the roman way

Don't

2006-04-08T14:33:00.000+02:00

Vice used two of my photos for their "Do's and Don'ts."

Click the links below to see.

http://www.viceland.com/int/dd.php?id=26&country=us

http://www.viceland.com/int/dd.php?id=30&country=us

Ho Fatto Una Vacanza

2006-03-21T15:35:00.000+01:00

Yeah, yeah, so I've been neglecting posting these days.

Well, I went on Spring Break.

Berlin, much like Ernest Hemingway's prose, is tough, lean, and terse.

Barcelona is alive and well.

Don't ever go to Geneva.

The Spring Break 2006 Theme Song

2006-03-10T15:43:00.000+01:00

You get up every morning From your 'larm clock's warningTake the 8:15 into the cityThere's a whistle up above And people pushin', people shovin'And the girls who try to look prettyAnd if your train's on time You can get to work by nine And start your slaving job to get your payIf you ever get annoyedLook at me I'm self-employedI love to work at nothing all dayAnd I'll be Taking care of business (every day) Taking care of business (every way) I've been taking care of business (it's all mine)Taking care of business and working overtime Work out If it were easy as fishin'You could be a musicianIf you could make sounds loud or mellowGet a second-hand guitarChances are you'll go farIf you get in with the right bunch of fellows People see you having fun Just a-lying in the sunTell them that you like it this way It's the work that we avoid And we're all self-employedWe love to work at nothing all dayAnd we be Taking care of business (every day) Taking care of business (every way)We be been taking care of business (it's all mine) Taking care of business and working overtimeMercyWhoooooAll right---- Instrumental Interlude ----Take good care of my businessWhen I'm away, every day Whoooo You get up every morningFrom your 'larm clock's warningTake the 8:15 into the cityThere's a whistle up aboveAnd people pushin', people shovin' And the girls who try to look prettyAnd if your train's on time You can get to work by nineAnd start your slaving job to get your pay If you ever get annoyedLook at me I'm self-employed I love to work at nothing all dayAnd I'll be Taking care of business (every day)Taking care of business (every way)I've been taking care of business (it's all mine)Taking care of business and working overtime---- Brief Instrumental Interlude ----Takin' care of business, whooTakin' care of business Takin' care of businessTakin' care of businessTakin' care of business (every day)Takin' care of business (every way)Takin' care of business (it's all mine)Takin' care of business And working overtimeWhooooTakin' care of businessTakin' care of businessTakin' care of businessWe be Takin' care of businessWe be Takin' care of businessTakin' care of businessTakin' care of business(Song Fades Out)

The 2006 Academy Awards

2006-03-06T13:52:00.000+01:00

Crash wins best picture.

American cinema is dead.

The world weeps for the future.

Frosty Chocolate Milkshakes

2006-02-27T18:11:00.000+01:00

When the Nutella is almost finished, there's always just a little bit of chocolate stuck to the sides that's difficult to extract with a knife.

So we filled the not quite empty jar with cold milk and shook it up real good.

Then we let the mixture chill in the freezer.

The result was cool, refreshing, chocolatey, and delicious.

Italians Don't Eat Peanut Butter

2006-02-26T17:04:00.000+01:00

I would like to take this moment to express my fond appreciation for Nutella.

Thank you.

Weekend Update

2006-02-24T15:46:00.000+01:00

This weekend Jacques went to Florence with his Study Abroad krewe, so I'm flying solo for the weekend.

It will be like the old days last semester when my roommate got kicked out of school.

Jacques was supposed to meet the group at AUR before 9 am because they were departing from school promptly at 9, according to his itinerary.

But this morning, I woke up to Jacques, yelling:

"Fuck me! It's 9:20!"

The only other time I've heard Jacques use such foul language (he doesn't curse for fear his parents might hear him let one slip) was this one time at McDonald's when his tray caught the edge of the cash register and he spilled ketchup all over his white khaki pants.

He brought the entire McDonald's to a stand still for just a few seconds with his favorite choice phrase.

Anyway, phone calls were made, and I do think he made it after all.

Godspeed!

Christian Charity: The Other Roman Vacation

2006-02-20T15:00:00.000+01:00

I wrote an article for a recent issue of Vice Italy. The theme was the "Immersion Issue," so I decided to eat three times a week at a local soup kitchen in my neighborhood. I met a lot of interesting people.

My friend Ariela took the photo.

Here is the link: Carita' Cristiana

Here is the original in English:

The Community of Saint Egidio is one of the few places to eat for free in Rome. In the heart of Trastevere, a haven for emerging artists, musicians, and beggars in search of tourists with deep pockets, an army of volunteers serve food three times a week to nearly one thousand poor and needy of Rome.

Standing outside its large wrought-iron gates, a group of men with hushed voices and dirty fingers mutter to each other in Russian. A volunteer posted in the door stops me when I enter.

"Are you Italian?" he says. I shake my head, and he hands me a blue slip of paper. I am number 425.

Of the one thousand people who patronize this soup kitchen, roughly seven hundred are foreigners, mostly illegal immigrants from the north of Africa, Romania, Poland, and Albania. Of the remaining three hundred foreigners, a majority are the extremely old and desperate.

I walk through a narrow hallway lined with people smoking cigarettes and waiting out the pouring rain. When I present my ticket to the man blocking the doorway to the dining room, he shakes his head and points to a long line snaking out the door. I join the queue behind a short, stubby little man with a bad haircut and a yellow Brazil soccer jersey.

Although Italians and foreigners once used the same line, they are now separated.

"The Italians with special problems didn't like mixing with the Africans," says Carlo Santoro, the volunteer in charge of checking tickets.

"We understand that it's hard when you do not speak the language," Santoro says. "That is why we offer an Italian class every Wednesday."

In the seventeen years that Santoro has worked here, he has formed many close relationships with visitors.

"For people that are generally disliked, this is a place to feel at home, not just to eat," he says. "Most are foreign prisoners, alcoholics, and drug addicts -- people with very special needs."

For these individuals, Santoro reserves tables where those with similar problems can converse in a positive, supportive environment. And although arguments often stem from these interactions, Santoro has never seen a single act of violence in the Saint Egidio community for as long as he has worked here.

"We want to avoid riots," Santoro says. "We care a lot."

After waiting on line for ten minutes, I make it into a room where Italian women man tables with stacks of yellow folders.

"Number four twenty-five," I say. The woman shakes her head and points out the door. "But I came here to eat," I say.

"First time? The first room on the left," she says.

I step into a small, stuffy waiting room crowded with people and sweaty benches. I take a seat next to a big, burly black woman clutching plastic bags of all shapes and sizes under her flabby arms. An ancient Korean man takes a seat next to me and nudges my shoulder. I turn to him and he smiles at me with yellow teeth. He removes two passport-sized photos of himself from his pocket and mumbles something I cannot understand. He places one of the photographs in my hand, and we study them for a moment. Then without a word he returns both pictures to his pocket.

After waiting at least fifteen minutes, I am starting to become concerned about the complete lack of organization. And at that moment, a matronly Indian woman swings her office door open and gestures for me to take a seat at her desk.

She asks for my name, age, address, and country of birth, which she enters in a thick black book.

"This number will let you eat here in the future," she says, writing it out on a piece of paper.

I ask her why this whole registration process is necessary, and she tells me that the Council of Rome, which funds a large part of this program, requires the information for its public records. The rest of the budget is covered by private donations.

"You don't really look poor," she says. I tell her that I am from New Orleans. A delayed reaction of painful recognition washes over her face. She stamps my blue ticket.

"See you next time," she says.

I hand Santoro my ticket and finally enter the dining room. Dingy fluorescent lights hang from the high ceilings. Abstract paintings of Jesus Christ line the walls. I take a seat in a sea of blue-checkered tablecloths. An old man with a gray sweater vest hands me a bag of plastic utensils and a cup like the one used for gargling at the dentist.

"Pasta or soup?" he asks. I choose pasta. He returns with a plastic plate full of cold, soggy gnocchi. No actual cooking is done on the premises. Volunteers merely warm the food.

While I pick at my pasta, a man who looks like Charles Manson walks past our table. A guy from the neighborhood that everyone calls Mr. Bronx signals for him to sit. Manson joins our table and pulls a white pill out of his jacket pocket.

"Wait," Mr. Bronx says as our server arrives to set a place for Manson. When the volunteer finishes, Manson splits the pill in half, and the two throw their heads back and take quick swallows.

"It's like methadone," says a man I recognize from a little reggae bar called Il Viaggio. I swallow my mouthful of pasta and force a weak smile. "I didn't know Mr. Bronx was a junkie," he says.

Before I finish even half of my pasta, Manson and his friend move on to the second course -- mushy breaded fish on a bed of wet zucchini. I pass on the second course, and the old man with the gray sweater vest brings me two mandarin oranges, which I pocket for later. I take one last gulp of water from my tiny plastic cup, clean up my plate, and bid the table farewell.

As I exit the dining room, one man -- with missing teeth, bristly gay whiskers, and a worn leather jacket -- is shouting at Santoro.

"I didn't wait all that time in the wrong line for nothing," he says, waving his hands in the air.

"You have to sign in before you eat," Santoro says.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not that hungry," he says, crumpling his blue ticket and throwing it into the air.

Walking down the hallway together, I ask his name.

“Joe,” he says.

Standing outside, Joe suggests we go to the supermarket instead.

"Why should I have to stand in line?" he says. He spends six Euro on some fish for himself and food for his dog Charlie, a mutt he found on the motorway with a hole in its head and nursed back to health.

Joe’s life on the street began at the age of eleven when he ran away to London from his home in Manchester. Years later, he followed music festivals across England with the Hell’s Angels, where he earned the nickname Joe the Spanner for his mechanical expertise.

“We were getting stoned, tripping on acid and pure sunshine,” he says.

Then Joe set off on a voyage across Europe performing clown shows that lasted him more than twenty years. Along the way, he learned eight languages, “six perfectly, two just okay.” In Holland, he fathered a child named Billy von Hasz (“Billy from Hate”) whom he has never seen.

“I feel sorry for him,” he says. “Sorry he had a fucking mother.”

In Paris he sat barefoot on the steps of the Notre Dame for four hours asking passerby to wash his feet.

He made it to New York once and he lived in the Avenue C squat near Tompkins Square Park in the East Village.

“I was robbed of everything I owned my first day in the city. So I begged enough change for three apples. I juggled those apples for half an hour in front of that supermarket and made thirty five dollars.”

He thrusts a fist to his face like a microphone and sings, We were tramps, tramps, thieves and tramps . . . Joe punctuates almost everything he says with a song lyric he can never remember.

“I took a look around,” he says, “but I didn’t find anything different. I lived a shit life with shit people in a shit place.”

These days, Joe finds himself in Rome because lax Italian laws make living on the street a little easier than in other European countries.

“I wake up in the morning with nothing,” he says. “I don’t hide from the rain. I sleep in the rain.”

Tonight Joe begs in Piazza Santa Maria in front of a gelateria.

“Spare some change for a poor guy broke on his ass?” he says, engaging a drunken American couple stumbling by. The woman stops, reaches into her purse, and hesitantly pulls out a fifty Euro bill.

“Mary, no!” her husband shouts, grabbing her by the wrist and shutting her bag.

“What the hell are you doing?” Joe says.

“I’m protecting her,” the man says, dragging the woman away by the arm.

“Just think of all the beer and spliffs we could have bought with that,” Joe says, baring a toothless grin.

“Do you know who sings this one?” he asks, holding out his microphone. Waiting in an army of salvation, wasting my time in a welfare line . . . I think it was a black girl.”

Pacemaker

2006-02-08T16:17:00.000+01:00

Check out these groovy pictures of our rock concert.

"Whatever Happened To Rock & Roll?"

2006-02-06T13:57:00.000+01:00

Go to our website, sign up for our mailing list.

Many thanks to our webmaster, manager, and friend Evan for the help in the launch of TheRottish.com.

That's Rottish

2006-02-01T14:16:00.000+01:00

"God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?"

2006-01-30T15:50:00.001+01:00

I've been seriously neglecting my posting, I realize, but not without just cause or reason.

Jacques and I have been playing rock music twenty four hours a day.

We haven't been sleeping or eating.

We stop only to wipe away the blood, sweat, and tears.

The rock show is on Saturday, February 4th.

Did I mention The Rottish is now online?

The Rottish

Why don't you be our friend?

Three Douchebags

2006-01-25T18:22:00.000+01:00

I found a picture of these guys browsing Myspace.

"Not only did they all agree to wear the t-shirts, but they also agreed to take the photo."
-Jacques

PJPII RIP

2006-01-24T15:36:00.000+01:00

Now that I am back in Rome, I thought to myself,

"Hey, Christopher. What better way to kick off a new semester than a picture of the dead pope!"

Photo by Jake.

Rxs

2006-01-17T09:27:00.000+01:00

So my brothers are all getting their wisdom teeth out, right.

I'm looking at their prescriptions for the meds they will need to take.

They are written by a Robert E. Lane, D.D.S.

But I can't for the life of me make out a single word that Doctor Robert has written.

Which brings me to my next point:

Before becoming a pharmacist, must one undergo some sort of special training to learn how to read that completely illegible handwriting that all doctors seem to use?

Maybe it's an inside joke among doctors on the poor pharmacist...

The half-wit who failed out of medicine school.

It seems to me like the doctors are just rubbing it in.

Because let's face it...

Does anyone really want to have to explain to teenagers on a daily basis how to use a pubic shampoo for genital warts?

"We're On A Highway To Hell..."

2006-01-14T21:56:00.000+01:00

Last night, while carousing the French Quarter, the boys and I stumbled upon a Christmas tree out on the curb.

Chance and the Madd Dogg sprung into action and dragged it to the end of the block. We found a good spot and set it up on the corner of Royal St. and Gov. Nicholls.

The tree was the kind with that fake snow, so there was a frosty trail halfway down the street.

As we stood back and admired our handiwork, the most random of people began congregating around the tree to admire its beauty.

But one man, Brent, a self-described "sheet-rocking motherfucker" from Texas, was certainly the dodgiest.

"I'm from hell," he said, after Chance struck up a conversation with him. "And I love AC/DC."

So we sang all the AC/DC we knew.

The Madd Dogg sang "Highway to Hell." I sang "Back in Black." Brent sang about his big balls.

"I used to be in Heaven," Brent said after a short silence. "I had all the best women, the best Christmases..."

"The best liquor?" Chance suggested.

"The best liquor," Brent said, nodding his head and licking his lips. "But now I'm 43, I'm all grown up, and I'm in hell!" he shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

I reached to the ground and picked up a Mardi Gras bead with a gold medallion that said Corona Extra.

"This will be our Christmas tree this year," I said, handing Brent the green bead. "Hang it up on our tree."

After a few failed attempts, Brent managed to sling it over a branch close to the top.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Does anyone have a hatchet?" Brent asked. "I'm gonna cut this sucker down."

Gotta Get Paid

2006-01-06T22:43:00.000+01:00

I got a job as a dishwasher in a restaurant, Dante's Kitchen.

Isn't that swell?

I'll be sure to perpetuate the dishwasher stereotype by:

Harassing every busboy to loan me a dollar.

Asking for a ride home by saying, "You going my way?"

Talking about my many illegitimate children.

Selling drugs.

My Dog Biscuit

2006-01-05T23:39:00.000+01:00

Photo by Evan.

"And The Tears Come Streaming Down Your Face..."

2006-01-05T20:34:00.000+01:00

My dad sent me this link taken from a forum called Rebuild Lakeview.

Something about Hurrican Katrina pictures juxtaposed with Coldplay rubs me the wrong way.

But check it out for yourself.

Hurricane Katrina Tribute

Happy MLK Day!

2006-01-02T21:33:00.000+01:00

On the Road

2005-12-30T15:49:00.000+01:00

I reach you from an Internet point in McDonald's in Sulphur, Louisiana.

Evan and I are driving the Ford F-150 home to New Orleans.

Biscuit is riding shotgun.

See you soon.

And Now We Play the Waiting Game

2005-12-27T21:52:00.000+01:00

I am sitting in the United Airlines Red Carpet Club in the Chicago O'Hare International Airport.

My Dad's frequent flyer status has given my family access to the luxurious members-only lounge.

Cola flows like water, and Sun Chips are plentiful. A plasma screen bumps Fox News.

Internet costs $6 per hour. (Thanks, Evan.)

I am on the way home from my trip to New York City and Reading, Pennsylvania.

My family is good. Christmas went. Maya Rose is as beautiful and amazing as ever.

I bought a Dean Palamino hollow-body electric guitar.

It's sea-foam green.

I do believe a proper post of the highlights is in order. Plus pictures.

So do stick around, because we'll be right back.

Merry Christmas!

2005-12-25T09:12:00.000+01:00

The US Postal Service

2005-12-22T10:40:00.000+01:00

Did you know they sold twice as many Kwanzaa stamps as Hannukah stamps?

Do people just buy the Kwanzaa stamps as a joke?

You're telling me that over 50 million people celebrate Kwanzaa, a holiday that uses fresh fruits to symbolize African idealism.

Polaroids in New York

2005-12-21T03:54:00.000+01:00

There was a bear handing out tickets for $5 off the purchase of anything at Tower Records.

Some store caught on fire and then the firemen saved the day.

"I got a lot of newspapers to deliver and I'm not too happy about it.

"I love Asian chicks."

Today was the first day of the MTA Strike. The city will lose $700 million dollars every day that this "higher pay, better benefits" dispute lasts. The last time the MTA striked was 1980.

And The Saints Are 3-10

2005-12-17T21:24:00.000+01:00

There was a Simpson's episode called "A Streetcar Named Marge" where our favorite cast of characters perform Oh! Streetcar, a musical adaptation of Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire.

Here is one of the musical numbers:

Long before the SuperDome,
Where the Saints of football play,
Lived a city that the damned called home.
Hear their hellish roundelay...

New Orleans!
Home of pirates, drunks, and whores!
New Orleans!
Tacky, overpriced, souvenir stores!
If you want to go to hell, you should make that trip,
To the Sodom and Gomorrah on the Mississipp'!

New Orleans!
Stinking, rotten, vomiting, vile!
New Orleans!
Putrid, brackish, maggoty, foul!

New Orleans!
Crummy, lousy, rancid, and rank!

New Orleans!

After the episode aired, New Orleans residents complained of the "offensive" lyrics.

So in the next episode, Bart writes on the chalkboard to appease the discontented:

I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not defame New Orleans.

Back In the USSR

2005-12-16T07:51:00.000+01:00

After traveling a good 20+ hours, I am finally back in the United States of America.

Houston, baby!

Feels good for people to understand you when you speak English, but then again, I had a lengthy conversation with a flight attendant about the new pope.

I think she assumed that because I live in Rome, I must have a connection to the wheelings and dealings of the Vatican Church.

Tomorrow I am going to New Orleans for the weekend.

On Monday I am going to New York.

Jet lag is my bitch.

I'm The Big Winner

2005-12-12T16:51:00.000+01:00

Just got the word that I have received a full tuition scholarship ($8000) to AUR next semester.

In a strategic marketing move, AUR had offered the scholarship to 2 students affected by Hurrican Katrina.

Lucky for me, I was one of them.

White Linen Night, New Orleans, 2005

2005-12-11T16:28:00.000+01:00

Photos used without the permission of Madd Doggy Dawg.

Online Conversation With My Mother

2005-12-10T22:05:00.000+01:00

hothotsax (10:01:55 PM): im cutting back on things required to live comfortably
hothotsax (10:02:06 PM): ive scaled back pretty hard which is good
kps430 (10:02:39 PM): thats good chris,
kps430 (10:02:40 PM): we all have
hothotsax (10:02:49 PM): but
kps430 (10:02:59 PM): but?
hothotsax (10:03:01 PM): i do require brie and pears
hothotsax (10:03:04 PM): and coca cola
kps430 (10:03:08 PM): you like brie?
hothotsax (10:03:12 PM): very much
hothotsax (10:03:17 PM): with pears
kps430 (10:03:23 PM): the only other person in the family who does
kps430 (10:03:28 PM): besides me
kps430 (10:03:34 PM): i buy it with food stamps!

Oh, Neutral Ground...

2005-12-10T19:27:00.000+01:00

Last night there was an open-mic night at my favorite bar, Il Viaggio.

I performed as the Rottish & friends, with Zach on bongoes and Natalka on harmonica.

We played four songs, to much fan fare.

"Celebrate Good Times, C'mon!"

2005-12-07T18:36:00.000+01:00

Today was my last day of school. All I've got left now is a Biology exam and an Italian exam and then I'm done.

Soon, the Fall semester of 2005-Feel Alive! will be but a distant memory.

I did a Google image search for people celebrating good times.

Here are the better results:

"Spare A Cigarette?"

2005-12-07T15:09:00.000+01:00

“Spare a cigarette?”

Chandler turned to the voice of an old man huddled in a doorway on Broadway. He had tan, cracked lips and dirty fingers.

“I’ll join you,” Chandler said. He reached into his pocket to remove a pack of Lucky Strikes. Chandler handed the man a cigarette, and the man handed Chandler a blue box of matches.

Chandler examined the tiny writing in the faint glow of the streetlight: AIX Restaurant, Bar. 72nd and Broadway. Chandler smiled.

“I ate at this very restaurant tonight,” he said, returning the matches. The man looked at him.

“Did you enjoy the ambience?” he said.

“I found it quite nice,” said Chandler.

“The tables were to your liking?” he said. “The curtains a proper shade of blue?”

“I thought it was a nice blue,” Chandler said.

“Did you drink a glass of wine?”

“A 1972 pinot noir.”

“Was your steak too salty? The service adequate? Did the bathroom attendant give you enough hand towels?”

“Yes,” said Chandler, nodding.

“Thanks for the cigarette,” the man said, walking into the glow of the streetlight.

For Nancy

2005-12-06T16:12:00.000+01:00

I was robbed of everything I owned the first day I moved to New York City. No place to live either, and not a dime in my pocket. So I begged enough change to buy three apples. I took those apples and I juggled them outside the supermarket.

By the end of the day, I had enough money for a big steak dinner with mashed potatoes and a tall glass of beer. But I ended up just eating those apples so I could get a girl on the West Side Highway.

She called herself Nancy. The longest blonde hair I’d ever seen, tight little dress up past her knees. An inch away from showing her world to me.

We walked along the Hudson River, found a spot down by the water where the rocks jut out like sharp little teeth. We lied down and looked at the stars and made up names for the constellations.

Vertically Challenged

2005-12-05T18:40:00.000+01:00

While searching the Internet for the location of the infamous Lorena Bobbit incident, I stumbled upon this website:

The Sacramento Tall Club.

The website says:

"The Sacramento Tall Club is a social club where tall men and women can get together for the purpose of cultivating friends and common interests and to sponsor cultural and social activities where we can share good times and revel in our special attribute. Although the club is comprised mostly of singles, married couples are welcome just as well. The club was established in 1982, and we currently have over 100 members.

One thing we're proud of is the number of special relationships that have formed among people in our club. Many of our singles have found that special person through our club, and several of them have decided to tie the knot. We've had three or four weddings just in the last year or so. In any case, the club is definitely a great place to meet quality people and make great friendships that will last for years!"

The membership requirements are quite strict:

You must be at least 21 years old.

Women must be at least 5' 10", and men must be at least 6' 2".
Two board officers must measure you in at a business meeting.

Before you may be voted in, you must attend two social functions and one business function.

Here are some Photos from some of their events (all quotes taken directly from the website):

"The Martini gals!"

"Ms. Liberty"
"Wet & wild in Niagara Falls!"

"Cannonball!"
"Mistress Cindy finds a willing victim: Christian from Denmark."
"Christian and the mysterious dress."
Lorena Bobbit at the Tall Club International Convention in Toronto.

And the Lorena Bobbit incident occurred in Manassas, Virginia.

"What incident?" you ask?

That time that she severed a portion of her husband John's penis with a kitchen knife and flung it out of her car window.

"What Can I Get For Ten Dollar?"

2005-12-04T15:57:00.000+01:00

The wealth of amazing sweaters and jumpers at Porta Portesse for 1 euro never ceases to amaze me.

The Best Album Covers. Ever.

2005-12-03T18:39:00.000+01:00

"It Doesn't Matter If You're Black or White..."

2005-12-02T23:57:00.000+01:00

Natalka's new camera has a neat setting called "Blackboard" that lets you take photos like these. Seems like it would be a cool way to make stencils.

Tile floors and tight sneaks.
The ghost in the telly.

The F-Files

2005-12-01T17:48:00.000+01:00

Last night I had one of the most vivid dreams I've had in as long a time as I can remember.

I was driving down the highway with my dad. We were in a truck, gunning it for the Superdome, when all of a sudden a UFO crashes in front of us.

We get out and inspect the debris, then decide we ought to take it to the proper authorities. So we load it in the back of the pick-up truck and take off down the interstate.

At this point, we start trying to decide who is responsible for the UFO crash. We decide it wasn't the Catholic church. And it wasn't the government, we're both sure of it. After some more deliberation, we both decide that the responsible party is the music group Franz Ferdinand.

Don't ask me why, don't ask me how. They just are.

We hightail it to the TV station. When we arrive, a large crowd of TV reporters and observers has already gathered. They are shouting and waving their fist in the air.

"We have the UFO," I say, addressing the crowd The crowd screams. A woman in a red dress takes me by the shoulder.

"It's gone," she says. "The UFO has disappeared!"

"But that's not possible," I say, pointing to the truck. But it is gone, just an empty flatbed.

"It was Franz Ferdinand," I shout. "Franz Ferdinand!"

"No one will ever believe you," the woman says.

"The Internet will," I say.

I drive home and get on my computer. I make a website, describing the incident and Franz Ferdinand's involvement in perpetrating a massive UFO conspiracy-coverup.

And then I woke up.

I told my friend Ariela about it this morning, and she analyzed it for me.

"When you're driving a car," she said, "that symbolizes the present. The fact that you're driving with someone close to you means that you're in control of it."

"And UFO's always symbolize the future," she added.

"Interesting," I say. "Please go on."

"Well, the fact that music is somehow connected with the UFO means that you've made up your mind about wanting to work with music in the future."

I smile, pleased with myself.

"But why Franz Ferdinand?" she asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Why not?"

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

2005-12-01T00:41:00.000+01:00

Pear Stars

2005-11-30T20:39:00.000+01:00

2005-11-29T17:30:00.000+01:00

Photos by Elena.

"I Want To Ride My Bicycle..."

2005-11-29T17:12:00.000+01:00

Photo by Emma.

I'll Make You A Star

2005-11-28T17:40:00.000+01:00

The other day I took photos of some people from the neighborhood with this giant cardboard cutout of a recent issue of GQ Italy. The picture is of Cameron Diaz, the "real star of Hollywood."

Although reluctant at first, men were much better sports about it than the women were.

Like this guy. At first he refused, but as soon as he saw his friend do it, he was more than happy to oblige.

Joe, the guy I wrote an article about for the next issue of Vice magazine.

Joe's dog, Charlie.

Michael, the guy with the boombox who reminds me of John Young. He speaks in a language of garbled slurs and mutterings that is entirely his own.

Picnic in the Park

2005-11-27T20:11:00.000+01:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

2005-11-24T15:03:00.000+01:00

I was ten years old. My family had just finished our Thanksgiving meal, and I asked my mother what we were having for dinner that night.

"Leftover turkey," she said. "What did you think we'd be having?"

I let out a groan of protest.

"But I'm sick of turkey," I said.

"But we have to," my father said. "In fact, it's against the law not to. That's why they have the Turkey Police."

"The Turkey Police?" I asked, unconvinced.

"That's right," my father said.

Just then, we heard a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," my father said. He rose to his feet, slowly walked to the front room, and opened the door. From my seat at the table, I could just barely make out his conversation.

"Hello, officer, how are you?" he asked. "It was delicious," he said. "Yes, we have some leftovers, but I have a son who doesn't want to eat them for dinner tonight," he said. "What should I tell him?" He nodded his head, listening. "Ok, officer, I can do that. Good-bye."

He closed the door and returned to the dining room.

"Was that the Turkey Police?" I asked, my eyes lighting up.

"Sure was," he said.

"What did they say?" I asked.

"They said that if you didn't eat your turkey leftovers tonight, you'll never see another turkey for as long as you live."

I nodded my head and sighed.

"Thank God for the Turkey Police," my mother said.

Sleazy Rider

2005-11-23T17:22:00.000+01:00

Here are some photos that my friend Ariela took over the weekend.

One Year

2005-11-22T17:18:00.000+01:00

Saturday, November 19th was Maya's birthday.

For her birthday last year in New York, she rode my skateboard with high heels, faked a British accent to get us into a party, and told a TV crew that Ring Pops were the newest Fall fashion.

At the end of the night, I said that I gotten her a present, but she had to close her eyes first. She did, and then I kissed her for the first time.

Happy birthday, Maya Rose Barrera Loeb

Here is a picture of the most beautiful girl in the world playing in the sprinkler.

"It's Good To Be Free..."

2005-11-21T18:52:00.000+01:00

Last week I went to see the Kaiser Chiefs at Circolo degli Artisti.

The show was sold out, so we needed to figure out a way of getting all six of us in, for free of course.

So I hopped the back fence, evaded a big, barking white dog, and slipped into the venue through a back yard.

But Lauren got caught trying to hop the fence after me, so I got the re-entry stamp and tried the hand-to-hand transfer. No dice.

So I got a pen and drew the stamp (a cuddly teddy bear) on all of my friends' hands.

Worked like a charm.

Thanks for the good times, Circolo.

Kaiser Chiefs weren't half bad. Good energy & a fat, bassy bottom end.

The singer lost his voice halfway through the show, so he asked the crowd if anyone knew all the words to the next song.

A girl with a Muse t-shirt in the front row raised her hand. The singer brought on stage one of the fatter girls I've seen since I came to Italy.

She totally nailed the song. The singer exited stage left and she sang in the spotlight. It was beautiful.

Me reading "You're on Royal Machine" from a piece of paper. It's a photo website my friend Elena is launching with some friends. Check it out for more photos of the concert.

"Is This A Bust?"

2005-11-16T02:59:00.000+01:00

I was at Lauren's house with some friends, specifically:

Valerio, a Trasteverino with dirty hands in many pockets (capische?), and his friend, a man whom I'd never met.

We were doing the things one does on a Tuesday night.

Valerio was wearing a hat, tilted to the side.

I remarked to him, "Thug life, thug life."

He didn't recognize the word "thug," so I tried to explain in broken Italian that a thug was similar to a gangster.

"I'm no thug," Valerio said, pointing to his friend. "He is."

His friend reached into his pants and pulled out an honest to god gun. He took out the clip and showed me the bullets.

Then from his pocket he produced a badge.

"I'm a cop," he said.

C'est La Vie

2005-11-14T19:33:00.000+01:00

Today a teacher told me that Paris Hilton was enrolled to attend school at AUR last semester. But unlucky for us, she never made it. It's really too bad, because that would have been HOT!

I wonder if she would have studied in the library. Drank coffee at the Archi Bar. Used the same toilets as the rest of them. And would she have brought along her little dog, too?

Photo taken from http://www.paris-hilton-hottest-pictures.com.

Papa Needs a New Pair of Shoes

2005-11-12T17:28:00.000+01:00

Last night at Il Viaggio (the bar we hang out at every night), my friend Jake of the Lowlife crew had a pair of dice, so we played Hi-Low for pocket change in the middle of the street with all the bums and junkies. We even had the folded piece of cardboard as a betting surface.

This one toothless black guy that everyone calls Mr. Bronx because he spent time in New York City was determined to win some coins so he could buy a beer. But Lady Luck was not on his side, and he lost all his money to my friend Natalka in a high stakes 5 euro pot. Poor guy rolled snake eyes.

"I Can't Believe the News Today..."

2005-11-11T19:06:00.000+01:00

CRAIG'S LIST AD leads to arrest of woman offering her four-year old daughter for sex

Teen holds lead in mayoral election of his Michigan hometown

In California, after all of Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger's special election reforms were turned down by legislature, he had this to say:

"If I was to make another Terminator movie, I would tell Terminator to travel back in time to tell Arnold not to have another special election."

Troll Dolls, Tamagotchis, and Pogs

2005-11-10T17:27:00.000+01:00

Marvin the Martian. Whatever happened to this guy anyway? Talk about falling off the face of the earth and disappearing into the realm of lost and long forgotten pop culture.

But then again, for some people, Marvin will never die.

Leave a comment if you can think of some other good ones.

The Mystery Meat

2005-11-09T18:26:00.000+01:00

While I was in London, I received an e-mail from my mother recounting a humorous anecdote about my dog Biscuit finding an armadillo in the back yard.

Then she said, "We took the twins to Fogo de chao. It was fun, meateaters paradise. Check it out if you feel like it." Then she provided a link: www.fogodechao.com.

I was left a bit confused, thinking the two things were related. I also failed to see any great significance in my parents taking my brothers to dinner in a restaurant.

But I checked it out anyway.

The website read: "Welcome to Fogo de Chão (fo-go dèe shoun), a dining experience like no other. Sit back, relax and enjoy the truly unique steakhouse atmosphere from Rio Grande do Sul in Southern Brazil.

Our featured meats are seasoned to perfection and slow-roasted over an open flame to capture their individual flavor. The savory cuts are presented on skewers and carved tableside by our authentic Gaúcho chefs, at the guests' request."

Okay.

The next day, I receive another e-mail from my mother with the subject "Dinner with Twinnage."

Attached were two pictures.

Bill, Mom, Patrick, and Dad

The next day, I receive yet another e-mail from my mother -- an unedited restaurant review of Fogo de Chão that my brother had written for extra credit in his English class.

Here is my favorite part:

"The restaurant is a Brazilian concept were one controls the portions of meat by a small chip, similar to a coaster. One side is green, which begins the serving of beef, and the other is red which means stop. You can switch back and forth between green and red sides. When you are ready switch your chip to the green side and a fury of mainly Mexican “Gauchos” swoop down upon your table as pigeons to a bag of corn. The Gaucho is originally a Brazilian cattle farmer who pierced large sections of mean at slowly grilled them. In this role it is quit similar.

The staff all have difference courses with a main waiter for each section, assumed (by myself) to be a round and three four-tops. The only improvement that could be said for the staff was to learn to speak clear English."

And when I read further, I discovered the cause of my family's unfounded fascination with this "trendy steakhouse not too far from downtown Houston."

It was Patrick and William's birthday dinner, celebrating their 17th year of life.

The mystery had been solved.

Happy birthday, twinnage!

And Then There Was One

2005-11-08T16:52:00.000+01:00

It all started when I woke up one morning two weeks ago with this note on our apartment door:

Not long after, the phone rang. It was the American University of Rome. Apparently, the night before, there had been numerous complaints of shouting and loud arguing coming from the apartment and our neighbors were not too happy about it (as the note clearly illustrates).

I, however, had not been involved -- the altercation had been between my roommate Jack and his girlfriend Bridgette.

The man on the telephone needed to speak with Jack immediately. He was in big, big trouble, because this was not his first noise violation. It was his second.

His first noise complaint was a different story.

Right after school had started, on Bridgette's 21st birthday, the two had celebrated as one usually does by getting hopelessly drunk. When they returned home to the apartment, they had themselves a little late-night domestic abuse bash.

Jack threw Bridgette. Jack pushed Bridgette. Jack passed out. Bridgette woke him up by stomping on his head.

In the process, they managed to wake up all the neighbors, and soon five police officers were knocking at the door.

They weren't pleased and threatened to deport my roommate if his behavior continued.

When the carabinieri noticed a textbook on the desk pertaining to terrorism in the Middle East, they asked if he personally knew Osama Bin Laden, then checked his digital camera to make sure he hadn't been taking surveillance photos of Rome's metro tunnels. Luckily he hadn't, and they left us in peace.

The school, however, was none too pleased, and he received a formal warning to make sure this sort of incident never happened again.

But, alas, it did.

Jack went to school to speak with the man on the telephone, but the outlook was not good.

He was officially expelled. A few days later, Jack appealed before a board of student and faculty, but his plea was not successful.

And now he's gone, on a plane back to Chicago. With his Ghostbusters DVD.

And now that I've got the place to myself, I am issuing a formal invitation to anyone interested in vacationing in Rome before I go home for the holidays.

So goodbye Jack. It's been real.

Jack, a free man, and his girlfriend Bridgette.

Back in the AUR

2005-11-07T18:26:00.000+01:00

Last night I returned from my ten day fall break.

Berlin was gigantic and cheap as hell. The grafitti was spectacular. I want to spend some time there.

We met a Canadian girl in the hostel named Natalka (right) who came with us to Amsterdam and London. Now she's here in Trastevere staying at Lauren's (left) for god knows how long.

Amsterdam was beautiful. So many people with smiles on their faces packed into a tiny city where nothing is more than a 20-minute walk away. Canals, bridges, prostitutes in windows.

And I bought some new jumpers.

London is expensive. The exchange rate is 1 pound to 2 dollars. Beers at the pub start at like 6 dollars. Killer. I slept on Lele and Emma's couch in East London in Hackney. Many thanks to them for their gracious hospitaly.

I got a winter coat, a Sonic Youth t-shirt, and stole a pair of black and white sunglasses.

I shot around 5 rolls of Holga and 35 mm film, so I plan on doing a full feature on each city with pictures.

In the meantime, here is a picture of me at a museum with my dad the last time I was in London.

Biscuit when I was in London.

Bill.

Happy Halloween!

2005-11-04T20:46:00.000+01:00

These photographs appear in the Fashion section of the new Vice Italy, the Horror Issue.

You can see the whole spread here: http://www.viceland.com/it/v1n4/htdocs/fashion_it.php

Cheerio!

2005-11-04T16:35:00.000+01:00

Greetings from jolly old England!

And my God, is it expensive!

Good thing I have overdrawn by 54 dollars!

I am finally settled in a bit here in Hackney, London, so tonight I will post zombie pictures.

"Wish You Were Here"

2005-11-01T15:44:00.000+01:00

Greetings from Amsterdam.

Greetings from Berlin!

2005-10-31T17:09:00.000+01:00

I reach you from an AOL internet point in a Schlotzsky´s Deli.

Lauren and I are on a free bike tour around Berlin, and it is now lunch break.

Traveling in our bike gang -- The Cyclos/Beastly Bikers -- are two friends we met at the hostel: Dale from Australia and Natelka from Canada.

I´m taking lots of photos, which I will try to upload soon.

In the morning I depart for Amsterdam.

Happy Halloween!

"I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane . . ."

2005-10-27T03:58:00.000+02:00

Alas, I am not going. We even tried the dead relative routine on the airline, but changing would have been impossible.

I am flying to Berlin tommorow night, where I'll be staying for four days, five nights, along with Lauren, my travel-partner-in-crime.

Then a hazy two days in Amsterdam.

Concluded by four days in London.

Thus is Fall break 2005.

Many thanks to mom and dad for funding airfare.

Armed with my digicam and newly acquired Holga, I plan to do a proper treatment of the whole ordeal.

Anyone want a postcard?

That Movie With Mel Gibson...

2005-10-26T05:18:00.000+02:00

I stumbled onto this website while trying to find cheap airfare from London to Rome.

Seems a Mr. Edward Phillips was victim of an inflight molestation conspiracy perpetrated by the cabin crewe of a Virgin Airways flight.

Virgin Air Crew Lies

And Then There Was One?

2005-10-26T03:53:00.000+02:00

My roommate has been expelled from school.

Tomorrow he is making his appeal.

Two students, two faculty, and a represenative for the President of AUR.

And Jack.

His Ghostbusters DVD hangs in the balance.

"How About a Shirtless Bike Ride?"

2005-10-25T16:16:00.000+02:00

Never Talk to Strangers

2005-10-25T15:58:00.000+02:00

So there's this kid, I don't know his name, everyone just calls him Sonic on account of his spikey, gelled hair. Sonic is a friendly kid -- he'll talk to you in the computer lab while you're checking your email, wishing he'd stop talking about getting drunk in Campo di Fiori.

The other night Sonic met a few guys on the street, Gypsies I am told, and they got to talking, laughing, having a good time. Sonic says, "Hey, do you guys want to come back to my apartment and hang out?" They accept.

When they get back to Sonic's place, and the Gypsies see that Sonic's four roommates are gone, they beat him into a bloody mess on the floor. They ransack the entire apartment, stealing two laptop computers, their money, and all their clothing.

When Sonic's roommates get home and see what has transpired, they lock Sonic in the hallway so he can think about what he has done.

Now he's in the hospital with a broken face.

And he's getting expelled from school.

"We Don't Need No Education..."

2005-10-24T18:38:00.000+02:00

This weekend I hung out with some people who live on the street for an article I am writing about a local charity organization.

There's Joe, the Hell's Angel from Manchester who performs clown shows across the world...

Ollie, a drunk from the northern countryside who built his own house and produces everything he needs to survive, including his own marijuana which he sells to support himself...

and Michael, who pushes around a stroller with a stereo in it that's always playing "Another Brick In the Wall, Part 2." He reminds me of John Young because they both have the tendency to get really wasted and make exaggerated hand gestures and high-pitched squealing.

Porta Portesse

2005-10-24T18:12:00.000+02:00

Click to enlarge.

Tasty Downhills

2005-10-20T17:25:00.000+02:00

On Saturday, my school had an on-campus barbeque. It was strictly for resident students, but that didn't stop me from eating hamburger sandwiches and drinking free Peroni.

After the festivities, the Lowlife crew and I decided to ride skateboards down the Gianicolo, the largest of Rome's seven hills.

The ride went smoothly -- a 5-minute coast down winding roads with motorists behind you honking to pass. One nasty curve gave me a little trouble, but I was lucky enough to avoid bodily harm.

At the bottom of the hill, we decided to take the bus back to the top and do it all over again.

"Great idea," I decided in my Peroni-fueled state. Then I made a mental note to myself to be careful.

As I approached the notorious curve, my wheels began to wobble. I had way too much speed. I was never going to make the turn. So I braked. Except I had way too much speed for that too.

The second my foot touched ground, I was thrown from the board in a running start. I made it two steps, but the overwhelming speed I had reached was too much for my little legs to handle. My body launched six feet forward, landing on my hands and hip in a pile of leaves on the side of the road.

Pictures to prove it:

Concert Pictures

2005-10-20T17:18:00.000+02:00

Photos courtesy of Lowlife Magazine.

The Rottish

2005-10-19T18:36:00.000+02:00

Last night marked the worldwide debut of my new band, The Rottish. I hadn't played a show since the LSU Battle of the Bands with Pimp, My Sister! at the end of freshman year, so it goes without saying that it felt amazing to be back on a stage again pouring my heart out.

The Rottish are a rock & roll duo -- myself on guitar and my school pal Zacariah on drums.

We performed a blistering 25 minute set of make-me-wanna-move-and-groove-disco-dirt-pop. We don't have vocals or other instrumentation yet, but we plan on adding new members to the Rottish family soon (Jacques, I'm waiting).

There was a great turnout for the show: a good chunk of school pals, plus most of my friends, and a load of new faces that were very receptive to the sound. I think a lot of Italians were curious to see what an American band had to offer.

And when it was all said and done, I was sweating and bleeding from my fingers.

Friends took loads of pictures, so expect them soon.

Milano

2005-10-17T18:35:00.000+02:00

Emma and I showing off our ring collections.

This weekend at Porta Portesse I purchased two new jean jackets for one euro. Deal of the century.

Pictured here is Ivano. I stayed at his house one night in Milan after Lele's sister and her boyfriend stole my sofa. The next morning I woke up with a desire to urinate greater than I have experienced in a long, long time. But when I tried to open the bathroom door, I was greeted with only muffled silence - two voices, Ivano and his girlfriend doing god knows what.

But I wasn't going to interrupt it.

So I went into the kitchen, found two tiny plastic cups, and retreated to a corner of the room I was sleeping in. After I filled up two cups no problem, I poured my warm piss out the window and filled up two more. Then I tossed the two cups filled to the brim into a drain spout and hid under the covers.

Ivano tags DUMBO, the name of the neighborhood where his girlfriend lived in New York. Sweet, right? He is one of the biggest grafitti artists in Italy. A French gallery in Paris is doing an exhibition and photography book documenting the lives of 15 grafitti artists across the world through Polaroid pictures. He was selected to represent Italy.

A wall some friends did my last day in Milan. His tag is farthest to the right. Lele's ("FICA") farthest to the left. The carabinieri kept driving by while they were painting. They remarked, "You can at least pretend to stop when we drive by."

(The first two pictures were taken by Lele in a club opening in Milano. Upon entering, I received a plastic card from the doorman that allowed me to purchase drinks for six euro. What a steal! In tiny print at the bottom, it was stated that if I failed to return the card to the club upon my leaving, I would be fined 200 euro. Deal of the century. )

Photos from the Countryside

2005-10-17T14:20:00.000+02:00

In reference to this post, A Brief Sojourn.

The hot springs.

Rollings green hills.

Photos by Lele.

San Lorenzo

2005-10-17T14:11:00.000+02:00

Photo by Elena.

Fresh White Sneakers

2005-10-17T14:07:00.000+02:00

More birthday fun with Lele. Photo by Elena.

Happy Birthday To Me

2005-10-14T18:02:00.000+02:00

Blowing out the San Pietro birthday candles.

It's the Little Things

2005-10-12T16:57:00.000+02:00

In Italy, the garbage trucks are Mercedes, the police wear Armani, and Frosted Flakes are called Frosties.

Rock Show

2005-10-11T17:52:00.000+02:00

Last night, I attended the European debut of Dirty Pretty Things, the new project of Libertines singer Carl Borat.

The show was energetic and the songs solid enough, but the set lacked the unpredictability that Pete "I robbed my bandmate's flat so I could buy more crack" Doherty once brought to the Libertines mix.

The show was 15 Euro, but fear not! Ariela was on the guest list, so she pulled the "I'll get my hand stamped and run outside and imprint your hand too before the ink dries." It worked like a charm, and the four of us got in for free.

Can You Hear Me Now?

2005-10-11T17:47:00.000+02:00

I got a cell phone.

+39 3333 017763.

I think you have to dial 01 for international calls.

You can buy cheap phone cards online where they e-mail you the pin and access number.

Or you can pull a John Young, rack up a $900 phone bill because you don't have free long distance, and never own a cell phone ever again. And you never know, you might be better off because of it.

Weekend Update

2005-10-10T18:43:00.000+02:00

On Thursday, I went to a local charity organization called Open Table with a guy from the neighborhood for a free meal. Funded by state taxes paid to the Church, Open Table provides free meals three times a week for people of all nationalities. The dodgier, the better.

You sit at a table along with complete strangers, and the staff serve you a three course meal (pasta, meat, dessert). Didn't taste half bad. FREE.

I sat with a few junkies that popped their Methadone-equivalents after dessert.

On Saturday, made some t-shirts with panda stencils. Witnessed some domestic abuse between the dread-lock people. Ate some Chinese food and spilled wine all over the floor.

Met a nice kid from Denmark.

Lazy Sunday, the sun shone for the first time in six days.

Piazza Trilussa

2005-10-06T16:10:00.000+02:00

The lens on the camera wouldn't open all the way, which created an interesting effect.

Ariela

Piazza Trilussa

He lives in Piazza Trilussa. My friend Lauren is making a music video about him.

Three-day weekend.

Do the Booyah dance.

2005-10-05T17:42:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, I found 30 euro on the ground.

Three crumpled ten spots.

Celebrated by going out to dinner with some nice girls from California visiting my friend Lauren, who fell in love with Rome and moved here from LA.

One of the visitors is getting married in March.

She had a lot of interesting things to say that about separation that eased some of my troubles.

Lost in Translation

2005-10-04T15:53:00.000+02:00

For American movies whose titles do not translate well into Italian, the movie is given an alternate title and marketed as such.

In the case of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, the Italian title is If You Leave Me I Will Cancel You.

Casa, Dolce Casa

2005-10-03T18:00:00.000+02:00

My trip to Milan was a wonderful success.

On the way to the first shot in a supermarket down the street, a little girl stood in her papa's gelateria, waving to everyone on the street who walked by. I turned to her to wave and smile. She began to cry.

We took the underground to the Duomo, a beautiful church and one of Milan's largest tourist attractions. Locals and tourists alike formed a crowd to watch me pace slowly towards the photographer, my arms outsretched towards the camera.

Here is a link to Emma's website: Emma Engkvist.

Went to a few parties, including a Nike party to promote the launch of a new brand of women's sneakers -- "shoes for the women warrior's of everyday life." A performance dance piece entitled "Sure: Do You Want to Talk About It?" capped off the evening's festivities.

During the grand finale, the performers, all women decked out in Nike clothing and shoes, did a choreographed number to TLC's "Unpretty."

You know, the one during the chorus where T-boz and Chilli are all like:

"You can buy your hair if it won’t grow / You can fix your nose if he says so / You can buy all the make-up that mac can make/ But if you can’t look inside you / Find out who am I, too / Be in a position to make me feel so damn unpretty."

Glad to be back in Rome. Milan is rather industrial and bland. A more cosmopolitan, European feel, but none of the heart. No socializing in huge public squares to all hours of the night.

Dawn of the Dead

2005-09-29T11:45:00.000+02:00

I am sitting in an internet café in Milan wearing full zombie make-up.

I have a large red gash on the side of my head and coffee caked to my face. My eyes are dark black circles and my skin a pale purple.

I could not help staring down every person on the street that I passed on the walk here. Especially entertaining was staggering through an open-air market, groaning aloud with my arms stretched out in front of me.

Reactions ranged from giggles to jaw-dropped astonishment from the senior crowd.

Breakdown thus far:

Pulled an all-nighter to catch the 6:30 train to Milan. Slept, but had bad dreams that I got a spider for my birthday that was trying to eat me.

Arrived in Milan around noon and crashed for five hours.

Went to dinner at a friend's bar for happy hour, which included all the food you can eat as long as you buy a drink.

I drank absinthe for the first time. The whole ''light a sugar cube on fire'' ritual is quite fun, as is drinking a green liquid that's 70% alcohol by volume. But let me say, it doesn't go down smooth. The buzz is nice though.

Afterwards, we went to the G Unit afterparty. Don't ask me why, don't ask me how. The only thing I can say: drinks were 12 euro ($15 ). Our krewe was outraged. A terrible DJ, the most expensive drinks we'd ever heard of, and 50 cent and his Unit were nowhere to be found.

Therefore, I stole a bottle of gin from behind the bar and we had our own party in the bathroom.

We bounced shortly thereafter and headed home.

Woke up at 7 in the morning, came to a friend's flat as a home base for the shoot, which is now all zombies.

Sat in make-up for an hour and voilà -- I am the walking dead.

"I wanna be a supermodel..."

2005-09-27T16:59:00.000+02:00

Tomorrow morning I am travelling by train to Milan to model for the next issue of the Italian Vice. Lele's girl Emma is taking the photographs.

The theme is "The Horror Issue," so expect portraits of the models dressed as famous characters from horror films. Emma thinks I would make a good Dracula.

And it's Fashion Week in Milan, so I also look forward to parties and open bars.

I don't know if I will have online access while I'm there, but I return Sunday night, hopefully with a few stories to tell.

A Year Older, A Year Wiser

2005-09-26T18:34:00.000+02:00

It feels good to be able to say: "I am twenty one."

More so than turning any other age, I feel like I have finally achieved something, as twenty-one is the last tick mark on the march to the grave.

13 - I am a teenager.

16 - I am a raging, seething, hormonal teenager.

18 - I can die for my country and vote (or die).

21 - I can purchase alcohol and gamble.

Video black, here I come! Rick's Cabaret, probably not.

That being said, who wants my fake id? John Young? (After his was confiscated, he used my awful Connecticut fake until that was confiscated too.)

Birthday play-by-play:

Woke up and went to Porta Portessa with Lele and his girl Emma.

Picture a flea market stretching for half a mile. Anything and everything available for purchase: clothes, bicycles, electronics (usually stolen), meats, cheeses, and mirrors featuring Tom Cruise's character from Top Gun.

At the end of the stretch of vendors, Gypsy children sit atop piles of clothing and sell at dirt cheap prices. The Gypsy adults man large blankets covered with trinkets, jewelry, and electronics.

A friend of mine once purchased a 512 MB memory card for his digital camera from one of these Gypsies. When he got home and loaded it into his camera, he found pictures chronicling a Japanese family's entire European vacation.

I purchased novelty stickers whose-identity-cannot-be-revealed-as-they-are-a-present-for-a-certain-special-someone and a "U.S.A. bomber jacket" that reads: "Dave Noonan's Child Care."

Then I went home and discovered I was locked out of my apartment, because the doors lock automatically when closed and I had left without my keys.

The fee to summon the superintendant to let me in was 50 euro. I haven't paid him yet and will avoid doing so for as long as humanely possible.

In the evening, friends came over for a dinner party at my place. Spaghetti (two varieties!), cheap red wine, and gelato. For my birthday, I got a picture of an angel boy dancing around the letter "C" and an alarm clock, which I needed desperately but whose alarm function I cannot seem to operate.

Then I met up with some other girls and boys and walked around Trastevere looking for trouble.

Lots of pictures to be developed soon.

p.s.

I had to travel across the world to do it, but I finally met someone with the same birthday as I do -- Ariela's eighty-year-old grandmother.

A Brief Sojourn

2005-09-24T16:56:00.000+02:00

Last night I went to my pal Lele's house in the northern countryside of Rome. I've never seen so many stars in my entire life.

The town borders a huge lake and dates back to the Dark Ages. The people there even speak in a different accent than the Romans do.

The house, called "Little Eden," rests on three acres of land on top of a hill in the mountains. From the balcony, you can see the lake resting at mountain's base.

When his grandfather dies, his parents want to turn it into a bed and breakfast.

After a nice dinner, we went for a swim in a natural hot spring even deeper into the countryside. The water was wonderful, but the sulfur caused it to smell like rotten eggs.

In the morning, we had a typical Italian breakfast -- sweet rolls, coffee, yogurt -- which we supplemented with salami sandwiches. Afterwards, we broke out our cameras for an extensive backyard photo shoot.

I was shooting on film, so I will be sure to post pictures as soon as I get them developed.

Tonight is a garage-punk rock show.

Do's and Don'ts

2005-09-24T16:12:00.000+02:00

Despite the fact that Italians may have
more discriminating fashion tastes,
people like this still exist everywhere.

Introducing...

2005-09-23T14:43:00.000+02:00

My pal Ariela and I are throwing a garage party, with a special guest appearance by Rome rock and roll darlings The Rottish.

Polaroids

2005-09-22T17:50:00.000+02:00

Adventures in San Lorenzo.

photos by a.beauriot

Bow Wows

2005-09-22T16:01:00.000+02:00

The aforementioned homeless people -- "crusties" -- all own dogs that hang out in Piazza Trilussa as well. These dogs are never leashed and always have floppy testicles.

It's rare in America to see a dog that isn't neutered, but here, dogs roam free to urinate and shit as they please.

As a way of gaining sympathy, the crusties thrust their dogs in your face and ask for change.

The dogs are never fed, and the crusties are high on heroin all day.

Maiden Voyage

2005-09-22T04:00:00.000+02:00

Settled in. Eating pasta everyday. Grown an appreciation for cheap red wine.

Already getting behind in my classes. Language is a struggle.

Got a birthday coming up soon. The BIG 21, culturally irrelevant.

Mailing address:
Christopher Stoudt
c/o The American University of Rome
Via Pietro Roselli 4
Rome, 00153

Today I bought a neon-yellow bicycle!

More pictures soon.

Piazza Trilussa, where I spend most of my time. Homeless people brush their teeth in the fountain at the top of the stairs.