Bookmarks

A good bookmark is hard to come by. By that I mean a good everyday item that can double as a bookmark, not an item that is meant to be a bookmark by design (that's for amateurs). I have had a few different bookmarks over the years from random event tickets to fake credit cards you get in the mail (that always has people worried that I am stupid enough to use my real credit card) to my personal favorite, old commuter train passes.

But as of a couple days ago I have settled on two staple bookmarks for the future, both sentimental picks in their own way.

Leuven-Brussels Train Pass


Or alternatively known as the "Who stole my Skittles picture" by Katy, this laminated piece of paper is written completely in Flemish and complete with one of the best pictures of me ever to be taken of yours truly (courtesy of a very confusing photo machine at the Leuven train station). Besides reminding me multiple times a day of everything Belgian, this card is a great bookmark and I implore all of you who have one like it to use it for such a purpose

Egyptian Doctor Pass


Second is the newly acquired Egyptian doctor pass. Besides saying my name in Arabic script somewhere on there it also wrongfully claims (or at least Egyptians act like it does) that I am a doctor of archaeology and therefore I should be given access to all tombs except the ones that are really expensive and bring the Egyptian government money.

Unfortunately that picture does not scan all that well, the actual photo does not make me look like I am high, it actually makes me look like a sexy peace of man meat in my opinion. Which I mean if I smoked weed would be OK but I don't so now it will just make me look like the stoner I am not. And no I am not a stoner poser.

Who-Gar-Den

To all you bartenders and waitresses who have looked at me funny for saying Hoegarden as “Whogarden” I give you the pronunciation found on the package. I did not suffer this drink for nearly four months to be told I say it wrong.

On Haircuts

While sitting getting my hair cut at Floyd's today I came to the conclusion that if I am going to spend a decent amount of time in Boston I think it may be a good idea for me to find a specific someone to cut my hair. Ever since leaving for Belgium I have encountered the issue of having my haircut by someone who is not Tony. I have had people who don't speak English, to a guy who just gives you the regular "I'm a white boy" haircut, to a guido who cuts well but almost takes your ear with him, and then there is Floyd's where you can have the same person twice and they wouldn't know any better.

And each time I'm scared I'm going to walk away with an aweful haircut (so far it's about 50/50). So today I officially announce my search for a new barber. It's been a long time coming, and looks to be no small feet in finding one I like considering how I haven't found one as of yet. But I think I'm going about it the wrong way, simply hitting the first place I see. I need to do some research.

All I want is a small shop with a few stools, a TV, moderately priced, and for the barber to be over the age of 40. The last one is the key, because I do not want anything in common with the person cutting my hair. To me getting your haircut is a moment in life when you reflect on things, it's like being in the shower or at the dentist; you sit there in silence and think. I don't want to talk about where I go to school, the Red Sox, Barack Obama, the weather or any of that shit. If I talk about anything with the guy, other than hair, I want it to be about my family, only because I want to have frequented the same place long enough that the guy knows my family.

And above all I want to walk in, sit down, and get my haircut the exact way I like it without having to show him pictures, explain what shampoo I use or how I comb my hair (for the record I don't). I want this guy to know my hair, and just do what needs to be done.

If your interested or have a suggestion, reply to this post.

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.

Top Five: Kinds of Coke (Soda)

Anyone who knows me knows I love Coke (the soda of course my crazy drug addictions I am saving for a later date). A love that eats away at my insides and shaves minutes off my life with every glass. No matter though, it tastes good and hurts no one else's insides, unlike some other addiction. No more need to talk let my addiction speak for itself. Enjoy!

Top Five: Kinds of Coke (Soda)

1. European Canned Coke (Belgian Coke Can pictured)



Oh the sweet sugar! European Coke is made with sugar cane and not corn syrup, which makes this tasty drink unmeasurably better than it is in the US. People are always asking me about Belgium and if I miss it, to which I respond that I do, but really it is not Belgium that I miss but the sugar cane laced Coke that they provide. People think all I drank was Stella while in Europe but in fact I guzzled soda like no tomorrow. Beer? Ha! It holds nothing to Coke!

Oh if anyone has a connection to a Coke factory some where in Europe and can get me a job, hook a fiend up will you?

2. US Coke in a can



Up until last January this would have been #1 but then I went to Belgium and developed an addiction to sugar cane. But makes a proper substitute until I find myself in Europe again. The corn syrup aside what I desire is the Coke that has been fermenting in the can, eating away at the sides of that can (being a circle I guess I should say side not sides, but Math confuses me so let's leave it at that). And the sound it makes when you crack it open.

3. Fountain Soda



Stop shouting! Yes I know that you think I'm crazy to place Fountain Soda behind two separate (and clearly not equal) cans of Coke but I would like to explain myself. I agree Coke from a fountain can be the best Coke in the world, with the perfect levels of soda and syrup nothing can beat it. That being said Fountain Soda can be unbearable at times with too much syrup or too much soda. It is because of this inconsistency of Fountain Soda that it can be found at #3 on this list. If I could be guarenteed that each concoction was too my liking then yes it would be at #1 but alas it is not.

4. 16 oz



Where the can will not re-close and the fountain soda is a bit too large, the 16 oz is necessary. Despite it's plasticky taste and it's inclination to turn your soda warm far before you are finished. It works when moving from class to class in a way that a can would seem awkward and after a few minutes it doesn't turn sweaty like a fountain soda.

5. 2 Liter



The 2 Liter is the pack mule of the Coke world; nothing special but it gets the job done. Like it's little brother the 16 oz it has that plasticky taste that takes away from the flavor, but it's the cheapest way to get 2 Liters of coke and if you don't finish it in one sitting like I do then you can put it away for later.

Honorable Mention: Coke in a glass (Coke in a glass is delicious I must admit but I have not sampled one in a long time which disqualifies it from making this list).

The thing about Co-Op is.....

They don't prepare you for the transition from the working world back to classes. They do everything in their power to push you out into the real world with a Co-Op but when you return you are expected to assimilate back into campus like you never left. Don't get me wrong, I love the Co-Op program and it is the reason why I decided on Northeastern over a much more affordable state school but there is nothing quite like the transition that takes place between the two spheres. For myself it has been over a year since a attended a class at Northeastern, what with my Co-Op and before that my study abroad program in Belgium I haven't set foot in a Northeastern classroom since last December.

A week ago I was waking up 5 days a week taking the T to my office and getting paid for 8 hours a day. Now I have class from 9 - 3 (which I pay for, instead of getting paid) in which I do more work than I would have on Co-Op. On top of that I will have homework which will fill up more of my time as well as a need to fill the void of my meager, yet weekly, BRA paycheck with hours of harder work at Borders and about equal difficulty (not saying much) work as an IM official. I never thought I would say this but being in the real world is significantly less stressful and much less physically demanding than being a student.

Many of you (many is not a word to describe the amount of readers I have but it's in the past now and we all know there is no going back) may scoff at such a notion but consider this. Every day I am incurring more debt through payments via loans to Northeastern and accruing interest on past loans while at the same time I am trying to pass the classes I am paying for the privilege to attend. On top of which I am working two jobs trying to keep from having to take out loans to afford to live on my own and feed myself.

As opposed to life working 40 hours a week. You go to work at 9, work, punch out at 5 and come home. No homework, no second job, just life. Granted it's not as easy as I just made it sound, but there is no University expense on top of that.

To put it bluntly, my lifestyle just changed overnight from a member of the global economy to a student with not enough time in the day to get by and my University, and life for that matter, expects me to just roll with it.

Top Five: The Day of Days

The Underling does not enjoy last days at all. They make him paranoid, antsy, and above they bring about his Catholic Guilt. So in honor of his last day working for the BRA we are proud to bring you the Underlings top five most awkward/memorable last days. Today we will actually go in reverse to build up some excitement and intrigue!


5. Tie between working for my father and Northeastn Intramurals. I am still off an on with both so this doesn't really count but I needed a #5.

European Parliament: Stagiere to Pawel Piskorski:
There was really nothing awkward about this day other than the hug and good bye with Weronika and the obvious absence of my boss. What really hit me about this day was that I was leaving Belgium shortly there after, a place I could have spent the rest of my life and been happy about it. A very emotional day, the most emotional last day I have had, to say the least.

Enos Marine:
My first job ever and coincidentally it was my first last day ever! This last day was awkward because my boss thought that I should work for 2 more weeks and then go to college. I on the other hand thought that I needed two weeks to get my shit together and fully deal with the fact that I was moving on. She thought it was irresponsible, I thought it was normal. Regardless to this day it is difficult to talk to my old boss when I take my father's boat out.


Secretary of the Commonwealth Corporations Division:
I consider this awkward because I avoided saying good bye to every member of the Corporations division (40 people) on my way out. How I did that I have no clue, but it was glorious.

Woodman's of Essex:
This job takes the cake when it comes to awkward memorable last days. All in all it was a few last days wrapped into one because of all the titles I held here. What makes it so memorable is that at Woodman's it is tradition to be thrown into the lobster tank out front on your last day. I was no exception. The entire day I was a nervous wreck waiting to be thrown into the tank (which is something like 40 degrees Fahrenheit) while my co-workers kept snickering at me and making gestures that implied that I would be getting really wet later that evening.

Now I'm a good guy and if I don't say so myself a rather cute one, something that worked in my favor at Woodman's because at least half of the workers are High School girls. And on my last day that worked in my favor. With a few minutes before close a couple of the girls told me to leave and that they would punch me out so I could avoid getting dunked in the tank. I took them up on their offer and was out the door only to realize I forgot my regular shoes, which I had to go back for. That of course was my undoing. I was immediately grabbed and dragged out to the tank, at this point I decided I would not go down without a fight. I kicked my legs and swung my arms breaking someones glasses and knocking someone else to the ground, but to no avail, I went in the tank. I then drove home without any pants on.

My plan of leaving early would not have worked btw because earlier that day the other guys in the kitchen went out and blocked me in with their cars. That would have brought upon a situation where I would have waited out my co-workers until the wee hours of the morning then would have snuck off and called someone to come pick me up. Oh if only that had happened.

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.

Top Five: Belgian Beers

The first top five was a great success. Well we hope it was because in actuality I have no idea how many of you liked it. Regardless because of it's possible success, my day off and the fact that Katy finally found a picture of my favorite Belgian beer we now have a new Top Five (I'm thinking this will become weekly, biweekly, or monthly)! Today's is Top Five Belgian Beers!

Because I am obviously the go to authority for everything Belgian I thought I would bring you my top five beers which are obviously the undisputed top five Belgian beers there are.

1. Maes also known as Campus (pictured above)

- Some may think it tastes like throw up but I disagree, and it is the beer of choice at De Girafe, my favorite Leuven bar!

2. Lambic Geuze

- I know what you are thinking, only a real man drinks Lambic, well you are absolutely correct in that assumption. Though this Lambic is like no other, it tastes like iced tea and not anything like an alcoholic beverage (no it wasn't actual iced tea, though I can not prove it). And it is brewed and served exclusively at Bécasse in Brussels.

3. Stella Artois

- The juggernaut and the only Belgian beer I knew before I went there. I love it. If not only for the fact that in the States its a fancy beer in a green bottle with a white paper top and in Belgium it is considered quite literally to be a "shit beer" or "Pintjes"

4. Jupiler

- I first came in to contact with Jupiler at about 10 AM on a train ride to Bruges. I was offered a seat by a few French Belgians who went on to preach of how "Jupiler" (A heavy accent on the end of the word I was told juPILER!) was in fact the best beer in the world. They offered me one out of their backpack and then another one when they disembarked from the train. It must be noted that Jupiler is cheaper than Stella and can be purchased in cans out of vending machines throughout Belgium. Delicious, yes. "Best beer in the world?" I think not.

5. Delirium Tremens

- This is a place holder until I can determine what other beer I enjoyed should go here. But it is a worthy place holder with a 9% alcohol tag and what my Taxi driver from the airport says were "Pink elephants on the glasses that when they start dancing you know you have had too many?"

As always you are encouraged to submit your own top 5.


Beers that will never appear on this list

-Hoegaarden (Who-garden)
-Vedette

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.



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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.

Top Five: Bars of Leuven

The Underling feels nostalgic for the days of yore, so today he gives you his first top five post (New Feature)! David Letterman does the top 10, The Underling likes to be more specific. If you have ever or will ever spend time in Leuven, Belgium, then heed the following top 5. If you do not plan on visiting Leuven, something The Underling considers to be a crime upon humanity, then just act like you know what I'm talking about.

For this top 5 I give no explanations as to why I like them (unless so posted), but of course the list is open for debate. And please feel free to make your own list and put it in the comments section (I am staring at you Daniel).

Top 5 Leuven Bars (In my humble opinion)

1. De Girafe (Balkan Beats and Drug Dealers)
2. Revue (Old Timers)
3. Cafe Alle (Meters)
4. De Blokhut (Pool Room)
5. Politika (€1 Stella)

Missed the Cut

Train Station Bar
Underground Bar below De Kauf (Forgot the name)

Note: If the Underling ever makes it back to Leuven he will take many pictures of the aforementioned bars and will post them along with many many words.

As always the above picture is provided by Ms. Katy Kobzeff

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.