MAY 2006. Sicily, Rome, and Spain. This calendar features two of my favorite days in Europe. The first was hiking Stromboli to see the volcano eruptions, and the other was soaking in the Arabian Baths of Granada.

Aprile! The calendar doodler is back, and more behind schedule than ever!

Marzo

Full size March

Stromboli at Dawn

(Stalling for calendars) There is an exhibit at the EMP of Paul Allen's personal collection, and he has a photograph of Stromboli at Dawn. This photo is much better. Hey Paul, can I get a grant, please?

Venice and Barcelona

The Calendars should be finished by the end of the month.

What now . . .

I used to draw calendars.

We're gonna Party like it's 1999!

After being back in Seattle for a month, with the same job, but a better apartment, it feels like the last 4 months in Europe never even happened. Then with Erika and Ryan back in town, it feels like the last 7 years never even happened.

I have two best friends, one for each gender. They've been away for a long time and this rare moment was a tremendous cause for celebration. I filled my freezer with liquor, and we filled the streets of Seattle with love.

The first major event was GAY KARAOKE! Ryan got right off the plane and met everybody at a big purple gay bar. Joanna sang "Don't leave me this way," and you could say she soft rocked the house. Ryan picked that song for her long ago, but we're not giving him any Karaoke prize money. Erika doesn't even like karaoke, but she was the one that made us all meet there, which of course turned out to be an appropriately fun yet kinda awkward night. Which is the way I like it, awkward is the new funny.

The next day, I got work off and we went to Seattle's 1-90 lid park. 7 years ago we took a series of pictures out there, and now we ritualistically returned to that spot to see how the years have treated us. Erika has aged gracefully, and Ryan has refashioned himself as the illustrated man. He may have tattoos on his arm, but he helps kids stay in school! What a dirty steamy photo shoot, damn. Lake Washington is gonna need a shower, and a really big towel.

Looking at these photos now I realize that I look like shit! All those late nights drinking and eating large servings apparently have taken a toll. Is this what 30 looks like?!? I like to be hard on myself, because apparently no one else cares that I'm letting it go. I should be working out, not blogging. Forget that, it's party recounting time!!!

Hell, we even partied in Mukilteo. Then we rode the ferry just so we could go to a Pirate Party on Whidbey island. We destroyed that island! By the end of the night we were whipping people on the beach with bullwhip seaweed. Hell that was the beginning of the night. Later we were photographed riding the roof of a minivan! 'Cause that's how Whidbey people roll man.



Oh and we had a huge R. Kelly movie watching party. That movie is genius damn it. Please make more and don't let anyone intelligent ever speak to R. Kelly. Just keep doing your thing brother. I want 10 more episodes of "Trapped in the Closet!"

Plus my sister Lieta was back in town from the Southwest, adding another layer to the insanity. We even had a Radiohead Geek out party and listened to the new Thom Yorke album. Ryan's favorite part was undoubtedly the games of dominoes played at my apartment and watching the sunset from Patrick's patio.

Then there was the Mariner's game. Patrick and the David Swidler rallied to meet at the ballpark. We got pleasantly wasted, and we were loved by the crowd around us. I was drunk and thrown out of the game, but not for being belligerent. They could tell by the way I cradled my large Coca-Cola, that perhaps there was more to it. She sniffed the cup and called me drunk. The alcohol enforcement officers surrounded me and ushered me to the isle and out of the stands.

She wanted to know how I got the rum in. I kinda revealed my secrets and she said.

"You have two options, either you can leave now, or I can call security."

"I have a third option," I said "let me stay!" All this while wearing a promotional rally towel on my head. "You haven't had any complaints have you."

"No," she said. Apparently, I thought this gave me the moral high ground and for the next ten minutes I attempted to reason my way back into the game. After that, I tried a little charm and that got the job done.

"Search me," I encouraged her to search me many times, but she wouldn't do it.

"C'mon it will be fun!" I exclaimed. That's where she gave in, better to let the drunkard back in then pat him down. Triumphantly, I returned to game. Standing just beneath the bleachers, I am sure she heard the burst of yelling and applause as I reentered the game. You made the right choice young lady. As soon as I was back the Mariner's tied the game and I told all those damn Yankee fans to, "SHUT UP!"

Even better, the game stayed tied until the bottom of the ninth. When Adrian Beltre hit a game winning walk off home run, and we all went home supremely happy. Then when we walked into the brand new bar by Safeco, the bartenders recognized us and gave us at least a hundred dollars worth of free beer and shots. Fortune favors the bold.

A fine week my friends, it's a good thing we don't hang out together all the time, someone might get really hurt.

Garmisch-Partenkirchen

Rome

Rome seemed quiet and total unthreatening while I was there. However, some friends of mine just got back from Rome where they got mugged by three men in the train station. The lesson to be learned here is don't go Rome in July and August. Summer is peak season for most large tourist cities in Italy, and in a city like Rome, the theives will be waiting for you at the Train station.

Pietrapetrosa, Basilicata, Italy

Salzburg, Austria

Final European Dispatch

It looks like the mission to Europe was a failure. What was the mission again? Uh . . .? Ummmm . . . ? Oh, yeah, to find a purpose in life. Mission failed. What do I want to be when I grow up? What kind of career I should pursue? I still have no idea.

I was hoping that four workless monthes of leisure would give me time to contemplate my future direction, instead I spent my time answering challenging questions like, 'should I have chocolate gelato or limone?', or 'should I go swimming now, or go back to bed?', or 'maybe I should get some health insurance.' However, I do know this: I have a promising headstart in the lucrative field of unemployed international psuedo-artistic vagabond. Actually, I make a terrific house guest, and I was so successful in my first assignment that I was offered an extension.

Angelo Brambilla, who has been hosting Joanna and I for the summer, asked us if we would like to stay a month or so longer and go sailing with him. I was hoping he would ask us this very question all summer, but the question came just a little too late. It is unquestionably time to go, the money is all gone, and it is too damn hot in Milan to spend another night here.

If you have been following this blog, you will know that I have burned my ass twice now. It has gone from white, to red, to pink, to peeling, to red, to white with pink splotches, to . . . Well I managed to burn it again yesterday. This time there was no nudity involved, it happened when I sat on a rock! I was even wearing a cold wet bathing suit, still that rock, which had been baking in the sun all day, actually burnt my skin like a frying pan through my shorts. That's how fucking hot it is here.

THE HUMIDITY, THE HUMIDITY!

I can't stand stale hot air with no circulation, and since ancient Medolanum was built on top of a swamp, the place is also plagued with an endless army of hungry mosqitoes! Joanna and I are covered with mosqito bites. Trying to sleep in Milan is so hot and unpleasant that we have retreated to Angelo's basement where we sleep in a sealed tent to avoid those blood sucking bastards. I am tired of being itchy and sweaty.

Leaving Europe is never desirable, but in July it's much, much easier. I can not wait to see Seattle. The tempature will be perfect, my friends will be there, I already have a few parties to attend, and I missed a bunch of great new movies. There is Bandidas, and The Devil Wears Prada, and that charming new Jennifer Aniston film I just HAVE to see.

Since the scooter accident a week ago, (I'm fine by the way) our final week of vacation has been great. We went to the island of Korcula, where Marco Polo was born. Then we headed to Dubrovnik, which, despite the recent war, has been beautifully rebuilt with marble streets and red clay roofs. From Dubrovnik we watched Italy win the World Cup and then we rented a car and headed for the interior. We saw the waterfalls of Krka National Park and went to an abandoned castle in the tourist free city of Knin. We then spent two days at the magnificent Plitvich National Park, which has the most beautiful waterfalls I have ever seen. Then we drove into Bosnia for dinner. The nearest town to the national park was called Bihac (hilariously pronounced Bee-ach or Biatch) and we couldn't resist.

When crossing the border into Bosnia-Herzegovinia expect to spent more than a few minutes with the autorities, there are four seperate check points on the way through, and everyone is deadly serious. Once inside Bosnia, you immediately notice the drastic drop in the quality of life. Abandoned buildings, stray dogs, aimless people walking in the middle of the street, and beggars in the parking lot. The countryside however was quite pleasant, and we encounted our first Mosque of the trip, complete with a large dome and missle shaped tower. I had read that Bosnia was primarily an Eastern Orthodox Christian country, but while we were in Bihac, I saw four mosques and no churches. The population of this Biatch didn't look like my stereotypes of muslims, only one woman wore a head scarf, and the rest were wearing booberific tank tops as they headed for the bars. This was the first time I had ever heard the call to prayer, and I found it quite beautiful and haunting as it was broadcast from the loudspeakers attached to the mosque. I thought people were supposed to stop and pray, but no one even paused, and I also got the impression that if I were to spend four monthes listening to the call to prayer everyday, I might need to get some earplugs. The school yard across the street from the mosque was the most dramatic evidence we saw of the war. The backboard of the basketball hoop was cracked and crumbling and the walls were riddled with bulletholes. I was so spooked that I was afraid to even take a picture. We had a rather lame meal of grilled meat, fried bread, and beer which only cost about 3 dollars and we headed swiftly back to Croatia, where we spent another twenty minutes at the border, as they searched our rental car. Thanks Bihac, we'll be sure to recommend you to no one.

After that we headed back to the coast and caught a bus back to Italy and a train back to Milan. I fell asleep that night at the bar as we attempted to have drinks with Chiara and friends. We also went to the Ligurian coast with Franco and enjoyed a spectacular apperitivo with Mojitos on the cliffs of Rocco, where we had the 'real original' foccacia, which is delicious but just a little too cheesy to properly digest. Since then it's been shopping and more shopping, I got an Italian suit and some Italian shoes and Joanna is searching for more stuff now as I blog away.

Tomorrow we fly to London and then Wednesday we will be back in Seattle. Thanks a lot to all of you who read this, sent me emails, and extra kudos to those who left comments. It was really nice to have your feedback way out here, half a world away. It was like you were keeping Joanna and I company and it made the terrible moments, like burning my ass, and crashing into a wall, a lot more tolerable, because we knew that at least they would be good for a laugh on the old blog. I had a lot of fun writing, and the internet cafes of Europe thank you for encouraging me to write more. I am sorry about the grammar and weak-ass sentence structure, I'm simply to poor to do any proper editing.

Peace be with you, and stay tuned for more ridiculously beautiful photos.

Congrats Italia 2006 Campioni Del Mundo, I am sorry I ever doubted you.

Day of Destruction- Croatian Edition ČĆŽĐŠŽ

This is Joanna writing. I have agreed to write this entry since Mark was whining that his arm hurt when he held it in a typing position. The truth is, it does look pretty painful, but it's my opinion that he's being lazy as well. If you're interested in learning what happened to Mark's arm, well, read on.

It all began on the Island of Hvar, in a little port town called Jelsa (pr. Yell-sa). The weather was beautiful and, having heard tell of famous nude beaches, Mark convinced me we should rent a scooter and search one out.

"Maybe we could rent bikes." I tried to compromise.

"But a scooter would be faster." Mark countered, "What if the road is steep?"

"Well, how about renting a little boat - then we could find a cove completely unreachable by land!"

"Scooter, scooter!" After that he would only beat-box a techno-scooter rave mix. You see what I was up against.

So I consented and we found the cheapest scooter rental in town. Mark was shaky at the beginning, but quickly got the hang of the little scooter (max speed, 40 kph) and my nerves began to calm as well. The road to Kamp Nudist was gently winding, with beautiful Adriatic views. There was only one problem. With me on the back of the bike, Mark was too far forward on the seat to see the rearview mirror. Our short term remedy for this was that I would continually look back and tell him if there were cars behind us, because they would undoubtably want to pass our slow, wobbly ass. We reached the campground where the beach was quite crowded, so we decided to head back along the road to find a more secluded spot. Before we revved up, though, Mark decided to "fix" the mirror.

"I'll just quickly adjust this before we go..." He said, grabbing the mirror and wrenching it back, "Why won't this move..." SNAP!

The whole mirror, stem and all, fell to the ground. Oh, and don't think this was some kind of breakaway safety mirror. It wasn't.

We took it in stride. I mean, the mirrors must break all the time if someone can break it just by pulling on it with all their might, you know?

We continued on. We found the perfect sunbathing spot, with just a little bit of shade and no one else around. Being very pale (understatement), I always slather myself with sunblock, and in the nude I was even more diligent. Mark, however, has that knee-to-waist white girdle, bordered by tan, and by gum he was going to change that!

He had already worked on that white area some in Germany. On a walk around the spectacular Eibsee Lake, we encountered a secluded stretch where sunbathing nude seemed to be required. Of course, we had to comply. My usual sunblock ritual ensued, but Mark saw this as an opportunity to prepare for Croatia. Later that evening, we both laughed heartily at Mark's pink bottom. That is, until he had to sit on the bus to Croatia the next day for 15 hours with a sunburnt ass. Then I was the only one laughing.

You would think he would have learned something from this. We spent at least four hours roasting beside the Adriatic, and now his ass is no longer mozzarella, it's marinara!

Soon, however, the destruction was to continue. Back in Garmisch, when we discovered the Eibsee and the beautiful swimming pool, the Kaisenbad, we bought two inflatable floaty-things to take to the water with us. Oh, those floaty things had become much more than just flotation devices to us. They protected us from hard beach surfaces, they provided shade when it got too extreme, they even supported our exhausted, beer-bloated bodies at night in our tent. But now, as Mark was floating serenely on the buoyant salt water, the unthinkable happened: Floaty thing met Karstic rock.

Any tourist brochure on Croatia will tell you it's essential to have rubber shoes on hand to combat this razor sharp Karst so it's easy to imagine who won the battle of floaty vs. karst. The image of Mark weeping softly into the still inflated pillow while the matress bubbled under like the Lusitania is forever seared into my brain.

Still, the death of Floaty didn't dampen our spirits much. As we packed up we gushed, "What a perfect day," and, "This day will stand out as one of the pinnacles of the trip," and on and on. Well, we were right.

Back on the scooter, we decided to take the road to Zavala - a harrowing mountain pass, according to Lonely Planet. Could we have a little more information PLEASE?

We approached a sign: Tunnel 1.4 km. As we rounded a bend, the mouth of the tunnel came into sight, flanked by a traffic light, currently red. A more rustic tunnel entrance could not be imagined. The tunnel was hewn out of the rock and the craggy walls were left au naturale. After about five feet, there was nothing but blackness. We pulled off a little to the side and waited for the light to turn green, our aprehension growing with every minute that ticked by, and every car that pulled up behind us. When the light turned green, we waved on all the cars ahead of us. This proved to be wise, as they raced away into the tunnel much faster than we wanted to go. We entered the tunnel, the dripping walls and unfinished dirt road illuminated by the headlights of the cars ahead of us.

Wait. Ahead of us!?!

"The lights!" We gasped together. The pitch blackness was closing in around us and the end of the tunnel was nowhere in sight. I reached around Mark with my right hand and started pushing all the buttons I could find. After what seemed like a minute or more, but was really only a few terrifying seconds, the lights popped on. We exhaled in unison, our hearts pounding to the jolts on the road.

Once out of the tunnel, we pulled over to recover and take in the view. We felt shaky, but fortified by our ordeal. If we could pull that off, we really were getting the hang of the Scooter.

We started off once more. I was gazing around at the amazing view, turquoise water and azure sky, with an occasional prudent look over my shoulder in my role as rearview mirror replacement.

"I can really see the draw of these things now," Mark yelled back to me, "I should get one!"

Then we encountered our first sharp turn.

I'll never know what was going through Mark's mind at the time. Perhaps he was entranced by the surroundings, as I was. Perchance he felt a newfound confidence and a need for speed after enduring the tunnel adventure. Whatever the cause, we entered the turn with the wind whipping through our hair and by the time Mark realized we couldn't turn that sharply at that speed, we skidded side long into the gravelly shoulder, and coming up fast on our right was a traditional Croatian guardrail - namely a stone wall. Mark squeezed the brakes, but it was just a little too late. We tore into that wall, and the wall took a piece of Mark as a keepsake.

I did a quick body inventory and realized everything was intact, if a little crunched. Then I turned my attention to Mark. Now, I will tell you now that Mark is OK. Nothing broken, in other words, but there next to that wall he had to do a bodily inventory to make sure. His right arm and leg were scraped and bleeding, yes, but it could have been a lot worse, is all I'm saying. He could have lost a limb. So all this, "I can't type," and "It hurts to sleep on my side," and "Ow, salt water stings!" is just ungrateful drivelling. (photos of the gore will follow soon!)

As soon as we had Mark cleaned up a bit, we turned our attention to the bike. We took no pictures because we're a little ashamed, but the whole right side was covered with scrapes. On the side, by where my leg would have been, there was a discernible dent and a 6" scratch. The front panel had many scratches and a hairline crack, and the paint bordering the headlight was scraped off in a patch about the size of a quarter, though thankfully it was still working. And these were just the worst dings. We knew we'd have some explaining to do.

When our nerves were sufficiently calm, we got back on the bike and by creeping around every turn and pulling over to let every car pass us, we made it to the other coast of the island. It was still hot, so we headed out to find a secluded cove. We found a nice pebbly beach (to Croations, pebbles are about the size of potatoes) and Mark gritted his teeth and waded into the water to bathe the wounds.

"It burns, IT BURNS!"

"That means it's disinfecting! Thats good!" I chimed in.

"I'm melting," he whined.

Eventually, we had to get back on the scooter and make our way back along the winding road and back through that tunnel, back to Jelsa to turn in the scooter. Honestly, we tried to stick the mirror back on and pretend like nothing happened. Mark even put on a long sleeved shirt and jeans to hide his carnage, but the mirror wouldn't stay and we knew we had to fess up.

When we pulled in to the lot, which was really just the loading area of a small produce market, the scooter man immediately saw a scratch on the side of the bike. It was pretty dark by then (as we had planned) so I made a bold move, if I may say so.

"Yes, as you can see, the mirror broke off." I produced the mirror from the hatch and waved it around hypnotically, willing him not to look at the front of the bike where the scrapes were much worse.

"How did that happen?"

"It got caught on some...branches and snapped off," I continued lamely. It seemed to work, however, because instead of continuing to inspect the bike, he went for the boss. This was a stroke of luck for us because the boss didn't look at the bike at all.

"This is OK," he said, indicating the scratch, "But the mirror...I'll have to call my supplier and you must pay for it."

"OK!" We agreed, maybe a little too eagerly. I was standing very close to the scratched side of the bike, hoping to discourage him from coming over for a closer look.

He got off the phone with his supplier and told us the damage. "One hundred and thirty-five kuna," which is about $30. We made a show of finding enough cash on us, gave it to him, and by the end he was apologizing to us for having to make us pay. We assured him it was OK, then we turned and calmly walked out the door. As soon as we were out of view, we ran for the nearest alley.

Just after our escape, on our way to buy some much needed wine, as if the destruction were following us, we saw a van crush a kids' bike.

Needless to say, the next morning we were on the first bus out of town.

GOODBYE GERMANY (photo time!)

Goodbye Germany, we will really miss you. Stay cool and have a rad summer.

Our stay in Garmisch-Partenkirchen was by far the most relaxing part of the long vacation, and the scenery was spectacular. Above are photos from Partnaklamm and Höllentaklamm, two amazing gorges where you walk through the canyon, weaving in and out of wet tunnels and suspended catwalks, along glaciers and under waterfalls. It was amazing but it is now time to go.

We are headed to the Croatian islands, where I will unfurl my hard won 215 pound naked, brautwurst and beer filled body on the nudist beaches of the Dalmatian Islands. There will be no photos. Sorry.

This will be our final adventure before heading home, so Croatia better be "Fucking Amazing" as Joanna said, because leaving Germany is not going to be easy. See you soon Seattle.

Check out the photos below.

"Huge" head scar courtesy the Countess

You asked for it, and now you got it. It will surely make a nasty scar, and this picture doesn´t even show the other scar farther back on my head. Are you happy now? It only cost me 15€ to download that photo.

USA After the game and before, the life of a sign

American fans and Seattle friends Jaime, Chase, Shane, Jason, Joanna, and I, show our enthusiasm before the game, with our super popular sign. Then the dejection of the loss and a sign transformed.

Croatia better look like this!

This is the Puglian Italian side of the Adriatic sea, Croatia is supposed to be even better. We head to Croatia Monday.

Germany defeats Argentina

AND THE CROWD GOES WILD. We travelled to Munich to watch the Germans win in Penalty Kicks over the Argenitians. It was a riot watching the game with hundreds of crazy Germans at the huge Munich fan fest. In fact, there was almost a riot. On the train ride home, the whole train was singing and jumping and dancing, we were rocking that train good. I thought the whole thing was going to derail in the tunnel. Italy v Gemany next, GO AZZURI!

Hotel Schell

Perhaps the Magic Schell himself would like to elaborate on the amenities available at the HOTEL SCHELL?

USA - Out of Iraq and Into the Next Round

That´s what my sign at the USA-Ghana world cup match in Nurnberg Germany read. When I unfurled it, Joanna was nervous. Would we get into an argument? Would I run into a bunch of drunk Marines?

Actually the sign was a huge hit. Joanna and I met up with a Camper Van full of Americans we knew from Seattle. When I broke out the sign, they all started cracking up, but they too thought it might cause trouble, actually it made us the most popular people on the campgrounds. That is of course until after the game, when it was rendered futile by our weak showing against Ghana. Damn you Ghana, just you wait until we get our young star Freddy Adu, who was born in Ghana and now plays for the USA, to beat your ass.

At least before the game we had fun holding the sign while looking to scalp some tickets. The foriegners offered to give us a discount because they liked the sign so much, but that was still over 200 Euros each. In fact, at least a hundred people loved the sign and only two frowned upon it, but they still wanted to take a picture of it. I´m sure if you look around on the internet, someone posted a picture of that sign, but I can´t put it up until I get back. I even got a television interview, but I was too fucked up to make much sense.

"Why do you have this sign, what do you want to say to Europeans?" Asked the man with the camera and microphone

"That Bush is really bad, and people in America all don´t like the Iraq thing, even if they like Bush," that was one of my more eloquent answers.

"So why does he have so much support and why does he keep winning elections?"

"Jesus man, Jesus." And with that I ran off after a scalper, having embarrassed myself thoroughly.


The security was too tight to sneak in, and I didn´t have an apron or official looking badge to flash. Don´t worry, there will be more tales of unpaid entrances when Bumbershoot rolls around.

Trulli, Puglia Italy

These little Hobbit holes are called Trulli and they don´t allow any Misfits, because like JEM they are trulli outrageous, trulli trulli trulli outrageous

I feel terrible about that joke

Barcelona

Alhambra, Granada Spain

Lake Como

Volcanos are cool!

I mean hot!

Rinella -Aolian Islands Sicily

Venice

The Countess is Trying to Kill Me

Yet I survive.

At this moment, Joanna and I are guests of the Countess Lieta in her apartment in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. She has been gracious and kind enough to bring us with her to Germany, yet I fear that subtley she is trying to kill me.

On June 12, Joanna and I were making lunch. Soup and Sandwiches were on the menu and I was in charge of the soup, since I am an expert on opening cans and pouring their contents into a pot.

I bent down to grab a pot from the lower cabinet, but little did I know that the Countess had been in the kitchen only minutes before and had left the upper cabinet open. In Germany the bottom of cabinets are reinforced with two thin parallel strips of hard metal.

Finding the appropriate pot for soup, I arose. Now, anyone who has seen me perform with THE HABIT knows, when I stand up, I mean it. So, as is my custom, I stood up with great force.

"FUUUCCCKKKKKK!" I screamed as the parallel strips of metal gouged into my head.

"Are you OK?" Joanna inquired, unsurprised that I had managed to hurt myself again.

"Oh yeah baby, I´m cool," I replied, trying to play the role of tough guy, I gathered myself from the blow and even managed to get the soup on the stove top.

I then touched my head to check for a bump. Blood.

"I´m bleeding," I said as casually as I could muster. "I´m gonna go wash this out of my hair." I went to the bathroom to find that I had two huge gashes in my head. The type of wounds if one had insurance, they would surely go to the doctor to get some stitches.

I came back to the kitchen and sat down still trying to be cool, whilst I waited for the exciting conclusion of Soup and Sandwiches Germany 2006. I found that my hunger was waning and I was feeling a bit light headed.

"You look really pale," Joanna observed, now getting worried, "your lips are turning blue!"

"I think I´m gonna go lie down," I said woozily. Slowly, unlike my custom, I tried to stand up, swaying from side to side as if I were on a space-boat, unfit for space. Joanna flanked me from behind. I headed for the door, which was actually a cabinet, my sight was going blank white. Reaching for the cabinet, I passed out. Joanna caught me just before I went head first into the kitty´s litter box. I am allergic to cats and their poop.

I know that my hair is slowly receding, but I hope it doesn´t go too fast. In addition to my large funny shaped head, complete with flesh mohawk (see pointy skulls like Kareem Abdul Jamar, Alien 3, or Vitaly Potopenko) I now have two new fresh scars to go with my childhood scars.

Back to the Countess. Further evidence that my life is in danger is that on April 2nd when I was staying in the Countess Lieta´s basement, which was my temporary bedroom, I stepped on a rusty staple which was protruding from the pan-asian rugs that covered the floor. There was no antiseptic available, and it hurt like hell, but naturally I played it cool. It still stings. I haven´t had a tetnis shot in ages, but it hasn´t turned any funky colors yet, and after all it only hurts when I WALK!

Yesterday after the Countess left the apartment with the dogs, she left the burner on. Curious? But even worse the day before she gave Joanna and I a salad with raw fennel. You probably haven´t had raw fennel before, and there is a reason for that. It is deadly. In Italy they call fennel, finocchio, which coincindentally is also an Italian vulgarity for a gay man. For more on Finocchio.

So now I . . . am . . in


Feeling .

Woo

Zee . . . . wee . . . look at the lights . .

Mmmmm.

Sorry, uh, yeah, OK, hmm, MEANWHILE!

Naturally the Countess can mean me no harm, she is one of the sweetest, not to mention most intelligent people I have ever met. It is simply a matter of physics. Since Joanna and I have relied so heavily on the Countess and her family to make our trip easier and more comfortable, chaos theory would dictate that it would also bring us a equal amount of pain and discomfort. In other words, that´s Karma biting me in the ass.

Germany is fucking fantastic. I am really loving it here. This town is so gorgeous with it´s milky white rivers, steep rocky gorges, and gigantic mountain peaks. I almost feel as if I´m betraying my Italian heritage, enjoying it so much. Maybe it´s just the delicious huge beers, or the fantastic food with heaping helpings of meat and potatoes, or maybe it is that the cars actual stop for pedestrians, or that they actually wear traditional bavarian garb (just for the tourists? who cares they look so silly and cute in LederhÖsen), or that everything is clean, or that the hills are covered with wild flowers, or that everyone speaks impeccable english, or that the hills and trails and mountain pathes are covered with beer hauses every 30 minutes, or that the tempature hasn´t dropped below 80 yet, or that they take more holidays then anyone on earth (enough with the bells already!) or that the lakes and swimming pools are pristine and picturesque. I love it, I almost feel guilty. How will I continue making fun of the Germans as I have all these years? Easy. Their language.

Seriously, the silliest sounds known to man come out of these people, you haven´t lived until you´ve seen a Sylvester Stallone movie dubbed in German.

Joanna and I have a new favorite past time. When we pass a couple of Germans on a trail and they are going on with their "SlÜssen FlaÜssen Flaäuuenn Gruben Doctor Wigger Strauß. Fläbben glockön traben."

We then counter with the funniest sounds we can think of, Northwest city names and tribes.

"Snohomish, Sequim hoquim mukilteo," says Joanna.

"Sealth Sealth, Quinnalt makah tacoma," I reply, the super affluent Germans are flustered that can´t make out or language.

"Puyallup jim jam skykomish!" Joanna can´t resist the old jim jam.

I throw the Germans a quick and friendly, "GÜs got" which means "God greets you," and then agrily lauch back into Salish with Joanna.

"Kwaka ´waka ´waka kwawa" which is an actual BC tribe, "Haida Hoh."

"Chehalis tulalip mukilshoot."

"Tukwila my ass!" and with that we watch the perplexed Germans head over the meadow to another beerhaüs.

Gotta go now, the old internet cafe is shuttin down, plenty of awesome pics await you next week o´ ye devoted dozen. Gonna try and catch a couple of World Cup games next week.

Peace be with you.

I am 30!

We had a party at Angelo-s amazing apartment, in the toast above, you will notice that it looks like I am the only one having fun! Which at that moment was probably true, but I assure that 30 drinks later, things got ca-razy. Or so I have been told, since I can not remember much. Franco, although he is not pictured here, was the star of the party, since almost everyone there were his friends. Cool people too, I am really impressed that Franco does not hang out with any of the mullet touting, ripped shirt losers that you see all over Italy. About 15 people showed up and we really did have a great time, and I scored 5 bottles of Italian red wine to take to Germany with me.

Franco encouraged me to drink, a lot! So much so that I couldn-t even handle a game of Foosball. Too drunk to play Foos? It is true. I tried playing ping pong and I couldn-t even hit the ball. It was like I was on a boat in space, and it wasn-t even a space boat. Somehow I made it up the stairs and passed out. I never puked, but Joanna said hi to Ralphy the Clown for me, he said happy birthday bllggghhhhlluuugghhh! cough cough, bluggghhh, cough, flush! Blugghhhh!

I have to run, below are some teasers of the new disc of photos we just got. 1. Joanna at Pollara, 2. explosion at Stromboli, 3. Grand Canal Venice

I-m afraid I have a ton to do today before I head to Germany tomorrow, so there is little time for blogging. This is just a taste of the photos I just got back, and trust me they are beautiful. When I find a good internet cafe in Garmisch, I will blow your mind with dozens of amazing photos. Hey, I know at least a dozen people read this thing, get in on the comments section, its your chance to make fun of me and trust me, I deserve it! It will not give you spam so do it, Dobosh! Plus you can make fun of Erika the Kougar and Jeff the magic Schell if you like too.

Barcelona

Spain was fantastic, but it is good to be back in Italy where I know at least 200 words, I know about 15 in Spanish, it was ugly. What wasn-t ugly was Casa Bastllo *pictured( above. Damn these keys#@%&%^*($EWS"A:>?>S"?>"{}:"_+236

The food in Spain was great, I had a bunch of Paella negro. That-s right, we are talking squid ink negro. Squid juice color my rice black, negro, the way spy hunter smokes out the gangsters.
This is scattershot I know, I have only a minute left.

Italy rules, spain is not as good. Apperitivo is better than Tapas, and risotto is better than Paella, even if Risotto does not afford me the chance to use the term negro extraneously.

What else to say .. Oh the pressure. Germany will win the world cup, Brazil will come second, they have too many one name stars . . RONALDO, Ronaldhino, Rubinho, Kaka, Adriano, Negro, Ichirono, Aquaviva, Vidalsassoono . . .

OK they are closing. Hey Italy and Europe, I know you love American inventions, you-ve really taken to the car, and you can not get enough of the cell phone, but how about trying the shower curtain and the dryer!

SPAIN!

Joanna and I flew into Sevilla, Seville, Seviglia, whatever and when we got to the airport, the bus never came. Fifty people on the curb for an hour for a bus that never arrived. There was talk of a strike, so we caught a cab. When we tried to get downtown to the bus station, we couldn't make it because the road was blocked off. Just then we heard explosions in the distance. Then some people running with banners reading "COCO" and some distant chanting. Protest! Riots surely to follow, we decided buses weren't going to make it out of the protest gridlock, so we got on a train for Grenada. I'm with you protesters, I hope you get that Coco, but I got shit to do. Sorry Sevilla, maybe next time.

Grenada is a cool little city with a Morrocan Arabic flavor to it. It's like visiting the middle east, without actually having to go there. We visited the Alhambra, a 13th century Moorish palace that the conquering Christians had the foresight not to destroy, just expand. After the heavy deluge of Jesus inspired architcture, it was nice to look at something so different.

However, our exploration into Islamic design has come a disasterous price. The good Lord, blessed be his name, has struck Joanna with a terrible blight. In punishment for so thoroughly enjoying Muslim patterns and designs, the Lord has given Joanna the dreaded MOSQUITO STIGMATA!

It began with a bite on the hand, and then another on the palm of her other hand. Then mysteriously at night, two mosquito bites on the tops of her feet appeared. Just like the wounds of Jesus Christ, only itchier.

She is only one wound away from full Stigmata. The Vatican is monitoring the situation carefully, the Pope has been notified, and all of Chistendom is praying for her salvation. I have spoke to the Pope and offered my services.

"I sir, will give her the fifth wound," I declared.

The Pope responded with a puzzled silence.

Switching subjects entirely: Grenada is hella cool, but the place is packed with white people with dreadlocks. I can't stand that, it's like Burning Man TM out here.

Why do they do it, they look so bad on white people?¿?¿?¿ (LOok out spaÑish keys?Ç¿?) Honestly, they are more annoying then a bus full of old Germans tourists, mainly because old Germans don't hang out getting high on the corner, letting their manegy dogs crap in the middle of the sidewalk.

These people (I've had a few friends, my apologies to Kari, Tabasco, Firebone, etc.) say they're doing it to make a statement, to stand out and be proud of being an anti-social outcast, when really they just want to hang out with other people like themselves. Having dreadlocks is like a beacon to these new age hippies, (Soilies, I have heard them called but I like to call them soap-dodgers) think about it, it's much easier than taking out a personal ad.

Single White male, seeks single white female for companionship and drug use. I am into bad hygiene, awkward piercings, and fire. You- should wear baggy dirty clothes, enjoy smelling like sweat and incense, feel animosity towards capitalism, and have a vague sense of eastern mysticism. Please contact me if you would like to walk around with my dog and hang out on the corner with my other friends. P.S. I have tattos on my face.

OK that's all the blogging I can handle tonight. Next time TAPAS TOUR 2006 (tapas not included)

I got a bunch of stuff to do before I turn 30!

I should have listened to my friend Erika, she said *Go to Lake Como, it is frickin beautiful* and yesterday I finally did. It was the apotheosis of lakes, this photo barely does it justice, since you can-t see the snow topped mountains and beautiful villas that actually enhance the scenery. We hiked up and around that giant rock and I got to see my first waterfall of Europe! Hooray!

Damn I am gonna be 30 on June 5 in 2 weeks. I gotta get to Spain, like tomorrow.

I am flying to Seville, travelling to Grenada, exploring from the mountains and beaches. Then we head to Barcelona, and fly back to Milan, all before I turn 30! If you have good Spain advice, leave it the comments. Then we will have a little party on the 5th, since I nearly have 6 or so friends in Milan now, and the next day we will go to Venice!

If anyone actually calls me on my birthday, I will get you an amazing present in Italy, anything you like. It is 9 hours ahead. We will be up late. 0039 347 2401259.

Franco asked me if I want to go into business with him. I could set up a market for Fantini-Cosmi (That is the Thermostat company that they run) find them some clients, research the area, hey no problemo, right. I love the idea, and I love the life style even more, but I don-t know anything about business.

Actually as far as the soul?searching ^who loves the crazy puncuation% I am thinking about . . . Returning to theatre!!! Boring.

Quiet, clean, and orderly Rome

What!? Huh? Get the fuck out! You're joking. Sto Scherzando. Nilla please. Rome quiet? I've never heard anyone describe Rome as clean? And orderly, I thought Rome had the worst traffic in the world? WTF?!

It's true people. After travelling first to Naples, and then to Palermo, Rome seems tame. The scooters and motorbikes and cars in Naples were non stop, you could hardly cross the street, or walk down one without getting run down. Palermo had trash all over the place. When the wind blew in Palermo you had to sheild your eyes or else be blinding by flying debris. Naples and Palermo had honking scooter assholes driving down the middle of busy markets packed with slimy people. (Did I mention that my family came from Sicily and Palermo, says a lot) The streets were wet with fish juice.

Then I took an overnight train to Rome. Ah Roma . . . Even though there is no bridge from Sicily to the mainland, there is a train, and there is no tunnel. You take a TRAIN-BOAT. I had hoped to tell people more about this amazing TRAIN-BOAT on this blog, but in truth it still remains a mystery. Their are no pictures of this alledged train boat on Google, and I couldn't see a damn thing in the dark from my sleeper car. This is truelly amazing because once you've taken any kind of boat or ferry in Europe, you will see that they are kinda haphazard about docking. They just pull up to a port, back it up a bit and let down the hatch. Their are no rigorous docking procedures, or carefully placed barriers to ease you into the perfect position for docking. In Europe, its more like a van pulling up to the curb to drop of a stack of papers. So, how the hell do they line up a boat with the tracks of a train?! I had hoped to know. It is like a puzzle wrapped in a enigma tortilla, deep fried in olive oil, stuffed with ricotta, and baked in a duct-taped sealed pan. And how do they have a ferry long enough to hold a 12 compartment long train? I heard the clanging, banging, and grind of great macinations at work; I felt the sea as our train swayed back and forth. Still, I didn't see a thing, and I don't know how they did it. It's like a puzzle, stuffed in a tortellini, swimming in tomato enigma . . . Their is only one reasonable explanation: The Germans built it.

Rome was fantastic. I spent four days their, and I would need at least 4 more monthes to see everything. I saw the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican, The Forum, the Colesseum, dozens of huge obelisks, scores of beautiful piazzas, some the greatest fountains ever constructed, 3,600 different depictions of Jesus Christ, but my favorite was Raphael's School of Athens. I didn't know I was going to encounter it in the Vatican Museum and I had always thought it was a painting. The School of Athens is a two story Fresco that is tremendous to behold. I had studied that painting in school and I love how Raphael used his famous Renaissance artist friends to pose as the great philosophers of ancient Greece.

(Movie announcer voice) This summer, from the people who brought you CHRIST!, the Vatican presents SCHOOL OF ATHENS! Starring, Leonardo Da Vinci as Socrates, Donatello (?) as Plato, Raphael as Aristotle, and Michalangelo as some brooding gay guy on the steps.

I am not trying to get myself killed!

I'm simply drawn to danger.

What is it about Palermo that makes me want to smash someone's face in? My rage is building and I need to find an appropriate outlet before I take out some rude honking scooter punk with my umbrella and end up in jail. Oh Palermo, I'll get to you yet!

The past week and a half since Napoli I have been trying to get myself killed. Joanna and I set sail for the Aolian Islands after wandering the streets of Naples with a full back pack and a map out in the middle of the night, walking down dark alleys, just like the books said not to do. I got to see the great Vesuvius, and I wondered why no one learned their lesson from Pompeii, when that sucker goes off again, Naples will be fucked!

The Aolian Islands is a chain of freakishly beautiful volcanos that lie just north of mailand Sicily. Joanna and i spent the first week camping on the isle of Salina. They used to make salt, now they make sweet wine that is just a bit too strong. Even though this is a typically very quiet little place (except July and august) we were there during the "Festiva della Birra" (Festival of Beer!) In Naples I had purchased a bottle of Absinthe (it had a gorgeous art nuevou label) because I wanted to try it since it is illegal back home. Damn! It tastes like a strong spicy Jaggermiester, and hits you pretty quick. Joanna and I had a few sips and we started trippin immediately, everything around us took on an eerie and particularly facinating presence. Maybe we were just psyching ourselves out or it was a particularily creepy night, but we headed back to the festival with more than Birra. To our delight it was KARAOKE night! Joanna immediately took to the mike and wowwed the crowd, they actually applauded her between verses. The girl can sing yo! She has mastered the Flashdance theme on Swidler's playstation game. I unfortuately went back to the Absinthe and hit it hard. Memory fails me at this point, but we were not lynched by the hundreds mobbed in the tiny square. Somehow I convinced Joanna that together we should sing the theme to FAME. Needless to say Fame was Lame. My absinsthe induced opening sank the ship before Joanna could take the helm, and at that point the crowd had turned, and the good will that she had accumilated in her first song was gone. I don't even remember how it ended, we just needed to get out of there quickly.

Salina was a particularly lush island with two volcanos and some great cliffy coastline (its featured in Il Postino, but I can hardly remember that film. We spent one afternoon on a beach below a spectacularly steep cliff with a little island in front of it. Another acient crater that reminded me of the pics I've seen of the hawaiian coast. It was rocky, but hey what do you expect, then we realized that the rocks we actually falling on us. Just little pebbles at first, no big deal. Then one hit my shoulder. Then my leg. Then a large boulder crashed a couple meters behing us. We'll be OK, what are the odds. "Ouhh" Joanna cried as a medium size boulder bounced off her boob. WHY ARE WE THE ONLY ONES ON THIS BEACH? We quickly scurried away, I don't remember any landslides in il Postino.

Before leaving Salina, we climbed the taller of the two to get some great views of the whole Goomba archipaeglio. We could see Stromboli smoldering off the distance, beckoning us (you love magma!) I suggested we head down the other side of the mountain so I could go to a cash machine. We kept trying to take shortcuts that nearly ended our lives on numerous occasions. Cliffs look scalable from a distance, but the footing was pebbly, my mom would have freaked, we nearly ended up in a ravine.

Then to Stromboli! We took a guided hike to the top. Easily the toughest hike I've ever done, the wind nearly blew us off the top of the mountain, we had to rent boots and helmets and flashlights for the dark walk home. Our tour guide had awesome english. "Witha no-a Sciarra" (Sciarra is the place where the lave flows down to the water) "Da persone of dee-a village-a woulda be-a die"

We actually climbed above the crater where the explosions were taking place. I thought we would have to watch it from a great distance, but no, lets get in for a closer look on the side of this windswept little ledge. At this point, if I were to die, i wouldn't want people to feel sorry for me, just shake your head and say. What a moron. I asked for it, like people who like in Florida each year with their hurricanes, or the people of coastal Bangladesh with their monsoon flooding, or the people of Pompeii, they should know better.

The lava really was amazing. So many explosions, and magma shooting high into the air, its red spew smoldering on the black mountainside. It was without a doubt- the coolest thing I've ever seen. Joanna and I hiked halfway up the Sciarra the next night to watch the evening pyrotecnics and it was even better. The clouds lit red with lava bursts. it looked like Mordor for you dorks out there, I'm not kiddin.

Then we sailed to Vulcano. It stank! Sulfur mud pools are the big attraction here. I went in it and it was nasty, my clothes still reek. Then Joanna and I climbed up to the big crater. it was one smelly bitch. Toxic sulpheric fumes pluming right out of our pathway, my throat still feels weird, but it was something to behold. If you enjoy beholding yellowcaked green stanky sulpher spewing craters.

Finally we sailed and trained to Palermo, with a quick stop in the picturesque Cefalu. Oh Palermo! Damn you for bringing me here. My name sake SIANO is from
Palermo, and let me tell you one thing, I know why my great grandfather got the hell out of Palermo. This city makes Naples look romantic. I should have gone to the eastern Ionian coast of sicily with Syracuse and Taormina and Mt Etna and amazing ancient Greek amphitheathers on cliffs above the Mediterrean.

But no, I need to know where my family came from. WHATEVER! This place is a hellhole with some nice Cathedrals and good night life. Last night I watched the cops chase some guys in suits, run right in front of me. Tires screeching, people yellin, it was cool, but damn, Mafioso stereotypes may never die here.

Anyways that's it for now, I gotta go pay too much for dinner and get nearly run down by a dozen scooters. Oh and the hostel here charges 30 Euro a night for a dorm bed, what the fuck! I pee on your "youth hostel" with great force and I hope the powers of erosion find you quickly, I'm going to stay at the dirty loud Hotel regina, cause I like springs in my back! Oh Sianos, rejoice that Palermo is no longer your home.

Stomboli- sweet Magma honey