From The Archive: The Gloucester Man and The Sea

I was going through old documents again the other day in a quest to organize them (that's not going to happen) and I cam across yet another poem. I'm starting to think I may need to switch professions. Well here it is, for what it's worth.

There lived a man in Gloucester
A happy man was he
Happy as a clam was the man
With a love for the sea

His love for the sea was so strong
He worked with all his strength
To make a house out of a boat
One wide and of great length

Then one day came a wicked storm
With high seas and heavy rain
The old man knelt and prayed
But all his prayers were in vain

After a night of heavy high seas
The old man washed ashore
Finding himself pleading to God
“No more kind sir, no more”

So with his sea days behind him
He moved to the mountain
Where atop the highest of peaks
He built a great cabin

There the old man lives his days
Minding his many trees
He stays far from the vast oceans
For God keeps him from the sea

From The Archive: The Meeting Take 3

This is undoubtedly my favorite blog post from my old blog (if I have said that before then that statement is now moot) most likely because it was my first and only attempt at a running diary to date. That and the meeting itself was on Afghanistan, a topic I know a lot about to begin with.

And I believe this taps out all the repostable posts from the Doyle Opinion, so enjoy it!

As always this color delineates a new comment.


Meeting take three

Decided to go diary style today for this post; it works for Bill Simmons maybe it will work for me. I didn’t think to actually write down the time, sorry, maybe next time (that next time is still being determined). That and I'm too lazy to make it up.

-Well I’m sitting here in the Afghanistan delegation teleconference by myself and lacking any sustenance and its almost lunch time. Last time I had a lunch meeting we received sandwiches, no sandwiches today, Kevin sad.

-The well dressed waiters have entered the room, that can mean only one thing, Coffee time! I don’t even like coffee, but something about being asked if I want coffee in French by a man in a Penguin suit makes me feel important. Now all I can think about is Tony Kornheiser doing the Penguin dance. (Added in the youtube clip)

-The translators are semi-freaking out in front of me about how they are going to have to translate from Farsi and Pashtu to English and then to all the other languages in the room. I’m going to struggle just knowing the different between Pashtu and Farsi. (many of you think I know Pashtu and Farsi because of that comment, that would be incorrect, I know only English)

-My English translator has the sexiest voice I have ever heard, no lie. I have no idea what she looks like but her voice alone has won me over. (Not a lie, just making sure you caught that)

-The video quality is a microcosm for the differences between life in Afghanistan and EU member states.
o Afghan – Hazy, inconsistent, could die at any moment
o EU – Perfect

(It should be noted I was very pleased with myself after typing that out)

-Well I guess my MEP isn’t the only person skipping out on this meeting it looks like 2/3 of them are missing. Glad to see that the Afghani people and the EU soldiers fighting on their behalf mean so much to Members of Parliament. I wonder if any of them have kids over there.

-They are talking about their trip to Afghanistan in April, I really wish I could go. (I'm sure an American serviceman would be all to happy to take that offer up now, naive bastard)

-I can’t believe I was not siked for this meeting, I mean I did read a 1400 page book on the history of Afghanistan and its current political system, for fun, but no I wasn’t pumped about meeting a bunch of the Afghani government officials via the internet. Afghanistan is my fucking thing. (It is)

-One MEP had a meeting with Benzir Bhutto scheduled two hours after she was assassinated. If that doesn’t throw your mind for a loop then I don’t know what will.

-The Italian translator fulfills the “Italians talk with their hands” stereotype.

-Just checked on my Italian skills, still don’t have any. (I think I did this in every meeting)

-The other English translators voice is not hot.

-Video conference begins, lots of yelling in Pashtu or Farsi, I still don’t quite understand the difference. Then again its been like 20 minutes.

-Some good questions, enjoyed the blasphemy/death penalty question. Clearly got the attention of the Afghans. Lots of death stares.

-Poor Afghans, the Committee chair is just not stopping, he just loves to hear himself speak.

-And the Afghan dude knows English! Makes the Euros very happy. (Though the French guy seems perturbed, he must not have gotten the memo about how his language ranks 8 spots below English)

-Lots of thanks and salutations.

-More shouting in Pashtu and Farsi

-Honestly how can the video quality be this bad?

-Mr. Chairman must not translate into Pashtu and Farsi because they keep calling the Chairman “Your Excellency” it just has that European imperialism feel to it.

-Nice backhand by the Afghans “We appreciate your concerns about our laws but they are the laws of Afghanistan”
Translation: “Fuck you, how dare you tell us how to run our country when I have bombs going off right down the street from where I live! Does that happen in Brussels? Didn’t think so.”

-OOOOOOO a woman Afghan! I’m intrigued!

-More invitations to Kabul, I mean is this a hot vacation destination or something! Come to Kabul! Where the woman are fully clothed, the electricity is intermittent and the bombs are plentiful!

-Afghans do not appear to be big fans of Pakistan. The guy talking (who has a great hat by the way) is just railing against Pakistan, accusing them of supporting terror and meddling in Afghani affairs. I don’t think the west really gets Pakistan and how they always do what is in the best interest of Pakistan even if that means supporting terror and destroying the lives of millions of Afghanis. Or how they can not stand for a independent Afghanistan but would rather see one that is subservient to Pakistan and its wishes. I do not for see a smooth transition to democracy that every one is talking about because that has never happened in Pakistan’s brief but turbulent history. What I do see is a large insurrection in the tribal areas covertly supported by the Security Services that will lead to yet another military coup because the military always needs the power in Pakistan. The US should be focused more so on Afghanistan/Pakistan than Iran/Iraq. End rant. (Security Service Insurrection down, now for the Coup....)

-The translation thing is killing me, the meeting time has basically doubled. Damn you tower of Babel! Maybe they speak stomach growl.......

-More shouting in Pashtu/Farsi.

-The dude next to me keeps staring at me with his silly looking glasses. I just want to snap his glasses and tell him he looks foolish in them. If he keeps staring, I just might. Don’t stare at me when I’m hungry.

-I love how non-Americans/Canadians say Canada, cracks me up every time.

-This better end soon or I won’t be able to eat for another hour, debating just leaving. Only thing that is keeping me here is the chance that a bomb goes off in the background. I know, I have issues.

-Something new, shouting in English! Nothing like being lectured on media censorship by an Afghan, he is right though, they just became a much more liberal state, it takes time.

-It’s over! Time to eat!

From The Archives: Lost In Translation

Last year (or 10 days ago) I posted my reaction to my first experience with translators and meetings at the EU. I thought it high time that I post my second experience equipped with fresh new blatherings from yours truly. There is a third post lying around here somewhere which I plan to bring to you in the future, just not yet. Enjoy!

As always this color delineates a new comment.

Yesterday was my first foray into the committee meeting realm and to be honest there was so much shit going on in there I don't even remember what the meeting was about.

First off the fact that someone can translate from one language to another amazes me. You have to translate while at the same time remember what is being said so you can continue to translate. I would imagine that this would be incredibly exhausting and strenuous for the mind and can't even begin to comprehend the pressure that they feel. (I would like to add that every translator that I heard was always amazingly calm and spoke perfectly clear, no matter how heated the conversation would get)

Now that being said I was even more amazed when the first six speakers in the meeting, who all spoke different languages, were translated by a single translator. How does one know 6 languages fluently and not go crazy? I mean I struggled for 6 years to learn Italian and I know next to nothing and this guy knows 6?

Now the funniest part of the meeting was the effects that translation had on the attempts at humor made by the MEPs.

Every time an English speaker would begin to talk, I would take off the translation headphones for obvious reasons. In the front there was this Irish guy who was a fucking riot (looking back on it, it could have been mostly the Irish accent), but every time he made a joke I was the only one who would laugh right away, but then 4 seconds later the whole room would start laughing because of the translation delay. And some times people wouldn't laugh at all which confused me until I found my self on the other side of the situation.

There was this Czech guy who kept making the room burst out laughing every time he would talk except when it translated for me there wasn't any humor in the statement which puzzled me. Was my humor just that much different than European humor? Then it hit me, humor just doesn't always translate, certain words and sayings have different meanings from language to language so if the translator translates it literally then the humor will be lost.

It never really hit me until that moment that so much from culture to culture is lost simply because we can not express the true meaning adequately in any language other than our own. But then again that is what makes our cultures so different even if we do not have political borders (such as the EU is becoming) we have the borders of language to restarain us.

At this point I had been in Belgium for well over a month and it surprises me that it took this long to realize this about language when now it makes perfect sense to me. I envy those who speak multiple languages for it becomes increasingly apparent as I attend my Spanish class this semester that I am not all that adept at learning a second language. I took years of Italian only to come away with a minimal understanding of the language, and took a final my senior year to which my teacher said, I shit you not, "What am I supposed to do with this? And you took my class for 3 years?" But we'll see how it goes now that I have seen how many languages average Europeans know.

From The Archive: The Meeting Take 1

The Underling continues to prepare for his departure from the BRA and because of that he has no time to post. Therefore you lucky few will be entertained by yet another post from the Underlings days working at the EU Parliament. Yes this was previously posted somewhere else and we apologize yet again for the lack of original work up on the blog but we do have in text comments written by the Underling himself (they are key to your expanding knowledge of life). And if you haven't read it before then it is all new! Enjoy!

As always this color delineates a new comment.

Today my MEP was called away to Poland for an urgent reason (The longer my internship went the more I doubted this was a real excuse, but if in fact there was an emergency then I apologize), even though he had an important meeting to attend. So that meant his assistant Weronika (in Polish Ws are Vs) and I got to attend in his stead as well as I was allowed to take notes (sounds like it is a privilege or something). Needless to say I was excited, and no matter what they talked about in this meeting I was going to be hanging on every terribly butchered English word spoken (word to those who try and speak in English when you cannot, just let the translator translate it makes it so much easier for you to prove your point when someone who knows English much better than you is converting said point into English, just give in).

So I walked in and directly to my left there were a pile of sandwiches and an assortment of juices and waters, and yes everyone including interns could take them (oh what a scavenger the Euro turned me into)! So I grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and sat down at a chair that had a microphone (like I would have used it, though I had to do everything to restrain myself from turning it on and just making a noise of some kind into it) and translation headset at it and proceeded to pass the time by talking to Weronika about how she got mugged by Gypsies (which marked the second person I knew to ever be mugged and both in the same month) while at the same time a bunch of important looking people in suits filed into the room (no way I was wearing anything near a suit on that day, I doubt I was even wearing a tie but I mean my MEP always wore jeans and a Polo shirt to work, so obviously I couldn't show up my boss by wearing a suit to work I was just doing my duty as an intern).

Suddenly the meeting started and I began to take notes. Immediately the comedy of the EU Parliament started to come pouring out of every possible orifice , one of the MEPs attending made a fool of himself by calling one of his fellow sponsors a member of his own party (the Socialist Party) when in fact he wasn't and guessing by the laughter and disgusted looks his party is no where near the same in ideology. The "forgetful" MEP tried to play it off as a joke, but he failed, miserably.

Now what ensued was pure comedy. The sponsoring MEPs invited a bunch of lobbyists and concerned citizens, announcing that the purpose of the meeting was to "bring government and the people together." Right off the bat you knew that was bullshit because the remaining guests belonged to the EU Commission, the real target. The dialogue went something like this:

MEP: "We would like to thank the EU Commission for coming today to take part in todays session."

EU Commission: "Whatever"

MEP: "We would like to express are gratitude for your service and expertise"

EU Com: "Get to the point before I stop faking like I respect you"

MEP: "But we come here today because we feel that we can improve the Emergency Response Service so that it works flawlessly"

EU Com: "You want my job? You can have it" Flips over the table and storms out of the room.

I can not illustrate enough how little respect the EU Commission has for the Parliament in these meetings. They act like I did my senior year of High School in respect to my parents authority; everything was up for debate including what color the sky was.

It of course was much more cordial and consisted of dialogue loaded with rhetoric, spite and contempt. It was all good fun.

The rest of the meeting was not all that interesting except for the "Forgetful" MEP who kept insulting America and using bad information but I didn't mind because American politicians still call French Fries, Freedom Fries because of the policies of the French government even though French Fries are Belgian. So all ignorance is forgiven.

Every time I re-read this post I kick myself for not making it a running diary, government meetings hold so much unintentional comedy that they all deserve running diaries, something I try and do whenever possible.

From The Archive: The Boss

The Underling is furiously inputting payrolls that he has neglected for the past six months of his internship and because of that he has little time to post (maybe he should have worked more and posted less in the past month or so). In leu of his absence we shall be running a few posts from his EU internship that were originally posted at The Doyle Opinion. We apologize if you have already read this post and you can just disregard it if you didn't like it the first time. But like all the other reposts this one will come with commentary from the Underling himself. Enjoy!

As always this color delineates commentary.

Mr Pawel B. Piskorski is my boss, he hails from Warsaw Poland where he used to be the Mayor. I have met my boss a grand total of four times (I think this was the last time I didn't even get hte obligatory "You did a great job" on my last day), shook his hand three times and my longest conversation happened during this encounter:

I walk into the office
Weronika: Good-morning Kevin, how was your weekend? (picture a heavy Polish accent)
Me: It was fine, how was yours?
Weronika: Good.
And then she jerks her head in the direction of my bosses office. I continue the conversation, a little bit puzzled as to why Weronika had jerked her head, I settle for it being that my boss is in today unlike last week.
I sit down, boot up the computer, the phone rings, Weronika answers, normal morning. Then she hangs up and says in a hushed tone.
Weronika: Um, Kevin....you should probably go in and say hi to the boss.
I say that I will, and as I am getting up and making my 3.5 meter trip to my bosses desk I start to freak out and wonder what the hell did I do? I have a guilty conscious all the time, when ever the situation can remotely call for me to be reprimanded I think the worst and today was no different. I move through the doorway that brings me to the boss’s office thinking that I must have embarrassed Mr. P in some fashion, maybe my hair is to long, who knows.
Me: Good Morning sir.
Looking up with the smile he always seems to have when he speaks with me, which is not a good sample size to judge his mood because I have spoken so few times with the man, for all I know he could be incredibly angry....

This was probably the biggest difficulty I had with living and working in Belgium, I could never read some ones mood. Either their English was just not good enough for them to express themselves or the way they expressed their mood through non-verbal means (facial expressions, or body language) just did not translate. I never knew if Weronika was happy, sad, angry or annoyed, I always had to guess.

Boss: Good Morning, how are you doing?
Me: I’m fine sir, how about yourself?
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.......
Boss: I am well.
And then we had one of those moments where, just like when my mom grabs one of my brothers and makes them talk to me on the phone when they are unprepared, where you have nothing to say and then you suddenly realize it and you have no idea what to do (My dad loves to do that to me and I'm just glad that my brothers feel just as awkward about it and refuse the phone from him). So with that the boss smiled and looked back down at his work, and I kinda just shuffled back to my desk wondering what the hell just happened?

This one interaction with my boss is a microcosm of my internship as a whole. I did very little, was asked to do very little at that, and when I was asked to do something it was awkward, easy and pretty much pointless.

From The Archive: Happy Families are all Alike

The holidays are all about family, undoubtedly because of all the time spent amongst them. Families come from all over the country to see each other, eat food, give thanks, exchange gifts and inevitably bicker. some Uncle says something to some cousin who cries about it to their mom who happens to be the sister in law of said uncle. Things always get messy and that's why they only do it a couple times a year. The following poem, written in High School is a tribute to dysfunctional families and how they are in fact functional in a way "happy families" never could be. Anyway here is the poem, I have no clue as to what I wrote it for, the former title of the file gave me no clues. All we have is the result. Enjoy. Merry Christmas!

Happy families are all alike;
Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
But are the happy families truly happy?
They put on smiles, and sing and dance;
Making it seem that way.
But no quarrels or qualms they grow tired.
They begin to ask, “What is wrong?”
They start to second guess the love their family,
And wonder if it all just an act.
Is it a fake love or is it true love,
One can not love when smiles are all that can be found.
Because arguments have to happen,
Or something must be wrong.
That is why happy families are all alike.
They all do not know what makes them so “happy.”
Now an unhappy family is not unhappy all the time.
When they are happy they know it.
They take that moment, however small,
And cherish it until the next happy moment comes.
Happy moments they notice, unlike their “happy” counterparts.

From The Archive: The Christmas Impostor

Back in High School I was on the school newspaper called The Gillnetter. Yes I was a blowhard early on in life as well. While most of my articles were difficult to sift through and find any type of coherent meaning some were slightly comprehendible to the audience it was meant for. The following article I wrote for the Christmas issue and I suppose still has relevance today and I figured instead of lashing out at corporate America again I would just give you a piece I have written before. I guess I didn't need to post this then. Here you have it, a High School version of what I posted yesterday, from the archives: The Christmas Impostor.

(As before anything in this color delineates a note from my present self)

Where is my Christmas? (The nerve of that young man)  What has corporate America done with it? Who is this gift bearing impostor? This is no Saint Nick I see, this is some fat man hired by big business to take my money! (Oh how little you knew!)
Money, Money, Money! That is all the corporate giants see when they find Christmas on the calendar. And all they think about is how best to make more money than the previous year. That would explain why it appears that Christmas comes earlier every year (I'm going to start keeping track of that next year, maybe it will be a new feature "When _______ started this year!).
That thought occurs to me once every year, you know the thought, it usually happens when you walk into CVS (Or Borders) in mid November and see Christmas decorations throughout the store (Pre-Thanksgiving this year). You just stand there in awe and, if you are anything like me, use an explicative or two to show your bewilderment (Such a bad ass this kid is, someone should let him know). Some of us, alright maybe just me, go up to the manager and ask them if they have gotten their dates or holidays mixed up in some way because it is clearly not even Thanksgiving yet. The manager generally replies that its corporate policy and he, or she, knows nothing more. (Those last two sentences were bold faced lies, there is no way, I mean it was impossible that at that point in my life I would walk up to a stranger, let alone a stranger with authority and say something like that. LIAR!)
That answer leaves me wondering, are we all OK with this impostor Christmas that has been installed by corporate America or is it that we are all just oblivious to it? Are we content with a Christmas that mandates lavish gifts for all and decorations and the festivities to be up and running by mid-October? Or do we all just not realize that the true meaning of Christmas has been masked by a scheme from the Fortune 500? (I don't think I knew what the Fortune 500 was at this point)
By no means am I trying to be Ebenezer Scrooge (Yes you are), I mean I do enjoy the holiday. Sorry to disappoint but I actually do like Christmas time (Really, because I could have swore that you were just ripping it for the past few minutes). I’m not the complete anti-society child you take me for (Wrong, I am such a shut in). It is just I do not think we should start the Christmas festivities so early. Allowing corporate America to take Christmas and stretch it over a three-month span takes away from the true meaning and feeling of Christmas. What ever happened to the twelve days of Christmas? Why can’t we put up a real tree a few days before Christmas (Now that is something I can get behind) and take it down a week or so after? Why does it have to be up right after Thanksgiving and down the day of Christmas? That’s not Christmas spirit that’s just going through the motions, showing to the world that you can go out and buy the gifts and put on a good show. Anyone can buy a gift and put up a tree, but it takes a real human to actually have some feeling behind it.
So this year go out and buy a real tree and buy some slightly cheaper gifts that will actually mean something to the recipient, and please don’t just go through the motions.
A Merry Christmas to All!

That's a whole lot of Christmas ranting for someone who is not all that religious. I was such a liar back then, and a bad one at that.

From The Archives: Alfred (My Ode To Orwell)

This next piece is a total rip off of George Orwell's 1984, I must have just read it. Throughout my life I have had a tendency to copy things, be it writing style, story lines, personality traits or dance moves (which I do poorly mind you). This piece is most likely not an exception to that rule, though likable and well written (at least in my opinion at least). I present this one to you with out any in text notes because it is a story, I think any that is fictional from here on out I will try to leave untouched (to your eyes at least, I may change some words around here and there to make it flow better). Non-fiction pieces on the other hand will make up for the lack of notes.

So here you have it, my ode to (or straight up rip off of) George Orwell: Alfred (I have no idea why I called it "Alfred")

Buzzer goes off. Six o’clock says the time keeper. Time to wake up and smell the coffee; but remember as bad as it smells the taste is worse. The buzzer goes off again. Alfred can now smell the God awful coffee that is rationed out to everyone. He rolls out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom.
Alfred pries open the rusty medicine cabinet and grabs for the bottle of green pills. He opens them as he does every morning, but he does something he has never done before, he pauses.
“Why do I take them?”
“Because they are good for you.”
“But they hurt my head.”
“That is because you do not take enough.”
The logic of this unknown voice confuses Alfred. He stands there for a moment longer, but the smell of burning coffee brings him back, he puts the bottle of green pills back in the cabinet.
Alfred steps out on the street, straightens his tie, licks his lips and makes his way to the subway station. Alfred heads below ground accompanied by the same nameless faces as countless days past.
Waiting for the train to arrive Alfred poses the question again, “Why do I take them?” There is no voice to answer his question this time, so he is forced to ponder the question on his own.
The train interrupts his thinking, he boards the train, looks around for a seat, like usual there is none to be found. The lack of seating did not bother Alfred, for Alfred was thinking. Alfred thinks about a lot of things; about the green pills, why the sky is blue, and why the voice was not responding.
Yet again the train stops his thoughts. He disembarks the train and shuffles out of the station. He is met with an overcast day and a crowded street. “Bah,” he says to himself, yet no voice is there to scold him. Something was different, but Alfred could not put his finger on it.
Alfred arrived at his building, and stood in the long line that led to the security checkpoint. “Damn government, can they not keep out of my life,” thought Alfred. Now that one would bring out the voice in his head for sure, maybe even a shock. Again nothing happened. Alfred started to worry that he might be in trouble. Though he did like his new ability to think freely. It is his turn to go through the security checkpoint.
A buzzer goes off, but this time it is not the time keeper. The world goes dark. Alfred will not be rising at six tomorrow.

A bit dark isn't it? I wonder what possessed me to write that. Now that I think of it I believe I saw the movie Equilibrium for the first time around the time I wrote this. Could be why I wrote it. Either way I ripped it off of something.

From The Archives: The Algerian

Today we bring you an updated and footnoted version of "The Algerian" which was posted at my old blog last spring. This will not be like past posts were I give you an unedited, verbatim copy with my comments on it. This one I have updated and rewritten for quality and factual purposes. Enjoy.

The Algerian: Remix

Imagine a big black rapper shouting Remix right as you start reading this.

Ready....

Set......

REMIX!

In Leuven, there is this bar called De Giraffe (made my top slot for Leuven Bars in fact), which I frequented often for it's Balkan Beats and "interesting" clientele. On one specific night I think I became, or at least came into conversation with said clientele.

On the aforementioned evening; Daniel, Nick, Katy decided to head over to De Giraffe for the laid back atmosphere and of course they have Maes on tap.

We're on the second round when this little Algerian (it should be noted that I deemed him Algerian, he probably isn't Algerian but for this story it has to work) man comes over and starts talking to Daniel. At the time the man was speaking with such poor English and in such a hushed tone that I could not understand a word that was being said, but I could tell by Daniel's facial expressions that it wasn't positive. Afterwords Daniel would explain that the man impressed upon him that he should not "look at people like that, you don't look at people like that." Daniel not understanding what is going on gives an awkward laugh and apologizes, normal policy for fucked up foreigners who are looking for trouble. Instead of pushing the case further, or even just walking away the Algerian hands Daniel a clove of garlic, stares at him and then walks away. I mean what the fuck? Garlic?

The Algerian disappears to the back of the bar for a few minutes, then reappears and starts to make his way for the door, which in turn means passing us again, when he does about €200 falls out of his pocket. He takes two more steps and proceeds to drop €300 more

I'm a nice guy (at least I like to think I am). Being a nice guy means you help people, in this case I decided within seconds that I was going to let this man know that he just dropped a serious amount of money on the floor. In retrospect I probably should have done what the rest of the patrons at the bar did, stare at the guy and then the cash at the floor and decide he probably isn't a guy whose money you touch.

I tap the man on the shoulder and tell him that he just dropped half a grand in euro on the floor. He proceeds to clumsily bend over and "attempt" to pick it up. I say "attempt" because he was far to inebriated to organize his money into a stack and pick it up. So in my infinite wisdom, I decide to kneel down and help him pick up the money, which I do and I hand it to one of his friends who is leaning over me, big mistake. After about twenty seconds or so when we have both stood up and the money is back where it belongs the Algerian man looks at me and sticks his hand out and demands that I give him his money. I say in English that I gave his friend the money. He of course does not believe me and continues to stare at me with his hand out, while I proceed to say in every way possible that I do not have his money.

At this point his friends make themselves apparent and hustle him out of the bar while he continues to glare at me. Daniel now tells us of his encounter with the man earlier, which makes me feel so much better (not). We order another round to make sure the Algerian and his posse have cleared out of the area, and to calm my nerves a bit. I would say it took me 20 seconds to finish that beer.

Next think I know the Algerian man is in my face again, but this time his Arab friend in English says:

"Did you take his money"

I reply that I did not take his money, this includes me turning out all my pockets to show that I did not in fact pocket any of the money on the floor.

At which point the Algerian cuts me off and puts himself between me and the Arab and begins to wag a finger and stammer away in an unknown language. I say that because between the four of us we know Italian, Arabic, French and Spanish and none of us knew what he was saying, and there was no way it was Dutch. I am again turning out my pockets telling this man that I did not steal his money and that I would never steal his money. To which he replies in slow, broken, and drunken English.

"That I drug money, you don't want drug money."

Let's just say that made a lot of things including the clientele of the bar make a lot more sense.

Enter the Algerians white buddies who start talking about how they had to leave the bar and it was "either the money or the Marijuana," the whole time glaring at me.

I later learned that at this point Nick and Daniel were dead set on brawling, and were planning there means of attack in secret just in case the Algerian or the Arab laid a finger on me. As noble and as happy as that made me feel I have a feeling the police would not have been able to get there fast enough to save us from being knifed to death.

As the two of them are scheming over in the corner, I'm continuing to try to procure a large some of drug money from any orifice of my body. At which point I happen to glance over to the Arab man who i return gives me the international signal for "My friend is really fucked up right now so don't worry we don't want to rumble" which made me feel only a little better because this guy also had the Michael Corleone look of "Don't worry Fredo no matter what you do to me you are family" and we all know what happened to Fredo.

As I am turning back towards the Algerian to tell him for the 49,534,875 time that I did not take his money, he grabs for my hand and believe me when I say that that small moment held so much tension. I felt like the Commander of the Dallas in the Hunt for Red October just waiting for Sean Connery to open his torpedo tube doors (might have been a stretch on the analogy but let's just roll with that one), but it never happened. He told me that I shouldn't worry about it and that he had respect for me. He then proceeded to shake my hand, kiss Katy's hand and then took his leave.

It goes without saying that I needed a few more beers to stop shaking and looking over my shoulder for the rest of the evening.



----------
Well that night I did have some more beers and when I got back to my room I thought it would be a good idea to call my mother and tell her that I got into an altercation with a drug dealer. Word from the wise, when you think you might get stabbed by a Drug Dealer do not drunk dial your mom 3,500 miles away and tell her. Moms don't like that.

From The Archives: ?

This is some kind of poem that I had to write in my Writing For Publication class in High School. I think it has to do with writing down a series of events that pertain to a keyword and then cutting up all the lines and then placing them into specific places. Pretty cool, but weird. I pass it on to you unedited.

Scary driving, high speed,
Ten seconds sweating.
Bracing of the body,
Breakdown the aftermath.

That smell,
I can’t have it!
Clean white, pure white.
Shocks back expected behavior.

Tune out parents fighting.
Background,
Stomping feet,
Slamming doors, convey the sentiment.

That button, let’s push it!
Pop back, let’s investigate!
Cylinder, not button.
It burns!

Loved;
Red, blue, black, yellow.
Slight click, scratchy touch, smooth sides.

Everyone,
Old young and middle aged.
Devoted fans,
Drunk fans,
Lucky fans.
The best one to see.

From The Archives: A Letter to Gary Bettman from the Canadian People

So you know how something like an hour ago I posted a poem about hockey and the lock out? And how I said if I found any more poems about hockey I would send them your way? Well yes, I found one, one in which I am Ghost writing as the Canadian people (I always wanted to be the Canadian) who are putting the hurt to Mr. Gary Bettman (nice guy). Sadly since I posted this if Gary Bettman is ever found entombed in a sheet of ice I may be suspected of having the keys to the Zamboni. Here you are poetry piece #2!

Letter to Gary Bettman from the Canadian People

Your most honorable fool: We the Canadian people
would like to know what it is you want
with our great game we call hockey.
At first you took our teams
from Quebec and Winnipeg,
but now you have taken your purge one step further.
You have destroyed our game.
Not by taking our game from every Canadian city,
but by taking it from all of North America.
You have forced our players to all corners of the globe.
Yet you laugh, you smile, like the fool you are.
You make your claims, you make your assertions,
but you know nothing of our game.
You are a businessman, not a hockey player,
and even at that you are not good.
We wish you no ill,
We are of course a peaceful people
But as for your job
we care not to let you have it.
So pack up your things,
turn in your keys,
because if it were not for you,
we would have some hockey.

Going to be found in poetry classes for years to come.

From The Archives: Hockey Has Gone Away

I was going through things I wrote while taking a class called Writing for Publication taught by one of my favorite teachers Dr. Konaxis (she has since been let go from her post because of certain sexual advances and relationships she had with former students, I was not one of them). Anyway as I was going through these pieces (of which many will be undoubtedly posted here) I found this little tidbit I wrote during the NHL lockout a few years ago. I am awful at poetry, a subject that has always and will continue to perplex me, so do forgive me for the quality and instead pay attention to the raw emotion that resonates within the piece, the hatred, the sadness, the longing and of course like and badly written poem, the bullshit. Here you are the poem that Gary Bettman has suppressed for years: Hockey Has Gone Away.

Oh, hockey, where did you go?
Why are you on the lamb?
Oh, hockey, how I love you so!

Was it because your popularity is low?
Or was it Gary Bettman?
Oh, hockey, where did you go?

I have not once seen Jumbo Joe,
Barreling down the ice like a big old Ram.
Oh, hockey, how I love you so!

All the players and the owners say “No!”
For the truly do not give a damn.
Oh, hockey, where did you go?

I have not once heard “Go Bruins, Go!”
But a fan still I am.
Oh, hockey, how I love you so!

I just want the NHL to know
That I do give a damn!
Oh, hockey, where did you go?
Oh, hockey, how I love you so!


Not to bad eh? I must have been truly depressed if the lockout moved me to start writing poetry....... I date myself with the Jumbo Joe reference me thinks, the beta version of what was to become Milan Lucic. Regardless if I come across anymore hockey inspired poetry, I promise to post it here, for you the reader! Until then you shall have to make do with this timeless piece.

Oh and I attached a picture of Bobby Orr for no other reason than that he is the best defenseman who ever played the game.

From The Archives: Haircut (Belgian Style)

The proud follks (or folk, I don't even know if you can say "folk" in that sense) here at Grumbling (I have been debating making it Grumblings but that requires a new blog, and I am not that motivated) are proud to bring you more brackets (). Well sort of. We are in fact proud to bring you old posts, short stories, poems, and newspaper articles that our chief blogger (and only blogger for that matter) wrote some time ago. Each new/old entry will come with a new intro, such as this one, and the old post itself littered with new thoughts by the author, the Underling himself. Attached at right (may actually be above) is a picture of the shaggy Underling while in Belgium desperatly in need of a haircut, a state he finds himself in currently (but sadly in Boston [which is nice] and not Belgium) So here you are, Grumbling Proudly presents, straight From The Archives:

Haircut

(Anything in this color delineates a new thought)

As many of you know (all three of you [Still true] ) my hair has been cut by the same man since as far back as I can remember and only once have I strayed and that was because Tony was on vacation for two weeks and there was no way I was not going to get a haircut. Well now I'm in Belgium for four months and I have not had a haircut since mid-December and my hair is long.

With that in mind Nikolai and I decided to go in search of a place to get ze hairs cut. Within minutes we had located two candidates, one that looked chic and slightly inviting while the other reminded me of "Coiffures by Anthony" place located next to my dad's office (for those of you who were unable to get it the first time because I figured you could read my mind that means it looked like 80 year olds, and only 80 year olds, frequented the place). We went with the first one.

Never been to a hair salon, so immediately upon entering, it was a completely new experience. Partly because of this and partly because I lack the testicular fortitude, I made Nikolai (I must have thought it was funny to make Nicks name sound Russian or something, aparently I did not realize just yet that I am not funny) go first. His haircut went fairly quickly and looked like what he was shooting for, so in my screwed up brain that meant my haircut was going to go horribly wrong. (Little known fact, Kevin lives by Murphy's Law)

First off I get the hair washing routine which is basically a head massage, I don't even care that I was getting it done by a fellow male it was enjoyable, there I said it (because you know just because you say "there I said it" it makes the previous sentence perfectly all right). I almost fell asleep by the way.

I wish I had a camera for what happened next part because after the hair washing I turned to the mirror and laughed out loud, I looked like a long haired Gob Bluth (character played by Amy Pohler baby's daddy Will Arnett) with the slicked back hair. Nick couldn't help but laugh out loud at me either. Good times.

Next was the moment I had been dreading since the thought of having to go to someone other than Tony had crossed my mind; how to explain what I wanted (still plagues me with every non-Tony haircut). Tony knows me, I just need to nod my head and he cuts my hair the way I like it, its simple and I like it. This was going to be a whole different can of worms. For starters this guy did not have complete mastery of the English language and when I tried to explain what I wanted he looked confused, my heart sank (and on the inside I started to weep).

After I had finally communicated what I wanted as best I could the haircutting began, and the angst continued to ride (come on Kev proofread! He meant rise). As scared as I was the man did cut with confidence, he was quick and decisive and left no room for second guessing, what I didn't understand was his approach. He was just all over the place, the back the front the side the top, all over. He also decided to split my hair right down the middle and work symmetrically mirroring his cuts from side to side. At the time though I didn't quite get this, I thought he was parting my hair in the middle and giving me the Hugh Grant look. Which yes I do have a strange liking for Hugh Grant (not just a little, full blown man-crush is more like) but I could never pull off his hair style. At this point I was beside myself in fear of the final product, cursing myself for not getting a proper haircut just before I left (which would not have mattered because I still would have needed another haircut regardless).

But suddenly everything seemed to be falling into place, the sides and back were the right length, the side burns were perfect, and the front was shaping up to be better than usual. When all was said and done I liked my haircut, it worked, and I was happy.

Something must have happened while I was writing this because I like how I wrap up a story, that I thought was supposed to be riveting, in two sentences. Good job Kev.

But no one can hold a candle to Tony Ciulla.

Sadly since I now reside soley in Boston and hardly ever make it into Gloucester my hair is no longer cut by Mr. Tony Ciulla it is cut by a variety of haircutting hacks throughout the city. If only I was Manny Ramirez and could afford to pay for my Barber to follow me wherever I go.