Eurovision: Spain, Latvia, and Bosnia

Unannounced to most Americans, every year Europeans get together for what is called the Eurovision Song Contest. This contest has been around for over 50 years and has sparked such famous bands as ABBA and, well, the only one I know of is ABBA. The contest is really clever and I'm not sure why the US hasn't ripped it off with "Statevision" yet, but the way it works is every country submits a song, performs it live with lots of dancing, and then the people have 15 minutes to call in and vote for their favorite song. You can't vote for your own country so it's funny to see how everyone votes for their "friend" countries eg: Sweden votes for Norway, Portugal votes for Spain, and no one votes for France .

Last night, after a long day at an amusement park which didn't measure up to US standards but had a good kiddie ride called Mrs. Hippo's Fungle Safari, I attended my first Eurovision Party. We watched as all the countries gave their best effort which too often resembled a Celine Dion ballad, or in the case of Finland, a heavy metal song, and three countries stood out to me.

Bill Trandon's top 3 Eurovision 2008 Songs!

#3 - Bosnia Herzegovina
I have absolutely no idea what this song is about, but I like to promote this type of behavior whenever I see it.


#2 - Latvia
I think if they submitted this a year earlier to ride the popularity of Pirates of the Caribbean they would have won. And in Latvia's defense, I think that those movies are just making it over there.


#1 - Spain
Hands down, Espana had the best song of the night. It made me want to dance "el roboco."



Russia was the actual winner with a boy band reject singing a power ballad as some Russian Michael Flatley of the ice skated circles around him. But I'm off to Spain, quite literally. Next week I'll walk across the entire top of Spain on the Camino de Santiago. Hopefully I'll meet some nice Spaniards and we can talk about Chiki Chiki and how they were robbed in Eurovision. Or the crusades. Both things that Spanish people like talking about.

The London Pub Crawl or Why I Hate Sarah Jessica Parker

Last Monday (not today but one week ago) my friend Simon took me on a pub crawl of London. Until now, every pub I've been in in London has been about the same. Dark Brown wood, luke-warm cask ale, an overuse of the words dog, duck, bull, lion, and the always funny cock in the title. But Simon used to be a manager of a pub in London and by doing so he became somewhat of an expert in every pub in the central downtown area. Here is how our evening went.

Stop 1: Waxy O'Connor's
The humble doorway of Waxy's didn't look like much, a cast iron arch lost on the foothills of Chinatown. But I'm surprised that the doorway wasn't a circle. Stepping into Waxy O'Connor's is like being invited into Bilbo Baggins's hobbit hole. The pub is three different floors, most of which are underground and appear to have been dug out with a garden trowel. The top floor is near enough to the ceiling that I had to duck to feel comfortable, but it did allow me to admire Bilbo's exquisite hand carved relief on the wooden ceiling while looking down onto the two floors below. The entire pub was situated around the smooth skeleton of an elaborate tree that reached through the different coves of the pub. It was a beautiful day outside so I drank a Kopperberg Pear Cider as I pondered how they got the tree through the doorway.

Stop 2: O'Neils on Warder Street
Out the back door of Waxy's is O'Neils. O'Neils is an chain Irish Pub ergo this was your average O'Neils. It's bonus feature, however, is that it's open till 3:00am (a rarity in downtown London I assure you) and the top floor has live music. Still on the edge of Chinatown, Simon and I sat by the second floor window drinking a Mexican Corona and Itialian Birra Moretti respectively, trying to guess what country all the school groups were from. Lesson learned, Austrians look like Germans, the Spanish look like Italians, and the French are French. Also, avoid the Tuborg, it tastes like plastic pipe.

Stop 3: De Hems Netherlands Cafe
I was quick to embrace this little Dutch pub in the middle of China town, perhaps too quick. I would have thought this was an English pub had I not noticed the overabundance of obnoxious orange decorating the abudwa. Orange flags, Holland soccer jerseys, and orange lights all reminded me I was not in England, but the Netherlands. Overcome by the ambiance I ordered an Ornjebloom, to later realize that this pub has the absolute best selection of Belgian trappist ales outside of Belgium. Live and learn.

Stop 4: The Walkabout (formerly the Limelight)
"Europes two great narcotics, religion and alocohol. I know which on I prefer" ~Mike Skinner, The Streets.
On the corner of Charing Cross and Shaftsbury, near Tottenham Court Road, lies a Chruch where people don't go to pray anymore, at least not in the traditional way. This old Church now houses The Walkabout pub. The sunlight pouring through stained glass, and covered by a huge domed ceiling made me want to genuflect to the overly friendly Aussie bartenders as they offered me Toohey's Australian beer for only £1.50, a steal for London town. I would not actually genuflect because the I'd be afraid my knee would get stuck to the floor much like the menu (which offers kangaroo burgers) was stuck to the table and stuck to it's self.

Stop 5: The Porcupine
Former home of David Hasslehoff Comedy Night, the Porcupine was the only traditional English pub on my tour. I was proud to demonstrate my Texas learned knowledge of Mexican beers as I sprayed a Carona all over myself trying to make the lemon drop to the bottom of the bottle. After leaving this traditional pub, it's worth noting that down the street was another pub, The Salsbury, right next to the Avenue Q entrance, that had the most ornate carved glass and mirrors that I've ever seen. But we couldn't stop there so onto . . .

Stop 6: O'Neils #2
Simon used to work at an O'Niels so they have a special place in his heart. This one is a half block from Covet Gardens and past some fancy restaurant called J. Shicks where a bloke stands outside in a top-hat and you have to book months in advance. Nothing notable at O'Niels, but my free copy of the free Metro newspaper told me that that the Sex and the City movie premier was tonight in London. I didn't think that London was "The City" that the show referred to, but what do I know. I hate that show. And I spent the next 30 minutes explaining to Simon's three female friends and a random stranger that I met at the bar why I hate that show.

Stop 7: The Porterhouse
I was surprised to find that I had already been to the Porterhouse once before. One night when I was looking for live music I stumbled across this gem. Actually just ok, it'd be better if it wasn't so popular. They have over hundreds of different types of bottled beer, and since Simon's Australian friend was coming we got Coopers Pale Ale, apparently popular in Austrailia. The excitement at this bar came when the Aussie arrived because Simon knowingly invited two friends of his that were former roommates but no longer speak to each other. Awkward turtle.

Stop 8: B@1
After the ice cycle filled greetings of the two former roommates, we stumbled to a cocktail bar called B@1's for the end of happy hour. This bar had a two for one special for an hour and apparently that meant we should all get two mango martinis. I started feeling bad about my rant against Sex and the City so I bought a round of Cosmopolitans as a peace offering. It was pointed out to me that three of the people I was drinking with had their pictures on the wall of this bar, and I began to wonder if I was outclassed. I decided all insecurities are null after a few white Russians and then the tour continued.

Stop 9: Belushi's
I know this pub had a stoplight inside it, but it wasn't a TGIFridays. Simon claims there were kebabs involved here. I beg to differ.

Stop 10: Harass the Sex and the City Premier
I know, I know, technically not a pub. Simon decided to take his beer on the road and use it as a microphone to interview the people coming out of the Sex and the City Premier. For some strange reason people seemed to like the movie, but they didn't look like the type of people I would like, and they were unable to iterate why. Maybe it was because Si was interviewing them with a half finished pint, or maybe because anyone who like that show lacks the ability to iterate anything. I don't know. But the police who took Simon's "microphone" away was pretty clear that we should go.

Stop 11: Back to O'Neils #1
Why? I don't know.

Stop 12: Rehab
So after this little excursion out in London I've decided it's best to go into personal rehab for a week. Try to make me go to rehab and I say, "Sure why not."

26

I wrote this on my birthday (4/30 - same as Willy Nelson and the day Hitler died) but didn't publish it because, well, it's dark as. But today I got a kick ass B-day package today from my American Chinese friends (thanks Kazanas/Miss B/wanderfulworlders/whatever other epithets you go by) which reminded me that I have been a poor blogger in my 26th year.

Today I am 26 years old. Time to plan my funeral.

Opening Hymn: SOS by ABBA
I think this would be a great song to open a funeral. I can just imagine everyone in unison singing, "When your gone, how can I even try to go on?"

Reading: Preferably something from the Bible or by Chuck Klosterman

Responsoral Psalm: Oh-La-La by the Faces
"I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger."

2nd Reading: A Tony Hoagland poem, something like "What Narcissism Means to Me" or the Bible thing again.

Comunion Song: Don't Stop Believing by Journey
This song is perfect for every occasion involving me. Even if only in body. Plus everyone will sing along, and a few people will probably stand in the pews with uncontrolable Journey Rock Syndrome.

Closing Hymn: You Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones
This definitely needs to be a live choir starting this out to remind us that we are in a Church. I also think this provides just the right ammount of irony and hope for a funeral.

Then, scatter my ashes in the woods. I've always liked the woods, and if where your ashes lay and where you haunt coincides, I'd like to haunt the woods. That'd be extra scary at night and extra pretty in the day.

And finally, I'd like David Schwimmer to be there but not allowed in. Hopefully he'd make a scene, and if I know him as well as I think I do, he definitely would. He would still be in the parking lot when everyone was leaving, and with hot, tear stained cheeks, endlessly singing the Friends theme song "I'll be there for you . . . etc." I'm not sure what I'll have to do in my future to make this happen, but I'm looking forward to finding out.

Mondag, a Good Day in Sweden

As a red, white, and blue blooded American I don't know much about other weirdo countries, like Sweden. My thoughts about Sweden involved Bjorn and Annika, two bikini models with blond hair and blue eyes, obviously - picking lingonberries, decorating a may pole, listening to ABBA, and then buying some disposable furniture at Ikea all the while trying to convince themselves that Ace of Base is about to make come back, and wondering why the model girls from other countries don't eat as many meatballs as they do. A familiar scene for any Yankee, I'm sure.

But last Monday (and by last I mean about a month ago) I celebrated Sweden day with my Swedish friend Emelie and found out that Sweden is much more than that. They also drink a pretty tasty pear cider.

On Monday, a rogue crew of immigrants and myself (also an immigrant) adorned the obnoxious royal blue and bright-ass yellow of the Swedish flag that made me feel like I was some kind of reject from a high school spirit parade, to celebrate Sweden Day. We traveled to Ikea - which is a ridiculous store, no explanation necessary if you've ever been there - ate 20 meatballs with lingonberry sauce, stopped by a Swedish pub (which is exactly like an English pub except for they serve more types of cider and have hockey on in the background), and then partook in Sweden's most sacred tradition of venerating ABBA by seeing the smash hit musical Mamma Mia.

My conclusion is that Sweden is awesome. Sure they're still holding on to that May Pole thing, and the kids don't go to school until they are 7-years-old but that's just because they are memorizing all the ABBA lyrics. And if you've seen Mamma Mia, you'll know that that is time well spent.

If it Were 5 Degrees Warmer, There Still Would Be No Ice.

Dear reader,

Forgive my absence; I've been on vacation with my parents for the last 12 days. And amongst other things, this trip made me question what is the appropriate amount of time for a 25-year-old man to spend with his parents. Over/Under 12 day? You be the judge, let me take you though my week.

Saturday: My parents arrive in St. Albans
They seem happy, but are extremely jet lagged. They stay above a 600 year old pub, and seem to enjoy their hotel room as a novelty. The lack of seating and general "cozy" seems to amuse them at this point. When they later realize that all of the UK is more compact than the US, it becomes less amusing. This was the first day we muttered the mantra, "I wish it was 5 degrees warmer."

Sunday-Tuesday: Bath
Bath is a quaint town with Georgian architecture and is famous for the rumored healing powers of the hot springs that rise from the grounds. In my family, however, it's famous for it's lack of ice. The scarcity of ice in Europe is nothing that is kept hidden, and in a sly way Europeans are proud that they stomach their drinks at room temp. But my parents are not European, and over the last 12 days I spent more time thinking about ice, the melting time of ice, locations of ice, the transport of ice, storage of ice, and of course debate on how how the ice that we have should be used (the answer was usually whiskey and sometimes beer).

We stayed in a beautiful Georgian bed and breakfast although when we left my parents kept insisting that they didn't like B&B's, and I'm not exactly sure why. The best explanation I got had something to do with wanting the owners to give them wine and cheese. I always thought the food contract in a B&B was outlined fairly clearly by the second B but maybe not. Anyway, we stayed just off the "Royal Crescent" where tourists flocked to admire the famous limestone architecture. I'm sure people admired our room because it had the beer cans cooling on the historic window sill - "I wish it was 5 degrees warmer."

We caught all the Bath highlights including the ancient Roman bath house, two nights at a basement bar: (1) for stand up comedy and (2) where I somehow ended up on stage, the modern bath spa complete with 4 different scented steam rooms that look like Star Trek Stacies Fields and a rooftop pool fueled with natural hot spring water, and of course the coffee shop in the station that caused my mom to miss the train.

Tuesday-Friday: London Town
To prove to these Londoners that we were actually American, we went to see play called Jersey Boys about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. It kicked ass. And amidst the West End show, double decker bus tour, Princess Diana memorial, fish and chips, parliament, etc. I should have probably explained that London is actually an actual city where a few million people live and work, and not a branch of Club Med. I know that on vacation it's good to take your time, but my parents wanted to casually stroll the streets with a drink in hand. That's fine but it's the equivalent of driving down an interstate at 30mph - with a drink in hand. And it would have been nice if "it was 5 degrees warmer."

Friday-Monday: Ireland
I feel as if I've gone on for long enough, so here's the low down on Ireland: (1)They don't have ice either. (2)They do have plenty of cliffs which is great for me but not good for my father who is deathly afraid of heights. (3)They don't post very many road signs to tell you how far away you are from where you are going. I don't know why this is, stop asking. (4)Castles rock. (5)My parents are very interested in hotels that they saw on the internet, but are not staying in. (6)We wished it was 5 degrees warmer.

I love my parents, but thank God for brothers and sisters who make family get togethers a little less . . . potent.

Who you gonna call?

So I spent the lion's share of last week at a St. John's Ambulance first aid course, and I am now officially a first aider. After being trained on how to handle a plethora of injuries, I am possibly less helpful in a trauma situation than I would have been before. I now know what I am not supposed to do, and knowing what I can't do legally means that I probably won't help you, but I will call 999 so someone can (or 911 as I kept insisting in class).

The class was fun, and I'm grateful to know the official recovery position because it doubles as a comfortable position for TV watching, and I got to learn how to use a defibrillator which is pretty cool. I am less grateful to have learned that the face of "Annie" the resuscitation doll is actually molded off of a French girl who was found dead in a river.

I hope my British Red Cross certification translates to the US, but I'm guessing that it does not based on step six of the six steps to handling an emergency situation:

1. Assess the situation
2. Make the situation safe
3. Give emergency aid as needed
4. Get help
5. Report the injury and tidy any mess
6. - and I'm not joking - Have a cup of tea

This whole experience has made me realize that I like playing doctor and pretending to save lives, so I'm contemplating a career switch. I don't think I want to put forth the effort of becoming an actual doctor or surgeon, but I would like to wear scrubs all day, order a "ten blade" and say things like "We're going to have to open him up." So the career for me is Doctor Actor. If you have any open positions please let me know.

Clear . . .

The Awareness Test

A little lame to talk about British TV twice in a row, but this may be the best advertisement I've ever seen.