Why Males Endure Pain Better than Women

No, it's no gag, or chain letter from a macho society. This came out in the New Scientist.

I don't know how I feel about this, given the fuss McGyva makes everytime I put antiseptic on his cuts. In my opinion, this is all simple evolution, and all those doctors with alphabets trailing after their surnames could have stayed home watching soaps if all they could deduce was what's in the article.

Evolution, I say. Survival of the fittest. The capacity to survive the centuries of rolling pins, frying pans, and porcelain vases smashed over their heads...





Cartoon by Peter Steiner, published in the New Yorker. From Cartoonbank.com

Ok- so enough about Hungary. The wedding was fantastic, in a castle an hour and a half outside Budapest. It was a gorgeous party; lavish, entertaining, and often outrageous. Will spare you the details as they make more sense to those who actually attended or know the participants.


So there. Go to Hungary someday. You will enjoy it too.


And now...for something different

I just finished reading the latest Harry Potter book, The Order of the Phoenix, and have to say I was amused and entertained. I must mention first that I am a fan of the series which I began reading as part of my personal anti-literary snobbery crusade;it's one of the best surprises I've had regarding incursions into different genres.

There were a few things Rowling did that I really liked:

The first was the fact that the writing clearly reflected the fact Harry is really a teenager at this point: stubborn, dramatic, a bit temperamental...The tone, the language and some of the content reflected that well.

The second: Harry has had a crush on Chang Cho for a long time- since book 3, maybe?. In this book, they actual start a mini-relationship. I like the fact that, unlike many tales of first loves, this isn't smooth, or automatically perfect: it is terribly awkward and confusing- Harry doesn't know the first thing about girls; he totally misunderstands the very sensitive and emotional Cho, who has all these expectations and is a tad jealous...I found myself grinning throughout the "romantic" passages. Harry is filled with happiness at discovering Cho likes him...and then with terror as he realizes that she likes him...Isn't that so true for way back when (and sometimes, even nowadays)?

It was a story filled with frustration and difficulty- I'd say that Phoenix is to the Potter series what the Empire Strikes Back is to the Star Wars films.

And now it's time I go work on Endless...

Budapest-Part IV


The cabs dropped us off near Cafe Gerbaud, at the front of this large romanesque building. Lots of security at the door. This was a "tickets only" event. J. assured us we would be able to just waltz right in. She got on the cell phone and soon enough was waving at these two, a British dude and an Egyptian guy, who walked toward us from the other side of the gate. She walked right in. D., C., L., S., McGyva and I were stuck outside. Apparently security was not going to let us crash regardless of our connections, who worked for one of the companies sponsoring the event. More arguing, the British and Egyptian guys trying to talk sense into the security gorillas...Some clever PR person showed up with a few tickets...All but McGyva got in. At this point, McGyva, who is known for having a temper, was yelling.

The basic idea of the sounds coming from him were "Let's LEAVE NOW!". I looked about me sheepishly and almost pretended he wasn't pointing at me. Suddenly, another ticket pops out from some resourceful person and McGyva was admitted. After D.,C., L., and McGyva are scolded for wearing suits (we had been at a formal event earlier in the evening) by the guys, we made our way into the party.

MTV had partioned this huge room into various sections where multiple things were going on. In the first room there was loud music and a bar, and mountains of people dancing on a multi-level platform. More go-go dancers standing on a transparent platform: the woman basically wearing a bikini, and the guy wearing these skin-tight sparkly black pants. My favorites were these bald guys in heavy make-up made up to look like giant yellow spiders. They did not speak at all, and they wore these humongous platform shoes that looked like icebergs. They were in the middle of the dance floor dancing away...to more techno.

Down a little hallway and we were in a small cafe-styled room where people were huddled around tables. The next room had a bar and was decidely more mellow- people could sit, hang out, talk. Right off that room was a kind of sectioned off tent labeled "VIP". We went right in, much to the security guy's dissatisfaction. All that trouble to get inside so we could sit outside again. We camped out there for a while, marveling at the evening's randomness as MTV crews went around filming people. No crews came up to us. They probably felt we were more worthy of VH1.

Suddenly J., our benefactress, had pangs of guilt: her parents had requested she make it a relatively early night because of the wedding the next day. Despite our cries of protest, she excused herself and left us.

And the debauchery began: shot after shot of vodka chased with Red Bull. Luckily for my parents, I was born with a problem processing alcohol; if I have more than one glass of whatever, I will be horribly sick. No doubts about it. So I tended to my little drink gingerly as I watched my friends buy round after round. L., who'd been complaining of a mild headache all evening, declared himself cured, and was sharing the medicine with everyone else. McGyva was getting very silly, especially when the spider guys made their way into the tent, and hovered over us, waving their hands all around us in theatrical silence. All I could think of was It's 3:00AM and I'm being attacked by spider-mimes at an MTV party in Budapest...And it feels very normal. I knew we had to get going when McGyva decided it was his mission to go over to this large group of smokers and inform them educationally of the perils of smoking. D., C., L., and S., who were all smoking, were very amused at the prospect. However, sensing that the big, hairy tatooed guy who had been working on enticing this one chick for most of the evening would not find my toothsome husband very funny or endearing, I suddenly announced my need to get at least 4 hours of sleep. Protests abounded, and McGyva pleaded we stay a bit longer, securing at least another 30 minutes after buying everyone another round of vodka shots.

When we finally got up to leave, things were still pretty crowded- a lot of people were still dancing. As we made our way past the hordes, our little group splintered, and McGyva and I decided to head for the door. We actually had to run, because McGyva had elbowed a few guys, who had started converging on me, on the head.

We decided to wait a couple minutes outside to see if any of our buddies were coming too, and as we waited tried to decide the best way to the hotel. Suddenly this very drunken English guy walks up to us and starts chatting.
"Where are you from?" He asks.
"SWEDEN!" McGyva pipes up, his voice suddenly taking this ridiculous sing-song tone. I smile and nod. We talk a little more, McGyva's phoney Swedish accent making me want to laugh. Luckily, the guy was too far gone to notice. His gang of buddies called him over, and we watched as he waved and walked away. All of a sudden the guy freezes in his tracks and spins around.

"Wait a minute...I know who you are!!!" He yells at McGyva. I have visions of us running down the street with a pack of drunken Brits behind us. We held our breaths as the guys looked up at us.

"YOU'RE THE FREAKING PRESIDENT OF IKEA, AREN'T YOU?"

McGyva smiled and nodded. The guys loved it.

"I LURVE YOUR FURNITURE!" someone yelled.

"Thank you! Thank you!" we waved. Whew!

We decided to take a cab back to the hotel, fully aware that cabbies are notorious for swindling tourists. We saw a few shady characters pushing their services, but in an unmarked car. Finally we hailed what looked like a real cab- and even had a logo we'd recognized. We entered the car, told him which Novotel we wanted (there are two in the city), and sat back, hoping for the best. He went around a few loops and we noticed that he was getting on the bridge to cross Buda...Our hotel was in Pest. Although I live in the Boston area and have seen crazier routes courtesy of the Big Dig, I couldn't imagine a "short-cut" over the bridge. Before I could open my mouth, McGyva started yelling. Both the cab driver and I froze. Imagine a dark evening, no one is on the road... A cab comes to a screeching halt on the middle of the lit bridge. There's a look of terror on the cabbie's face. And one on mine.

McGyva, who did not want to reveal our US identities, chose to scream in a Portuguese-Italian meddley. None of which he speaks.

The cabbie tried tentatively in German. McGyva yelled back in Portuguese something to the effect that the cabbie had a papaya head, a term he picked up from little kids when he visited me in Brazil...I calmly explained we wanted to go to the Novotel in Pest- and gave him the street address this time. I knew he was trying to trick us, but was trying to let him get out of it gracefully...The man nodded gratefully and turned the car right around. He was trying to explain why he had made the mistake (two Novotels...never mind I had given him the right one the first time), and bla-bla. He almost passed our hotel, and we had to start yelling again for him to stop. When we went to tally up the cost, he did not deduct any of the cost for the "detour", and added, as we handed him a bill, that he did not have any change. Have you watched the Incredible Hulk yet? I have. In that cab. The bill wasn't a very high one, so McGyva said "Screw it!", and unleashed all these insults in Portuguese at the man at the top his lungs. The man looked terrified, and I was ready to beat McGyva on his silly head, for I was still inside the cab, and if the man had wanted to, he could have taken off in a rush with me still inside. Finally, McGyva said that classical, universal Italian insult that everyone understands, and as I made my way out of the cab, saw the cabbie step out of the cab in a fury. I pushed McGyva back into the hotel as the cabbie stood outside shaking his fist.

"Let me at him,"McGyva shouted. Meanwhile I held him back and smiled sweetly at our very bewildered Novotel concierges.

"Helloooooo!...and...Goodnight!"

I pushed him into the elevator, and after a few seconds of tense silence...he began to laugh hysterically. I didn't know whether to laugh or pummel his ears.

When we finally reached our room, he opened our curtains in a grand gesture, and unlatched the bacony door.
"Come watch the sun rise over Budapest with me, my love."

I put on my PJs and watched my Errol Flynn sit on a chair facing the buildings outside. We had to get up in less than 4 hours to travel into the hills for a wedding that was going to last all night. I was exhausted.
"Just close those curtains and get to bed...Now"

Budapest-Part III

Despite the late night and horrid jetlag, McGyva and I managed to wake up in time to grab breakfast in the dining room, a newly renovated dining area, with high ceilings and elegant, gilded woodwork. As we filled our plates, we watched the waiters briskly seize trays and cups from around us. The fact there had once been food surrounding us became a hallucination.

Miffed that I didn't get a shot at the troph of Hungarian pancakes, we made our way to the lobby waiting to be herded onto the bus for the tour of Budapest E. and M. had organized for us all. At the doorway, a wonderful surprise: our friend S. and L. had just walked in- they were staying at the Marco Polo Hostel a few minutes away, and were coming to the tour. S. is a petite, attractive woman from Mauritius who speaks English with a slight French accent. She lives in the Boston area, so I do get to see her occasionally. She is, however, moving to Toulon, to join her new love, a French sailor in the merchant marines, so her time in Boston is going to be brief. I had been with her the previous night, at the bachelorette party, where she warned everyone not to light any cigarettes off candles, for superstition dictated this curtailed a sailor's life...L., however, I hadn't seen for some 7 years. L. really looks like a cherub: blond hair, very pale complexion, baby blue eyes, glowing cheeks, and a warm smile, you would NEVER imagine this is a guy who got into the amount of trouble he did...Despite his reputation, we'd become friends, having shared sandwiches, a healthy fear of the geese (they usually ended up taking aforementioned shared sandwiches) by the pond at our university, and many conversations. He got an armful of VikingZen who leapt on him upon sight. It's wonderful to see old friends.

We all got on the large tour bus and began getting our first real glimpses of Budapest in daylight. We made our way to the Square of Heroes, a monument celebrating the beginning of Hungary as it defines itself. Some tough, butt kicking bronze Magyars are depicted on their horses, and suddenly I found myself wishing I knew more about Hungarian history other than its association with the Hapsburgs.

Behind the square was a lovely park where Vajdahunyad Castle is located. As we walked past the gates, we saw people watching a small outdoor show: folk dancing. I wanted to stay and watch, folklore being part of my field, my heart pounding at the fact these kids were dancing and keeping the tradition alive (yes, sappy me), but our tour guide beckoned.

She walked us to the very spooky statue of a hooded, almost faceless monk identified as "Anonymous"; although little is actually known about the historical man apparently he was one of the first literary figures (a chronicler and historian) in Hungary. Apparently it is good luck to go and rub the tip of his pen (get your minds out of the gutter), so I dragged S. up there with me and we took the obligatory picture.

We had lunch at the Lukacs, a gorgeous cafe. We then piled back into the bus and went to a most stunning destination: the Castle District, and finally, my favorite, the Hal?szb?stya, or Fisherman's Bastion, from where you can look down into the hills of Buda, across the Danube, and into Pest. The Bastion is simply breathtaking: after climbing the steps to the towers, which all are connected, reminding you of medieval castles and archers keeping post along the wall, you enter into a small square where there is a majestic statue of Saint Stephen next to the Church of our Lady, also known as Matthias Church. As we entered the church, it began to rain very hard outside, a hard summer rain that wore itself out in a matter of minutes. The air became cool all around us. I liked the church because it painted in warm, earthy tones, and there was plenty of wood. C., proving himself a true Italian, pointed at the pillars and said: "What? No carving? They just painted them? Where's the intricacy in the woodwork? B'o! I'm not impressed." And other little comments only someone who crosses the Vatican without as much as turning his head could come up with. The church had survived Turkish occupation, been converted into a mosque, and finally back into a church again. It was also the site where Austrian monarch Franz Josef held the second ceremony celebrating his marriage to the very popular Elizabeth, more affectionally remembered as "Sissi", the Empress of Austria, Queen of Hungary. When I was in 3rd grade or so, the three-part series depicting the life of "Sissi" and her love story with Franz Josef, who fell madly in love with her instead of with her sister, as he was supposed to, captured my imagination. Romy Schneider played "Sissi", and although the whole thing was sentimental fluff, I remember watching it with my grandmother and discussing it with my friends...it seemed the whole country, or at least, the 3rd grade, was following the series.

After a couple more stops, we ended the tour at Cafe Gerbaud, where we had some very delicious pastries. Although we had the afternoon to ourselves, and there were plenty of fascinating shops and streets to explore in the area, we had little time to dilly-dally. We had to get ready for the rehearsal dinner at Gundel, one of Hungary's finest restaurants, owned by cosmetic giant Estee Lauder's son. After I waved and blew kisses to Air India's office, close to Cafe Gerbaud, we booked it to the hotel...Or rather, McGyva dragged me, as I found myself magnetically drawn to all the shops along the way.

Gundel is not far away from the Square of Heroes, so we risked sharing a cab with two other guests. We were seated in the courtyard, where we had the opportunity to hear hauntingly beautiful melodies being played. Needless to say, the dinner was fantastic, and the bride and groom-to-be looked thrilled that so many friends had come from so far away. Thanks to McGyva, C., and L., our table was the rowdiest. Apparently we were right next door to the Budapest zoo, but you'd think the animals were on our side of the fence.

The adventures began when the bride's sister, J., who was not in the mood to go to bed just after the dinner, invited us to go out with her. C., L., S., McGyva, and a few others walked over to another outdoor bar/club, this one by the zoo and amusement park. It was fairly quiet when we arrived, despite the go-go dancer frantically bustin' her moves on top of the bar. The music, of course, was more techno...remixes of remixes... After a while I was relieved to see that the go-go dancers were probably unionized as they often took breaks and worked in amenable shifts. Further inside the bar area there was a dance floor- but it was too hot. We all decided to dance right by the bar area. After all, if the go-go dancers could do it, so could we. In fact, we'd been daring C. to climb on the bar with the dancer (McGyva briefly flirted with the thought, but my arched eyebrows halted any reveries of the kind). At one point McGyva accompanied me to the ladies room, right next to men's room. As we waved a quick good-bye and opened our respective doors, we noticed the doors were a mere formality: the bathrooms were pratically in the same room. Very amusing to attempt picking someone up in the restroom...

The music was sucky, we were just bouncing around, looking about to see if things would pick up, but they didn't. We were considering calling it a night when everyone left and piled into cabs. One group of cabs went in one direction, and ours went in another...C., J., D., who was the best man, S., L., and I were all heading downtown.
"Where are we going?" I asked, visions of the soft featherbed at the hotel dissipating.
"MTV Budapest party!" someone announced. McGyva gave me this crazed grin as if the elves had just told him where they buried their gold...

Today the Viking is happy because Trout has seen the error of his ways and made amends in his blog. He suspects I am behind the Creamed Salmon charade, but I maintain my innocence: I love to take credit for any chaos I successfully unleash. Plus, creamed salmon is such a banal dish...Tart Fugu would be a better moniker ( and if the implications weren't so revolting, Sweet and Sour Shrimp would have been the best of them all. It's brilliant at so many levels). It's a mild accusation, done mostly as a gesture of reconciliation, rehashing a dubiously glorious past for better ratings, kind of like bringing Charo back to the show to do her "cuchi-cuchi" thing, but as we say down in the South (America): Speak ill if you must, but DO speak of ME!
So, links will not be dismantled...Disaster's been averted. Good Trout!

In today's thrilling blogpisode, the Trout is pardoned, and the Creamed Salmon's secret identity is still up for grabs!

Budapest- Part II

We arrived at Ferihegy Airport in the afternoon and took the special airport shuttle to our hotel. We'd been told to avoid taxis at all costs as they have a reputation for swindling tourists...We stayed at the Novotel Centrum in downtown Budapest. Now, Budapest is an interesting city: it has two sides: Buda and Pest, split in half by the Danube river. Buda is very green, and hilly, and seems to contain most of the castles in the city. Pest is more modern, and flat; it also has lovely architecture, but you can see the legacy of communism and the dilapidation more accutely in this part of town. Anyway...Our hotel was in the Pest side of town.

Once we checked in, we realized we had enough time to unpack, shower and get ready for the bachelor and bachelorette parties McGyva and I were respectively to attend that evening (I did not mention that we went to Hungary to attend my friend E.'s wedding. E is a very proud and outgoing Hungarian.). A few minutes after getting to our room, we hear a knock at the door. McGyva dispatches me to check it out since I can say a few things in Hungarian (what they mean exactly, I couldn't tell you) and I look through the peephole. A voice outside announces: "Room service. Complimentary champagne!" I am a bit dumbstruck- the guy is not dressed up as a waiter, or wearing any type of uniform...and yet, I am compelled to open the door because I recognize the face.

It is C., a beloved college friend from Italy who has also come to the wedding. C looks like a younger, hipper, and slicker Bill Murray. After handshakes and hugs are given, and the basic info on life's current status gathered, he announces to us that he will be attending the bachelorette party rather than the bachelor party. All very good, and McGyva starts wondering if he should ditch the bachelor party and come out with the girls and boy.

We finally all meet up at the lobby later on with groups of people from around the globe. E. and her fiance, M., a Canadian guy, have loyal friends who have made the trek to Budapest. It turns out 23 nationalities are represented at the wedding. A mini UN.

Despite concerns that we would be separated for the evening, McGyva ends up going to the bachelor party. C. outmaneuvered the guys and found himself surrounded by 12 women ready to party. We end up in Buda, at a great restaurant that is actually in a large, airy, outdoor patio, enjoying an amazing meal. Jetlag be damned! After dinner and a few "ordeals" the bride-to-be endured, the bride's sister announced our next destination: an open-air disco by the river. We make our way to a jam-packed area and luckily end up scoring a table and chairs. The dance floor is a small semi-circle and yes, it is filled with sweaty bodies dancing to loud remixes of old remixes. We suspect C. ended up regretting his decision to come with the girls as he ended up chaperoning us all, especially E., the bride to be, who made her way to the wall over the dance floor and proceeded to dance with a bunch of scantily clad males. I constantly found myself at the wrong end of the dance floor, and my friends and I kept circling the human merry-go-round in search of each other. All in all it was great fun watching the nightlife unfold before us and getting the reassurance that what was going on here, even if in an incomprehnsible language (and not just Hungarian; there were people from all over here), was not too different from what was went on back home (boys checking out girls, girls running off together to talk about the boys, people hooking up, people getting drunk, dancing, showing off, etc.).We finally made it home around 3AM, but only because the bride-to-be didn't want to make it too late an evening...McGyva, however, got home a bit later, after going to observe some Hungarian "ballet" and eating a gigantic cake in the shape of an ass (how appropriate)...

Tomorrow I will post more about the day and evening's events. They mainly involve my old college buddies, whom I hadn't seen in years: C., the Italian Bill Murray, S., a petite woman from Mauritius who can outlast and outparty anyone I know, and L., a Czech guy who looks like a blond, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked angel, but is really a devil in disguise. McGyva and they were my Budapest posse, and it was with them that most of the adventures to be narrated took place. It was great hanging out with this wild crowd even if they forced me to remember, the hard way, that I am no longer 20 years old...

The VikingZen has returned from a whilrwind trip to Budapest. What a ride.

The adventure really began upon arrival at JFK airport, a place that has been one of my favorite people-watching spots since I was a kid: flights to places I never heard of, airlines I'd never seen arching the skies over my house, people speaking languages I didn't understand, wearing clothes I couldn't help staring at; it was as if a storybook had coughed up all its characters.

But I digress. I was scheduled to take a Malev Hungarian airlines to Budapest that evening when I was informed at the check-in counter that the flight had been cancelled...The bile begins to churn my stomach. And now? Malev Airlines, which has a tiny service "office" that will remind you of a country fair's kissing booth, had avoided the massive fury of tourists and Hungarians and made alternate plans for us all: fly Air India into London's Heathrow Airport, and take a Malev flight from there in the afternoon.

Air India, I thought, my fists clenching. McGyva and I dragged our annoyed selves to Air India's counter discussing rapidly whether or not we should scrap the whole trip, or face travel on Air India. We decided to get in line.

Then I saw them get in line behind us: what was obviously a group of conservative Muslim men, wearing tunics, hats, and long beards. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking, and my mouth went dry. "This is ridiculous. They're just guys traveling back home ," I tried to reason with myself. After all, the flight was a London-Delhi one, and India has a large Muslim population. And yet I couldn't stop shaking and feeling faint, overwhelmed by my irrational fear and irritation at my own hypocrisy. Visions of Ashcroft and Rumsfeld with their horns and pitchforks appeared in my head: " See? Let us complete our 'work' in peace."

I snapped out of it and decided that a life in fear is not worth living, and gave the whole situation the good old Brazilian shrug:"A problem with no solution is one that is therefore already solved."

My heart pounding, we made our way through the snakey corridors toward the plane. I might mention that I am also the biggest fraidy cat when it comes to flying, despite the fact I come from a family of world travelers and have flown many, many times since I was 3 months old.

The minute we entered the plane it was like a mini-Nirvana: beautiful women in saris, wearing gold bangles around their wrists and bright bindus on their foreheads greeted us by pressing their hands in a prayer-like gesture saying "Namaste". The interior of the aircraft was festive: the carrier's walls were drawn with swirling flowers, and the seats had also been upholstered in bright and bold floral patterns. The main screen announced that our carrier had a name: Konak. The speakers played a gentle raga, and of course, we had delightful Indian food for dinner.

One of the most soothing and pleasant trips ever.

After that, the other planes we had to get on to complete and return from the trip have seemed paltry compared to our beautiful flight to London...

And now I will stop. There's more on Budapest itself coming, including how we found ouselves in the VIP section of an MTV party downtown...

The VikingZen apologizes in advance for a lack of postings this upcoming week. You see, I am going to be in Hungary for the remainder of the week. Will share any interesting tales next week, after the insane trip is over.

Now in a brand new flavor:

I've finally taken some time to create a blog in Portuguese. Since I didn't want it to be separate from this one I just FTPed it, and it can be acessed only via this main page (links specifically to it won't work- I know! I know! Millions are disappointed) . It's already on the blogroll, so Brazilian friends and Portuguese speakers who struggle to understand what the heck I'm babbling about can find out I am as unintelligible in Portuguese! Yaaay!

Just click on "Melody" to visit (even if you don't speak Portuguese, you should visit anyway; it's a Josie and the Pussycats themed page. You can't miss that.)!!

Time for the weekly recap (which occurs randomly) of some of the blogs I like to visit:


Roma Dewey posted a great picture of herself in the Matrix...You go, girl! You'll make their little circuits fizzle!

Trout will be waxing any vestiges of hair to avoid parasites...just who's hair, I don't know.

Lord of Your Sorry Ass: You put the moron in oxymoron, darling. There are better things to be lord of.

McGyva Speaks Out: That trip to Montral was it. I guess those sandwiches at Schwartz's were so good there is no need to blog about anything else.

The Samablog is holding a contest to figure out which Moxie gets the honor of having her name posted on his blogroll. I have voted, but choose to not disclose for whom given the flaring tempers and hostilities exchanged over this competition...The Samablog also did a plug for this blog in a recent post: he's awesome.


Other news: The VikingZen has been invited to join a performance troupe and to actually TEACH drumming...

You know, I posted about loving Florence, which I do, but there is much to be said about my stay in Rome.

VikingZen's Adventures in Rome

(Part I, but in no particular chronological order)


In Rome I lived in the Centro Historico, in a small orange colored building on Via Panisperna, a noisy little street filled with small hotels and grappa bars. In front of the building a few Albanian prostitutes hung out in broad daylight waving and smiling at me whenever I stepped out.

I was staying with one of my best friends- let's call him "Nero"- in his bachelor pad. It was tiny, and instead of a closet, my room had a kitchen, but it was a place to stay for free in Rome. Nero owned a Vespa which caused me to rediscover my faith as I prayed feverishly for my life every time we went out on it. He also had a very old, beat up Porsche, which he'd bought very cheaply, and which he told me had helped him get many dates. I couldn't imagine the veracity of that claim being that they only thing I could envision being done in that car was the transportation of chickens in cages on a Mexican road, and I suspect the Albanian prostitutes agreed because they laughed and pointed every time we took that car out.

One of the visits Nero took me on was to the Panteon. Actually, I had already been to the Panteon a couple times before, and we were not actually going there- we were walking home from one of the bars Nero hung out in. His friend Sky, an American, was working there at the time, and it was then that I discovered Italians don't know crap about making a good margarita. As we crossed the small square in front of the Panteon, Nero stopped at a small water fountain, which Nero forced me to drink from telling me this was something the Romans had done...and then I discovered the REAL reason the Empire collapsed.

After that we visited the emergency room at a local hospital where I was told my stomach would recover from my archeological experiment (much to Nero's disappointment- he was hoping I'd be admitted so he could watch satellite TV- it was a nice hospital) and I realized that a visit to the emergency room in Italy is FREE!! As I clutched my poor stomach while gathering the courage to hop back on Nero's Vespa, we witnessed a man, lying in a cot, yelling "Not here! Not here!" We exchanged glances, immediately feeling sorry for the poor guy. The attendants were moving him around the patio as he yelled "No good! No good!" We kept watching until the attendants took him to one corner and he yelled "Good! Good!" It was only then that we noticed he was trying to get a better reception on his cell phone...It tickled Nero so that he would not shut-up about this, and acted out the scene ad nauseam...

Would you like to hear more? Did this amuse you in the slightest? Do you have a pulse? Ah...to have a blog where people comment on. I wonder what that is like. And I wish I had more geek friends, like Trout has, who actually used their computers and came to read my blog (one friend wrote back puzzled: "I checked your page. How does it work? I don't understand this blog thing! What should I be doing?").

I've been experimenting with different forms of publicizing this little blog that has a small, but loyal readership. I don't know who some of you are, but I appreciate your stopping by to the see what's new (although queries for "viking cartoons" seem to top the list of searches leading to this page. I did not know there was such a gap in the field! Someday I might end up posting drawings of Sven or Leif). I'm evaluating Eatonweb and Bloghop to see to what happens- and the BlogSnob is a clever little blog advertising service that links to random blogs on your page...and that lists your blog in other people's pages. We'll see- I might not like it- part of that "Widely known in narrow circles" thing.


I was going to blog about Ken Burns' gorgeous Jazz, being broadcast on PBS, but am feeling laaaazy, so do that Henry James effect thing in Turn of the Screw I've taught you all to do so well, and fill in the gaps: fabulous, Dizzy Gillespie, Charles Parker, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Dave Brubeck, the development of US history seen through the jazz/music perspective. Cool! (*applause substituted by hep cat finger snapping*).



AND NOW... VIKINGZEN'S TRIVIA!!!


So you think you're so smart...Let me prove how you really are by dumbfounding you with the current trivia question!! Of course, you will produce a clever little answer discretely searched for on Google, but we both know you had NO CLUE...

Bwahahahahaha!!!!!



Question: What was El Cid's real name?


Post your answer in the comments section. I'll make sure to pretend I don't have a clue as to what you're blabbing about and will either flame you or delete your reply!! Woo-hoo!

I have a good buddy whom I'll refer to as Mr. M here. Mr. M is a very friendly person: warm, thoughtful, and gracious. He hails from Senegal, and we became friends after finding that we had many interests in common and ended up taking the same graduate courses. Mr. M and I enjoy talking about how different our lives were back in the countries we grew up in, and often amuse each other by comparing and contrasting the cultural differences.

One year we were taking a course in African literature that was scheduled to conclude with a great big feast. Somehow Mr. M and I ended up being responsible for cooking Yassa, a scrumptuous African dish that can be made with either chicken, fish, or beef. Since Mr. M did not have a car, and I used to live near campus, preparations were to occur in my cuisine; the night before the bash I picked up Mr. M and another volunteer to shop for the goodies.

I remember watching Mr. M with curiosity as I wondered whether or not he would find all the necessary ingredients to make this very ethnic dish. I had visions of exotic spices and vegetables strewn across my kitchen counter. I followed Mr. M as he wove through the supermarket aisles, his face wrapped in concentration. The cart became filled with chicken, onions, rice, and...teriyaki sauce?

"What the hey, 'M'! What's with this?" I said, shaking the packet of teriyaki powder in his bemused face."Since when is teriyaki sauce a staple of Senegalese cooking?"

"I tried it once- it's good enough," he dismissed me unflappably.

We continued to shop for the remaining ingredients when Mr. M suddenly stopped in the middle of the baby food aisle and started chuckling. When I asked him why he was laughing, he pointed at the pots of Gerber baby food, the ones with the baby's face drawn on them.

"You know, back home the literacy rates are so low that products have to include a picture of the item on the packaging so people know what they're buying."

And he pointed again at the baby food, grinning mischievously:

"This would cause an uproar..."


Yassa is a very hearty dish that should be started the night before. We served the chicken with rice- it was quite a hit, teriyaki sauce not withstanding...

A good recipe for Yassa can be found at TopTastes.com, a great site for recipes.

The VikingZen had an exciting weekend with friends visiting, a wedding, and meeting up with Trout and his lovely Mermaid. Of all that this will suffice: Much fun was had by all.

Roma left me a wonderful comment encouraging me to blog in Portuguese...Roma, I had thought the project would be fun, but now I am changing my mind after my computer began hiccupping with every accent I tried to insert...Someday, perhaps...For now we can continue with our fofocas, receitas, e mexiricos that confuse my other readers...heh heh heh...

AND... SalamPax is REAL! I didn't really doubt it, but it's nice to have confirmation. Nice article!

New and Improved! (huh? think about it): The Insta-Rant!


1. If you are going to bother to get a spiffy car with racing stripes and all kinds of studly gadgets, then don't cut in front of other people and proceed to drive like a grandma on valium.

2. It's a ROTARY: You YIELD to people already on it, not the other way around. Think of it as a Merry-Go-Round: You don't get on until the kid on the purple horse is DONE.

3. Pick a lane, any lane!...and THEN...Stick to that lane! You CANNOT have 2 lanes at once.

4. Parking space lines aren't there merely for decoration, nor are they mysterious archeological markings.

5. I DON'T care how much you paid for those Germanically named speakers: the music is distorted, sounds like crap, and you come across as a desperate loser who thinks of women as "baaaabes!"

6. DON'T-I repeat-DON'T assume it's safe to pick your nose; the red light has the power of stopping cars, not the power to make you invisible. It's gross- especially when you gaze at it afterwards with a puzzled expression.

And now for the *BONUS* rant of the day:


When are websites going to configure receipts that printers will fit into ONE (1, UNO, 1!) freakin page instead of wasting 2-3 sheets of paper with only the website link printed??

Come take a trip with me, courtesy of your Frequent Blogging Miles. Click the links and follow me...


When was the last time you allowed yourself to wander in a museum? Like a real flanneur, letting the afternoon unravel in front of a beautiful, provocative, disturbing, or quizzical piece of art?


I love museums- I try to go as often as possible. When I lived in Paris I was overwhelmed by the quantity of wonderful museums throughout the city. I had the opportunity to run into many celebrities while I lived there: Roman Polansky, Tracy Chapman, George Michael, Karl Lagerfeld, Jane Birkin, and Serge Gainsbourg (he lived right near my high school). This was all fun and stuff, but I was more starstruck by running into the paintings and sculptures I had only seen in the big art history books I devoured: Manet's defiant Olympia, Seurat's magical dots of light and color which became wondrous images, Renoir's delicate lines, and Rodin's very sensual sculptures...

In Paris there are the more traditional museums that everyone visits, such as the Louvre (text available in English), where the Mona Lisa resides, and the Musée d'Orsay , where I unexpectedly ran into Whistler's "Mother". She looked so grave - I can only marvel at her mortification upon being placed near so many nekkid women!... These were museums I visited again, and again, small, but concentrated doses each time. I have to confess that after the build-up of a lifetime, the Mona Lisa was a bit of a let down: quite small, guarded behind a thick glass case, and add to that the throngs of people who stood gaping in front of her...I was a bit surprised by such an anticlimatic encounter. But...it was good enough for me!


Other splendid, less known museums are the Musée Gustave Moreau, a collection of this very unique artist's works (inspired by myth and Byzantine art, he painted the most exquisite paintings of women) and the Musée Guimet, a museum in an interesting older building filled with an impressive collection of Chinese, Tibetan, Indian, and Japanese art.


If you want to be starstruck for real (at least for me it was one jolt after another) go to Italy: the whole country drips of history to the point that Italians are almost complacent about this. When I lived in Italy, I was awed in Rome (the Roman Forum, the Vatican...I mean, what can I add that hasn't been said? Cool? I say no more!), but very at ease in Florence. Florence was my home in Italy- I know it inside out. It's a relatively small city- you can cross it on foot in an hour or so (Medieval walls at least), but you would need a lifetime to unlock its treasures (hokey, but true). I fell in love with Firenze, and its Ponte Vecchio, (where only jewelers are allowed to work- there used to be tanneries there, which dumped urine in the river, but one of the Medici's got sick of the stink and decreed only jewelry stores- which didn't stink- could work there) where I heard a street musician sing an aria during the afternoon twilight (before WWII, Italians quoted opera like we quote...I dunno...Seinfeld? You get the idea.), over the waters of the Tevere, trailing the same streets as Dante, running into his effigy in a chapel fresco in the Museo Bargello (where they also have an amazing collection of swords and armor...), the Piazza della Signoria (Arafat was scheduled to speak there during my stay- and Zefirelli was filming "Tea with Mussolini" in the city), the Palazzo Vecchio(where I ran into a sculpture of cupid, by the exit into the courtyard, where the reproduction is displayed, by Da Vinci's teacher, Andrea del Verocchio, unpretentiously presented, just a detail... I almost fell to my knees.), David (the symbol of Florence- the little city that beat its Goliath/neighbors) at the Academia, the magnificent Perseus with the beheaded Medusa (the best sculpture of a mythic hero, in my opinion), the oasis of San Lorenzo church and courtyard and the colorful market outside, the ostentatious Palazzo Pitti , and its grounds, the only bit of green in this massively stoney city: Boboli gardens (first one to make a joke gets spanked), the Museo della Scienza, where I managed to turn upside down so I could peek through one of Galileo's telescopes- something that gave me chills as I realized I was looking through the same telescope as GALILEO once had!!!-granted, only at the ceiling, but hey!), and finally...at the Uffizzi.


The Uffizi...Aaah. Take a deep breath.


The Uffizi Gallery, literally "the Offices"...of the Medici. Those Medici...You want family saga?

Here you will find the greatest masters, such as Boticelli, Michelangelo, and glorious Caravaggio, master of painting shadows.


I had seen Boticelli's the Birth of Venus before in books and thought "ah, very nice" and other platitudes...but seeing it in person was a terrific experience. You see, it is widely believed that the beautiful woman was actually Simonetta Vespucci...sister of sailor extraordinaire Amerigo Vespucci, person after whom our New World was named after. Everyone had the hots for Simonetta, including Boticelli...and Lorenzo di Medici's younger brother, Giuliano. She died fairly young, and by doing so, broke many hearts. Even Da Vinci did a lovely drawing of her face soon after her death, immortalizing her even further.


A beloved friend and mentor, in the days of his youth, during travels to Italy, heard that one of Vespucci's descendants, a countess directly descended from the Vespucci line, lived in a local palazzo. He decided to go pester the person and say I don't know what silliness to her (something about Italians getting lost at sea and the "Indians" end up getting misnamed), and made his way to the old house. After knocking a few times on the door, an older woman opened it and he almost fainted: he said he was looking into Venus' eyes, Simonetta Vespucci in the 20th century. He managed to stutter an apology and walked away in a daze.


I love that.


Perhaps we can go on another trip again. The Boston MFA is having a Rembrandt exhibit in the fall. Let's go?





Moreau's exquisite Orpheus: beautifully ghoulish.

Mike and Matt Chapman, commonly known as the Brothers Chaps, aka creators of Homestar Runner have given interviews about their increasing success with their site. Yet, fans have no idea what these Atlanta townies look like. Wonder no more! Emotioneric.com solves that mystery. Check out some of Eric's other Adventures. The Bar Pickup one is quite amusing.

LOYSA has struck again!

Let me reply in a manner that he'll understand: "YOU DON'T POST OFTEN ENOUGH! EVERYONE'S UNLINKING TO YOUR SORRY ASS!"

Tread Softly

-Yeats


Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


The first time I heard this poem was in the movie 84 Charing Cross Road. The movie is about the friendship between writer Helene Hanff (Anne Bancroft), and British book shop keeper Frank Doel (Anthony Hopkins). The friendship spanned over two decades...and the two never actually met in person. Being people involved in the world of literature, it is only natural that they shared their favorite authors; I believe it was Doel who sent Hanff the poem above. When I first heard the poem, I was so filled with wonder that it almost distracted me from the rest of the film. Although the words kept escaping me, the images it had conjured remained bright in my mind.


Helene Hanff was interviewed for the literary supplement of a Brazilian newspaper during the time of the movie's release. In the article, she gave out her address inviting readers to communicate with her. I was around 15 at the time and I decided to write her a letter. I sat down at my typewriter, with the giant dictionary my father used in college at my side, and typed an odd little letter, filled with platitudes, praise, and comments on the literary world. The paper had flowers printed on it, a fruity scent, and matching envelope.


A few weeks later I got a reply from Helene Hanff. It came on a stylish card, bordered in blue. Her handwriting was quick and flowing with the habit of trying to stay with thoughts. It was a very good note.


After placing it under the glass on my desk (where there were pictures of me in my rockin' Tina Turner Halloween costume, a black and white picture of Sting, and a giant picture of my dog, Pokey), I looked at it often. I didn't always read the words, which were friendly, and filled with encouragement and kind amusement (I went off on James Joyce. At 15. Discussing Joyce with Helene Hanff at 15. And parents think they have to watch out for their kids because of drugs? And now Endless, my dissertation, is on Joyce, whom I adore. The irony! The irony!); I liked the total packaging: cool stationery, intellectual handwriting.


Helene Hanff died in 1997, close to her 80th birthday. Once in a while I'll think back to that letter, that has become a type of measuring stick for me: have I become the type of person who can dash off a note that is sophisticated, spontaneous, smart, funny, and inspiring enough to get a teenager to read Yeats?...