The Wanderer Returns...

We're having one of those truly British days where the fog is so thick all I can see out my window is the tree directly beside it. I can imagine the mysterious heaths rolling along in front of my housing rather than the actual paved housing complex that sits just below me. It's quite magical really. What isn't very magical is that it's only 3:30, and it will be dark (and I mean night-time dark) in the vicinity of an hour. Right about this time, I am uber-tempted to curl up with my bee on my snuggly (sort of) single bed and watch something in the Julia Roberts oeuvre, most particularly Pretty Woman. But, dear reader, my dedication to you is much greater than my dedication to Julia, so I will recount the sordid tales of my transcontinental voyage... it is far over due.

Spain

You know the London part: noshing with Queer Pigeon (a relative of Queer Duck), losing a wheel on my suitcase (big fun), spending WAY too much money on a cab, etc. I didn't mention my glutting at the airport bookstore, but long story short when they're having a 3 for 2 sale, you've gotta embrace literature (that is, if you call airport reading literature). When I finally got to Spain, I was confronted by a VERY excited Kate and her Italian friend Gino (my "ride"--snicker, snicker). It reminded me how good it was to see old friend(s). I think I go through most of life forgetting what it feels like to really enjoy things. Kind of like how you often don't realize you're hungry until you start eating and then it becomes quite clear that you were starved. Anyhow, I made it clear that I will never, ever succeed in Italy. I tried to say the simplest sentence but was so nervous and inept that it mainly consisted of "fuck"s and "shit"s in English. Worthless.

The next day was a nice break. Sleeping in in another country is perhaps even more enjoyable than sleeping in here. Perhaps. Kate & I walked around, enjoying the Spanish sites of lovely Logroño. I was a kitschy tourist and bought postcards. Then we were about to return to Kate's for dinner and stumbled upon her friend Sara(h) from Reed College. Sara(h)'s a lovely girl, and I don't think I overwhlemed/scared her with my sometimes larger-than-life personality. We were fast friends, as fast as you have to be when you're only in town for one day. Then we all went to aerobics class together. I know what you're thinking, "Aerobics class?!" Yes, kids, aerobics class. It was step, my old fave. Granted it wasn't as fun as it could have been since I haven't physically exerted myself in... ohhhh... 3 months, but I did gain some confidence in the fact that I didn't have any problems understanding aerobics parlance in a completely foreign language.

Then we went back home and ate pineapple... yummmmm... anyhow... and got ready for a night on the town -- HA-CHA! We went to this place called Cafe Luna and listened to "Estorias," which basically consisted of a magician, some guy performing poetry and slamming eggs into the faces of an unsuspecting audience, a marionette with a little chick and me not being able to see or understand ANY of it. But sometimes I think it's better to not be constrained by the parameters of reality when watching performance art. I gave Sara(h) & Kate a play-by-play of the goings-on between the chick and his marionette, devising in media res a wicked double entendre/metaphor for the word "bow". Let's just say, by the end of the night we were talking about "bowing together"... Also by the end of the night Sara(h)'s friend-cum-lovah Victor had given me the golden invitation of a quick hump on the bus stop -- SCORE!

Paris

The next day, we set our sights on Gay Par-ee -- more gay for me than for others, if you know what I mean. The bad news: Catherine couldn't come because she had to move into her new (internet-non-Greek-equipped) housing. The good news: Because Catherine wasn't coming, we could stay with Katie & Mary in their shagadelic apartment practically at the base of the Eiffel Tower. The bad news: We already had a hotel booked, so I had to call the guy and explain that "my plane was stuck in Madrid," at which point he screamed at me in broken English and charged me for a night's rent. Oh well... coulda been worse.

Arriving at Katie & Mary's was a blessing and respite. After lugging my one-wheeled suitcase for a day, the hands and calves were hurtin', so it was nice to know that I could clear my mind of any suitcase responsibility for a good couple of days. The night was low-key, but did include the charming Mr. Joseph/Joe/Giuseppe/JoSEF/JuanSeppe Manganiello joining us for drinks at a bar called Malone's. I, of course, had a Cosmopolitan since I've been thoroughly deprived of them since this summer. Then Katie didn't like her White Russian, so I said "Don't mind if I do!" Woohoo alcoholism!

The next day I was awoken to the angelic chorus of Mr. Karl Peter Whittington and Miss Bernadette Gunn entering Katie & Mary's. Once again, SO good to see old friends! After initial gabbing and catching up over pain au chocolat, we all went our separate ways with Kate and me tagging along with the K&M along to H&M (clever, aren't I?!). The real highlight of Nov. 8th, however, was the night to follow. We began at a lovely bistro (or would it be a boîte? I don't know...), where we indulged in wining and dining in the truest sense of the words. Three courses and much food-sharing later, we were ready to hit the town in grand style. It was previously established that it was Homo Appreciation night, so we searched various Parisian travel books and settled on a place called The Mixer to start out. As the name would suggest, it was a mixed club, but the clientele and the streaming projection of catwalkers on the wall suggested otherwise. It was mainly gay men, which I of course loved and which I don't think anyone else minded because there were not legitimate lezzies in our crowd (a deficit, no doubt, but we mustn't dwell, not on Rex Manning day!). We had to struggle to find a seat because it was crowded like you wouldn't believe. About an hour and two rounds later, everyone's eyes were tearing up from the profuse amounts of smoke, so we decided to leave and seek a more dance-friendly environment. Of course, this was only after some random-randomness Italian man started talking to me. I wouldn't say he was chatting me up because we were in a gay bar, but it was definitely weirdness.

So, off we went for gayer pastures. After much walking (and I do mean MUCH), we found ourselves at Le Tango. Now, I have not mentioned up to this point that Signor Giuseppe Manganiello was again in our company tonight. This is an amusing fact because JuanSeppe is this odd hybrid of American purely hetero and European ambiguous hetero, which I would wager is common to many young Italian men. Anyhow, we go to the door of the club, and we have to friggin' knock to gain admission. A pair of eyes appear through a slit, and I felt like any minute we were going to be asked "What's the password?" to which we would respond, "Clam chowder," and they would say, "Red or white?" Anyhow, the bouncer and Josef have a brief French conversation riddled with tension, since which I have learned that the man goes, "You are aware that this is a gay and lesbian club?" to which Joseph responds in the affirmative, and the bouncer goes, "Are you gay and lesbian?" At which point Giuseppe defensively (and in his perfect French) responds, "Yeah." And the bouncer backs off: "It's only a question..." Mwahahahaha... at any rate, we were in!

Le Tango was so much fun and then some! I can't say much for the girls in the group, but JuanSeppe was on the receiving end (snicker, snicker) of googly eyes from the moment he entered the club. But the MVP (Most Valuable PLAYA) of the night was most definitely Mr. Karl. In the words of my mom, "You go, girl!" I won't disclose too many details because it's not really in my liberty, but I will say that one doesn't need to necessarily know how to speak French to make friends at Le Tango. The other hit of the night was, as I mentioned, Joseph. He was being chatted up instantly and spent most of the night in conversation with the Don Johnson of Paris, who I think was actually from Switzerland, but whatevs... As we left at the end of the night, he got a little shake-a-shake hip action from one of his suitors--You go, boy! Meanwhile Mary, Katie & I were dancing up a storm to such hits as "Lady Marmalade 2001" and "It's Raining Men".

My favorites of the night were two guys dancing together wearing matching tight, white shirts with the word "DIVA" written on them in silver--yay French twinkies. In pure oddity there was "the Professor." This guy who looked just like what his nickname implies. For some reason, he was loitering around the three of us Middgirls for a significant portion of "It's Raining Men," and he apparently thought it was a brilliant idea to take his cane (yes, he had a cane) and stick it down in his pants so that it was shooting out of the top... My, my, professor, aren't WE overestimating ourselves? Later, I saw him leaving and putting on (I kid you not) the rest of his three-piece tweed suit. Oh yeah, and the other weirdness was the abundance of straight couples at Le Tango. There were at least 3 or 4 couples, one of which was swing dancing! You're not at a bar mitzvah. This is not a wedding reception! I don't swim in your toilet, so stop a-swimmin' in my pool! (I feel entitled to take offense to other straighties being at Le Tango because I was not flaunting my heterosexuality, as it were, and I was in fact scoping out a little lassie on the other end of the dance floor, but she was too busy dancing with her manfriend. Why they needed each other as shields, I'll never know.)

Okay, so that night ended finally around 5:30 with the departure of Karl for Edinburgh and JuanSeppe for Luxembourg via his apartment. Good times, a night to remember.

The next day was full of drizzles, sight-seeing and a failed attempt at finding Angelina's--home of "the best hot chocolate ever!" Kate & I met up with Gunnsy and Mrs. Gunnsy at the East Pillar of the Eiffel Tower, then making our way to the top of the Arc D'Triomphe (or however you spell that). It was a lovely experience after we finished scaling the 284 stairs. Then we went towards the Loeuvre to find Angelina's, but to no avail. After that we Metro-d it to St. Michel and had a lovely Italian meal -- mmmm, pasta -- and some delish Haagen Dazs. After that we returned to 1976 (a.k.a. Katie & Mary's apartment) and journeyed out to see Kissing Jessica Stein (La Tentacion di Jessica). The movie was pretty good, particularly as far "lesbian" flicks -- few and far between -- go, but I'm not sure whether I agreed with its ultimate statement, but that's another topic for another day.

The next day largely consisted of me & Katie Curler walking around in search of, at last, a baguette and a tarte, which we picnicked at her apartment and then me heading back to England, Europe. But I wouldn't have had it any other way. Maybe it's because I'm spoiled, maybe it's because I want to live in New York, but I feel beyond tourist stuff. I like to relax and veg in touristy cities because ultimately I am not there to see the attractions, I'm there to see my friends. And when you can do that in a '70s time warp, what could be better?

So, kids, those are the exciting details of my trip. Hope they were enjoyable. Hope you didn't mind my incredible long-windedness, but I'm sure that by now you're used to it, and if you're not, well SUCK IT! (hehehehe, love you guys!)

Yay for bitter, bitter sarcasm. Greg Yolan & the Yale Daily News score again!

We're screwed, so screw it. Let's screw. Damn you, GOP
by Greg Yolan

I had a whole column planned for this week. In fact, I had some of it written. It wasn't bad. You probably would have thought parts of it were funny. But how can I write a column about Yale minutia -- dining hall food, bugs in rooms or some such petty complaint -- when I'm just so damn happy about Tuesday's election results? Indeed, how do I have the time to write anything at all, while I'm so busy planning for my big blowout Trifecta Party?

That's right, I'm throwing a Trifecta Party, and you're all invited. We Yalies aren't placated by mere drinking and carousing. We want some gimmick, some theme, some excuse to dress up in outrageous clothing (if you consider still-hideous 80s garb to be outrageous) to distract us from the 20-page papers we have waiting for us at home that will be completed under the cloud of tomorrow morning's hangover. It's really the only way for a pseudo-intellectual to celebrate.

And now, do we Yalies ever have something to celebrate. The GOP has taken control -- of EVERYTHING! That's right, the Republicans now control the U.S. Congress, Senate, Supreme Court, and Executive Branch. Trifecta, y'all! But this isn't just any old trifecta.

The last time Republicans had one-party rule over the U.S. government was for two years during the Eisenhower Administration -- and nothing happened. One cause of the inactivity was the political gulf between Eisenhower, a moderate Dewey branch Republican, and his Congressional wing, which was controlled by Taft Republicans. Another was the fact that nothing happened in the 1950's. Nothing at all.

During the 20th century, more than half of all elections have produced unified government. But those governments have been paralyzed, passive or moderate as often as they've been productive, active or radical. Theodore Roosevelt, for instance, tried again and again to enact laws that would allow him to hunt moose in the Rose Garden but was fought constantly by his own Republican Congress.

What makes THIS trifecta so special, nay, so CUTE, is that right now the Republican party is deeply conservative, heavily unified under our President's agenda, and generally fed up with the concepts of "liberty" and "justice." This total Republican administration has nothing but time on its hands (before Bush's 2004 re-election) and nothing to do but screw everyone (but their own party).

That's why I think a Trifecta Party will be such a banging success! My theme: everyone gets screwed! Can you say that about any party you've ever been to -- the virtual guarantee that no matter who you are, you will sleep with someone before night's end? I doubt it. And that goes for you, specifically -- I mean, you're not exactly the belle of the ball. Come on, admit it.

But never fear, ugly. As host, I have complete control over my party, and I say you will get screwed. It's as good as done. Who's going to oppose me? The Democrats?!

In the great tradition of theme parties at Yale, I will expect you to attend my Trifecta Party in costume. Simply dress up as any interest that, in the coming dark age of Republican rule, will be completely destroyed. Maybe you'd like to come in a coffin, to represent the estate tax, which will be permanently repealed. (To all those of you who still remember the 2000 elections, the estate tax was called the "death tax" by the Bush campaign. He, or more likely the puppeteers who move his hands and mouth, wanted you to think that you have to pay taxes when you die. In reality, this is a tax imposed on those with estates worth over $250,000. But that didn't keep Country Joe Dumbshit from voting Bush because he thought his family was going to get his daddy's antique piss-pot taken away by the federal government when he died in a self-inflicted hunting accident.)

Or perhaps you'd like to dress up as a big fetus, to represent partial birth abortion -- which will be banned under the new, awesome trifecta. Why? Well, you know, because of all those teenage mothers who wait eight months to abort their children, just to piss off their parents.

Better still, dress up as a polar bear whose habitat will be destroyed when Bush & Co. start drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

I myself am dressing up as Han Solo, in a subtle-but-not-TOO-subtle reference to SDI, the national missile defense system, nicknamed "Star Wars" by Ronald Reagan.

Ronald Reagan, you say? You mean SDI has been around since the Reagan years? Oh yes, dear reader. "Star Wars" was an idea hatched by Reagan himself, rocket scientist that he was, in the 1980s. And due to its TOTAL INFEASIBILITY, it's been languishing in development for the past 22 years. It took George Lucas less time to make his own computer-generated "Star Wars" prequels. Granted, they were shitty. But not as shitty as SDI.

Maybe you'd just like to come to my trifecta party as you are -- dressed as yourself. Because in the end, it is YOU that is going to get screwed by the government now. It is you, Yalie, who will graduate into a country at war, a country that has wasted its God-given resources, a country that's a farce of the principles on which it was founded. It is you, and it is I, who will have to clean up the shitstorm that at this moment is headed our way. Do not doubt that this will be a task that takes up our entire lives. Sorry. Hope you didn't have anything else planned.

The difference between the real world and my trifecta party can be reduced to the fact that you don't have to clean up a thing at my place. I'll just make my roommate Matt take care of all that like the little Cinder fella he is. Because in spite of my party's theme, Matt will never get any play. Ever.

Mmmmm... lard

Well, that 5 hours of sleep turned into about three, though it should have only been two. Mental note: your alarm clock only works if you set it to the right 12-hour bracket of the day. AM & PM are so interchangeable when you're silly tired. But that's neither here nor there. The real point of this blog (other than making another tacky excuse for not writing about my trip yet), is that I realized how important comfort food.

After feeling certfiably frazzled and exhausted this morning, the standard Monday morning Sobe Lizzard Lightning (tres delish) wasn't doin' it for me. Enter Sportspark Cafe, my beginning-of-the-week indulgence. Today was definitely a warm food kind of a day, so I settled on a BLT with curly fries, and I tell ya, Hamlin understands the mind of the worn college student when they put Grilled Cheese & Tomato Soup on the Monday menu. Sometimes you just have to indulge yourself and go for the grease. In a sidenote, the only way in which I can ever enjoy mayonnaise is definitely in a BLT. I specifically asked for the sandwich to be without the lard, but it came anyway, and I was so desperate that I went there. And it was goooood. Next up: McVitie's Digestive Chocolate-Covered Biscuit bites! **slurp**

So I promise I'll write about my romp through the continent soon, but for now I have to go endure Tim Lenton's excessive amount of overheads in order to learn about interviewing or something in the world of British journalism... Fun times. **huuuuurl**

Diet Coke & Snickers: Breakfast of Champions

So, dear readers, I am fresh off a shower. It's 3:15 a.m. I have just completed the revisions of my article critique for The Hollywood Musical, and I'm only 70 words over, which is perfectly acceptable (i.e. within the +10% range). Now I have to write around 500 words on absolute/qualified privilege for my journalism class (too boring to explain), and I should be able to get a good 5 hours of sleep before drama class tomorrow! It's times like these when it's lovely that grades at UEA really don't count. Sure I want to do well for personal satisfaction, but I don't have to. Cheers, study abroad office!

Anyhow, just checking in to tell you all that I am alive and well after tramping around southwest Europe for 6 days. My suitcase is a different story -- as you'll know if you read my earlier blog. So I'll definitely give a full retelling of all the highlights later, but for now it's off to write-write-write! And tomorrow I get to see Seamus Heaney! Not being at Midd hasn't cost me too much, I must say. Yay for the Brits.

Coming soon as well, Lanford's literary korner! Review: How to Lose Friends & Alienate People.