, but at the change in mental perception. All of a sudden, you take a female who would not be caught dead showing an inch of shoulder on a hot day and you put her in Vegas and just you watch. If she drops something on the ground, forget about it, there is no way she is picking said item up without introducing the world to a whole lot more. As one very refined and classy lady from the trip said, "I walked out of the hotel room feeling so scandalous. When I got to the strip....I felt like a nun," (referring to her outfit in comparison to the rest of the scandalous horde).

A similar change in mental perception happens with money. You hand in your green paper with numbers and dead colonial faces and you get colored, flawlessly symmetrical, circular chips. This is no mystery. After a short period of time you start making bets with those little circles of plastic not really associating them at all with the monetary value dictated by the casino. I will take myself for example. If it is one thing that I hate, it is spending money on unworthy things like tapas or haircuts over $20. I generally get off on saving. In Vegas, I have zero hesitation making a $30 bet on a hand of black jack which is either doubled or lost in a matter of seconds. Yet back in Santa Monica I'm chapped at paying $17 and change for two Thai entrees. Go figure.

It's just Vegas for you, a Bermuda triangle of sorts for the human psyche. A place where morality, romantic judgment and fiscal priority simply gets befuddled. Or for some, those mental capacities can get mauled worse than Roy (of Siegfried and Roy) by his adult Siberian white tiger. The allure lives on in the wind swept desert city with one boulevard called 'the Strip,' and as long as it is there, a place somewhere down in the bed of my unconscious will always long to see it again. Viva Las Vegas.

Bam

2010-03-23T21:07:00.006-07:00

My dads mom has taken the higher road, passing out of this life and stepping into the infinite and beyond. Irene Miriam Gerber she was first, then she married a Greenberg who passed away before I was me, and later became a Goodman. I only knew Irene Goodman, and she was my perfect Grandmother. She had an old ladies coo that could melt the iciest and toughest of hearts not to mention wrought a smile across your face like it was made out of metal. Even if you wanted to smile you had no power to resist. I loved her dearly even though I barely saw her. I think about the lack of our relationship and I feel regret.

It always seemed like my brothers and I could do no wrong, or no ill, bad enough to ruin her grandson obsession. How she made us feel special. Whether I performed some half-assed breast stroke which probably looked more like a single-finned catfish flailing in a hotel pool, she made me feel like I was an Olympian. As a young kid I could not pronounce "grandma," and when I tried to say "gram," the sound "bam" came out. Bam seemed to stick all the years I knew her.

The one time she came down on me was when I was disrespectful to my father. Oh my did she put in my place, and rightly so. I was a punk-assed little kid who thought he was hot shit until her 75 plus years of wisdom put me in my place, and I will never forget that lesson. Don't ever anger a Matriarch. And that's what she was.

My last times with her were good. Riddled with an oxygen tank she could still put down a beer at no coaxing. As we all sat in a room hungry men, trying to organize the days agenda, she enjoyed some kind of chocolate candy bar. We all stared at her candy and Wes even said that it looked good. She said calmly "You would enjoy it," and continued to work on that candy bar without offering a bite, a little old lady, enjoying her candy bar. It was hilarious. I'm sad at the passing of my Grandma and for the few times I had to see her. Even still, in those handful of times, I felt like our souls had always known each other. Bam, your heart was warm and your wisdom was great. I will miss hearing your laugh, your voice, and will take comfort in the thought of you resting somewhere in the sky. Maybe in the waxing light of some star which matches your brilliance, looking down on and watching out for me.

Round and Round: Centrifigul No More

2010-03-02T20:36:00.006-08:00

How does it get so easy not to write? Life simply finds a way of getting in the way, and by life I mean facebook, grocery shopping and mandatory phone conversations. The tiny things sap mine and everyone's time like a 20lb humming bird slurping from a minuscule and delicate flower. I have been 9 to 5 grinding for almost five months now, and it has been quite an experience in good and bad ways. Mostly good. I have all but gotten used to staring at an LCD screen enclosed by four windowless walls yet at the same time working with highly intelligent business professionals, working on complex, dry tasks. Tasks like obtaining work licenses from the US government for engineers from embargoed and sanctioned countries like Iran.

The bad only exists in that I have been kept idle not creating something out of words or images, not taking another country by storm. And I do not mean as a tourist, all pretensions aside. I have in a way, put those aspirations on the sideline to focus on being a professional, on building a career, on trying to make that number at the bottom of the line have as many zeros as possible. Money unfortunately is power, Puff had it right when he said "It's all about the Benjamens baby." In 2010, I intend to reacquaint myself with lust for the creative, while holding down a 9 to 5 and continually making steps towards building a life with my incredible girlfriend. The key to this? Write often, immersion into quality literature and cinema, arts & crafts, and some good ole' initiative. It's already fucking March!

So my life recently had me driving home after watching the movie 'Avatar' for the second time, at the last showing of an Imax theatre. Imax theaters are worth it. It was past 1am, the sky was onyx black and the highway itself was only made lighter by reflections off of its water slick surface. Miriam and I were moving along at a decent pace in the car that I have owned for a decade, my white stallion. Thoughts and ideas and impressions were both flowing from our mouths after seeing 'Avatar' which for all intensive purposes is a masterpiece of visionary storytelling. Thoughts like how truly destructive human behavior really is, how easy it was to root against colonialist man who comes, and sees, and conquers. And yes of course, how cool it would be to ride pterodactyls in a land full of foliage on steroids. I had my hand on the wheel, both of us enjoying the conversation when it was immediately and abruptly impaled by a loud and terrible noise. A noise that bore scary news and anxious feelings, and the endorphin pump that is danger.

That loud and terrible noise came from my left front wheel striking a massive pot hole going 70 miles an hour. The metal of my wheel broke over the jagged cement surface, puncturing my tire immediately. The pop of my wheel on that ripped asphalt sounded like a bone shattering. My stomach immediately dropped after hearing that noise and feeling the ensuing limp of my car with a wheel spinning on mangled rubber. I swerved only a little and quickly pulled off on the shoulder, finding space in front of four other motorists who all had amazingly struck the same road hazard maybe 20 minutes before I had. Miriam and I were both safe, thanks to all that is holy nothing else happened. How quickly we went from relative calm to panic and tire changing on wet cement in the cold dark of Sunday morning.

I filed a claim with my insurance Monday night and will be having my suspension checked in a damage estimate this Thursday. My deductible is $250, we will see how much I actually end up paying. While I usually have great praise for San Diego (see my previous posts), I do not hold anything positive towards the condition of its roads. I have never experienced roads in such abhorrent decay. It is if they are all suffering from chronic strain of leprosy. It makes driving in anything other than an SUV a draining experience where you have to monitor the road surface much like a corrections officer scans at a maximum security prison. In conclusion, I need to point this out to a city official who is willing to listen. I am tired of driving around an obstacle course full of hazards that can be described as domestic roadside bombs.

-Joseph Greenberg, Angry San Diegan

Forgetting Me

2010-01-03T23:40:00.005-08:00

To seek it out amongst a chaotic sea
The sunshine of life
First white, and then molten red
Held in the hand of another

Revealed in words that smile and cheeks that pop
It lives between the heart and mind
A key's smooth teeth
Will unlock that warmth

Happiness is key, love is warmth
Tasting euphoric, the succulent crunch
A warm voice and familiar smell
I know that touch

Lips the doorway to breath Billy said
Save blue eyes kissed by gold
The windows to her heart and soul
From there it soars

Worry no more of shiny things
Of measuring tools that rust and decay
Make your heart big so that give it may
And build selfless might, the end of words "I" and "me"

In the sunshine of sentient life
Purpose shall be found
To kindle and forever cast light
From the palms of two clasped hands

Thanksgiving in My San Diego Corner

2009-11-23T21:08:00.009-08:00

Staring down a short work week is an easy task. Especially so near the holiday of Thanksgiving, where I aim to induce carpel tunnel syndrome by holding up a ceramic plated mountain of food. This year will be different though. I will be without my family; without my motek (l.o.m.l.); without any family presence at all. My Thanksgiving plans will find me loaning it with Travis and Alex, two other friends feigning bachelor coolness and loner independence. Reveling in American football while indulging in what will most likely turn into a marathon of booze, will blur the absence of more wholesome hallmarks that make up this holiday. The 75 degree weather will, like the booze, provide a warm numbness as well.

79° | 49°

67° | 50°

65° | 49°

68° | 47°

70° | 49°

Thanksgiving Day: Sunny. Highs 75 to 80 near the coast to 82 to 87 inland.

Don't get me wrong, Novevember 26th will be a glorious day of manhood. There's going to be potent libations, devil's juice if you will. Irish coffees (coffee, Irish whiskey, brown sugar, heavy whipping cream) will start the day off with a perculating buzz. There's going to be three NFL games on over the course of the day. One goal is to watch and satiate through each of them from back alley watering holes that service a healthy flow of roided out riff-raff.

Since Travis nor myself really feel like exerting the effort to cook a bird, and Alex generally sits down to dinner from a box from a microwave (nightly), we are taking an easier solution. Our local grocery store called VONS (safeway conglomerate) is selling pre-made meals with all the basic necessities that make up a Thanksgiving meal. The meal supposedly serves 6-8 Americans or 12-15 Japanese, and costs $40 in total. The Vons sales clerk apparently told Alex in an emphatic tone that "there'll be left overs," after which she laughed a smokers laugh and almost coughed up a lung into someones plastic grocery bag. Oh I am excited if not even a little scared for this meal, whether it will be a success or if this adventure will lead to some kind of intestinal disability.

Two more days this week shall last before the vacation time begins. And when it does that precious vacation time shall melt away like soft-serve on the surface of the sun. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, somewhere behind Halloween and America's birthday, and mine this year will not be so shabby. I am thankful for my health, my twenty something and sliding age, my current employment with Qualcomm, the roof over my head, my 1996 honda civic dx that does not have AC. However what I am most thankful for and which happens to be furthest from me are my family and loved ones. Wes is tucked away on the farside of the world teaching English in Korea, parents are enduring Seattle's rain, I hope Zach is doing something productive in Bellingham besides leaving personal property in gay bars (I dont know what is in that kid's water aside from adoral), Miriam is on the east coast with her family. Those people, who I am most thankful for, touch my life in huge, immeasurable ways, and its unfortunate on this holiday their physical touches will be out of reach. But at least they know I am thankful for them. Happy Thanksgiving and I respectfully defy you to put more cranberry sauce on your food than me. Gobble at your boy.

Happy Grinding 8 to 5

2009-11-08T14:42:00.006-08:00

Through much preckling (prodding/heckling) from one Mom Dukes, I return to create some kind of account activity from a three month hiatus. This entry finds me a month into the first corporate experience of my life, with perhaps the biggest name in cell phone chip-set innovation, international market crushers Qualcomm. It has been a surreal month thus far, as I have been looking for an opportunity to work with this company for over a year. Before leaving Seattle in October of 2008, I had written a letter to the home address of the founding CEO whom I had never met before. Maybe a little too proactive a move, maybe deemed too much a "shot in the dark," but it was the first move of a year long process which has ultimately ended with accomplishment of my employment goal. I am a Qualcommer, here me woot! Who knows where this will go, if I will continue to make positive moves of growth with proven examples of hard and competent work.

What I am doing at this premiere company is a good question. Since writing the first entry on this blog two and half years ago in an alien feeling South Korean hotel room, I have fantasized about working in some facet of international business or foreign relations. I am a lover of foreign culture; if it were food I would consume it readily like a ravenous animal all while maintaining manners with a carefully placed napkin in my lap. With this new position, I get to satisfy this fascination with international relations as I am working in the department of Export Compliance. Simply defined this term refers to the process of complying with the shipping laws and customs of the United States government and the governments of countries through out the world. It has been awesome to say the least thus far. More will come soon, it happens to be getting late, late at least for a man who finds himself fresh in the 8 to 5 working track.

A Conscious Stream

2009-07-07T19:49:00.005-07:00

I feel like attempting to write things humorous in nature right now. Nothing too deep figuratively or emotionally at the moment. Although those things tend to strike at random times with cobra-quickness. For example I seem to remember expressing how I feel about capitalism as an economic system and in light of its amazing positives, how it basically mimics a form of modern day colonialism. Big time companies today being every bit as quick to barbarically invade, enslave and exploit as power mongering nations of the old world. I did not develop this idea any further at the time, because at the time I was at the PB Pub, one of the most frequented establishments of my Pacific Beach posse, and it was clearly not an appropriate time or place.

There were far too many girls obsessed with 50s punk fashion showing tattooed skin and grungy beach misfits to watch; much more light-hearted conversation to be had. At my half-baked hippy-at-heart claim one friend said "jeeze man that is too deep for right now" not necessarily complimenting my ability to pontificate. Another friend commented on my statement but did not get far because his breath quite honestly smelled like that of a water buffalo's, and I lost determination to listen. The place was loud and boisterous which meant one had to lean in dangerously close to understand words. From what I could glean he simply called me a 'neo-liberalist,' which I loved the sound of, just not one bull-shitting idea of what its supposed to mean.

I can already hear the criticism of this entry. Particularly through the voice of my mother: "How can you talk about the beauty and traditionally rich nature of an Orthodox Jewish wedding in your previous entry and then talk about some soul-stealing hole where you lacerate your liver?" To this unfortunately accurate observation, all I can say is that I oscillate between blog topics, sometimes serious, other times not. It allows me to flow freely, to keep it interesting (hopefully), to use vernacular of an unconventional nature, to make sure people are still reading. So mother, cheers to you, I hope you are able to both enjoy and LOL.

I mean sometimes its just fun to be unconventional period. My girlfriend touches down tonight here in San Diego for the first time as a California state resident. She is moving permanently to LA from Orlando, and all of my bells and whistles are chiming and blowing if not melting. I think going to Costco without a reason to shop would be a wonderful date idea. I could show her how manly and dominant I am by wrangling a parking spot away from a grandma wearing those sunglasses that swallow your face. All the free samples of food would ruin our appetites for the main course, but then sitting on a comfortable couch for sale while watching America pass by would bring the hunger back. Think of the entertainment from watching people scramble for aisle space, pushing carts full of things like a package of 300 hot dogs or a 125 oz jug of mayonnaise. On second thought maybe we would lose our appetites. If we so desired, after the evenings entertainment, we would have a choice selection of delicious and frugally priced eats at our fingertips. At the end of the meal I would say something romantic from the heart instead of saying 'this froyo could really use some sprinkles,' because the latter just doesn't sound very cool. And with that unconventional dose, I take my leave until next time.

Old School as in Orthodox

2009-06-10T18:10:00.017-07:00

Over the past two years of my 26 year experience in this skin, I have come to really embrace Judaism (my apologies in advance to Mr. Blanchard, my college friend and proselytizing Wicken*). More specifically, I have come to embrace the culture and the religion, as I am slightly at odds with the ethnicity looking a bit more like an Aryan youth or a "corn-fed white boy" as one Jewish fraternity member at the University of Washington once referred to me as. Not entirely sure what being corn-fed has to do with a certain look, but the name obviously stuck to the tacky matter of my long-term memory.

As a point of clarification, I am not just now jumping on the Heeb-bandwagon. I definitely earned my stripes as a kid, being forcefully whisked away to religious school (after regular public school) on Tuesdays and Thursdays in an eggplant colored mini-van while my Gentile neighbor Jeff Parks got to eat canned cheese whiz and shoot hoops on his driveway basketball court.

All it took for this new found affinity were trips to New York City in April of 2008 and Israel in December of the same year. Both destinations have similar populations of six pointed star adherents, numbering around six million and change respectively. It was my first time experiencing a majority of Jews in any one place; my first time feeling encouraged to embrace my religion; my first time not feeling different than everybody else. I will also admit here that dating a Jewish girl greatly aids in starting this little matzoh ball rolling down hill. Interpret that nonsensical statement in whichever way you wish.

It is an experience I recently had with my first-testament thumping girlfriend Miriam (a name as beautiful and youthful as she is) that I felt compelled to write about. During a recent visit to L.A., we were able to attend her cousin's orthodox wedding. It was simply awesome, as all weddings, good or bad, usually are. Firstly, putting a decadent buffet and open bar at anything is going to lull me into fuzzy happiness. Those two things could distract at me at an execution, where fatal termination is delivered through testicular electrocution. Secondly, the event itself was not only aesthetically beautifully, but fiercely interesting as well. I found great interest both in the wonderful orthodox customs and in meeting Miriam's extensive family. (I don't think I have ever met more of one persons family over the course of 48 hours).

Here are a few of the things that I thought were cool. While standing under the chuppa, (a smallish canopy which the two exchanging vows stand underneath), the groom put on a holy white coat over his crisp suit. Not sure exactly why, maybe he was symbolically performing open heart surgery. At the end of the blessings and vows being exchanged, I eagerly awaited the site and sound of the small glass (contained in a velvet bag) being crushed under foot of the groom. He raised his foot up and in a quick burst, crushed the tiny bag; but that oddly entertaining sound of crunchy glass-shatter never came. It was silenced by something inside the bag, I'm sure as part of a safety measure.

Shortly after this, the party path lead to the dance floor. A partitioned dance floor actually, with men on one side and women on the other, which was in accordance with orthodox custom. At first I must admit I was slightly disappointed at not being able to steam up the synagogue slow-dancing with my girl to some Whitney Houston or Celine Dion. However after a few minutes, I realized-or perhaps more accurately was distracted by-how crazy orthodox weddings could get.

All the suits in the place started to gather on our gender designated side. The groom was in the middle of a crowd of roughly one hundred happy Jew-dudes that started immediately to dance in a hand-locked circle around him. My mind was blown. The energy coursed through everyone who was joining to celebrate this lucky guy named Zev starting on his journey of matrimonial bliss. I wasted no time and thrust myself into this dancing mob and immediately found myself holding the hands of strangers while dancing, kicking and sweating into my formal attire in jubilation. At one point, individuals started break dancing in the small open space of the inner circle where the groom sat happily entertained. There were 40 and 50 year-olds doing the worm, the leg sweep and Russian kicking their kippoted (Jewish skull cap) brains out. It was the kind of environment that makes my soul shine: people coming together in celebration, aided by an open bar, drunk with alcohol and euphoria, on a dance-floor where societal constraints are shed like fur coats on humid equatorial days.

And as great as it truly was, after a time I grew tired and wanted to leave. I wanted to walk back to the Hotel Palomar, under the maybe one visible star, in the Los Angeles air that smelled sweet with something. So that's what we did, listening to the sound of my padded footsteps and the percussion of her heels click on the cement. Cars may or may not have been rumbling past us on Wilshire boulevard; those sounds I didn't heed. Mazel tov, felicidades, and congratulations to Zev and Melissa on their step forward together, thanks so much for having me.

*Cole is much learned in magic.

Drowning First Class Sorrows

2009-04-27T21:28:00.006-07:00

San Diego's international airport was full of souls in transition. Emotion is always palpable in airports...so is excitement. Even if the destination does not have any justifiable reason to visit, I think I would still be excited for the oncoming juxtaposition of life. For the new place to sleep. For the view of a different bathroom. For a place to rest contently away from the monotony of a daily routine.

I wasn't actually thinking these things as I sat down in an empty seat at gate C-6 to wait for my first flight of the day. I was just savoring the excitement. The kind of excitement that clicks in your ears. I was going to see my girl.

There were 40 or so minutes until boarding, and after verifying my seat assignment at the counter, I sat down to relaxation facilitated by an ipod with new music. When I heard my name being announced over the loudspeaker, I launched out of my seat, throwing my ipod across the carpet of the seating area. An airport is not the place you want to hear your name being announced over a public address system.

The middle aged woman behind the counter had a smile meant for customer relations. With kind eyes she informed me (like I had no control in the matter) that she was giving my seat away to a woman so she could sit in the same row as her children. For half a second dark pessimism took control of my mind and all I could think about was worst case scenarios. I said alright and waited for more of her words. We are going to give you another seat she said with a smile curling at the corner of her mouth...a smile that was supposed to be secret.

She gave me seat 1A, the very first seat of the airplane. It was conveniently located in first class. So it was before my plane had taken off that I had a Bombay Sapphire gin and juice in my hand while sitting in a seat large enough to comfortably accommodate an orca whale. Unfortunately my 75 year-old seat neighbor answered with few words and sought refuge in statuesque sleep. He was kind enough to give me his SD Union Tribune Newspaper when he was finished and he smelled skillful enough with a bar of soap.

Everything was just fantastic until the Continental Airline crew starting showing their in-flight movie "Marley & Me." I don't really even feel comfortable admitting that I watched this film and I should have just steered clear. I was completely unaware of the potent and wet emotional wreckage that would soon be dealt by the movie. For those of you who haven't seen the film, the plot is basic enough. A couple buy a dog and name it Marley; they become a family; the dog destroys and disrupts everything yet it is cute because Marley is a dog and that's what some dogs do; then Marley grows old and after a long dog life, he passes away. And the onscreen characters along with the viewers are left devastated. My sincerest apologies to those who haven't seen the film, but honestly save yourself the heartache, because it will hit and feel like a car accident in slow motion. Or maybe more like open-heart surgery with a spoon that you are completely conscious for. I think I like the latter best.

As I am a fairly fat animal lover, (with my affection even extending to the-of late-much scorned pussy cat) this movie tore me open. So there I was decently drunk, in first class, half-way an emotional wreck all because of some G*damned movie with a dog and Owen Wilson. Not quite what I was expecting. It was of course still worth it, and the experience ranks highly amongst my airplane stories. Cheering up was no hard task either, knowing who would be waiting for me at my destination. Shall I stick to flying coach? I think not in the face of the opportunity, as I am always willing to take a ride on an emotional roller-coaster, so long as their isn't too much airplane turbulence.

SD Pull

2009-04-14T14:52:00.005-07:00

The value of a location is most definitely enriched by the perceptible desire of people wanting to visit. I live in San Diego, Pacific Beach more specifically, thrust amidst its' hedonist hordes, and it has revealed itself to be a place that is simply frequented en mass.

I have never experienced living in a place with such a gravitational pull for friends, family and a precious girl to come visit me. The latter comes to visit SD for more that just the scenery, at least I would like to think.

However the beach, the rolling waves and their potential tamers, the sun-bleached blonde, the beautiful bombshells and the pace of life that accompanies all that seem sufficient enough to attract people. That beckoning sirene song sounds even sweeter to those in rainier, greyer, even snowier (in April!) climates.

In the past four weeks I have entertained the company of many usually, if not in most part, by drinking alcohol. My girlfriend Miriam "Motek" Mishayev came in early May and we got drunk off booze and feel good feelings and baked passion into chocolate chip cookies from scratch. One funny homeless man in fact told us that we go together like gin and juice. The following week Cole "Nighthawk" Blanchard, my esteemed D-Chi fraternity brother came down. We watched the huskies play feebly in the NCAA College Tourney and suffer hangovers so potent couches weren't left until late Sunday afternoons and vomit would not meet pavement not too much later.

(Unnecessary paragraph break, but I didnt like how fat the above one was getting)

About 10 days after Cole's visit, another D-Chi frat brother Tho Vo, a 5'1" guestimated man with a much larger and napoleonic personality caught a plane back to Seattle from SD. I have no doubt he harbored a storm of pain with in the confines of his skull. We ate blissful breakfast burrito creations at 3am the morning of his flight home in the house of a female stranger, our hunger churned and driven with whips cracks by a night of booze pursuit and purchase.

The pull of San Diego and its three W's have become obvious and I rest content knowing I have found a well suited place (or geographical area at least ;); I detest emoticons but sucumb) to call home and perhaps start the growth of roots. Friends, fam and Amor continue to come and see me. We can spend time, talk about times past, and drain pints of Arrogant Bastard Ale. More pics coming soon.

Waves

2009-03-17T00:44:00.007-07:00

Passion emits like a source of red light
From chasms deep down inside emotional organs
It comes through corneas and fingertips and lips
It is easy to feel and washes over my landscape
A rogue wave over a burnt desert
Dying for a drink

Chemical romance hangs on everything
On words and clasps and thoughts
Intoxicating drunkenness fills my space
And life is made blurry
Like the shape of palm trees in a storm
Is this real I wonder

Hearts grow fond of contact, just like skin
Hearts touch in time
While dining in Palomar sheets
While watching movies in cars
A winged thing time becomes
When we dance amongst military folk

Distance lies between now
The absence tastes of salt and echoes
Like gun shots down long corridors
Satellites and computer screens now compete
For gaps of love created
Your love is safe with me, like the band sang

Celebrity Matches

2009-03-03T20:54:00.007-08:00

Time to diverge from the usual hard-hitting stories that push "The Pages of Euphoria" to the forefront of credible, heterosexual, interesting, and all around dope-ass story telling. So I was sitting there on the Chalcedony Pad's salmon colored leather couch, stewing in thought after watching 60 minutes and the feat of human longevity that is Andy Rooney. I personally think the man hurls bolts of literary-style lightning with voice to match, but I also feel that if he turns his head too fast his upper lip just might fall off. That's another story though.

After getting my 60 minutes fix, I started to veg out to Sportscenter. The current highlight on the program was showcasing Chauncey Billups of the Denver Nuggets NBA basketball team. I sat watching with no particular interest until an epiphany struck. I SERIOUSLY KNOW THIS GUY. I have seen his face, shook his hand, drained beers with him, and played on the same play-money kraps table. The weird thing is he's white.

As I looked at Chauncey's mug it slowly became clear that my San Diego buddy Curtis Buono was the "yang" to Chauncey's "yin." I shared this thought with fellow Chalcedony Boy Alex whose immediate hearty laughter revealed agreement. You be the judge. While they are both athletically dominant athletic figures with Chauncey conquering the court and Curt owning the vertical cliff face, Curt kicks the shit out of Chauncey in one important area. Who has a cooler name. How can a parent call their male child Chauncey. Why not save the mystery and just call him Sue.

ps. As I may be putting Curt in an uncomfortable position, I will do the same to myself.

Project Pat

2009-02-23T23:31:00.015-08:00

It is pleasing to my eye to see things move in stages. Progression, maturation, metamorphosis. Artistically speaking that is. To watch something slowly take shape-whether it is a simple painting or a ceiling fresco requiring a ten story ladder and inhuman rendering skill-is fulfilling. It is even more rewarding to watch your own creations take shape.That is basically what I have been busying myself with doing since returning home from the Holy Land, little art projects here and there. In between interesting job interviews ranging from gold buying to food reviewing. But mostly buying old and eclectic photo frames from the Goodwill on Garnett avenue, and adding my own personal touch to them by altering the frame or the mat. This is all because I am now sitting on top of a photo cache that is just ridiculously large. So I have been printing out my favorite travel shots, and they need homes just like bums do. As in frames or photo albums though. This was my most recent project. Can you tell which trip it is commemorating? Think yamikas, hummus and M16s (Uzis no longer). I actually did not intend for the blue paint to come out the way it did. I thought it was going to be in a nice even spray, but in stead its application was more like thick and heavy stream, giving it a droplet effect. Innitially I was bit frazzled, but I just chose to go with it.

And just for the record I am not all arts & crafts, there is no poster of Boy George on my wall, and I don't snake my S's. For those of you are, I am cool with it in a platonic way. But I still revel in things of manliness like beer, and flatulence, worshiping the female curve and staying monogamous. My next project is underway, and it involves painting an image onto a circular saw blade. That has been turned into a clock. Zaney as all get out, just how I like it.

My Own Four Walls

2009-01-26T06:58:00.008-08:00

On this late January morning, I watched the suns' light fill an American sky through my wannabe venetian blinds. A flight only just recently swept Wes and I away from Ben Gurion international airport, located just on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, Irsael. The flight took me direct to Los Angeles and lasted about 16 hours plus change. The flight was made funny by the older lady who sat in the aisle seat of our row. She looked to be early to mid 60's, slightly snooty and really liked to make some exaggerated movements. When a larger, somewhat clumsy passenger made a quick turn with his baggage in hand and struck her directly in the head, she careened forward with her head bobbling like she had just been gut checked from Japan's greatest sumo wrestler. "Oooh my God!!!" she blurted out, aghast at her own misfortune. Physical comedy at its greatest.

Wes and I landed in somewhat of an organizational mess, as we both had not yet formally planned out our next steps. I had to catch a train to San Diego, he had to try and jump on an earlier flight to Seattle. And displaying a frequent occurrence of men, or perhaps just Greenberg men, the both of us did not foresee the moment of terrible reality arriving, the true end of our journey, the time for saying goodbye. The moment struck with a horrible abruptness, and when the realization dawned in our minds, I think we both stood frozen in silence for a few seconds. I gathered my bags up and glanced at where I had to go, and then came in for a painfully short hug. Hearty clap on the back, traveler heart to traveler heart, soul to soul. I told my brother I loved him. He spoke a few short words about how incredible the trip was, yet the words did nothing to console the stinging shittiness that our trip was over.

Saying goodbye is an artform. There are those times when you say all the right things; you skillfully disclose those words in turn that are funny, or that are an overwhelming combination of charm and kindness, or that can convey with conviction how much you appreciate the person or persons. However I think for most and I, those smooth operations are few and far between. When saying goodbye to someone close, I have to keep that exchange short, or emotional ships will be wrecking. I am and remain at times, the most sentimental of schmucks.

I caught a bus to Union Station in downtown LA, and from there hopped on a Pacific Cruiser Amtrack train for San Diego. After arriving it took a few pay phone calls to reach my roommate Alex, and the third call finally got through. When he picked me up, it was around 12pm PST, the San Diego sun was shining, and I had been on the road and out of a comfort zone for upwards of 30 hours. The only stop I wanted to make on the way home was at Romero's Mexican Restaurant to get one of their breakfast burritos. Those damn burritos ooze with deliciousness and I had been thinking about getting one for the past few days. I think it will now be a Pacific Beach homecoming ritual.

The apartment was a site for sore, swollen eyes, and mine were smiling. I was only gone for 6 weeks, but the last 4 weeks knew a road that was at times hard and grueling: living out of backpacks, sleeping in ratty bunk bed hostels or army cots, eating shotty or even skipping meals on occasion. Wes and I were in each others presence, and I really mean PRESENCE, as in nearly every sleeping or waking moment of the day, for four weeks straight. For these reasons and more, it felt really good to back at my place.

I ate my burrito while watching TV with Alex, catching up on news and trading a few stories. Afterwards I took a long, hot shower, not wearing sandals or worrying about what I might contract from the shower floor. And finally, it came time to go into my room, my four walls of private, personal, woomb-like space, and shut the door on absolutely everything in the world. I shut the door and locked it, savoring the latching sound, my mind rife with excitement to be in my own bed again. I needed to unplug from everything, not see or hear another human being, and get some much needed rest. I didn't leave my apartment for almost 24 hours. They were a solitary 24 hours I was most happy and comfortable to lose.

Courtesy Lacks, Hospitality Flows

2009-01-18T08:34:00.007-08:00

This place glows like an ember, no flame visible at the moment but still white hot and ready to kindle. Thoughts in Israel course through my head at an uneven pace, all day; completely unlinear, in a fashion like exploding fireworks. When it comes time to just sit down and channel them, it can be somewhat challenging. Even in an internet cafe with keyboards whose keys are splashed with asdfgh;lkj right along with שדגכעיחלךףץ.
My lungs feel different after smoking my traveler days away. Not sure why I smoke (at a snails pace) in other countries, I guess it just adds more to the traveler high. It's still pollution, and the smoke from the tobacco competes right along with the pollution of stimulus emitting from Tel Aviv streets. These streets that are comprised of a frenzied chaos, at times friendly, at times ugly, just ready to spill. Wes and I walked down Ben-Yahuda street this morning, looking to post up in a cafe for coffee and people watching, the sun radiantly shining, air as crisp as it was in times BCE. The walk was made memorable by the sight and sound of one Israeli aggressively barking out chunks of Hebrew, hearty and heated in tone, at another Israeli nonchelantly leaning on a kiosk counter giving no response. The cereal of the agitated Israeli must have really been shat in, because he was pissed. It did not turn violent and it was nice to see the passion.
The culture of Israel has this passion. That somewhat "in your face" kind of colour, which comes through in the absence of American politeness. Go ahead and tell me I am full of shit, that that phrase is an oxy moron. Ok it is. However I feel in certain ways it has merit. This kinda feels like walking through a minefield. In my little corner of white bread, corn fed and coffee satiated America, "pleases" and "thank yous" echo off walls adnosium, places in supermarket lines are respected, the other guys' time is just as valuable as my own.
Israeli culture just barely lacks this little area of courtesy, but I think it adds to the overall flavor. And its not to say that it isnt made up for in other ways. Israeli hospitality is warmer and more bountiful than the sun's solar energy, (assuming you are first their friends and you are not firing rockets into their lands). My brother and I have been sitting under the blessing of Israeli hospitality, completely shocked and bewildered at how much love we have been treated with. We have been taken in a number of times now, by distant family relations, by soldier houses, by volunteer acquaintances, by a soldier named Noam, by a girl named Effie who I met in some distant Argentinian town and her friend Imbal. We were fed, housed, bedded; given a warm place to relax and feel good, free from crowded hostel dorms packed to human bunkbed capacity. Effie and Imbal made us t-shirts, Noam (a masculine, ladykilling, medic from our birthright trip) made us pita and hummus sack lunches with an extra serving of soul, Nancy and Don showed us what a family Shabbat was like in the holy land.
I am still left reeling from all we have recieved, and I can only hope to give back as much as was recieved; to give more would simply be an impossibility. Well this has been therapuetic, nice to just get my thoughts out for one day. My trip is nearing its end, America is less than a week away. Jerusalem, a city of Gods, of both martyrs and machine guns, will be our last destination. I cannot wait.

Kabbalah and Ghosts

2009-01-14T12:23:00.010-08:00

The bus weaved left and right, following the serpentine curves of the road. Very few roads in the state of Israel follow a strait course for very long, and this one did nothing to buck the trend. Sitting in the bus seat, my back and shoulders throbbed with a dull pain from carrying my 60 something pound backpack, or bag of my life, and tinges of nausia began to unfold from the base of my skull. My middle brother and travel partner Wes, sitting to my right across the aisle, looked to be in the same state of anguish. I at least had the luxury of an ipod. We were both ready to get off the bus.

We were headed for Svat, a city located in the northern part of Israel. It is a city aged with the history of millenia (plural), a city of antiquity, fought over by Jews, Arabs, and Knights Templar just to name a few. As if this historical soap opera wasnt enough to make it interesting, it became a center of Jewish mysticism and seemingly magical spirituality, or Kabbalah. In the 15th and 16th centuries, the population of Svat was enlarged by an influx of Jewish immigrants fleeing the Inquisition and persecution in Spain. Many of the new arrivals were Kabbalists, or seekers of mystical truth. The movement of Jewish mysticism in Svat apparently started long before this migration, but never the less, mysticism began to take stronger root and flourish like it had never done before. In the city's hills are buried the famed figures of Judaism's Kabbalistic past, whose places of rest are visited and prayed over in regularity.

Now, everyone I am sure has been through a town, or the street of a town that claims to be magical, or channel spiritual energy; this claim is usually backed up with a decent number of shops that sell all things crystal, items that naturally heal, a huge heap of tarrot cards, peculiar jewelry, and managed by some spacey white lady with a flowing tie died forest green dress (hiding crocs), all to the background noise of flowing water or flute music. I know these shops well, as I am a repeat customer. While these towns are fun and entertaining, they are the most of them false backed. Tourist ploys. You don't come away feeling impacted. Svat takes this same principle and makes it serious with an almost 2,000 year old history. A history of blood, of swords and scimitars, of occupation by Arabs, Turks, Mamulucks, Crusaders and of course Jews. Svat is a throne of mysticism with the weight of one of mankind's oldest religions behind it. Ladies and gents, Svat is the real deal.

All of this, unconsciously I believe, began settling into my mind. Weighing upon my mind. Whether I knew it or not, after just setting foot in the hill-top city, I had began to feel it's presence. My brother and I got a clean, quiet and cozy room to ourselves in a Kabalah school/boarding house called Ascent Institute. As per usual, after a particulary grueling day of backpacking, I fell into a deep sleep before my head hit the pillow. However my sleep was not pristine, and it was disturbed. I remember being pulled out of sleep by a feeling of fear. In my dream impaired state, I felt and feared the presence of something supernatural in the room, or in the school, or maybe just the aura of Svat itself. I did not come fully awake, and soon fell back into a deep sleep. But I do remember feeling that airy and gnawing feeling of anxiety, that feeling just before fright, while lying in my hostel bed. While not a traditional believer in mysticism or magical realism at the moment, I am a believer in the power of Svat. There is no other city like Svat in the world, and those places claiming to be so simply cannot hold a candle to it.

סבאבה יגוזם, or just plain cool

2009-01-10T05:19:00.002-08:00

Soldier Boy

2009-01-02T10:36:00.006-08:00

Blogger.com has indicated that this post represents my 100th entry, allow me to issue a "holler at ur boy" with zeal over the internet loudspeaker. The pages of Euphoria is now centenial, and I can only hope that the US treasury will mint a coin to be sold on QVC...one with Arnold Schwarzeneggers face on one side, and a pirate ship on the other. If someone feels like leaving a comment on this, please reply with how you would design a coin that would commemorate your existence.
It is quite appropriate that for my 100 entry, I find myself in a situation of extreme interest, at least to me. It has been at least 18 months since I have found myself in a situation of such counter (american) culture, the only thing coming close in comparison was my time on an animal reserve in the Ecuadorian Jungle.
Dear friends, for the last 6 days, I have been volunteering on the Khetziot military base, in service of the Israeli Defence Force, or Tsava Hagana Layisrael. I would write out the name in Hebrew, but annoyingly, the function is turned off at the current computer terminal from which I am writing from. The base is about an hour south of Gaza, right on the Isareli-Egyptian border.
I arranged the volunteer placement about 5 days before the Israel began checking the actions of Hamas in the Gaza strip. Notice my tone of voice, which I wish other reporting news stations would adopt as well. How sheerly insane it is to find myself on an Israeli military base, organzing spacious hangers of old military equipment, packing kit bags for soldiers, and other tasks that take the status quo in their sites, and obliterate it like the most hostile of targets. I sleep on an uncomfortable cot, with other dudes who snore like their playing shitty trumpets, and eat three square meals a day with a mish mash of young M16 toting Israeli youth canvassed in olive green. All the while I simply try to make sense of just what the hell I am doing.
Although I do hear gun fire and bomb concussions reporting back frequently during IDF training and my base is about an hour south of Gaza, I am relatively safe. My only worry is packing on pounds due to the unexpected goodness of base food. For our service, we volunteers get those three meals a day and place to sleep. And it is nice to get those daily requirements free of charge, as Israel has proven to be fucking expensive if I may be frank. However there is a kind of emotional or mental payoff as well. Sort of. In a minute and microscopic way, I am giving service to the state of Israel, giving my support to the lone nation of the Jewish faith, and that feels good. We are performing tasks in aide of the IDF, in fact directly in support of reserve soldiers. I will go into further detail of what we do in the next post.
One of my favorite sayings, one that for whatever reason plays in my mind often is "all is fair in love and war." I have done some ridiculous things when under the influence of the former, and I am getting first hand experience of the latter now. And without assigning justification, I feel like the phrase rings true. Hamas is a terrorist group that needs to be dealt with, and they have left Israel no choice but to answer with military force. However innocent people are also losing their lives. It has been sobering yet educational experience thus far, which I know will get more intense. A happy and safe new years to everyone, you are all in my thoughts. Peace in the real sense, J.

Show Your Tatts

2008-11-20T18:07:00.008-08:00

There's hardly a moment alone without one. At least in Pacific Beach. Where ever you go, whatever you do, they will be right there waiting for you, just like Richard Marx sang. I'm sorry to quote that endlessly 80's song, I've had too many good karaoke memories with it. Tattoos are what I am talking about though, and they permeate this tiny beach community right along with the surfboards, Mexican food, and torrential "brahs" that echo off of walls, pavement and my eardrums.

Just check out the map of Garnett street I posted above. All of those little red indicators lettered A-G are tattoo parlors. There's like 8 of them in a 5 block stretch. Seems like a bit much right? The basic rules of supply and demand seem violated here. Nearly a dozen businesses, that close together, selling the same service would not all be able to turn profits. But they do. As Pacific Beach does not lie in the norm, and residents here possess an unquenchable thirst for ink that flows from the mechanized needles of tattoo artists.

Everybody is inked up; marked up like a Harlem subway. I finally felt compelled to write about it after about the fourth week of working out in the local 24 hour fitness, the McDonalds of fitness clubs. Workout after workout I spend breaking down muscle fibers, sharing gym space with absolutely jacked individuals that brandish tattoos on their skin as if they were membership requisites. Tattoos are so prevalent down here it almost makes them undesirable, as it would just be like becoming one of the many. Yet at the same time, the constant bombardment of the art form works on my mind.

I am still deeply fascinated with the art of tattooing. I respect the permanence of them. Making a decision that you are basically forever bound to is impressive and awe inspiring. I think a part of the process also gains notoriety through it's "badboy" connotation, as it's not the Screeches or Erkels of the world known for their body art, but folks like the Hell's Angles. Folks also known for heinous crimes, and poor skills in civility. Living in my current tattoo metropolis definitely causes me to think about them a lot. However at the moment I know getting one here would feel wrong because I would be getting it as a trophy, something to show off. I don't want to be that guy. I already am that guy who grunts while doing front shoulder raises with 30lbs in each hand. If that spell binding
image or dizzying string of words comes along, and their meaning is that profound and undeniable, then I shall fall slave to the needle. Until then my skin remains marked only by leopard like legions of freckles.

Paper Trails

2008-11-11T22:09:00.007-08:00

If you are like me, you pay attention to your cash flow. At least during those fiscally challenging times in between paychecks. How much you withdraw, how much you spend, when you spend it, and what you spend it on. I like coupons (hopefully pronounced Q-pons, and not coo-pons), I like grocery store membership cards, I like things that are free, I like hunting for the bargain. There is something so delightfully good about finding a bargain is there not? And I do mean the true bargain, not finding something that cost less because it is clearly a piece of shit built to last 5 minutes. Knowing that you saved x-amount of cash on an item over some schmuck who just didn't care to look a bit deeper is a joy that I relish. Especially when that x-amount of cash decides to be there waiting in your wallet, precisely at the time, and in the exact amount it is needed for something else. What follows is an account of a curious amount of money finding its way into my possession in a most unconventional fashion. As that last sentence can be interpreted in many different ways, I will add that nothing unlawful or uncivil transpired.

It costs three dollars to wash and dry one load of clothing. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet to see how much cash I had. Two crisp $20s; Andrew Jackson's stare back caused both a comfort and an annoyance. Nice to have some cash in the leather bound collection of my immediate life. It was just that the damn change machine would not break bills larger than a $10. As I eased the $20s back into my wallet I noticed a mass of something green in a separate lining, clearly shoved in in a hurry. A closer look reveals that they are $1 bills...exactly three of them. Must be my lucky day, as now I have clothes with that just out of the dryer scent which is priceless. This wonderful scent is important for a real, hairy chested man such as myself, as real men can smell really fiercely after a good 24 hour day of manliness. Fresh scents aside, I found it amusing to ponder the luck or fate if you will, of how those measly three bucks found their way into my wallet.

There I was, wrecking the wholesomeness of a Sunday evening, dancing interpretively at a club named Bar West in Pacific Beach. This trip constituted my second time to the place, and their D.J.s play bangers. Really good rap tunes for white kids like me to wild out to. Apparently, there are a few San Diego Charger football players who agree with me, as they came, and saw, and conquered the VIP section (just a roped off portion of the dance floor). They lived it up with demonstrations of wealth in a couple of ways: every 30 minutes or so, there would be a line of waitresses brandishing lit sparklers and bottles of top shelf alcohol, making their way out to the professional athletes and their cohorts. And secondly, at a feverish point of intensity at the club, one of the young men decided to throw a generous amount of $1 bills into the crowd, turning the dance floor into a globe of green snow. Dollar bills came raining out of the sky turning the club patrons back into children on their first Easter egg hunts. I managed to pluck $3 dollars out of the air, and it was those $3 dollars that I found stuffed in my wallet today when it came time for quarters at the laundromat. Money, or paper, and its course of changing hands, or trail, is an interesting thing to think about. Thanks to #94 for your display of decadence, it turned out to be fateful in a color safe and mountain breeze fresh kind of way.

Pumpkin Party People

2008-10-29T23:20:00.005-07:00

I look at the white box on my computer screen like an empty canvas. Waiting to be filled with text of limited color splendor. The cursor blinks in it's robotic repetition...questioning. What are you trying to paint today it asks. And asks. Paint or smear?

It was a pretty fun Sunday night. Marked in interest by featuring a pumpkin carving party that was far from conventional. As in there were a lot of married couples and I was sober. The party was wholesome...people gathering together to enjoy a smorgasbord of good eats, provided in their entirety by one Jamie Sjodin. Not only does she bake up the perfect storm, the kinda storm that would torment storms on Jupiter, she also has blown my traveling resume out of the water (I have a few years to match her). However, good eats were not the focus, as we are finding ourselves in the month of October, the draw of the intimate dozen was to carve pumpkins. The intimate dozen by the way are all friends of my new roommate, Alex. He has been kind enough to introduce me to his circle, as well as invite me to their social gatherings to which I am most thankful. In a word, he has been instrumental.

As always, I am a huge lover of activities that take the partaker back to their youth. As long as those activities are legal, and not involving any kind of proximity to MJ's neverland ranch. But I mean fort building, ninja turtle watching, chubby bunny playing, alcohol pounding and pumpkin carving are all activities that make those list. And it was a blast! Carving pumpkins is so much fun because you get a chance to let your creative juices flow. Creating something artistic and pleasing to oneself is such a wonderful feeling...regardless if it is pleasing to others. An idea strikes you, and seeing it come to fruition is a satisfaction that I want to feel more.

What pumpkin design does one employ when meeting a brand new group of people? Nothing other than an inverted pentagram so as not to confuse those who may think I'm somewhat Jewish. It's Halloween, and I wanted to get into the spooky spirit. So I carved, quite masterfully, one of the symbols adopted by a religion of darkness. When I unveiled it, there came a few wows and nice jobs, and then nobody talked to me for the rest of the night. Just kidding. Alex carved Barack Obama's profile into his pumpkin, creating the most impressive and patriotic pumpkin offering. Unfortunately Barack the pumpkin has already melted and molded. All in all, it was a Sunday of wholesome fun, and I was glad to have the time to bond with these great San Diegans who stay classy. I hope that all of you have also enjoyed taking sharp objects to plump orange vegetation; it's such a great custom. Kinda like voting.

Lifestyles of the Incandescent

2008-10-14T23:23:00.011-07:00

The place is beautiful, as if carved out of a Bob Ross painting. On every corner there looms palm trees, lazy in their grace, or graceful in their laziness. These plentiful and picturesque palm trees associate with postcards and vacations in my mind, as they clearly carry warm weather and sea breezes with them. That's what it has felt like thus far, like I am living in a postcard. Also adding to the beauty of Pacific Beach, S.D., are the sunsets. I have been watching them now for two weeks and while my camera has finally slowed down, my love for them (like frozen yogurt) is unrelenting.

My oh my these sunsets down here are something to write home about. Right around 630pm at this time of the year, all you have to do is look into what was a flawless blue sky and notice a soft golden curtain creeping up from the horizon. At that point look westward and there it shall be found. Locals flock to the beach or at least a vantage point to behold the feat of incandescence. The sphere of brilliant, retina scalding yellow light slowly descends. As it does, the surrounding sky gets painted with a soft amber, the kinda soft you would liken your pillow to. Attempting to describe the color of the sunsets down here is an exercise in futility, as the colors you see simply surpass ROYGBIV. When the sun finally touches the Pacific, it becomes the scepter of some celestial Creator, and from it spews the waning purity of the day. As in Pacific Beach, with the darkness comes impurity and the freaks come out at night just like Whodini sang.

Thats what I wanted to focus on in this entry, the feel of the people in Pacific Beach, because they have a special feel all their own. The town itself is a complete microcosm to the rest of San Diego, as there are roughly 44,000 people in PB to the estimated 3.3 million in the San Diego county. I have marked PB's location on the map with a small red star below. The median age in PB is right around 30, yet congregating closer to the beach and the main drag of Garnett avenue is a reverberating animal of youth and energy that is several years younger. This crowd of physically beautiful and raucous young people no doubt shaped the nature of Garnett avenue, which is made up almost completely of bars (with personality), tattoo parlors, smoke shops, trendy eating joints, and Halloween costume boutiques. (I am fairly certain they remain costume shops year round). There is even a hookah bar, which I cannot wait to lend my business. However also shaping the feel and the nature of the people here is without a doubt the beach itself. There are never ending waves to be ridden, endless amounts of sunscreen to rub in, UV rays to soak up, and sun kissed beach bodies to rubberneck.

As beautiful as this lifestyle is that I have just described, it is just a little one dimensional. In between the waves, the sun, the sand and the cerveza fria, there isn't much room for any other culture, or cultural awareness. Perhaps it is just that...employing a beach lifestyle and the myriad of activities that it provides just doesn't leave space for more scholarly activity, more depth of thought, mind and emotion. What I do know is that the people here are definitely rock stars in their own rights, living loud and in my face with their thirst for life and extroversion. There is a healthy dose of energy down here, and I am ecstatic to have placed myself in the center of it. This is the segment of my life where I explore domestically in search of the answers to what it all means. Joey G. is out.

All in a Day

2008-10-10T20:21:00.004-07:00

***An introductory disclaimer: please forgive the fact that I am clearly in love with myself and see me for more endearing personality traits.

Early morning surfing was on the agenda. Knowing we had our wetsuits until noon, I set the alarm California early (930am) to be out in the surf at 10am. Waves were shredded in the time allotted and after I almost cut another surfista's arm off with the fin of my board while trying to wash it, we returned our suits.

We fed our ravenous appetites at a wonderful little joint called Taco Surf off of Mission Boulevard. While I shoveled tacos down my throat like a salt water hippo out of water, I mentally prepared for my 3pm engagement: JOB INTERVIEW. All in a California day.

More on the session....still very much (completely) learning the ins and outs to a beautiful, harmonious, yet overbearingly salty sport. I have surfed a handful of times before: on the Washington coast, in Costa Rica, and in my beloved highway town of Mancora in northern Peru. To gain any kind of mastery of the sport, I will have to go no less then 3,000 more times no matter what country I might be practicing in. Where I find myself needing special attention is my judgment of what constitutes a rideable wave. Selecting which wall of water will send me on a fun confidence building ride, or which will deposit my gonads 8 feet under the ocean floor has proved to be a difficult task. Wes, my traveling partner/navigating sidekick brother leaves for Seattle drear tomorrow afternoon, wish him good traveling karma. Hasta las olas locas amigos, PAZ.

Road Bites Men

2008-10-04T00:48:00.005-07:00

Usually roads are hit by people with travel itches. Not today. I just took rocky knuckles to the chin, the kidney, and had my ear lobe nibbled off by one ruthless Highway 101. My brother and I left Portland, OR and our lovely grandmother at 830am, to arrive at the residence of our family friends the Purkeys, in San Francisco at 1130pm. Of that 15 hour time span, maybe 90 collective minutes were spent not driving. Much of that non-driving time was spent urinating. We both endorse hydration.

However, it was the most grueling 13 or so hours of driving/riding I have ever experienced, this coming from someone who voluntarily rode a bus from Buenos Aires, Argentina to Guichille, Ecuador. Not to mention the relentless downpour of rain that new no ending. It was raining when we left Portland and it was raining on the Golden Gate Bridge when we crossed it. The verb raining itself really did not apply to todays situation, firehosing would be a much more satisfactory fit. All because I chose the scenic HWY 101 which runs along the west coast, and is a hilly, curvy, oscillating boa constrictor of merciless pavement. Interstate 5, which runs from Canada, through the States and even down through Central and South America, should have been the choice.

As light from the wet grey sky wilted away and darkness set in, driving grew difficult. Wes, in his +75 year old style of driving, (a lot of squinting, frequent unnecessary breaking, driving 10 miles under the speed limit) had to be relieved if we wanted to arrive at an almost decent hour. So I took over the reigns with my fleeing suspect of grand larceny driving style (eating a burrito, steering the wheel with my knee cap, going 25 over the limit) and we finally arrived. Our moods were not sour enough to enjoy driving over the Golden Gate Bridge.

I estimate our loss of time at taking 101 to be around 4 hours. So if there ever was a kernel of truth or a morsel of wisdom to be gleaned from one of my entries, it is to just avoid 101 and take I-5. The former fights way too dirty.

Bumbershoot: Where Soul Meets Body

2008-09-02T00:22:00.012-07:00

Roll up a fatty jam-session J of music appreciation. In that paper membrane place with a green thumb a little Black Keys, a dash of Stone Temple Pilots, some T.I. swagger, and lace the contents with Death Cab for Cutie. Take that spliff to your ear canal, inhale with the lungs of your auditory cortex, and enter the land of completely sober music inspired euphoria. It's where Ive been the last two days.

S.T.P. played the last show of their tour at Bumbershoot and left it all out on the stage. It was my second time seeing them play, the third time seeing their front man Scott Weiland play. The dude is bonafied. A sultry, smokey, hypnotist of a rock star; his jeans were way too tight, he gyrated his hips with a smoothness that seemed to borrow from silk, and he sang his heart out. I am straight, but the thought of bearing his children sounds better every time I see him play. Throngs of people populated memorial stadium, and the space in front of the stage was a sea packed tight with Seattlelites. I some how managed to work my way upfront, a maneuver coming at the price of being soaked with sweat (only partially my own) and getting thrashed in the crowd. At one point Scott leaned into the crowd right where I was, his mic (which he was screaming into with a megaphone) was with in inches of my hand. I have never been that close to an entertainer in a crowd that big, and it was every bit incredible.

Death Cab for Cutie played the final show of the Bumbershoot music festival. The Bellingham band with the quirky name was my favorite. Their sound moves me along with bleeding hearts everywhere. I hear their music being played and I reflexively start to dance like a goofy white kid. They came on at 9:15pm sharp, exactly on time, unlike STP whose bus was seen rolling up 35 min late the previous night, the fucking rock stars. They came on, and the tingles and shivers of excitement and anticipation began shooting down my spine. The song "Bixby Canyon Ridge" started to echo out of their amps in phantasmal wisps of sound that sent tingles through my entire body. As they played and their tempo built up I felt myself smiling so hard I thought my cheeks would dislodge from my face. It has been a long time since experiencing that kind of giddy excitement for a band.

A completely enjoyable Bumbershoot experience it was, marked by memorable performances, T.I.'s attempt at blatantly selecting groupies from the crowd at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon, and attending with people like Larry (at right), who wears shirts like this. I feel like skulls and blue fire together are only permissible if you are tattooing them across your chest. If you own shirts like this, do yourself a favor and light them on fire, and place the ashes in a vat of sulfuric acid. It will just save a whole lot of unnecessary embarrassment. I disposed of my own collection of those shirts, along with my jean shorts about 3 months ago and have never looked back. In the end, there were far greater fashion travesties, and really, who the hell am I to say who looks like they were getting dressed in a garage full of gasoline fumes. More power to those folks who like to attract attention with ridiculous outfits, because I'm that guy deriving great joy from laughing at you. Two thumbs up to Bumbershoot and to supporting your local music festival!

A Racist Novelty

2008-08-12T22:43:00.004-07:00

I recently had an interesting conversation. It took place in a bar where the crowd was boisterous and drunk. Happy though, and the feelings of mirth radiated throughout the Edmonds establishment named the Channel Marker. It was a Saturday night, and the level of energy was higher than most Saturday nights in Edmonds. Not particularly wanting to be social extrovert and conversation hopper, I greeted the familiar faces that pop up in your home town bar, received heavy and loving hugs from those who were more intoxicated, and found my way back to quieter areas. With me were my cherished friend Trevor and his crew, and the daughter of the Korean Consulate General, who happens to be my next door neighbor. You could say my neighborhood is peculiar in a way, but I suppose everybodys' is to them. We were sitting comfortably around a table, enjoying fairly priced alcohol, and our conversation was a relaxed one. It would pleasantly build, break off into side conversations and at times come back to involve everyone.

Now it was during one of these side conversations that I had with Suzan (the Korean Consulate Generals daughter), where thought provoking questions flourished. We automatically had things to talk about given that she was born and partially raised in Korea, and I lived and worked in Korea for nearly 7 months and could flaunt my own Korean vocabulary which consists of an impressive 7.5 words. It was during this exchange of words that I informed her on many different occasions, my friends and I were denied entrance to certain night spots while in Korea. Furthermore, we were absolutely and positively (based on the translation of my Korean brother Johnny Blaze) denied entrance solely because we were white, foreign, and or of non-Asian descent. I can vividly, albeit drunkenly remember the faces of those door men taking one look at us, saying something indeterminate and shaking their heads "no" or "anneeyo."

How we arrived at that point in the conversation I can't remember. Call it a lack of charm, a lack of common sense, or simply a lack of fear to explore uncomfortable areas. She understandably did not take very kindly to my comments. As a side note I want to stress how much I love all that is Korea. A truly one of a kind and wonderful culture. I have said many times that it was probably the most hospitable countries that I have known. However, no place is without its flaws. America sure as shit isn't. So I respectfully told her, without incrimination or accusation in my tone, that a couple of times I was discriminated against because I was white.

We tasted discrimination not because we were rude, or flatulent, or violently jump kicking innocent bystanders in the lobes of their ears, but because we were foreign. How curious it felt to be discriminated against; strangely I wasn't even offended at the lack of decency in these quiet Koreans barring our entry, the only thing worthy of getting irritable over was having to wait for beer. I wonder if those doormen really cared about doing their job. Their delicate racism, if such a thing exists, was more novelty than anything. I recall giggling when the situation was fully explained. I laughed at the fact that this kind of thing still exists, at least in countries yearning to establish/advance themselves in the first world. Maybe its a bit of my own naivety revealing itself, or my own untarnished faith in the world to be so surprised that an act such as this, however harmless, still happens today.

So I told Suzan the Korean national that this happened to me (which makes me sound like an insensitive schmuck, but I assure you it wasn't completely inappropriate), and she flat out refused to believe me. She said "no...there's no way" while incredulously shaking her head. "Maybe there was an issue with your wardrobe." Upon hearing this I exploded into laughter on the inside, as my wardrobe while in Korea could be described as questionable. I did own a raging mohawk at one point. This is besides the point though, and it wasn't our clothing that prevented us from getting inside that night. But I sensed the seriousness in her tone, and saw it in her eyes. I knew immediately I had stumbled upon the sensitive ground of patriotism and pride for one's country, knowing the same ground intimately myself having been a traveling American for months. Having sensed this pocket of sensitivity like blasting cold air on a nerve naked of enamel, I knew to just drop it faster than a hot bowl of kimchi. Interest in arguing the subject was immediately lost in the interest of increasing diplomacy, and also in shock for Suzan's inability to accept something negative about Korea. The issue was dropped and we agreed that the soft racism was probably caused from my wearing of jean shorts. I wanted to tell her that you can love and be proud of something without it being perfect, but maybe she can come to find that kernel of truth in her own bag of popcorn.

On the Conquering of Mountains

2008-07-20T15:01:00.011-07:00

The snow bank loomed into sight as we rounded the bend on a hewn dirt road. The snowbank was impassable in Parker's white ford explorer, and it immediately but just barely dampened our spirits. It was there, just as the stubby and stubble faced ranger had said, about three miles out from the beginning of the Mt. Adams trail head.
Shit. Shit was what I said through a long sigh as thoughts of an additional six miles sank into my pores. Had there been no snowbank impeding our passage, we could have shaved off those extra six miles under our burdensome and spine crushing loads that we were just about to meet. I looked over at Cole, the other tank of the squad (tank = person weighing more than 180 lbs), and chuckled while shaking my head. We were not about to turn around.
It was a little after 2pm when we finally embarked, walking like giant tortoises clad in the North Face gear, very much hauling our homes on our backs. Like the stallions of fitness and endurance that we were, we breaked about two miles into our trip to enjoy our last decent meal which was not freeze dried or require boiling water to consume. While changing layers, Cole aka Nighthawk, decided to show us his method of arousing the opposite sex, which was gyrating his hips around in a way that would cause his buttocks to "dance." I dont know who is more homosexual between him for executing such a dance, or myself for actually describing it.
So it was with ingested sandwiches, and after Nighthawks dance of booty clapping (for which we were not making it rain $10's, 5's or singles of any currency), that we began anew. From that point we kept a pretty consistent pace on a steep grade that never declined. We would break every 25 minutes or so to take water and catch our breath. Water very quickly took on that indescribably nourishing taste it gets when you are exhausted, and I would feel immediately invigorated after drinking it. Needless to say, our water supplies dwindled fast. The sun had long been on its retreat behind the west face of the mountain and shadows had begun to stretch. We were just getting out of the treeline and the landscape felt barren and alone. Scabs of rock lay cut out of the snowy blanket which lay beneath out feet, and it blasted the landscape with white. The four of us were hard, with gritty resolves in comparison to other gentrified, perhaps saner members of city dwelling society; yet even in our perceived toughness, we were just beginning to know the power of that mountain and the weapons in its' arsenal.
Base camp was reached around 9pm, after roughly 7 hours of hiking and gaining 5,000 ft of elevation. I unclasped that bag holding all my gear, that bag of pain, and threw it down on the dusty and porous volcanic rock that would serve as our bed. I swayed gently there, taking in the oxygen thin air with slow and controlled breaths. I had never known such relief in shedding a burden. Tents were pitched involving no flow of blood to the loins, and we cocooned ourselves in our warmest clothes. The suns warm caress had now left us, and in its stead were 40mph gusts of winds very constant in nature. I even went as far as to putting on goggles as the aforementioned gusts would pick up dirt and dust and find a charming way of depositing it in our eyes.
Shelter was increasingly important as darkness set in, so we quickly put together our tents. Cole and I, (the two tanks) appropriately shared one which was quickly dubbed "the bear den," while Parker and Corey shared one which I will now name "the string cheese incident" due mainly just to Parker's whiteness, flexibility and uncanny ability to come apart in strands. We gathered behind a rock wall that partially blocked the wind. There was an exchange of heated grunts and snarls between Parker and Cole:

Cole!!! Whatntha shit are you doin?!?!?! Your stove is worthless!!!
Im regjjgigschmorky tent!!!! Gimmie a Goddamgringolfat econd!!!

The wind made it impossible to understand what Cole was saying. The issue lay in the fact that Cole was solely focusing on playing house and putting his tent booties on, where Parker was struggling with Coles' stove that would melt snow for water and allow us to eat food. The four of us had each consumed almost all of our water supply, and we had to melt snow (purified with iodine tablets) for the next days water. Huddled together amidst rocks and dirt, in the swirling wind, we derived what enjoyment we could from our freeze dried food. The stars had come out of their secret hiding places and they waxed and waned with a calm brilliance. Despite the extreme discomfort of the situation, I very much savored the moment. I knew an immediate bond was forming between the Arctic Fox, White Ghost, Nighthawk and Wolfman while we endured those conditions together. We all retired to our tents shortly after to get out of the wind around 10:30pm, knowing full well we had to wake up in 6 hours around 4:30am if we wanted to summit.
The night was basically sleepless on those jutting rocks and wind that had me believing we were going to be swept off the side of the mountain and cast away into oblivion. It was truly a night deflowered and pillaged of good rest...calling to mind a few nights of near comparison that I will not go into. As it always seems, right when the beckoning call of sleep seems barely audible, someones voice was rousing us back to waking light and life. I laid there in my sleeping bag buried in layers of fabric and insulation, shoulder to shoulder with Cole, coming to grips with my reality. For a few minutes I stared into the ceiling of that tent, still turbulently being accosted by the wind, enjoying the masochism of the moment: Frigid temps, howling wind, rocks under my back, a harrier man than myself cuddled up alongside me. I strangely savor those painful moments.
Time to get up. Breakfast came out of a box entitled "Chicken Boo-yah," in all seriousness, and was heated to moderate coldness due to malfunctions in the heating process. It tasted horrible, yet I still wolfed it down knowing that every calorie would count. I heeded not what the other members of the crew ate or did, being so focused on my own motivational issues that morning.
After strapping on our boots and metal spiked crampons which looked like they belonged in some medieval cage of mortal combat, we set off around 6am. The 2nd of 3 stages lay ahead of us and of the details I will no longer speak. I will offer that three of the four of us summitted 6 hours later reaching 12,276 ft. Cole perished around 10,000 feet. Because we ate him. We accomplished our goals, and with reaching the pinnacle of anything, whether it be mountain, a skill, ones life, it felt incredible. A kind of incredible that bursts slowly with an endorphin high. A kind of incredible which comes from being on top of the world with your friends. It took a special drive, a ferocious mental resolve, and just a little bit of old fashioned craziness to reach the top. (Huge striated and bulging muscles and the lungs of a gnar whale are also needed).
Some folks who are accustomed to a life of soft luxuries might wonder or ask why do such a thing of such hard, difficult and unpleasant requirements. I do it, in part, simply because those tasks are there to be done, lending to the old and maybe annoying philosophy of "why not?" I get joy out of doing those tasks because they are not normal and in my opinion, the less normality one has in their life, the more interesting their life is. In other words, normality and the degree of interest in ones life are negatively correlated. What saves me from sounding like a jackass is that I realize that there probably isn't anything more subjective than what people define as interesting and normal to them.
Of the trip I enjoyed the staggering and stark beauty, the eerie silence of the mountain, the bonding with friends, the taking of shits in nature. What I loved about it is how feats of endurance force you to be mentally and physically tough (with a special emphasis on mental toughness). Putting one foot in front of the other, even though your lungs are screaming, you feel lightheaded, and your fingers are going numb....for hour after hour. You persevere and make it to the top in the face of all those deterrents. After pushing ourselves to the limit, we touched the snowy crown of Mt. Adams which sat aloft its' height thousands of feet high. We won, and the confidence from that victory still courses through my veins giving me the desire to execute the next task of non-normality. Wolfman out.

Best Men

2008-06-15T23:26:00.008-07:00

The call of a friend was heard halfway around the world. If I remember correctly it came in the form of an email, and when it did I was most likely eating a bowl of cereal, watching Jeopardy, wearing a t-shirt with a ferry boat on it. One of the finer people I have ever met, Nam Jung Hyun, who is all parts South Korean, was getting married in Seoul. He asked me to be the best man, and it was (and still is) an honor I couldn't have been prouder to bare. His name and reputation are not foreign to these computer screen pages of mine, as tales of his deeds are many and reach back to the Beginning of my adventures abroad. Don't be confused by his other monikers: Johnny Blaze, the Korean Barbarian, or the Manchild, as they all pertain to him.

Moving on in the complete and utter lack of a segue, as stated before, I suffer from G.F.C. or Greenberg Frugality Complex. I am not frivolous with ca$hmoney, and I advise you not to mess with mine. Furthermore, the #s Kayak.com were throwing back at me for a round trip ticket from Seattle to Seoul and back were not in the least bit encouraging. It was in fact a raging turn-off, squandering my lifes' libido. A dash of cold water, a strange Spanish man falling in love with you in the early morning hours, or someone eating your puppy are all situations comparable on a "turn-off" scale. I needed the advice of close friend Megan and her strawberry blond man love James (refuses to recognize he is a ginger). A mountain top shrine was not needed to hear their advice, a thunderbirds/silvertip hockey game with open bar access proved to be sufficient. And they told me, Joe, you have the money, he is one of your best friends, just fucking DO IT!!!! I heard their deeply complex message, bought the ticket, bore the momentary hole in my bank account, and went.

Korea felt good. Felt like the hug of an old albeit faceless friend; the identity of which is not important, just the fact that their company is warm, refuge can be taken in it, and has been missed. It was all waves of nostalgia and deja vu gracing those same Seoul streets that still smell like tangy hot garbage and cigarette smoke. I was elated to be back there again, even though I was walking through an almost supernatural experience, knowing I could yet would never work in Korea again for reasons known only to myself.

Thoughts of those people I would see and the free airplane booze got me through the 12 hours or so of travel it took to arrive in South Korea. It was sheer rapture and excitement from meeting up with Johnny, Keith and Hillary that kept me going like a Mick Jagger in his prime for the last 12 of a 24 hour sleepless day. The 1st 12 hours IN Korea went like this: Accompaniment and helping of John asking his fiancee to marry him (for the 3rd Gottdamned time). It involved the spelling of "I Heart U" in candles on the roof of his car, sparklers, and epically screaming the question to a 15 floored Apartment building at 1am. To say the man is into romance is like saying water is wet, or that Boy George is a little queer on rainbows. However I must admit he is wandering in landscapes of psychosis with the degree he takes his romance. His previous two attempts of popping the question involved a toy box on Korean t.v., and renting out the top floor of a ferry, throwing in a band just for kicks. I would personally marry Sasquatch if his proposal included those kind of loving theatrics.

After his fiance accepted for the third time in her curlers and went back to sleep, us men of course went to bond over alcohol. The spot was a fine bastion of inebriation; a good old fashion Korean bar. Serving beer in huge clear plastic jugs bubbling like a witch's cauldron with the smoke from dry ice frothing from the top. Keith, his younger brother Mark, Johnny, his younger cousin Andrew and myself all klinked our pints, dropped shots of soju inside (the countries hallmark 20% rice grain alcohol) and drained our beverages in the speediest of fashions in true celebration of one of Korea's most enjoyable customs, the Soju bomb. Of course, no drinking in Korea goes without an enormous platter of assorted sausages, or saw-say-gees as locals call them, grilled to greasy, stomach pleasing perfection. Food, drink, and company that made my spirit truly soar.

And the 3rd stop, as any person trained on Korean custom will predict, was a trendy Noray Bong (personal Kareoke room) named Prince Albert in the Hongdae district of Seoul. The regular bangers were sang/sung in wonderful group unison. Keith still loves to sing "under the sea" as made famous by Walt Disney's The Little Mermaid. In the past his singing of that song made me want to commit hate crimes, however this time it wasn't so bad. Call it a case of absence making the heart grow fonder of tasteless situations....hahaha, not like I ever sing grimacers with my voice that's like smooth honey and used motor oil. And speaking of tasteless situations, our raucous noray bong session ended with a rendition of the Beatles' "Hey Jude," yet upon finishing the song the chorus somehow morphed to "take your mother....ing pants off right now." Which, while we all furiously chanted, did; and then placed our bare backsides on the wall panels of glass facing the street and its' people outside. It was a move crass, rude, appalling, disrespectful; in NO way directed specifically at Korean people or Korean culture. Though....it also was complete and utter release, invigorating liberation, side splitting laughter. If only for a few seconds before the manager became unglued. Sexualities confident and cemented in hetero assurance, our bare asses were a site we all decided Seoul needed to see.

Shortly after destroying that noray bong, we parted ways in the grey and pallid morning light to find sleep. I collapsed into mental darkness on a mattress on Johns' moms' living room floor in exhaustion not having slept in 24 hours. Due to jet lag and time zone difference, I would wake up 4 hours later. The next 6 days would maintain a theme of sleep deprivation, violating situations, and pure fun. Not to mention the wedding of one of my most excellent friends. Of which all I will say is that there were loads of bubbles, the wedding cake had a smoke machine, blinking lights and it was cut with a sword, and I had a personal translator while delivering my best mans speech. In Korea, life is like a jar of Kimchi, you always know what your going to get: spicy, wet, wholesome fermented goodness. Onyoungeekaysayo peeps.

ps. when in Korea you get ill, not sick.

The Highlight Reel

2008-05-27T00:02:00.003-07:00

I like reasons to make movies. While not examining all of or even the most popular of reasons to make movies, I will focus on THE one at hand. Wesley Greenberg, the middle brother of the Greenberg trifecta, asked me to make a short piece roughly five minutes in length. His parameters were eloquently stated as "just make it of all the cool shit you've seen in your travels." He is participating in a collaborative concert by producing one song, and he wanted both something visually stimulating in the background and from what I understand, something inspiring to create to.

So it was this that I tried to provide for him. It was an extremely enjoyable challenge as the inspiration to make a short clip like this hadn't really presented itself. As many of my friends know, I do love to make short documentaries/slide shows with tunes about the countries and cultures I have experienced. However making a highlight reel of sorts simply of my favorite footage was a task that had not entered my mind. Thank you kindly Wes (Smeagol) for giving me that creative challenge and choosing to include me in your music production school work.

The clip is finished and posted here for everyones viewing pleasure, should you choose to view it pleasurably. There is little to no cohesion in the clip as it jumps quickly between content that is very different. It is simply a collection of the cool shit I saw in my wanderings through out the globe. One unifying theme may exist, and it consists of the things I find beautiful. Those things are usually extreme landscapes, and real people showing true emotion. Wes' concert is in a few weeks, and his music is forthcoming. For now, I have added my own soundtrack of Trent Reznor and Jose Gonzales. Enjoy.

At Odds (reprint)

2008-05-13T00:53:00.005-07:00

The whrrr of the drying machine takes my brain on a sleepy course. Reading my book is becoming futile as I try to pass the time between loads of clothing being washed or dried. Its my quiet time. Where conversations are avoided; internet, tv and the beckon of my thigh master are out of mind. However, the joy I WAS taking in my gluttonous lethargy is starting to dwindle. I feel myself attenuating to something. What is it? It sounds like a woman having a conversation with her dog. Shitballs.

"Do you want to go wait in the car?!?!?" she inquires with a stern voice, believing that the animal understands the ultimatum.
"Yip Rowrk!" the dog answers breaking his silence rule.
"Now that's enough!"

Clearly it wasn't enough, as the tiny phallic shaped dog gets into another yipping match with the resident rat dog, a 4 lb poodle named Charlie.

Now this middle aged woman is walking around with her dog perched on her shoulder, the dog looking more like some insecure piss ant parrot who wouldn't eat a cracker drenched in cheese. The weak parrot impersonator is not the issue, its the fact that this woman, Deb we'll call her, is carrying around this animal on her shoulder and having a conversation with it. Why do people do this? How is this behavior acceptable in our society? Where would Charles Darwin put this dog breed named wiener (being toted by the homunculus Deb) in his theory of survival of the fittest?

Some people find this babying and cooing behavior cute, I find it not only unnatural, but downright inflammatory. I mean, I understand companionship, and how important it is to have it. But Deb, do you have to carry the wiener K9 on your shoulder everywhere with you like its some kind of mini deity? Deb? Simply At Odds.

Staying with this fun theme of things being at odds, I would like to reiterate that this rant of mine was realized and inspired in a downtown Edmonds luandromat, where $1.50 washes you half a hamper. I am fortunate enough and cool enough to be living in my parents house which was recently appraised at around $3 million*****. That dollar amount is slightly misleading, or completely at odds with both the Greenberg frugality complex (or GFC) and general Greenberg ethics. For example, father Charles would sooner hop in a vat of molten lava than pass up a penny or nickel left on the side walk. Zach Greenberg as recently as 6 months ago, asked a waitress if the refills on his diet coke were free (this is actually completely condonable behavior, yet still humorous to think about). I am living in a fairly expensive house which throw around descriptive attributes like pond, and pool, and spiral stair case(s) I and am washing my black work socks at a laundromat. At Odds, and I could not be more in love with it.

*****First and foremost, allow me to apologize for sounding like the biggest schmuck ever to grace the blogosphere. I put that dollar amount out there to mock the fact that I was washing my dope threads at a laundromat for $1.50 a load, and in fact our clothes washer had decided to overdose and die on my dads BVDs.

New York, New York

2008-05-02T20:46:00.004-07:00

A trip already achieving the status of an instant classic; like a 21 year old Jack Nicholson. Maybe its the music playing that's causing my nostalgia for the times and experiences only just had a week ago. Maybe it was just one of those experiences that had the perfect blend of personalities, alcohol, captain crunch, nudity, offensiveness, and friendship. Add to that a backdrop consisting of little old New York City, the greatest fucking city in the world (12% Jewish).

Parker Montgomery (White Ghost) and myself Joseph Greenberg (Wolfman) decided to visit our bushy browed and outspoken friend Elija Sonkin (Huge Jew), who is currently living on 1st ave and 13th street in the east side of Manhattan. We ascended the subway steps off of the L train to enjoy the caress of sublime sunshine. It felt good, the air was city fresh, and I had already been verbally accosted by some impatient woman whose parents clearly did not love her and whose look screamed sexual frustration from a bullhorn. God bless NYC. I was immediately struck by the scene of this small portion of Manhattan...its' electricity. I saw it in the ass tight jeans and vintage T's, in the sleeve tattoos and skateboards. I felt it in the way people walked and talked, the way they looked you in the eye, (in stark contrast to the Northwest where eye contact is usually averted and saying hello to a stranger is inappropriate). Basically everyone in Eli's neighborhood was a raging hipster, with enough style points to make Andrew Waits swoon. I came to find this electricity was generally reflected and conducted everywhere in NYC.

Allow me to digress for a moment. To those of you who are Eli curious/concerned/conscious, the guy is doing good. He is dropping an obscene amount of rent money for one bedroom in a 3 bedroom apartment, somehow staying fiscally afloat. He shares the living space with two other lads, one very cool individual named Phil, and one very out of touch Brian who gives their otherwise nice apartment the feel of a cesspool. While Phil (a bartender) showed us to the fruits of an open bar our first night, Brian treated us to the smell of his feet, his round the clock abuse of drugs, and his overall lack of decency. The presence of someone has never repulsed me in such a way. The Pages of Euphoria are not intended to slam, or focus on the negative (if only to provide poetic description), so I will not linger on that topic of disgust. Eli continues to surround himself with a cast of colorful characters to say the least. Oh yeah, this is his current romantic interest, found through the vessel of a Jewish dating service. In a drunken 4am stupor I managed to desecrate her lacey white shirt that cost almost as much as my plane ticket with a red creamy Indian sauce. We have since become facebook chums. Jamie, you have officially arrived.

Of the thousands of things to do and see in New York City, Parker and I accomplished only a few; but a select few that I remember fondly. After being separated in the subway system because Parker decided to hop on a train as the doors were closing, severing me like a newborn from its placenta, we were able to miraculously meet back up in Time Square. Without the use of our cell phones, true story. Times Square leaves me feeling uneasy. On its surface, it is an astounding testament to mans' ability to build unnatural things. I feel like Times Square should be included in the definition of meg·a·lo·ma·ni·a:

1. A psychopathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

2. An obsession with grandiose or extravagant things or actions. See Times Square.

What other place has a 3 level shopping store (whose designers were clearly on LSD) solely dedicated to the chocolate candy M n M's. Other NYC dopeness consisted of making it on my favorite show, Late Night With Conan Obrien, and it came at a cost; though not in dollars. I went to bed Monday morning (4/28) at 2am, to rise at 6am so that I could get to NBC studios at 30 Rockefeller Center at 7am, only to wait in the cold and wet for 2 hours. And of course, seeing Conan was worth it and made my month...as I truly have a heart felt love for him. The speed and ferocity of his comic wit, and his childlike zest for life are both things that I try to emulate every day.

Being an adult yet keeping childlike excitement and or the ability to gracefully pull off being immature is something that I value. For example, while getting dessert with Eli, Jamie (Jdate flame) and her friend Bonita Applebaum, our excess marshmallows provided the perfect setting to play the game Chubby Bunny. If you haven't played this game in 24 hours or 24 months, just play it, especially in a public place, I guarantee big laughs. Of course I destroyed my opposition packing in 7 marshmallows while still being able to eloquently pronounce the words Chubby Bunny without activating my gag reflex. My mouth is apparently cavernous, and its a shame I'm not gay. My prize for winning was a personalized tour of the Brooklyn Promenade, a boardwalk of sorts with a breathtaking and intoxicating view of Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and the Manhattan skyline. The skyline was not unlike rows of jagged metal teeth in a yawning skull, glinting with electrical light. It was truly an incredible sight. And it was that sight amongst others that I was revisiting in my head on the flight back home. A New Yorker told me that you visit the big city of dreams once, and you will most definitely come away with a story to tell. I know now he spoke with wisdom, as even though I did not buy material souvenirs, I still came home with a trove of gems.

ps. P, my most esteemed travel partner, lets plan the next destination.

Granite Mountain Hike

2008-04-22T23:41:00.012-07:00

The pain was dull and stretched out over time. It hurt in my lungs, as the air got thinner with the slow gain of elevation. It hurt in my legs as I took giant strides in the traction less snow. A feeling of angst strangled my resolve and determination; maybe comparable with that feeling when you're under water and kinda feel like a drastic drink of air. Like that, however obviously less urgent and felt over a longer period of time. I was winded only an hour into one of the most demanding hikes in Washington state.

Accompanied by my mountaineering crew White Ghost, Nighthawk (civilian names Parker and Cole) and Wolfman as my call sign, we decided to ascend Granite Mountain near snoqualmie pass on a grey and cloudy April Sunday. In our conversations the previous day, I in no way took the hike seriously:

"yeah dude, lets do it."

"I was gonna watch some basketball, maybe some 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' (garbled through a mouth busy with walnuts and raisins) after, but what the hay, lets go hiking."

Fast forward 24 hours and there we were....humping 30lb loads, in bulky and layered cold weather gear, getting closely acquainted with frigid temperatures. All I could think about was how unenjoyable it was....the inner stream of thoughts in my head reading something like: "Why the @$*(^#^ am I doing this, how do people get joy out of this? Damn my glutes are on FIRE and Richard Simmons is not even involved.

It took roughly 4 hours to reach the top which sat lofty at 5629 ft. Those four hours were dark for me, brightened occasionally by some ignorant usually racist comment from Cole or conversation of music and film with Parker at those moments when my alveoli were not screaming like some anguished beast being slowly tortured. After the first mile, cut backs or the paths that cut back and forth from left to right which take the vertical aspect out of the mountainside disappeared; and for roughly 3 miles, we climbed at an estimated 60 degree incline. Some places were of an angle more fierce. Our snowshoes helped, but were big and awkward making progress slow. Once out of the forest it was a landscape barren and blasted by white, feeling like what Tibet would have looked like. To think Seattle was 45 minutes down the road was absurd.

The one reassuring thing amidst all of the physical discomfort (aside from the delicious sack lunch I packed myself) was that simple feeling of accomplishing something. Being pushed mentally or physically brings a quiet contentment to my being. I feel like I am doing the right thing. Making use of my time on this planet by reaching my human potential.

We breaked just before reaching the top to eat our lunches in a small collection of rocks that blocked some of the blizzard like conditions. A turkey sandwich (made correctly) is still amazing in deplorable blustery snow blowing conditions. And as the White Ghost, Nighthawk, and Wolfman gorged on calories the commrodery began setting in. Enjoying our meal, we banded together at the top of a mountain reached by few. The weather flirted with our eyes, as visibility would change from being able to see miles to 10 feet in minutes. At the top was a frozen structure serving as a fire lookout, looking nothing more than a raised cabin hut held hostage in shackles of ice. For myself it was like finishing a marathon...finally breathing easily knowing I would not have to climb anymore that day. Even with the view being masked by cloud and snow, it still felt amazingly euphoric. And that's what it is all about isn't it? Finding and doing those things that are great, that make you great, that release euphoria in your heart and mind. So do and find those things, just as long as those euphoria releasing things are not always drugs.

Superlatives & Superbowls

2008-02-04T08:49:00.000-08:00

Reflections on adventures foreign and domestic must momentarily take a back seat to one of the greatest Superbowls of all time (1st superlative of many to come). There is too much unbridled emotion, pangs of heartache, dumbfounded confusion and flabbergasting dissappointment to not use a blog as a coping device. 18 and 1. 18 and f$*&^#%ing 1?!?!?!?!?! That number 1 constituting a loss which was the biggest upset in NFL history and the dashed hopes of Patriot immortality. The New York Giants upset the recently perfect 18-0 New England Patriots in Superbowl XLII, the most hyped superbowl of all time, more hyped even than the Puppy Bowl which aired on Animal Planet. It is all I can do to feel upset for the Partiots. They were that close to being arguably the best NFL team in history. Their perfection was spoiled; their focus on staying perfect brought too much pressure and they tasted defeat in the last and most important game of the season. The Patriot dynasty, had they won, would have been cemented in NFL history as one of the greatest of all time, doing what no other team has done. That task of remaining undefeated after a 19 game superbowl capped season still remains undone thanks to the play of the supermen that are the New York Giants.

Football is such a freakish sport, with games being won or lost over the smallest, unbelievable, inconceivable details. The game is also made freakish by impish grins from Mr. Strahan. The Patriots lost by 3 points which makes you wonder why Belichick opted out of a 49 yard field goal on a 4 down and 11 in the 3rd quarter. Or makes you wonder how the Patriots franchise cornerback Asante Samuel missed a game ending interception when an Eli Manning pass bounced off his hands. It was this defensive infraction that would allow THE PLAY: Eli somehow Houdinis' his way out of the grasps of two rushing Patriot defenders in what looked to be a sure sack. He showcases never seen before athletisicm, evades the rushers and steps up in the pocket to throw a bomb. A beautiful, tightly spiralled and leatherbound bomb. On the receiving end of it was Giants receiver David Tyree who in turn stuns all with his own magic trick of catching the ball with a hand and a helmet. Gandalf the White would have beat his own brow with his enchanted staff out of perplexion. I'm calling it the most amazing play in Superbowl history, even though I can only remember caring to watch the last 10 out of 42 Superbowls. It still has to be the most amazing Superbowl play ever.

In actuality, the game was won not by Eli Manning or David Tyree on one play however great it was, but by the N.Y. defensive line. That defensive line showed up and played with a fervor of such fierceness and ferocity that the Patriot offensive line and Tommy Terrific will be nursing physical and mental hurts for weeks to come. Lead by Justin Tuck and Gappy Strahan, the defensive line of the Giants absolutely dismembered those Patriots trying to protect Brady and held the most high powered offense to just 14 points. After the Patriots O-line was steamrolled, that precious golden armed slinger Tom Brady was left vulnerable and very much outside in the cold. He got touched. Punished. Taking the highest amounts of sacks all season in the Superbowl, he looked like a flipperless seal at points being thrashed by a pack of great white helmet wearing sharks. His wounds will be impervious even to the healing power of supermodel girlfriends for awhile at least. It almost seemed hallucinogenic to watch Tom Brady, who I was (still am) convinced was a robot sent from the future of extremely good looks and markmanship in his uncanny play during the regular season, having his ass handed to him. In the end, it was not an act of the New England Almost Perfect Patriots choking, but the New York Giants and its ranks of supermen making the plays necessary to secure the win. Going in two touchdown underdogs, the Giants are shining examples of how to believe in yourself when noone else does. The Giants did and now they are World Champions.

The Snow Ninja

2008-01-17T22:23:00.000-08:00

My friend the snow ninja. He honed his death letting snowboard skills on some remote Mountain range in Tibet. You would think that he drove to the Snoqualmie ski and snowboard area like a normal person, but he would have you think again after touching the pressure point between your humulus and upper dorsimus, dropping you to your knees in nerve rendering pain. No. No car for the snow ninja, he parachuted out of John Travolta's private jet with his board on his feet and personal arsenal of life canceling weapons in tow. Usually ninjas do not harbor explosive rage, due to the hours of meditation spent focusing their minds. This however in no way applies to the snow ninja. As he is focused and as sharp as an eagle iris, and could watch hours of Oprah's sitcom unaffected, he is one irate bastard. In fact he is downright nasty. He proceeded forth in line to buy his lift ticket and someone asked if they could borrow a pair of socks. It happened to be Tony Danza. The snow ninja wasted no time and ripped out the trachea of Tony Danza. His bright white snow gloves went unblemished. At this point my memory gets foggy, as the irritable snow ninja dropped a smoke bomb and seemingly disappeared like a hypnotic specter, of course with Tony Danza's wallet.

**This fantastical little tale is unfortunately fiction. The snow ninja is actually a 24.5 year old white male named Cole. He works at a major dot.com crunching numbers while trying not to develop carpel tunnel syndrome. He chases the dream of a more chiseled physique like all of us, and about a week ago, accompanied by my youngest brother, we went to Snoqualmie pass and shredded.

Korean Invasion

2008-01-07T16:30:00.000-08:00

I just played host with the most to friends from abroad, and I am emotionally and physically spent. Nam Jung Hyun, otherwise known as Johnny Blaze, was my friend and Korean confidant during much of my time spent in Pyoungtek, South Korea. Whether it was freakin brothers every which way on the basketball courts of American military bases, pounding edible natured items from Korean beer to kimchi, to dog meat (only twice), or pouring our sweat and souls through karaoke booth microphones, we did it together. With John came Armen, a Canadian who was freshly returned from a 3 year teaching stint in Korea and also a mutual friend and slaker of soju. The three of us had long ago forged ties of UJUNG, or friendship in that far away place.

The last time I had seen them was October 18th, 2006 when I was leaving my little Korean farming town called Pyoungtaek, later labeled the city of hot garbage in a fashion dripping with endearment. Fast forward 11 months of backpacking South East Asia and South America plus a few more of dinking around Seattle, WA trying to avoid breaking public intoxication laws, and there they were: left out in front of a Best Western in downtown Seattle where their bus from Vancouver, Canada had left them off. They were unmistakable. The freakiest of odd couples, Armen comparable with Lurch from the Adams Family yet slightly albino, and John comparable with Conan the Barbarian, just better English and a beer belly. Oh, and crazy hair. His hairline starts about an inch above his eye brows, and gives quilled animals everywhere a run for their money.

Seeing them together, engaging in a three way platonic man embrace, ushering them into my 96 civic, in Seattle...was just a high. A validating high; All too many times do you invest time and energy into far away friendships, sucking on that sour kernel of truth that you will probably never see these people again. Not being a gloomy gus, just speaking from a statistical probability standpoint. But here they were, in my presence, eating my food, making me laugh, making me angry, going into my hot tub naked, making full on Korean meals with samgipsal and kimchi cheegay. We rode ferries together, watched NYE firework show meltdowns, played guitar hero incessantly, took in numerous American movies without Korean subtitles, spent a collective 34 hours driving in my car places, got parking tickets, and finally rocked the shit out of a local karaoke joint named the Mystic Unicorn.

With Johns adorable yet deplorable personality, his non-stop harassment of my cat, and all around sweet nature, my Korean experience was given a face to some of the people I know here in my home town. With Armens quiet riot persona and mannered personality, his unrivaled skill at rapping Eminem's Stan (in all seriousness, he performs this song amazingly) my Korean experience was given a face. An incredible week full of memories old and new, and their voices echo off the walls of my mind, already growing quieter and fading into silence. Catch you guys soon. Gombay

ps. Cheech, if the words of this entry meet your eyes, you were missed. Give me a call sometime.

Smile that hurts

2007-12-04T16:39:00.000-08:00

This is why Thanksgiving, or T-gives, is worth it. For photo ops like these featuring strapping Zoolander wannabees who have posters of Tom Cruise above their beds and a wonderful little girl named Joy, who was China born yet introduced into the Roman Empire of the 20-21st centuries by people with love in their hearts. Joy was truly that, living up to her name with colors that flew. A name more fitting could only have been "smile that hurts," because of her own and those she inflicted. Her smile was so big it almost ate other features on her face. The daughter of family friends who meet once a year for the holiday of turkey slaughter, she was fiery for attention. Specifically for the attention of the Greenberg brothers. When I forgot/refused to watch Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving with her, I heard about it. "You didn't watch it with me!" she protested in a voice that carried a tone of seriousness that seemed to add a decade to her 5 years of age. I honestly did not know what to say, overwhelmed and overpowered by this tiny little person speaking like an adult. I elected to mumble "I'm sorry" through a mouthful of turkey-cranberry-mash-potato-stuffing and washed it down with a swig of beer. She then giggled and retorted with "You're too serious....why do you have so much hair?" Again not knowing what to say, I resorted to my solution for all people below the weight of 25lbs and swirled her around in the same fashion a chef would his uncooked pizza dough. Outbursts of giggles and glee ensued and shortly after we all (Z, Smeegs, Jeffrey, Joy and myself) watched the rest of the Colts-Falcons game in digestive peace. I am looking forward to next years Thanksgiving and listening to how high Joy can count in English, Spanish and Mandarin, the little genius. Chaucito folks.

Simple Comforts: Southern No Longer

2007-11-21T20:30:00.000-08:00

Hey Joe, how is home? ask cherished cheek busting friends and fam...usually within the first 15 seconds of conversation. I respond, "home is....is good, its great to be back," through a brimming smile that Im pretty sure is genuine. Roughly 10 days ago I was dangling my Timbaland booted feet over ruins on Weynu Picchu (Young Mountain) while taking in the spell binding view of Machu Picchu (Old Mountain); and now, at this very moment I'm sitting in my parents house, watching my dad watch Gardening with Cisco, listening to whispers of words like "job" echo off walls and minds, hearing phrases from mami Greenberg like "you know the green MnM is supposed to make you horny?" Things are still in their fresh phase, and I am revelling in those situations described above and the company of all faces that I have known longer than two weeks.

Coming back has been thought provoking and relaxing in a hot tub kind of way; I thoroughly enjoy dwelling on those little things so easily taken for granted in American life. Bathrooms. American bathrooms hold a plethora of tiny things or cositas that were at first missed, but after a short time there absences weren't felt and actually added to an over inflated air of ruggedness building beneath my skins surface. A few examples include toilets, thier seats, TP, hand soap, running water you didn't have to collect and pour yourself, functional locking mechanisms stopping Korean tourist girl from busting in like a S.W.A.T. team member to take you and all your pantless warm ankled glory in. I really didn't miss those things after too long, and now that I am back in the lap of super luxury, American bathrooms have a cold, sterile, fragile and fluorescent museum feel. Maybe I should just go to Tacoma....and its really something that this paragraph was dedicated to banos in its entirety.

Home is beautiful of course. Its beauty can be found in the following things that reek of comfort and simplicity: a room with a view whose price doesn't have to be bartered. Sharing a bed with a wonderfully fat feline who snores louder than most. Having access to a refrigerator stocked with more abdominal 6-pack shattering food than I could imagine, and I can sadly imagine it could probably feed five families in some places I had the opportunity to visit. Road and noise regulations. Pedestrians having the Goddamned right of way as I almost ate bumper and died so many times from the wheel of reckless drivers that it IS funny. God bless pedestrians and their rights of ways everywhere. Having more to my life than my back pack and its 30lbs of contents. Knowing things. Like where the beer is in the Westgate QFC and not having to ask directions every 30 meters after changing cities every 4 days. Maybe resting a little easier (now that I am home) that my folks can rest a little easier knowing I'm not wondering some dark alley or jungle path, walking along the brink of some treacherous fate just waiting to befall me. Of those priceless things that South America bore like the exotic fruit of some rare tree I will not talk; in this moment I simply choose to savor those tiny details that define familiarity and make home what it is. If I know your name and you're a North American, I will probably be seein you soon.

Reflections of a Machine Gun Nature

2007-11-06T12:04:00.000-08:00

Hard to concentrate with the noise of the street, a lit carribe in my hand, already sweating the days heat away in Tarapoto. Getting my backpack together in my hotel room, I was greeted by a baby lizard of some kind crawling out, hopefully the first and last. I look back on the week of lost and aimless travel with a mixture of grimaced regret. Yet it slowly gives way to thankfulness. Thankfulness for the amount of time available for 1pm beers and reflection....on my trip, of my life....where will all of this fit in? Will I look back upon these last two or so years as The ones of gold? Of insane, ridiculous, grinding adventure like some fairy tale of tropics and icebergs, of angels and demons? Demons hardly.

It sucks worse than a famished leech that I have been cameraless, but now after two weeks the sting of shame or verguenza of getting worked over has subsided. After 8.5 months of travel I thought I was immune, invincible, with an impenatrable shield of knowledge on how to maintain on the South American road. All it took was two smooth criminals, gelling and smoother than butter in 90 degree humid heat. One of them I didnt even get the pleasure of seeing. With my head turned for half a second, the camera, where once sitting on the restaurant table where it shouldnt have been, was gone. I hope its sale on the black market went to feed a family, and the hand of the thief who snatched it decays into an arthritic claw that he cant even pleasure himself with, the bastard.

I rode back to Tarapoto in an coombi or mini bus yesterday from Yurimaguas, the place where ferries are caught and ridden for 3 days to Iquitos. Iquitos (big past tense) WAS on my agenda because its stories of jungle boom and beautiful indigenous women who starve for more than just food permiate every Peruvian pore and sector. Due to time constraints, it is on my agenda for next time, and I will say no more about the fabled jungle place. The ride back was through a baby mountain range shrouded in tropical folliage. The road was still being completed, at this point completely unpaved and choppier than drunken footsteps. As the light of Mondays sun escaped, the surrounding jungle and its shreds of ghostlike white mist were put in contrast to the black sillohettes of my roughly 10 other Peruvian passengers. Despite a few words here and there, I really did not make an attempt to talk with any of them; yet still a strange connection was felt in that small, hot space, as we sat there together for about 4 hours, heads and shoulders bobbing with the ebbs and flows of that violent dirt road whose color was that of rusty blood.

Shit, maybe its just my sentimentality finding the surface of my skin at the end of this journey. Early last year, while taking what would be the last look at my parents for 8 months through the other side of an airport metal detector, I seem to have developed a touching or sickening reservoire of sentimentality. A reservoir built to spill. Blessing or curse, trendy, cool, gay or not, I really dont care, I just like being able to feel it. And I usually feel it after doing something altogether good and character building, and then having to leave it. My cherished America Del Sur, this is me trusting in all things temporary, and holding to blind confidence that someday will hold the promise of return. A plane is waiting for me on the tarmac, and gonna be flying Pablo Escobar style over the most dangerous part of the country in terms of coca leaf growing. Im out.

Eat This.

2007-11-03T12:54:00.003-07:00

Culturally and digestively interesting discovery: Cev(or b)iche. A salty and crunchy blend of roasted corn kernels (soft) and banana chips. Coupled with the tender consistency of fresh fish of which kind I cannot be certain; drenched in a spicy lime sauce accented with slices of purple onion. A simply delicious grand slam in the pallete stadium of my mouth. Like nothing else I have ever tasted. It has been 36 hours since my departure from Mancora, and I already fiercely miss the summer for life oasis straddling the Pan American highway in northern Peru. I am currently in Tarapoto, amidst a huge traveling blunder that has cost me at least 30 hours, most of which spent on a bus. ¡MALDICION DEL CHANCHO!

My Life as a Rolling Stone

2007-10-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

Coastal cruising, Peru. The last 7 days have been a marathon pace of travel, point A to point B movement continuous. The finish line of my 9 month crusade of culture and Castellano is actually in sight, and I am not messing around with the 3.5 weeks I have left.

7 day stretch starting on Sunday, October the 14th:

Sunday the 14th-Arequipa. Jaw jackingly beautiful, host to throngs of Gringo star struck muchachas, and stunning colonial castles backdropped by snow capped volcanoes. Arriving lazy and late to the bus station around 8pm Sunday night in search of a night bus heading north, I had to pay 80 soles for my ride. Absolute highway robbery. (Woman serving the passengers on the bus was the same woman working on the bus I rode in May while in transit between Argentina and Ecuador). Night on bus.

Monday the 15th-Nazca. Desert highway town, slowly burgeoning. It had one plaza, one main drag. Made it to the mysterious Lineas de Nazca (similar to crop circles) and the Necropolis de Chauchilla, a burial site with millenia under its belt for mummified corpses. The site is amidst a plain of sun baked sand where bleaching human bones are literally littered everywhere, open for shock or viewing pleasure. Night in Nazca.

Tuesday the 16th-Huacachina. Bussed from Nazca north around 1pm and arrived in Huacachina about 3 hours later. Its name actually means China Temple. It consisted of a once natural, now man made lake set like a diamond on a golden band in the middle of swiftly rising sand dunes. There was one circular road on the border of the lake which was the size of a football field, and a handful of old paint chipped restaurants and hostals were scattered along its stretch. Upon asking for a map, the hostal worker answered with "porque?" or why? Night in Huacachina.

Wednesday the 17th-Haucachina todavía. Sandboarding in desert sand, in desert heat. In the pm, caught a bus off the street for Lima, 4 hours north. Because I am planning on staying in Lima for a few days at the end of my trip, I arrived, and immediately caught another (night bus) for Huaraz, about 8 hours north. Night on bus.

Thursday the 18th-Huaraz. Arrived around 5am in Peruvian darkness. Took a day of rest including laundry, emailing, street food paroozing, and wandering South American food markets (now one of my favorite activities in the world despite the sess pool smell they usually carry). Night in Huaraz.

Friday the 19th-Huaraz. Day of bussing. Caught the Chavin tour express 3 hours inland to the ruins Chavin Hauntar, arriving at 4pm. I had around 1.5 hours to explore the underground maze-like tunnels and sacrifical terrace to allow myself enough time to get back to Huaraz for my 9pm night bus to Trujillo. Bargained my way into the luggage space of a station wagon taxi for 15 soles from the ruins back to the city of Huaraz. 9pm night bus north, recorded on camera by a group of 13 year old girls while in my bus seat for being a Gringo all-star. During the ride they played Beetlejuice in Spanish. Night on bus.

Saturday the 20th-Trujillo. Arrived around 8am, while getting my wardrobe in a backpack, took a picture with each one of the traveling pack of 13 year old girls, who were apparently on some kind of field trip. I think they confused me with marky mark out of sleepy confusion. Later that day met two Peruvian "primos" or dudes at the open air market, Luis and Fabio, all around hilarious and sketchy, and we then turned the party out in Trujillo until the early Sunday morning hours. One of the most fast paced and travel intensive weeks of my life...fitting quite nicely in my life as a rolling stone. I am looking forward to an anchored week in Mancora, where I will be taking in a professional womans surfing tournament and Cuba libres until American GIs come home...make it sooner rather than later Family.

No Pants Dance?

2007-10-19T09:38:00.000-07:00

Curious, a little afraid, a little hellbent on recklessness, I follow the sounds of 80´s pop that is pulsing from the hotel room at the end of the hall. Palpable engergy issues forth from the open doorway, along with a random spray of lights, and a hellish circus of human and stereo produced noise. I can only think of two possible scenarios taking place inside that two star hotel room capable of causing such an assault on the senses:

1. A battle of two bands, playing at the same time, one headed by God, the other headed by the horned and cloven hooved beast.

-or-

2. A mothership has landed quite literally inside the room, and the newcomers are being hailed in frenzied worship by their faithful.

Either case, I have to know, I have to see, I have to partake. Reaching the open doorway, throat parched, tongue thick in my mouth from nervous anticipation. The smell of hot human sweat mixed with beer and stagnant air hit me like a truck as my eye balls sit stunned. Not by the sight of scenario 1 or 2, but simply by the dancefloor dozen in the hot grip of drunken self expression between those 15´x 20´walls splashed a lime shade of green. Those Peace Corp Volunteers are dancing with the antithesis of rhythm like an electrical current is being applied to their primary motor cortices resulting in limbs and appendages flailing this way and that.

An inebriated smile crawls across my face at the degree of both behavioral and clothing liberation. Even in that slightly blurred haze of party lust, these people still strike me as the queerest things I have seen in a fortnight. After a seconds hesitation, I dive into the frenzied cyclone of dance moves and am momentarily lost to the world and my pants. This is my kinda of party, fueled by an appetite not so much for destruction, but furious liberation. Keep doing what you do Peace Corp Bolivia, nos vemos pronto.

That Silver Spoon

2007-10-13T13:48:00.000-07:00

El Espino. It means the spine or the thorn in English. Deep in the Bolivian Chaco or frontier wilderness. I have experienced some extreme living situations when considering things like lack of electricity, showering in waterfalls on a daily basis, and being surrounded by Amazonian monkeys. However El Espino, or the Speen as James (Peace Corp Volunteer to the stars), Todd and I came to affectionately call it, pushed extreme living to all new levels.

So we arrive in the dusty pueblito that James has been calling home for 14 months. Its around the beginning of October. There is currently one school, maybe 30 families, two soccer fields, one water tank and one doctor. There is most likely an equal number of donkeys, pigs, and cows in comparison to the human population. Arriving at James´ housing compound we quickly discover there are about 4 Bolivians currently crashing in his kitchen...his building belongs to the town, and is free to roaming Bs. Setting about preparing the first meal, I gathered the sparse amount of dishes from a counter so covered in dirt I could write J.Peso in it. Dishes in hand, I took them for cleaning to the water source not far from the house. The water source consisted of a pipe extending 2ft out of the ground with a nozzle at the end. While the water was clear, James said it wasnt chlorinated and no doubt host to intestinal terrors. It was a first in my life of using a kitchen without running water equipped, and we had to simply swallow fears of using untreated water to clean utensils. It was an easy task after 8 months of travel, and a bottle of Purel hand sanatizer brings about childish giggles of glee. However had the Speen been in the beginning of my travels, my nerves and digestive track would have been wrought with anxiety. Thankfully, for toilet papers sake, it wasnt and my stomach in this moment is tougher than Chuck Norris.

Fears aside, the meal was a satisfying combo of lentil and garlic bean soup salted to a power of infinty and my own special papas fritas. It was as romantic a meal between three hardcore dudes could get, broke back mountain cowboys everywhere ate their hearts out. Adding to our merry company were a handful of roaming pigs, dogs, and donkeys, all looking longingly at our freshly prepared gruel. The donkeys of which, as a side note, could be heard EEOOR-ING in excitement at all times of the day and night, in happy pursuit of their mate. It was apparently mating season in the Speen, and whenever one of those horny gutteral noises was heard, we dropped everything (beer, guitar, bag of coca leaves) and came running to see the gruesome yet awe inspiring site. We basically had alot of time to fill.

As our meals came to an end and our stomachs approached a satisfying level of satiation, the last rays of the sun retreated behind an unknown mountain range. The Speen was momentarily painted in magenta and orange hues, reminiscent of island sunsets in Thailand. As the fiery light made its exit, we put our plates down, picked our beverages up, and spent the remainder of the night hammock lounging and guitar jamming. Todd is actually a very talented musician and the sweet sounds of his guitar playing drifted to a boarding house full of students, of course attracting them. At one point our porch was surrounded by dark, silent and ominous little shapes all taking joy in the listen. It wasnt until the 2am hour that we climbed into our respective mosquito/TICK nets in James´ room, and sank into dark sleeps.

The above account was roughly 12 hours, and we ended up staying about 2 days. Of the rest of my time in that pueblito perdido, I could go on in description and stories for paragraphs on end. I want to instead get into the substance of this entry. The people of the Speen are made strong; Much hardier folk than you and me, having adjusted to the coarse and at times candidly beautiful 3rd world way of life. They live sometimes without water, almost consistently without electricity, having to support families and livestock. They have games of soccer to look forward to, played on an unlevel sloped and cracking concrete surface which claimed James´ MCL on his first day. School teachers are a wealth of years too young, and stand to gain a wealth of knowledge still before imparting knowledge on others. I feel myself focusing on the negatives, viewing the Pimp Challis of Life as being half empty as opposed to half full. The reality is that the Speen is an up and coming extremely 3rd world place, one of many across the globe. And every time I see one in its stripped to bare bones nature of beautiful brutality, it makes me consistently think one thing: Why am I so lucky to be born with a first world silver fucking spoon in my mouth?

This not so new realization put James´volunteering effort into a clearer perspective. At the end of his service he will have donated 27 months of his life to this charming shithole of dust and donkeys, where apparently "buenos dias" issued from toothless smiles is enough to keep spirits alfoat. Besides donating those 27 months to the Speen, he will also have helped to construct water tanks for the pueblito and something like 5 surrounding communities. He will bring them and their parched livestock water in a regular supply. Water folks. Quite an accomplishment if you ask me, something you can rest your hat on a peg at the end of the day with a quiet sigh of contentment. Atta kid James, I cannot commend your use of that silver spoon enough. Get it wet in the Speen.

Estaba allí

2007-10-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

Current J. Peso location update: Puno, Peru. I crossed the Peruvian border via Bolivia about 5 days ago. This update will be valid for the next 2 hours. As in two hours I will find myself in the stuffy, stagnant smelling confines of un collectivo or bus to Arequipa, Peru.

Maybe I should do these updates more regularly, as the first question asked from family and friends is consistently, "Where the hell are you?!?!?!" As a game I try and make my mom correctly guess which country I am in, and she is successful 50% of the time. This reality of being lost to to the world is probably not the most positive of aspects; it simply arises from 1 part laziness, and 9 parts sheer lack of internet access. The last few weeks I have slept on islands living life still in the 1920s, busses blockaded from passage, lakes with titi and caca in their name, and villages that run electricity one time per week to charge cell phones and power the one original nintendo. Needless to say, my itchy little fingers have been removed from thier much needed internet interface.

Of my South American journey, I am on the last stage, in the last country, being Peru. I have roughly 4.5 more weeks of playing Indiana Jones, and about a grand left to my adventure craving and boozing habits. Giddy is my mood at arriving in Arequipa at 6am to wander the streets in search of a warm bed in a groggy eye crusted state; night buses are my election, as they save on a night of accomodation and frugality is my middle name. Off to catch a cab now to the terminal de autobus. Peace

Here it is, your (my) moment of zen

2007-10-09T19:06:00.000-07:00

Apparently Blogger does not discriminate against movie clips depicting brainless activty with make shift Bolivian bombs. More importantly, how cool does this get up look? It makes me think of a marriage between an insect exterminator and a ghost buster. Diddy, go ahead and incorporate it into the fall line of Sean Jean. Entries of a more serious nature are soon to come. Until then, dont be like me and hold lit dynamite.

Maiming Power

2007-09-24T08:47:00.000-07:00

Mira. Me llamo Joey Peso, y tres dias atras, compré una porcion de dynamita. Lo era fantastico. El precio estaba diez bolivianos, o 1.50 gringo mas o menos para el dynamita, amonium nitrate, y una fusa (tal vez un minuto larga) juntos. Estuvé en las minas cooperativas en Potosí, Bolivia. Minas que producen mucho plata todavia hoy dia. Despues mi grupo y yo salemos las minas, mi guida, se llama Jaime, me preguntó para la dynamita. Jaime lo preparó el substancia explosivo, y pusó la dynamita adentro una bolsita de ammonium nitrate, la misma cosa el una bomber usó en el Oklahoma City bombing. Usualmente amonium nitrate es usó para fertilizado, con plantas, jardins, y todas las cosas verde. En esto pelicula corta, Ustedes pueden ver yo, con un bomba de dynamita en mi mano, despues anadé fuego.

I felt like writing a bit in Spanish because of the intensive English I have been speaking as of late with Peace Corp friends. What I wanted to share in this entry was the recent opportunity I had to purchase dynamite. For 10bs or $1.50 I purchased a full stick from the miners market at the foot of Cerro Rico (rich Mountain) in Potosí, Bolivia. Since I have lost my mind and dont fully appreciate the fruits of my right hand, I opted for a video shoot with said portion of dynamite, fuse lit, in my right hand. The video clip* is composed with the grace of the ballet, and Jaime actually soiled himself in its undertaking. He actually asked me to buy him fresh underwear. For some reason, I was bereft of fear, and was just really giddy at having so much explosive maiming power at my disposal. It felt like wielding the trident of Zues. Im pretty sure Zues had a trident. But I will probably never hold dynamite again, rest assured Mom and Wes. Probably a lie. Saludos amigos! y Vamos Warriors y Seahawks!!!!

*I have now tried in vain to upload the video of lit dynamite in my anxious fingers numerous times. I honestly suspect youtube is denying the video due to its potential connection with terrorist activity. If I can get it up, (no pun intended) you will see the clip soon. Until then Paz playaz.

Insane Terrain, Part II

2007-09-18T17:05:00.000-07:00

Beginning of Day 2, 9/13/07: Snap, Crackle, Pop. I wish they were the sounds of a deep bowl of freshly poured cereal. No, instead it was simply the salt wall of my hostal crumbling and landing on my head and pillow at 3am. I suppose the hostal thought my dreams were too bland and needed more flavoring. Unfortunately sueños dulces were not allowed, as Lucas (the maniacal driver) came trudging down the salt hallways happily waking us up at 4:30am. His method of gringo rousing consisted of yelling "Papi, laventente, dame leché!" or Dad, get up and give me milk. That was all I needed to hear, as I bothered about preparing myself for an intensive day on that dark morning. Temp was around 15 deg F, which would not be as harsh as the next night, yet that temp still required a caccoon like collection of blankets in the hostal sadly of salt, not heat. The blankets were so thick it felt like sleeping in a multitude of bullet proof vests.

We ate a wonderful breakfast (courtesy of Marta) considering the electricity/gas constraints, and shortly after I was outside watching the first rays of light chase off the lingering dark. Those rays of light lazily climbed into the sky putting the stars back in their shrouded places of keeping. On the road now enjoying the body heat of 8 close quartered people, the first flat tire of the trip was experienced. Lucas and Marta both started proving their veteran skill at that 630am hour by changing the tire in 15 minutes FLAT. In the treacherous finger numbing cold, Lucas was scrambling around in the dirt getting his hands very dirty. This man was already earning my respect. The group piled back in the car after searching out a 50 centavo per use baño, unfortunately every bathroom costs in Bolivia, and every experienced traveler knows to always to be armed with his or her own t.p.

The beautiful yet bitterly cold second day was well on its way after a shaky start. What transpired over the next 14 hours was simply an utterly ridiculous calliedascope blend of different landscapes in a constant state of flux. Random descriptions of some of those landscapes: serene sage brush valleys whose golden yellow sand was amplified in the midmornings sunlight. Wandering for a short while on brittle rock surfaces stupified in the site of active volcanoes whose sides are caked and crusted in white sulfur deposits. Wandering still on the banks of a gray mud (mineral Pyrex, for glass) mountain lake, trying to avoid getting my timbs sucken too deep. Eating a basic vegetable rice and breadlike substance lunch aside a lazy little stream, hundreds of miles away from any other man, let alone anything man made.

After a post feast organge seed spitting contest we continued on the path leading to other sites knocking you and your grandma clear off your rockers. Sites like Laguna Colorado whose water is turned the color red by numerous minerals and microscopic organisms; the latter in which support the population of 5,000 freaking Flamingos. Yeah...volcanoes, salt flats, coca leaf addicted driver, and three different species of Flamingos. All at Mt. Ranier like heights. Still more sites included Luguna verde, whose water in turn boasts a milky turquoise color by a plentitude of other different minerals. If laguna verde or this trip in general needed anything more it was comfortably situated directly in front of another active volcanoe, maybe 20 minutes by car to the Chilean border. Or how about natural sulfur geysers belching steam laced with the lovely rotten egg aroma. The rotten egg aroma that is so tied in scent memory to sulfur and to the lactate intolarent schmuck who decides to consume milk. My friendly Frenchmen were so overpowered by the noxious fume bubbling from the earth that there tolerance and manners were washed away in a wave of English profanity. I enjoyed it enthusiastically as there is nothing funnier than curse words of any language spoken in a heavy accent. I myself have capitalized on this big time in Spanish.

At this point it was around 4:30pm, and after leaving Laguna Verde and its debilitating 10 deg F (worse with wind chill), a natural thermal spring of 90 deg F water was sorely needed. Salares de Uyuni, you think you could make some thermal springs materialize? Yeah? Word. So it was that after a 14 hour day of car crammage, bitter temperature, and eyeball ecstasy that Damien and I find ourselves heterosexually lounging in a natural thermal spring. It was momentarily wonderful, letting the heated water undo all the damage dealt by sitting on my ass in a cramped position for nearly 14 hours. Why D and I were the only ones of the group who undertook the thermal spring innitiative was beyond me until we had to get out and dry off.

The Uyuni trekking squad finally started back on the road in the waning light towards yet another rustic hostal in the middle of nowhere sans heat. Highlights of the night were a complimentary bottle of repulsive wine and a social game of UNO which was stopped dead in its tracks when the generator (and power) was cut off at 930pm. Trying to go to sleep that night wearing my entire wardrobe all I could do was prey that the needs to urinate could be staved off until the morning for having to get up in that polar bear weather without electricity would have proven lethal. Thankfully my prayers were answered. The third morning started off much the same way as the second, with frigid breakfasts and flat tires. I will not even bother to describe events of the third day as it was just more of the same head scratching and dumbfounding natural beauty sprinkled with lost pueblitos in the middle of Bolivian deserts. I will let the pics speak for themselves. A few closing notes I would like to leave you all with, positive and negative in nature. There was just too much. This is hardly a negative element, but there was just too much to see to be given fair appreciation. At each of the amazing places we visited, we seldom had more than 15 minutes to explore. Just as you started to approach a mindset of communion and inner peace with an enormous active volcanoe, or valley of jagged spikes of orange rock thrusting out of the ground, an annoying 4runner horn would sound. Alternatively, aside from the obvious freak show of natural beauty, one of the more impacting factors of the trip simply consisted of being completely cutoff from any form of society. Driving for hour upon hour through roadless desert, salt plane, rock valley, sulfur geyser, volcanic lake alone with 7 other human beings for a matter of days was something deeply impacting. We might as well have been on the moon both because of the terrain and because there was simply noone else in existance but us. Actively searching for something as basic as a paved road became a game, a game which gained all the happiness of the moment at losing. Joey B signing off.

Insane Terrain, Part I

2007-09-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever heard of Bolivian salt flats? Has Salares de Uyuni ever been issued from yours or someone elses tongue or momentarily graced a converastion? If you are like myself and my other 5 travel mates to the stars who recently visited the Flats, then you probably have not. However I think the hidden and undiscovered air that surrounds and evelopes the Salares de Uyuni adds to its completely other worldy nature. I am talking the same ranks as E.T., black holes, Neil Armstrong, Reses Peanut Buttercups. It was like stepping into a hallucinogenic dream while still in waking life, yet in the place of purple Chinese speaking dinosaurs that I usually see there were the most eclectic and alien landscapes I have ever beheld. The sheer expanse of the frontier, the random, drastic, and constant change of terrain, and succumbing to cabin fever while being packed inside an SUV for an unGodly amount of time combined to yeild an unforgettable experience. An experience whose fresh recency still brings about pangs of claustrophobia.

Now for a few details....get ready to digest some numbers. Six travelers comprised the tourist factor: Stephan, Inook, and Damion were the friendly French. Daniella and Sandra represented Swizterland, and yours truly was holding it down for America del Norte. Our ages all spanned the twenties. Two Bolivian extroverts comprised the crucial knowledge and expertise that proved instramental to the relative success of the trip: Lucas the driver and manic coca leaf chewer, and Marta the cocinera or cook who puts ex jailbird Martha Stewart to shame. So we have 8 more or less strangers willfully electing to spend 72 hours together in the closest of contact. In those 72 hours, you never had a solitary minute to yourself, save the time spent boxed in on four sides communing with a porcelain God. Eight back to back meals were eaten together; two nights of group sleep. Each of the tours three days featured a 10 hour average inside the close confines of a Toyota 4runner rubbing shoulders literally and figurartively with new traveler friends. Paradox or not, everyone managed to remain cheerful, freindly, even jubilant in the face of shower fasts, 430am wakeups and extremely close contact. What do we have to thank? The insane terrain of the Salares de Uyuni. I want to dive into a two entry installment of the amazing and awesome sights, beginning with the first day.

The massive plains of dried salt were the first attraction of the three day tour. After driving 30 or so minutes from the town of Uyuni, an expanse of white slowly became our world. Na+ soon stretched to the limit of sight, blanketing everything between points on the horizon. Santa could not have dreamed of an xmas any whiter, in September or any month. No roads, no

buildings, nothing of a vertical nature AT ALL. Nothing greeted you that wasnt emitting a color wavelength of white brilliance, save beautiful mountains and active volcanoes half hazardly sprinkled about the horizon. Visions and emotions of surreality began to bloom, as we were driving over what would very soon be used to season food around the country. Acres and acres and acres of salt. Virtually infinant amounts. I had many locals verify that the resources plentitude could never expire. It is unfortunate that the salt isnt a more valuable resource, as if it was the black gold, sheikhs of those big and violent deserts of the middle east would be groveling before the feet of Bolivia...in the inport export business that is. At a meager and stranded feeling salt processing factory we learned that the resource was so inexpensive that it was a matter of dollars to the ton.

After playing in piles of white, and taste testing the ground, the novelty reached its apex and began to decline. The clan of 8 wild cards piled back inside the 4runner and a violently bumpy existance was endured for the next 90 minutes. We next arrived at Isla del Pescado, and I hope I have that name right as Fish Island really doesnt make any sense as a name for the location. In the middle of the dried salt flat there rose a baby hill aspiring to be so much more. Its stunted growth was more than compensated by its interesting rock formations and veritable forest of cacti taking up residence on its sides. REALITY CHECK. I am in the middle of some prehistoric bed of salt infinity, standing atop a lone hill which contrasts against the glaring ocean of white with cactus green. Reality checks were a daily exercise over those three days as some of the environments I found myself in were simply unbelievable. I love any situation where you have to stop yourself and mentally confirm what you are seeing is real, and you are doing what you are actually doing. As a goal I strive to make my realities unreal, to make them hard to believe.

At Isla de Pescado we hiked simple trails to beautiful sights, ran amuck, and delved into our first group lunch. The meal was marked obviously by setting and company, but more by the outrageous politeness and generosity us strangers showed one another. After eating upon a table fashioned out of salt, we took time to take pictures of a more creative nature. The fact that everything was completely white made it so that there was no color difference discerning between background and foreground. This provided some very interesting photo opps playing with size disparity. Peep the pic. The water babies lotion belongs to me and my sensitive skin, gets laughed at every time, and is the gift that keeps on giving from one Megan Iguchi who left it in my apartment in South Korea lifetimes ago. The area really did provide for some amazing illusions depending on your creativity. Regretfully I was not on my creative game as there were other pics like this one that is cooler than ice cream.

"Vamos amigos!" says Lucas with coca leaves issueing out the side of his mouth. Time yet again to hit the road, even though the vulnerable tires of the 4runner touched road, (or paved cement) for a combined 20 minutes the entire journey. A complete lack of pavement, an abundance of dirt, rocks, and salt. We arrived late in the day at a pueblito perdido or little lost village which kept very close to the middle of f*cking nowhere trend . It was a village of nearly 200 inhabs, all living in closely concentrated basic one level structures. Nestled tightly in a small valley between two lazy rolling hills, there was running water for all yet electricty only for those select few who could afford the gas along with their generator. The hostal we stayed at was easily the most rustic and basic of lodgings I

have ever experienced. It was almost completely constructed of salt. The walls were made of salt bricks, cemented together with salt. The floor was white, crunchy, and granulated. The bed frames were oh so salty. I felt peppers jealousy welling up into a spicy rage. The only thing that seemed not to be sodium comprised was the mattresses, blankets and pillows thanks to all that is holy. It is here that I must end this novel as I have a 10 hour night bus leaving to Potosi, literally the highest city in the world at 4500 meters and change. Day 2 description coming soon. Until then, stay hydrated, moisterized, and think of me when you look at that little glass bottle of white on your dinner table. Paz.

Adventures of Joe Parker

2007-09-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

Professor Montgomery recently walked out of my South American life and onto a bus headed towards Buenos Aires and the end of his time in Argentina. Being moved by the warmth of Argentinian custom, we kissed cheeks and it was weird and great. One crucial difference between us is that he is actually an established American; He is stacking chips in the real estate game, as well as the old 401k; He is making moves in the American grind (i.e. he has a job), and just being an all around good capitolist by buying gas and driving an SUV. I on the other hand have none of those things, we will call them roots. Im freer than any bird youve ever seen, than any bird that Lynrd Skynrd ever wrote about. The point of all this is to illustrate that the Professor was only able to get away from those American roots for two weeks. Of those two weeks, we were able to form like voltron, blaze trails and so much more for about 10 days together. My oh my what a 10 days they were though, as in that span of time some major ass was kicked, beautifully intricate cultural customs were learned and appreciated, and as an overall trend, we partied like it was 1999.

People, this is what happens when you breach the border of states 50 and visit me in the south of the world:

1. You do things like crossing the Bolivian border via Argentina soley for a party.

2. You attend all day rodeo beer fest meat feeding frenzies.

3. You almost go skydiving for 40 dollars. I have no picture to illustrate how crazy, cool, potentially life threatening this true fact would have been.

4. Busses are ridden in time lengths measured not in minutes or hours, but in days.

5. You see a place that can legitimately be called the most beautiful place on Mother Earth, or Pachamama en Espanol.

Parker, I want to genuinely thank you for getting the motivation and wanderlust to come take part in vastly different way of life with me. Also for dipping into the funds a little bit, (now is the time to do things of this nature); I am now nearly broke as a bad joke, and will require a small section of your cartpet to sleep on and maybe a water dispenser when I come home in November. The mists of time shall never fade the memories, God bless the digital age. I love ya bro, heres to the adventures of Joe Parker. While writing what was to be this entry in my actual travel journal, I was sitting and looking out over el punto de las tres fronteras, or the point of the three frontiers. An actual spot where while standing on Argentinian soil, you can see Brazil and Paraguay at the same time. At the moment of creating this entry on blogspot.com, I am just south of the Bolivian border, in a dust swept city called La Quaica. I plan to cross the border into Bolivia in about 15 minutes.

ps. They serve crustaburgers in Bolivia. Simply awesome.

Brother Appreciation Day

2007-09-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

For almost 7 months foreign paths have known my feet. Whether on tiled Argentinian sidewalk, through Ecuadorian jungle, or kicking up dust on a Bolivian dirt road, my feet have feasted on vastly foreign terrain. This of course was my aim. However in undertaking this adventure of loose feet thousands of miles away from home, there has been one viscous price that I have had to pay. And that price is simply not seeing family. Over the span of the last 17 months, I was home for roughly three. I miss my bros; I am going through some serious Greenberg brother withdrawals. They are growing up, and it acidically burns that I am not around them, taking witness, taking part in the storm. Skype, while fantastically frugal, can only do so much from a Bolivian hole in the wall internet cafe in the way of family bonding. With this being said, I wanted to do a little Greenberg brother show and tell. The two of them are incredible important to me, I am overly proud of them, I hope that my words do not convey arrogance. Brothers can be bragged about right? Right. (during periods of solo travel, you get good at talking to yourself).

Jumping right in, I would like to call attention to Wes. The family lost contact with him about 8 months ago, when his obsession with the professional wrestling circuit took on unhealthy levels. He surgically implanted blonde hair into his scalp, and regularly bleached his mustache in worship of his long time hero, Hulk Hogan. I recently came across news that the Hulkster himself had to get a restraining order against him, and repeatedly had to get the local authorities to throw my middle brother and his tent that he was sleeping in off his property. JUST JOKING. Wes is actually a wonderfully adapted and adept human being, on his way to graduating from Western Washington Univervisity, hallowed halls of scholars. The picture of him at left illustrates his waton disregard for the judgments of other people, his tendency to wild out, and just a little bit of the color in his character palate.

As it were, myself being first born, and his being second born should, according to psychological literature, entail huge differences between us. While growing up together, this couldnt have been further from the truth. I regularly wanted to end his life with fiery passion. My distaste for him was palpable. I was pretty much a physically abusive alcholic father of an older brother. Somewhere along the line however, a flip was switched, something jarred loose, a stick was removed from an orifice, and I simply grew up. I came to appreciate having a middle brother. He still possesses the ability to drive me off the f*cking wall like no other, but I choose to look past that and into how much I love Wes. How much I love the fact that we both find humor in the most inexcusably stupid things like 80´s Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. Smeegs, keep doin what you do; Just give me all of my G*ddamned things back.

Moving Chronologically we come to one burly beast of a youngest brother, we got Zach (second from left in the pic). Or Zehar, or Zigtar, and a whole treasure chest bursting with more names of a less becoming nature. He was not always the hulking manchild you see now, but in his younger and smaller years an oh so adorable little ball of human dough. I must choose my words carefully here, as he possesses the might to terminate me if he so wished. When I last saw him in Massachussetts, I suspected steriod usage at how much muscle he put on, but that was quickly disproved at the lack of sx like explosive King Kong rage and backne. He had simply been devoted to the weightroom to give himself and football team a competitive edge.

It is at this point that I want to stand on my little South American soap box, and call attention to the fact that he (#51) is doing and taking apart of something truly amazing. His football team, the Edmonds-Woodway Warriors, are on their way to being one of, if not the best highschool football teams in Washington State 4A football. The forty something thousand people of Edmonds are united in crazed support of the deeply talented and downright intimidating varsity squad. I am quite sure the players enjoy celebrity status. As in Zach gets recognized and sought out at the Westgate QFC while buying protein bars on a regular basis. I hope, yet am confident that I will be able to make the last rounds of the state tournament, to see and support my youngest brother doing something great. Zach, stay focused, stay determined, and keep lighting fools up as Terry Bradshaw would say. Know that I am with you and cheering you on every step of the way from South America. Go Warriors and salud hermanos.

Pelo Very Very Loco

2007-09-06T14:31:00.000-07:00

Shock, wild, poof, puff. Words sometimes used to describe hair. The last few weeks of my South American Experience, from here on out abreviated S.A.E., has provided the opportunity to meet some special individuals with radical, even extremist, expressions of hair.

Case Study #1: Simon the lankey German. I traveled with this man for about 4 days in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, the same city of Sloth. He is German, tall, tranlucently skin toned, frightfully skinny, his name is Simon. Those attributes did not grab your eye though, but what did quite predictably was his ostentatious, invasive, bigger than life hair. I used dictionary.com to determine how to correctly spell ostentatious, the site will enrich your life. When his head went uncapped, and the brown mane was unleashed, I could not take my eyes away from the awesome site. All I could think of in my neverending comparative mind of minds was that I was associating with a reincarnated Ludwig van Beethoven. I used wikipedia.com to find the picture of the grizzled looking composer, dont watch tv, just use wikipedia. Unfortunately the friendship between Simon and myself never reached an area of comfort where questions like hair product usage could be comfortably asked.

Case Study #2: Frenchmen Benjamin and Samuel. I met them while staying in Salta, a city in Northern Argentina. We shared the same hostal named Corre el Camino, which is a shaky translation of road runner. They were also both very becoming and kind individuals. You will only meet the nicest people when traveling outside your boundaries, and you will never meet more of them. (Enormous generalization for the day) So I feel it is almost redundant/futile to say I met two nice people. Moreover, we bonded quickly over crépes and billiards. We conversed in Spanish, becuase my French consists of roughly 10 words, and they felt more comfortable in Spanish as opposed to English. They accepted my Americanness and I accepted their odors. Their odors which ommitted from their bodies. Their bodies which hadn´t known a cleansing in two months. I want to illustrate here that my Americaness and their odors are not equated variables. Besides smelling smelly, they also had incredible and shocking hair. The kinda hair that leaves you staggering as if rocked by a left right combination from M. Ali, clinging to the ropes while your brain tries to reestablish synaptic connection. Samuel looks like he bought his hair in a store. Either that or he walked strait out of street fighter II video game.

Case Study #3: Israeli Effrat. Her hair simply filled the room. It earned her standing Spanish ovations. While appearing to be washed regularly (judging from a lack of repugnant odor) and lacking natural gel, it still did things. Openly expressing my amazement with it, all I could muster to say at the time was "It´s just so....out there," said in a perplexed and exasperated tone. Of course she took offense. I am gonna go on record and say that Rapunzel would eat her own heart out with a spoon much sooner than turn green with envy. She not so politely declined my request of a picture of her hair probably becuase it is just a very odd request to make. Also because she probably thought I was going to put her on blast. This pic will have to suffice, though it does her (hair) far from justice. Too bad Effie, I was just trying to make you famous.

Case Study #4: At examining all of these wonderful people, to be fair, I must also put myself under the microscope. This is me not more than a week ago at a Bolivian rodeo. (at these rodeos, kittens are not ridden) Radical facial hair creations were a must, and I rose to the challenge with my own brand of repulsion. All I can say is fear and revere mustaches everywhere, handle bars or not.

City of Sloth

2007-08-28T14:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, City of Sloth. Not this Sloth, who owns a permanent throne in my heart, and in the area of my brain that controls dental hygiene, a different kinda sloth. Marinate on that one for a bit. Sin embargo, Santa Cruz, almost in the center of Bolivia, was as idle as they come. Idle in a good kinda way though, reminiscent of a hot, dusty, windswept sunny day where this fantasy finds you sitting on a porch sipping scotch (or whatever posion you happened to have picked) until the rapture. In the city of Santa Cruz, there was one beautiful, marble laiden plaza with ample seating and just enough shade, where I spent most of my time reading, writing, or just all around people watching. Somehow Santa Cruz has amassed a stunning population of female lookers, again I meant lookers with an L. Curved to perfection, graduates of strutting school, they were the most beautiful women I have seen in a Bolivian city to date.

My cultural expenditures included a zoo visit that was made remarkable by the sight of one zoo worker who had to wheel barrow around nearly 150lbs of pure cow shank. It looked like he was fresh off the screen of some quentin tarrentino film of gormasic proportion...truly, it was a very queer and grisly site. In retrospect, there seems to be a trend of raw, large, and bleeding sections of viscera in my South American experience. The zoo must have had around 8 big cats, 4 of them being my idolized jaguars. I have a special connection with jaguars. I used to honestly want to be one. My innitials spell J.A.G. I used to work on my "cat" skills by walking around really quitely, trying to sneak up on people. I dont know how I feel about telling everyone this. Yet immediate family will verify. Anywho, Mr. Zoo Keeper would just heave in an entire leg/rib section (minus hide) for the animals to dine upon, and it was really entertaining.

This wasnt the sparkling gem of the zoo however, because nothing would top my wild sloth sightings. The Sloth, El Perisozo, my new favorite animal. This animal drips with pure delight. At first impression, they are obviously popular for their behavior which comes the closest in the animal kingdom to a bonafied pot head aspiring to be a rasta but stuck at retarded hippy status. While pondering the sophisticated question of why this animal is so cool, I came to realize that there is something so much more pleasing about them, something much easier. They just chill out. They are the kings of cool, the sultans of smooth. If they were to drink juice, their selection would clearly be mellow yellow. Their name in Spanish, Perisozo, actually means lazy. A slow turtle, missing a leg, afflicted by a debilitating turtle disease, would probably beat a sloth in a (claw?) race. But they just chill and accept the world as it is, in the face of global warming, of human obesity, the mystery of sasquatch. Thats what I love about them, their non aggressive, hangin out in a tree house all day, leaf eating attitudes.

My last day in the plaza I witnessed a full on sloth rescue. Yeah, that plaza also had free living sloths in its trees. The rescue was unsuccessful, and unnecessary, as Mr. Sloth chose on the side of his instincts and stay in the tree on that windy day. I think it was the intention of the sloth rescuers to relocate the lazy one back to the zoo, a supposedly safer place for him to dwell. Apparently the plaza was a dangerous place for them to parooze. I did hear stories of them, while crawling across the gray tiles of the plaza in transit between trees, getting booted like soccer balls by pedestrians who simply failed to see them. They moved so slow and slothy, and their grey fur would cause them to blend right into the grey tile, that it would result in them getting regularly blasted by Bolivian boot. ¡GENTE ABREN SUS OJOS! I have more sloth stories, like meeting a girl who was in fact about to recieve a sloth tattoo the very next day, but I am tired of writing the word sloth as I am sure you are all tired of reading it. Check in soon for the next entry which will dive into the crazy, sometimes unbecoming hair (above the neck) styles and grooming practices of professional travelers. Until then, Peace, Paz, and Shalom. Joey Bolivia is out.

Bs.As. How To

2007-08-23T10:55:00.000-07:00

Professor Montgomery of the UW urology department will be joining me, Jose´Greenbargo in a little South American madness. I wanted to share my tips of navigating the city of Buenos Aires with anyone else who may have a sparkable interest. Read on.

Dearest Parker,

I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well. Very soon you will find yourself shouldering a thoughtfully and carefully organized backpack, probably big enough for a small child to assume vacancy inside. Specifically a small child the same size of Tho Min Vo, please bring him. Bring a pair of shorts and pants, a jacket, I got the sunscreen, your most ballinous gear, your dope threads, and shit that you can throw away. All medications, i.e. malaria pills, vaccinations for yellow fever, and rabies, are much cheaper and less effective down here, so just hold your huskies on those. A flashlight, Swiss army knife, and good book will also come in handy, which reminds me to ask you to please bring me LOTR: The Return of the King. I need a LOTR fix very badly.

So you will be taking your first steps outside of Argentina's main international airport in about 48 hours. Go ahead and pat yourself on the back, shake your own hand, pull out your glock and spit some fire, you are officially hoodrich and are about to embark on an adventure. Upon exiting the airport, your gonna walk right outside, pass all those men and women trying to hustle you for a 40 dollar cab ride into the city, and say something like "tengo las drogas y soy el gringo de fuego!!" Walk past all those damn solicitors and follow the sidewalk bearing slightly to the left/strait, and walk about 100 feet to a bus stop. The only bus stop. Sit there and wait for a bus, and have small change on you, something like 3 pesos. Once your aboard your vessel of economical and public transportation, you can sit back and relax, you will have about an hour and half ride into the city center. Be ready to enjoy, because your ride will be a generous serving of entertainment and your eye balls will be served their first visual feasts of Porteños, or inhabitants of Buenos Aires, Argentina. They struck me as the most European looking South Americans, with beautiful eyes, unusual looking jaw structures, and enough facial piercings to go around.

Entonces, after 90 or so minutes, and you start seeing huge buildings (one called Congresso, white, tons of columns), you should say PARE POR FAVOR, or LA PUERTA, or AQUI, and exit the free show of entertainment on wheels. With your guide book or with a free map from the airport, hit the ground running and explore the city a little bit for a hostal of your choosing. I stayed at a place called HI: Tango City for just about a month, and it was an all around growing experience. As in it was pretty much an Argentinian Delta Chi, just way more women. Additionally there was free breakfast, dinner, internet, hot showers, decent dorm rooms. I also antiqued the hell of a poor Dutchman, met a Welsh pirate, and a Colombian named Carlos who pretty much behaved like Magic Johnson before he discovered he was HIV positive. Here is there website http://www.hostel-inn.com/. But feel free to shop around, that hostal was about 27 pesos, or 9 dollars a night; I would suggest sticking to that area, San Telmo, which has amazing architecture.

Things to do in BA:
-Eat your weight in empenadas, and helado, Buenos Aires has the worlds finest.
-Go to a supermarcado and purchase about a 2lb steak of the juiciest nature (Argentina has the best meat in the world, no pun of any kind is intended but would make sense) for about 3 dollars, and grill it up in the hostal kitchen.
-See Recoleta cemetery, a literal city of tombs, puerto madero that has a bridge designed to look like a tango dancer, ride the subte (subway) around all day, and for great people watching, hit up Calle Florida.
-Just walk around for at least 5 hours, you will see some amazing things.
-And get ready to feel like a schmuck, because English is not very common, and their Spanish sounds more like Italian. You will be using your hands alot to talk, its all good though, every traveler who doesnt speak Castallano goes through it. They pronounce Y´s and LL´s like a heavy SHHHH sound, so chicken is pronounced like Poysho instead of poyo.
-Just kick a little bit of ass for me.

I will be waiting for you in Salta, hopefully amongst a throng of reciprocal women and with cold beer of epidemic like proportion. I will most likely be the gringo trying to fight off someone trying to shine my sandal laiden feet for 1 peso. I cant wait to see ya man, travel safely, smartly, and with an appetite for destruction. Nos vemos y un gran abrazo, Jose´
ps. I am heavily bearded

Read em and Weep

2007-08-17T15:21:00.000-07:00

Lets break it down. I left the Ecuadorian jungle and so much more on July 31st. I arrived in Boston, MA on the same day. America and I shared a brief yet poignant embrace. After 10 days of cushy, high on the hog American living, (Marriot breakfast buffet, if only we could marry and start a fairy tale) I found myself back in the chaotic clutch of an airport, with the haunting memory of tequila pulsing between my temples, most likely hanging on my every spoken word. Sorry stewardess. On August 11th, at 630am (GMT -4) the thin and crisp air of La Paz, Bolivia issued me a good morning slap in the face/clap on the back. So I have been absorbing this truly incredible city for the last 5 days, and have just been really taking it easy; this is suggested to every traveler for the fact that La Paz is the highest capital city on God´s green earth, and altitude sickness is very easy (if not unavoidable) to succumb to. Were talking 3660 meters, over 10,000 feet. La Paz peeps, what the hell were you thinking? But, us human beings being the hardy and adaptable folks we are, usually get over the effects of the elevation in 4 to 6 days. My body is finally adjusting, and I can now do pull ups on playground equipment without my eye balls exploding out of their sockets, or going into cardiac arrest. Two days ago, more than 15 steps up an incline would have left my lungs feeling like an elephant was standing on them, and my brain feeling like it was intimately getting to know the scent of glue for better than an hour. With taking it easy being said, I have not gone to any eye ball busting sights, or culturally rewarding tours that I could otherwise write about on these here electronic pages. The interesting thing about being a traveler in a foreign country is that there is literally hundreds of hilarious, shocking, and deflowering experiences occurring everyday worthy of discussion.

Here are descriptions of a few of those experiences:

I was welcomed back to hostal life when I was in my bed, securing my beauty sleep/coppin Z´s at a respectable 12:30am hour, when my two other roommates burst in, bringing with them light and passionate conversation with the all around delicateness of a bull. My ipod was the answer until they started smoking a spliff, placing the ash tray on my bed. It was all too much, so I decided to just wake up and introduce myself because trying to sleep would have simply been futile. In a offering of peace, the contraband was passed my way, which I of course had to respectfully decline, because like Snoop, Im drug free. They were both actually very cool and interesting people: Phillip is a fun loving German working on the second degree of his Karate black belt. Andy is a soft yet cleverly spoken American who peace cored in Paraguay for 3 flippin years.

The American Embassy in La Paz really stepped on my puppy. Otherwise stated, they denied my request of putting additional pages in my passport because of a little mold. My passport will be running out of pages very soon, and I heard that the embassy puts extra ones in for free, so I thought what the hell. NOPE, D-nied. Apparently a little discoloration, a little bit of a funky smell is enough to render a passport invalid by their asinine standards, even though I went to the states and back with out a hitch, ¡caras de culo!. The mold of the Ecuadorian jungle is still haunting me.

Bolivian culture is bodacious. Specifically the female attire. They dress themselves in the most vibrant of colors; Joseph (of the bible), not to be disrespectful, but your techni color coat doesnt hold a candle to the colors that these women flaunt. They also bury themselves in layers...Im talking at least 5 thickly layered garments, shawls, slips, sweaters and more. It is these outfits of sheer depth that gives every single one of them a hefty, hefty appearance. Like being 4ft11in and ballooning is a requisite for pulling off the look. I have yet to see a skinnier woman dress in the blanket bubble which is the norm. And we cant forget the bowler cap, no doubt pinned in place, looking almost cemented atop their jet black haired heads. They look too cool, and I wish I had the power to pull it off, but sadly my head is just too big. The bowler cap also adds an element of fear, because I keep thinking that one of these ladies will own a cap that is lined with razor, and she will want a gringo head to add to her collection.

The bustling pedestrian street that I lived on for my week in La Paz owned a depressing monotony of food choices. No doubt it would have been an orgasmic eruption of savory pleasure for a certain kind of people...that is if you believe in stereotypes. Every other shop extending along both sides of this street featured a combination fried chicken or hamburger stall, all of course coming with a generous side of papas fritas. Although, when your in a hurry and need something in your stomach before a 13 hour night bus ride, the sight of such disgusting food can sway the tongues of even the most picky eaters. At the moment, I am in another city called Sucre, which is to the southeast of La Paz. However I cannot wait to come back in a few weeks and taste the rest of what this maneating city has to offer. I am told that the two prisons allow travelers to come inside and converse with an inmate of your choosing; and there is zero in the way of security. My dreams are already running wild, and I promise you will not see my face on a milk carton. Nos vemos gente hermosa, y suerte con todo.

Un Mundo Pequeno

2007-08-12T17:05:00.000-07:00

Like Nike says, Just Do It. That is what I am having to tell myself right now, because I feel like hell. My brain does not want to function in the nearly 4 km altitude of La Paz, Bolivia. Immediately after exiting the plane in the shining 6:30am light and stepping onto Bolivian soil, the lightheadedness and exhaustion began to set in. It was so overwhelming that I sought airport food right away, which was el rey de hamburgesas, or Burgerking, and after consuming some flakey ham and cheese thing, I collapsed into sleep on the counter, just missing my steaming cup of cafe. First 30 minutes of Bolivia. More on that to come.

However, fit quite snuggly, quite expensively in between my Ecuadorian and now Bolivian adventure, was a brief visit back to the old US of A. I had 10 days in the state of Massachusetts; 5 days in Boston, 5 days in New Bedford. The Why: A reunion with the Greenberg fam claiming the East Coast set, basically my fathers side in its entirety. I can count the number of times I have seen my fathers side in its entirety on two hands. An unfortunate circumstance caused by miles and miles of land between. So when the opporuntity presented itself, I said sorry to the rest of Ecuador and Columbia, and hello to America and its relations. It was (an almost) homecoming of many meetings, some expected, some unexpected. Grandparents Bam and Bampa were not made aware of my coming, and when I knocked on their apartment door I was soon after greeted with a raucus roar of adorable senior citizen coeing. Middle brother Wes wasnt made aware of my presence until I slowly arose out of the back of our rented SUV, about 10 minutes after we picked him up from Boston´s Logan International Airport. I felt like swamp thing slowly rising out of a lagoon of luggage behind him, and when he finally caught me out of the corner of his eye, I do believe he thought it was a terrorist trying to commandeer the vehicle. They all thought I was still in Ecuador, hee hee, they all got punked. I was sincerely relieved that a cortex wasnt splattered, or a heart hadn´t exploded; needless to say it was glorious.

Making this visit more special, was a little exercise in making the great big old world a smaller place. What I mean by that is I was able to meet up with three geographically random contacts on a foreign American coast, all in the span of 10 days. First was Emily, a Bostonian who I met volunteering with in the Ecuadorian jungle. We rehabbed monkeys together, cooked in the same presence of tarantullas, and naturally founded a pretty special freindship. I said goodbye to her in Ecuador about 6 weeks ago, and said hello to her in New Beford, MA about 7 days ago. She coasted into the marriot parking lot, tippin fo vos in her red minivan as I was getting out of my whip, and we proceeded to share a beer in the presence of my family. Emily is at left in photo, about to chow down on some delicious, jungle baked bread. Freaking awesome/random.

Second was Cassie O., a former Seattlelite now living and working in Boston. Our families have known eachother for years, yet actual contact wasn´t established until just a week ago (in front of a golden dome) when handshakes, smiles, and pleasantries were exchanged. Wes and I needed a place to crash for about 5 days as our parents had left back for Seattle. Marsha Greenberg in all of her exuberant social skill, somehow coerced Cassie into taking Wes and I in, and history was made. As in new friendship was forged, an apartment wasnt destroyed, and my brother and I didnt go homeless in Beantown. Find Cassie at center, betwixt lazer and blazer.

Third was Miguel "miggie" Sanchez, a long time resident of Boston, a current attendee of Harvard Grad. School, ladies start your bidding at 10 pesos. I met Miguel in my Delta Chi days at UW, when he came over to Seattle for a year of work, study, and skirt chasing. I hadnt seen, or really heard from this old friend of mine for at least 2 years. This made my email to him saying "hey, Im in Boston, lets look at each other through empty beer glasses" all the more savory. Cassie and I met him at the Pourhouse Pub about an hour late, but our tardiness did not put a damper on the joy of meeting up with a valued amigo in a different geographical setting. Meeting up with a friend from your past is a special enough event. I am still pondering what it is about a different meeting place, foriegn or domestic, that makes that reunion all the more special; that adds a few more pounds per square inch to those bonds of friendship. I welcome anyones ideas on that last one. By the way, Bolivian shoe shine boys wear ski masks during their 9 to 5. Holler at ur boy, Greenbilitary in La Paz, Bolivia.

A Different Kinda Dance

2007-08-05T04:43:00.000-07:00

Instead of mirrors and disco balls, there is a sparsity of light bulbs strung up. The wiring is exposed, hanging from ceiling rafters, powered by a generator. There is no taxi or vehicle otherwise taking us too and fro, only a manually propelled canoe and a 20 minute hike through the jungle in our finest attire, collars and skirts, with bottles of alcohol in tow. Instead of a linoleum or sealed wooden floor, there is a dusty concrete surface, proudly showing the marks of tread over years of use. No one notices or cares. Forget about a pounding, watt frothing sound system making your chest feel like a paper bee hive. There is however a boom box, maybe a few years old, also powered by the generator that is just loud enough. Draughts of cheecha...of cerveza, are not needed to forget the difference between a multi thousand dollar sound system and one that cost $200. No one notices or cares, its all too delicious. Dancing slow or fast; close, no distance between my body and hers, two worlds magnetically brought together like a car accident. Wonderfully sweaty, hands clasped, hips shake to the repetitive rhythm of the Kichwa song pulsing out of the speakers. The three minute musical connection of our hearts, minds, and wet skinned selves is enough to forget our surroundings, of the surroundings in any perceptible place.

But wait....who the hell wants to forget? We are in the jungle, amongst new Kichwa friends, an ocean of buzzing and droning insect life, gigantic geranium leaves big enough to cover the genitals of a Leviathan. A Kichwa dance party in the jungle. Sitting people of ALL ages line the boundaries of that dusty, marred, perfect concrete dance floor, waiting to be offered a drink out of friendship, or to be asked for the next dance. Babies, tykes, ninos, jovenes, young people, teens, women, old women, abuelitas, chicas calientes, men, men with sweat stained shirts and protruding bellies, grandfathers, mothers, mothers openly breastfeeding, guapalitas, handsome devils and heartbreakers. I always wanted to share at least one dance with a woman that was breastfeeding, the image would just be too funny and bizarre to pass up, but somehow that goal evaporated from my compulsatory grasp. The number of this jungle groove fest consisted of about 200 indigenous Kichwa folk, and maybe 15 westerners. It was a collection of happy and drunken souls on a dance floor without walls; the only boundaries being the deep blackness of night swallowing everything extending a more than a childs' stone throw away from the light bulbs.

And more cheecha is being concocted. The beverage that I love, that all my volunteer friends hate with a nauseous passion. It gets boiled over a pit in huge vats, the main (yet certainly not only) ingredient being mashed yucca root, and is let to ferment over a few days...the longer the more potent. It has a mottled white appearance, the consistency of clam chowder, and generally has an all around vomit like taste. I love it because it is free; it is strong; it is the strange and beautiful custom of a different culture; and when I gulp it down with a ravenous thirst, it disgusts and shocks all those around me. Shock value, a thing of marvelous worth....at least to me. It is customary and ordinary at a Kichwa party for it to be passed around the entire crowd of people, small draughts being dished out of a large vat carried around by one person. While most people are satisfied (or painfully satiated) by one little sip out of the bowl, I usually drain at least two full bowls, with the permission of my stomach of course. This is just one amongst many of the story worthy customs of a Kichwa dance party. I fear it will be a long wait until the opportunity of one presents itself again. Until then, the memory of dancing the night away in a happy, intoxicated mass of Kichwa people surrounded by jungle flora will be savored upon like a green jawbreaker, never shrinking in size, slowly becoming sweeter in taste.

Mas Peliculas

2007-08-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

I have too much time on my hands at the moment. I'm fresh from the jungle with no animals to feed/harass with brooms, or tourists to hate upon. Instead I make movies like these of hostel life in Buenos Aires. Look on with fiery jealousy or extreme sympathy.

Don't Do Drugs

2007-08-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

Buenos dias con todos. I have ignored the blogosphere, among many other things like clean clothes and mirrors, lazily for the last month. This is a genocidal like shame because the last month has entertained some of the juicier, dangerous, magical, and spell binding experiences this young entrepreneur/inventor has ever known. Considering this, and my two week vacation (from a vacation) in Boston with unlimited internet access and sub 90% humidity levels, I will try and write a short little something everyday. Take advantage of those resources seemingly taken for granted I say; specifically talking about a free and steady internet connection, leave the fossil fuels in the ground, the trees where there rooted.

The image of this furry individual was captured on the eve of my last working day at Amazoonico, an animal reserve in the Orient region of Ecuador's rain forest. His name is Macha, he is about around 15 months old, and is one of the 12 juvenile woolly monkeys living freely at the reserve. Macha is still perfecting his leader of the pack skills, as the jefe of the group at the moment is a female named Olga, who not only has age on him, but muscle, body hair, and long pointy teeth as well. It is this little pack of rebel Woolly monkeys, or Chorongos as they're called in Kichwan, that run amok and cause all kinds of monkey chaos for the volunteers living with them. Thankfully they are very friendly and not savagely aggressive (the adults can be), and their tomfoolery is usually taken with a smile and mild shake of the fist. Some examples include spying on you while you shower in the waterfall, and upon washing all of the days dirt away, they will jump on you and soil your leg with fresh dirt while making a mad dash away with a flurry of somersaults (known as roley poleys in the UK). Kapari, you know I am talking to you.

These images provide still more evidence. I found these photos disarmingly cute and humorous, others may be harboring a few misinformed ideas. Allow me to shed some light on some of those faulty ideas: No, Macha does not own a coke habit more expensive than Robert Downey Jr.'s, nor does he own a coke addiction at all. Again, he is not a blowhead, he is not about to drop the line "Say hello to my little friend!!!!," and he is not on Pablo Escobar's pay roll. What these photos illustrate is their wont to ingest absolutely anything, from glass, soap, their own fecal matter, and yeah, flour as well. In a feverish and frantic attempt to start baking food for my despidida, I spilled a little of the white cooking ingredient, and the Chorongos were first on the scene with ravenous appetites. Yes, we can officially equate spilt flower with a barrel of monkey serving of fun. Thanks Chorongos, you are already missed.

Ode to Steve Irwin, Wildboyz

2007-07-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

At first site of the Capybara pond, I was struck with an immediate vision like a lighting bolt to the brain hurled from Zues himself. Just recently, this vision and dream came to fruition. Of course it was documented. Click play.

This is just a random clip of me feeding some exotic birds. Dont confuse birds with broads.

Mas Aventuras

2007-06-21T10:47:00.000-07:00

I still feel like nobody knows what in God´s name I am doing. I have to clear the air really quickly lacking spark and interest...sorry, endure it. So for the last month or so I have been PAYING to volunteer at Amazoonico, an animal rescue center in the Orient region of Ecuador.
I heard about the volunteering opportunity from a Paraguayan girl named Suzy while traveling south in Argentina. A seed was planted in the deep, cerebral chasms of gray brain matter inside my skull. It took roughly 110 hours on bus, 5 days and 5 nights, passing through 3 coutries to arrive in Ecuador from Argentina. I am into pain and saving money, so that is what I tell people who ask with grimacing faces "why not just fly???" That multiple bus trip is a story in itself, and I am just now starting to regain feeling in my ass.
However, right now there are more important things to discuss. The guy sporting the latest line of mankinis is named Louise. He took me and another volunteer on a sprelunking adventure: we did the cave thing, with bats, enormous arachnids, waterfalls, cliff jumping in terrifying darkness supplemented by the echoing roar of a surging underground river. We only had one day off, and we naturally wanted to stretch our time doing all around kick ass things. That being said, we arrived back at the port where canoes take us back to Amazoonico late, again in complete darkness, no canoe visible in the shafts pouring from our flashlights. Ok, Louise, Mr. Mankini, what do we do now? ask your gringos. His answer (however in smooth Espanol) was this: Walk to a friends house where a trail starts. This trail will take us back to Amazoonico. And this answer was enough, and proved true, however not before his friend and forest ranger Jaime gives us this thing, to carry back with us. It was so small, the staff vet could not determine what it was. This woomb fresh organism survived the 1.5 hour hike back in the dark, through the Amazonian (which I had to do barefoot, my sandals lost function in the mud) and about 5 days after, but sadly lost in the Big Struggle yesterday. He was getting round the clock care, but in the end, he was just too young and fragile. Everyone pour out a bit of milk for my friend, the mystery animal named Casi Nada, which literally means Almost Nothing.
Louise, in his depression and lack of will power turned to the bottle and understandably drowned his sorrows while becoming completely trashed. Under normal circumstances, it would have been excusable. The circumstances were not normal, and were these: it was 11am on a Tuesday, in the middle of the workday, drinking heavily and acting lude in front of shocked tourists, and inciting feces throwing contests with free living monkeys. Since he is my good friend, I was put in charge of getting this Ecuadorian sh*t show away from the tourists and locking him in his room to sober up. The task was easy enough with the promise of some juevos revueltos, or fried eggs. Some where in route he decided to lose his pants and fashion his tiny underwear for all to see and giggle at. In all reality, he is a normal well adapted human being who was caught in a weak moment in his love for animals. For these reasons and more, Louise, you are my Ecuadorian hero. Keep on rocking in the free world.

Fun With Tamarins

2007-06-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

Ok, I again have negative time to write this. I ate some naughty peanuts with unclean hands and am now suffering the wrath of my intestines. Life is grand. Entonces (for you spanish speakers), this clip is an 18 second preview of my volunteer life. The animals are real, as is my flamboyant and horrible excuse of a mustache. Mustaches are still the most disgusting thing a man can flaunt, which is why I back them 100%. I employed mine for the intimidation factor, due to the fact that I work with wild and sometimes aggressive animals...just a little bit more intimidating and little bit less cute than the ones in this clip. Peep it. Also worship the IT code that makes this website what it is. http://www.pyratecon.com/ Salud amigos

ps. Estoy aqui

Privateering Done, Volunteering Undertaken

2007-06-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

My goodness that title is attrocious. Aight peeps, I will try and give a quick low down as to what Im doing. I am always on a time crunch when in the town of Tena. This time crunch comes about because to get to Reserva Amazoonico before the suns´ light fails, I have to catch a 2:30pm bus and then a 4pm canoe to get back to my home on the range...range of wild and exotic Amazon wildlife that make post cards all over the world wrinkle and fold in desparate jealousy.

Amazoonico is not a zoo, but a rescue center with about 460 animals whose main goal is to nurse, rehabilitate, and reintroduce these animlas who are mostly pets or confiscated from illegal trade and the black market. That line is around the third statement from my introduction speech which I give on guided tours to locals and foreigners alike. Yes, I, Joseph Greenberg, am a wild life tour guide now...following in the foot steps of the late Steve Irwin, R.I.P. If you find yourself harboring a monkey´s curiosity, the foundations website can be found here: http://amazoonico.org/

Some quick stories to tell after 8 or so days: A wooley monkey named Uspa serisouly serves as my alarm clock at 6:30am. My first day saw the brutal task of bloodgeoning a mouse to death to feed a jaguarundi, and my eyes were the first to behold the 5 hour old baby Spider Monkey. All days generally have me (and others) smelling like a rotten apple short of a dumpster by about 10am, and there is absolutely ZERO electricity on the reserve. There is fresh water from a natural spring that we have access to, there is plumbing, there are biblical like hoards of biting insects, and there is a Tamarin monkey named Chilka who is just about the most adorable thing I have ever seen. Paris Hilton, if you ever come to the reserve, I will sick one of the three ocelots on you. There is no hotwater, and for the first three days, I used a waterfall as a shower, while being spied upon, of course by my animal friend Uspa/Alarm clock. There is so much to update, and I will try to do the best I can with the breif free time I have.

F·%$ing Big Dinosaurs

2007-06-02T10:37:00.001-07:00

I left that dirty room full of smoke and computers around 6am, my night stay costing 15 pesos, or 2 pesos per hour of interent use. I slept for maybe an hour and half, being woken up in the middle with a heavy clap on the back from the owner of the cafe, who probably thought I was some great white vagrant lost in the streets of Neuquen. I hit the road in the same dark and the same cold that I found the city in...(interesting to note that I am now writing this entry in the 85% humidity of Ecaudor) heading strait for the bus terminal. On a mission. In search of those things that widen the eyes of most children, that parch the tongues of paleontoligists, that make Joseph Greenberg travel about 3 days out of his way to see. There may be haters out there who would think this trip an unworthy destination, an immature escape...but then again, they cant say that they have known the company of the biggest dinosaur remains in the world.
Ladies and gents, damas y caballos, allow me to introduce my quiet but enormous friend, Argentinosaurus Heuiniculus, or a shorter and more personal monicer that I gave him, Daryl the F"%·$ing huge dinosaur. In the pic above, he obviously makes me look miniscule, which is an alarming feat due to the fact I am in ownership of rippling and massive muscles, (and a cranium whose circumfrence which measures over three feet). Standing betwixt his hind legs, I suddenly realized I was just below the biggest anus the world has ever known...and I can count my blessings that Daryl wasnt alive with a functional digestive track waiting to pass. This unfortutely cannot be long, because my volunteer friends Tjitska and Sian are waiting for me. I am in Tena, a city in the Oriente region of Ecuador. I love everyone. Hasta pronto.
ps. Daryl was 160 meters long. Do the math in feet, the rest of the world doesnt use that unit of measure.

Homeless, In Search of Dinosaurs

2007-05-10T12:52:00.000-07:00

Sniffing my plugged nose, readjusting the burdensome 70 liter bag on my back, I look at my watch in the glowing amber street light: 12:15am. I stop walking for a moment, breathing deep the cold air of Neuquen through my mouth. The cold walks its slow fingers through my thin clothing...it penetrates. This in turn spurs movement out of me, and I walk on in search of my 11th or 12th hostel or hotel this night. I cant really remember how many I have visited. What I do remember are the words I heard over and over from those dozen or so: "Lo seinto, no tengo habataciones," or sorry we dont have rooms, or sorry, your ass is screwed. Their words seem to echo with a snide reverb inside my head, their cold faces staring out from with in their heated and cozy corners.
My harsh reality is this: there isn't a single available bed in the city, vacancy being is foreign as I am. As if to ease the plight of my situation, late night hotel receptionists tell me that there is an oil delegation in town, and that business types from all over the country are here filling hotels and hostels alike to capacity. Quickly coming to grips with my reality, my reality of being without heat, shelter, let alone a bed in a frigidly cold urban city...I am moved to asking about the option of churches, or shelters, or anything besides sitting on a concrete bench in the elements for 7 hours. I ask this question with a smirk, almost laughing at the sheer desperation of my situation. The repetitive shaking heads offer no help and I move on, mentally preparing myself to sleep outside in a plaza which I can only hope gets the occasional patrol by police. And then there comes my solution. It is issued from the mouth of a taxi driver, and it is in the form of directions and an address: a 24 hour Internet cafe, to which I collapse onto the ripped upholstery of his back seat amidst a sea of my own baggage and say "vamos" in an exhausted and mentally spent voice.
So there I was, embarking on my luxurious 7 hour night stay in a dingy Internet cafe, filled with archaic and rickety seats, and ancient computers somehow still functioning. Sitting down to a liter of 7UP and potato chip dinner, entertainment for my meal of course provided by the bells and whistles of the Information Super Highway, I actually felt relief. Even though I had been on a bus for the last 18 hours or so, being confined to the same change of clothing for over 48 hours, my body reeling from a cold....I was content. Sinking into my old chair I exhaled a sigh rich with appreciation for a roof and four walls. Seven hours until morning light, seven hours until I would be able to realize the actual reason of my trip to this dead end town. Cramming some Spanish named potato chips into my mouth with one hand and logging onto Internet explorer with the other, my night drifted away into a haze of cigarette smoke, fluorescent lighting and indistinguishable background conversation.

An Explanation:

I arrived in ruddy petroleum supported Neuquen at 11pm. It was April the 25th, and the night was cold, loathsome, and unfriendly....reminding me how poorly prepared I was for cold weather. The bus station was the finest and cleanest that I have seen in Argentina, however as I got off my local buss and started walking, I realized the modern and sanitary feeling of the station did not extend to the city. Soft lighting and decorative architecture which attracts tourists and their thick wallets were absent, and in their place urban, rough and unpolished infrastructure sprawled. As I walked the lonely sidewalks which shadows stretched across, another interesting thing jumped out at me in passing tienda after tienda; and that was a 30-40% price drop in almost everything, but more notably in food and clothing.
The city of Neuquen, (I never once pronounced it correctly) was put on the map because of two things: its wealth in the black gold, and because it is the hottest paleontological site in Argentina. The latter was in fact what drew me to this booming yet seemingly forgotten city. Deep with in my soul lives an undying passion, fascination and respect for dinosaurs (amongst a few other things, namely Sasquatch and flame throwers). Part II of this entry will tell on about my experiences in Neuquen with those prolific and long dead beasts of epochs past.

The Wrecking Crew

2007-04-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

My 5 days in the southernmost city in the world were made amazing not only because of the surrounding beauty that induces occular hemmorage, but because of the international freindship I discovered. Getting off an 18 hour bus, not making a social attempt during that span of time, I found myself in need of other like travelers without an fn clue of where they were laying their head for the night. Claiming our luggage, I put myself out there to one girl, another bloc followed suit, and BAM! POW! BOP! I found two friends and a dope place to stay...dope as in your Holas get ignored, the lights get turned off at 1130, and partying is frowned upon. At this place of merriment, I met the other wouldby members of the wrecking crew. Without further adew, I will introduce this crew becuase this locuturio (net cafe) is ripe with noise pollution, and creative thought is excruciating to entertain. This german schmuck to my left is going off like the fuhrer into his skype headset, and his girlfreind is curling a 50kg weight with her left earlobe. I am guilty of the same boistrous conversation when I get my skype on, so Germany, no offense.

Natalie - New Zealand, Fake blonde, hobbit height, 28. Laughs at almost anything, at inappropriate times of conversation, quite like myself. Owns the largest ipod musical collection I have ever seen, tipping the scale at 68 gigs of usage. Claim to fame: Standing on her chair in a populous bar in some kind of pro feminism salute, loosing her balance and crashing into the radiator with a loud and wretched wood on metal crash. The cool was momentarily knocked out of her step. She loves cheetah print clothing, and bright blue michelen man style jackets.

Craig - U.K., we all dont care what he looks like, he just kicks ass, 29. Extremely nice and respectful, shares my passion for pirates, LOTR, and other visionary flicks. Upon reaching enebriation, he turns into an annoying ball of love confessions. Claim to fame: makes Hugh Grant eat his own heart out in his bashful, stammering, quiet and unassuming Brittish accent (that is very apparent in his Spanish) that slays all things female. Detect the jealousy in my tone.

Oscar - Spain, Tall, Spindally, and very, very gay. Believes 10% of every population is automatically gay as a trend. I named him the night stalking queen for reasons I cannot herein disclose. He made a serious pass at me, to which he found a carne empanada bouncing off his skull. Claim to fame: owning without a doubt the funniest accent /voice combination I have ever heard. All I can liken the sound to is a combination of Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan´s voices.

Suzy - Paraguay, casper white complexion, 22. Fluent in Spanish and English, her skin is a pastier white than mine, shattering what I thought to be a universal truth. A champion of animals, and an eater of soy burgers, her claim to fame is working on an Ecuadorian monkey farm. She has given me hope to one day soon, work at the same animal rehibilation location. I cant wait to put that on my C.V.

Jose´ Greenbargo - USA, ageless. Fluent in English and Spanglish. A lover of all things unconventional, owns clothing whose washing is long overdue. Overly obsessed with privateering. Claim to fame: at 11:15pm, Sunday night, after wonderful group alcohol consumption, sprinted the 1.5km distance to the one tenedor libre, or all you can eat buffet in town. The yogurt, bananas and crackers I had eaten all day left a ravenous hunger inside. It was glorious, it was also a Chinese buffet, making its location at the end of the world even more surreal. I was set to leave in 4 hours with Natalie, my new travel mate.

To my international team: I love you plutonically, and you all made the time that much sweeter. We did Ushuaia the right way and are now left with beautiful memories and bonds of foreign friendship that will be called upon some day in an email either distant or near.

DISCLAIMER: this entry contains words that are horribly mispelled, calling into question whether or not I recieved a college education. The spell check does not want to work on English, so accept my illiterate apologies.

I am in Bariloche, on the western ridge of Argentina, just a couple hundred kilometers south of Santiago, Chiles capital.

Una Dia en la Vida

2007-04-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

Hola usted gente hermosa. I come to you now via a quaint and overpriced cafe in Ushuaia, Argentina. You know you have come across a road less traveled when walking down the street your eyes our greeted by signs advertising trips to Antarctica for a couple grand. Being at the end of the world and only a hop skip and expensive jump from a continent of ice, one would think it would be unbearably cold. This I am here to disprove, as in Ushuaia (pronounced oos-whya) it is a crisp 20C. Now to describe a 24 hour glimpse into my life:
Awakening on April the 14th, I am in a city given the label the southermost in the world. My head is surprisingly clear, my thoughts unclouded by the tangled pain of a hangover. Hangover....a word that echoes in all languages. My current dorm mates, Craig from the UK, Diogo from Brazil, and Oscar (the night-stalking queen, looking something like the freak on the right) from Spain, all stirring now in the grey late morning light, groan in hangover hell. We all more or less got up around 11 after collapsing into dark and heavy sleep at 6:00AM, the end of a fairly wild night that followed an eventful yet tiring and exhausting day.
Allow me now to recount the events of that day, and the night which came before the above described morning: Walking without a care, completely oblivious to the outside world, strolling down an avenue in the small and homey feeling town of Ushuaia. This place could be a nuclear fallout shell of a city, and still be made beautiful by the surrounding panorama of snow capped and jagged mountains, crystal clear skies of fierce saphire, whose beauty is only interrupted to the south, where arctic ocean starts. My Brit amigo and I started the day late around 2pm, got our shit figured out and our coffee ingested, and taxied for 10 pesos to Glacier Martial summit. A statement of fact: I, Joseph Greenberg, am the most poorly equipped human in Ushuaia for enduring hazardous weather. Craig was more or less prepared with proper attire, where my glacier trekking ensemble consisted of a knockoff Quicksilver hoody made AND purchased in Beijing, some ass (among other things) constricting blue jeans, and DVS skate shoes. ¡Que bueno!
Other trekkers crossed our paths toating heavy water repellant boots, ski poles, looking like walking polar fleece factories. I felt more and more out of place, giggling a little more everytime at what could be a potentially horrible\dire situation in me getting caught in a freak storm or shift of weather. Yeah Im nuts. And your mothers an astronaut. The hike started immediately at a steep incline, and after 5 minutes Criag and I both felt like walruses out of water. This fatigue quickly passed and the hike became an overpowering and intoxicating experience of natural beauty. We were hiking steadily up into a valley between two massive peaks. Both sides of the mountains lazily extending toward the ceiling of the sky, its exposed trees on the threshold of Fall´s color changing fury. The greens of the trees were just starting to turn, and here and there were golden sunbursts of yellow on the slopes.
Craig had entered a state of camera frenzy, shooting anything and everything, fitting the tourist stereotype to a T. Being the seasoned camera vet that I am, I kept the cam holstered, waiting for a truely lens worthy opportunity. This opportunity presented itself 5 minutes later when I decided it would be entertaining to utilize the snowy and glacierized (im makin words up) background by disrobing down to my calvin klein boxers, socks, and shoes. It was delightful...it was brisk...the pictures will speak for themselves by saying ¨Joseph Greenberg, you should put some damn clothes on.¨ Not much later, an Israeli friend named Amir, walked by on his way down, and decided in his own craziness to walk back up with Craig and I. His Israeli soldier training appeared to be more effective than my hours of vanity spent in the weight room, as he navigated the intense slope of deep snow and loose shale with the nimbleness of a juvenile yetti. Climbing was slow and tedious as the rocks were loose, and the grade was treacherously steep. As we got higher, heavy flakes of snow started to fall, and a thick cloud blanket came down to meet us. At this point, common sense and a sense of self preservation kicked in, and we turned around, yet not before playing with echoes, and attempting to start sever giant cartoon inspired rolling snow balls. They were all unsuccessful, and Craig´s heart and dreams were crushed; someones life was probably saved.
Back to town, away from an artic storm we hurried. Through an old and gnarled Lenga forest our path was laid, and the place felt spiritual. The trees were numerous and close, making the air feel close. The ground was colored yellow with the decomposition of thousands of small circular petals. Sounds of running water were not far off. I would have liked to have taken time to sit and commune with the forest, however my friends were on the move and my current conversation on the greatness of L.O.T.R. and Pirates was too riveting to stop for forest meditation.
We made it back to the Cruz del Sur hostel alive and in horribly famished spirits just as the last shades of light sank beneath the western horizon. It was 7PM and in our haste of heating food, we successfully started a small fire in the oven from the spilled sauce of our store bought cannaloni, and immediately set to work drinking with an international team representing 6 different countries. Some hours later, my international team still intact, we found ourselves in line to enter the one and southern most club in the world, Club San Cristobal. Conveniently and scenecally located right on the Ushuaian shore line, the club was a pathetic excuse of architecture but was filled near its capacity. The Hispanic \South American representatives on the team immediately set to work destroying the dance credibility I thought I had, lighting the floor on fire with their rapid Salsa and Melonga moves. The only thing I could think to do to save America´s reputation of spitting out amazing caucasian dancers was to jump in the middle of our little dance circle, and engage in the seductive and suggestive Lasso dance. I dropped this very move in a Club in Beijing to extreme success, and by success I mean being followed by a 35 year old Chinese bloque for the rest of the night. Unfortunately my amount of success this night went unequalled, but I did manage to find a nice Ushuaian girl named Sabrina who danced with the energy and style of high voltage electricution, and I just tried to keep up. We danced until 5am, when she had to go home and my right knee decided to give out, leaving me in a crumpled and wretched ball of parapellegic pain. Climbing glaciers at 2pm, hiking lenga forests at 4pm, and dropping it like it was hot until 5am proved to be too much for my body. Diogo (Brazilia), Oscar (Espana), Craig (UK), Dope Boy Magic (USA) were all collapsing into slumber in our hostel dorm room at 6am, just escaping the morning light of Friday the 14th of April. We would awake some 4 hours later, where I started this story. One day in my life at el fin del mundo. Pura Vida. Dope Boy Magic out.

Beauty and the Beast

2007-04-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

Riding off into the Argentine (Pantagonian more accurately) horizon. A mixture of feelings wash over and take hold of me: slight apprehension of the fact I am traveling to a place of scarce to no English very much by myself. I will have to rely entirely on my shaky and barely expressive Spanish skills, which usually results in locals thinking that I am a distant still living relative of Sloth from the movie The Goonies, known in Spanish as Pelotas del Nariz.
At the same time I am emboldened with visions of another journey which provide fantastical images behind the retinas of my closed eyes. To farther off lands where Ingles is found few and far between. My mode of transport constisting of a 23 hour ride aboard the Condor Estrella bus, entertaining two different seat partners along the first 19 hours, and enjoying the emptiness of the second seat to myself for the final four. For the first 12 or so hours, I was seated between two women, one seeming to be fanatically religous as every five expressions was punctuated with a raise and shake of her Bible at noone in particular. I cant deny (this not being my first or second time desiring) the desire to read the book and its ensuing pages of seemingly nonsensical stories that have caused compassion and bloodshed for thousands of years. Her name was Suzan, and she was in her late 30´s, very much a Portena (inhabitant of Buenos Aires). She was genuinely sweet minus religious bantar, talked too much, was extremely hospitable with dispersing cups of free coffee, and just partially cracked. She blocked her AC vents with spair garbage that was lying on the ground because she was too cold.
On my left sat Evelyn something, her last name escapes me. From Paraguay, absolutely beautiful, sensual in both appearance and personality. Her skin had a glow that would put the radiance of gold to shame. Everything about her appearance, her eyes, her features, her lazy delivery of Spanish making every palabra she said run together...practically indistinguishable, yet intoxicating all the same. The one unbecoming characteristic she possessed revealed itself rather early, and that was the downright foulness of her halatosis infused breath. I would have believed I was sitting next to the devil or one of Harry Potters dragons, or Trentar from Ernest Scared Stupid. There was serisouly something wrong....everytime my beauty from Paraguay exhaled, it reflexively forced my neck to turn my head in the opposite direction and conciously breath through my mouth and not my nose so as to escape the bog of enternal stench that was emitting from behind her lips.

Enduring the funk and intoxicating language which both sprang form her tongue, I came to rather enjoy our little bus chair union. On these night busses, it is very much like being in the same sleeping quarters with multiple people, obviously minus the spooning and pillow talk. It still however takes on similar feelings of intamacy, with a complete and random stranger. Numerous times during the night of bus travel sans deep and restorative sleep, I was stirred awake: in the dark, irredescantly lit by the blaring red light from the 24 hour clock just above my head and the back glow from the headlights illuminating the soupy darkness of the highway. I was stirred awake from her readjusting which would in turn readjust me as well due to the close quartered nature. Sharing the same basic vascinity of sleep with Spanish speaking strangers to my right and left felt bizarre (no less bizarre had they been English speaking) and reassuring at the same time. Bizarre due to the fact of sharing immediate sleeping quarters with utter randoms, and reassuring because we were all of us headed down the same dark and mysterious highway flanked by a dessert like steppe. And although our fates were only momentarily bound together, I could still rejoice, relax, and enjoy the comfort in the moments of silence and laughter in our company. Public transportation, you never cease to entertain. I am in Puerto Madryn, Argentina.

Getting Outta Dodge

2007-04-02T13:16:00.000-07:00

How I miss the days of a regular internet connection, and sidewalks not littered everywhere with the one downfall of dog ownership. My rent is due for the month of April, should I choose to extend living in my quaint little house on Santiago Del Estero. 10 days ago, as I sat staring at the ceiling, I slowly realized that I would much rather not pay that rent (900 pesos, or 300 dollars, everything included) and instead engage in more of what I love, and that is travel like a rolling stone: go wherever my wondering heart yearns or whatever combination of bus and road will allow. Hard to desribe or pursuade those about the appeal of living out of a backpack packed with only a few ensembles, making your bed in budget inspired hotels, eating meals of the most random nutrional elements. But the appeal is there, as is the love of owning an unshaved face, and the ideal of roughing it in lands foreign or domestic still holds sway over me.
Communication has been scarce at best over the last few weeks, and I fear it will not be getting better anytime soon. However my heart soars every time I am able to talk with friends and family. I dont know what it is about distance or absence that makes the heart grow fonder, but it does, and as much as my thoughts are dominated by the destinations I am on the doorsteps of visiting, thoughts about everyone at home weigh heavily as well. It all builds character or something. I leave on wednesday, April 4th at 12:45pm. I leave in two days for Puerto Madryn, a huge wild life habitat, for whales, penguins, and sea lions. Other than that, there really isnt much more I can tell, which is just how I like it. Consulting a map, the city can be easily found, about half way down the country on Argentinas eastern coast, a little portrusion of land jutting out, and thats where I will be for the first few days. I will be making a horseshoe loop going in a clockwise direction, all the way down to Ushuaia at the tip, and back up along the Chilean border (I will probably go to chile) up to Bariloche, a beautiful lake district. My goal is to travel for a month, hopefully not spending more than a 1500 american, and make it back to Buenos Aires in May. Before leaving, I must also purchase or locate some kind of water resistent clothing, as I will most likely be going glacier trecking and enduring other forces of arctic weather, and all I have is jeans, skate shoes, a baseball cap, and some UW sweatshirts....haha, insanity, but I will work it out. I might come back preferring to explore in tropical as opposed to arctic landscapes, but am hoping that I will still be seduced by all things ice, and all things penguin. Somehow, someway. Peace be the journey.

My Hero

2007-03-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

This muchacho is legit. Not the gringo who thinks he's still in Korea, flashing a double Asian peace sign like its going out of style. No, the gringo is far less legit, as proven by the fact that he is a bona fide member of myspace: http://www.myspace.com/47273434. And I am going to stop talking about myself in the third person starting now. Tony is who I am talking about, the Porteno on the right. He is one fantastic throw back to the seventies, easily the coolest decade in human history, and without a shred of doubt my favorite. Notice the blown dry hair-do, which may or may not have required curlers, putting chumps like Tony Danza and the Bee-gees collectively to shame. He is also sporting a tightly cropped and dashing mustache, which compliments the open button shirt revealing sparse chest hair. This all leads up to my favorite attribute, which is the Santa Claus like portrusion of abdominal fat which is accented well by the shirt. I think after the age of 40, guts are simply fashionable. Yeah they tend to take years off your life, and prevent you from seeing certain parts of your body, but you only live once, and I am saying that one life to live needs to be one of excess. I don't know what kind of shoes he was wearing, but I can assure you he has worn them to either walk a tight rope in a circus or shoot a rocket launcher at livestock.

I came to Tony because I wanted my hair cut. I sat in his chair, he put the zebra rug on me, and then took a long drag of his cigarette. He looked at me and asked what I wanted, exhaling the smoke into my face. I uttered a few words of Spanish which were cut off when he uppercut the back of my head saying "entiendo." He broke out the shears, ate the butt of his Marlboro red cancer stick, and proceeded to give me the finest fo-hawk trim of my life. This guy was a real professional, truly the most skilled hair stylist I have ever encountered. I tried to make conversation with him, but not only was he a man of few words, he was in a deep trance of concentration. In the presence of such coolness, I grew awkward and anxious in the silence. I broke it with saying something like "I like scones with raspberry jelly...do you?" He paused for about 5 minutes, reached over to the table where he had an ice cold can of PBR, opened the refreshing beverage and proceeded to pound the contents in their entirety. Half of said contents ended up soiling his shirt around the midsection, but not a drop found its way into his gleaming mustache. When finished, he threw the can at his artificial caged parrot named Daryl...which he stood watching, waiting for some kind of response. I don't know how much time went by, but I will estimate another 5 minutes, and then he let out a bone chilling laugh exactly like the Predator did in the movie of the same name when impersonating the laugh of one of the platoon members. At that point I knew it was time to leave, so I got out of the chair, handed the man his rug back along with a fist full of pesos and made for the door. I shot one last look back over my shoulder to behold this mans excellence, gave him the double guns hand signal, to which he returned an obscene gesture. What a rascal. Tony, you now have a lifelong (73 days of his remaining) customer. Adios muchacho.