Happy Birthday Mom!

Oktoberfest in Munich!

If you aren’t paying attention at Oktoberfest, you will get your ass kicked. It’s not because of anything you did to provoke somebody’s wrath. You can just be standing in the beer tent enjoying the festivities, drinking in both the suds and the atmosphere, and you will first hear a warning. This comes in the form of a whistle. Not the kind you hear at a rock concert or sporting event, but an actual whistle. The referee kind. If you do not heed the warning and get out of the way in a timely manner, you will receive the foot of a sturdy but mature-looking German woman right between your butt cheeks.

This happened to me at the Paulaner tent on a sun-drenched Saturday afternoon. I don’t blame her for doing this. After all, she needed to deliver a flock of broasted chickens to some hungry festival goers and I was oblivious to the urgency of the situation. I’m sure I was not the first ass she kicked that day and there would undoubtedly be many more to come as the crowd became increasingly lubricated.

The tents. Paulaner. Haufbrauhaus. Augustiner. Lowenbrau and a score of others I can’t remotely pronounce. If I tried, it would sound like an attack of bronchitis. They are set out in succession along the back row of the festival grounds, gleaming temples devoted to the art of brewing and the ritual of imbibing. Each holds around 10,000 from around the world, some having reserved their place at the long wooden tables over a year in advance. If you are lucky enough to gain entrance sans reservation, you will be treated to a spectacle that can only be found annually for two autumnal weeks in Munich.

The beer is why they have made their pilgrimage. The natives, in all shapes and sizes, sporting lederhosen passed down from generation to generation for just this occasion. Australians with their yellow “Fanatics” t-shirts. The Brits, Scots, and Irish clad in their rugby jerseys. Americans in their university hoodies. and the Italians looking . . . Italian. Gelled, slicked back hair, high-priced T’s stamped with designer names, and gold-plated chains around their necks, ready to throw themselves at anything in a traditional dress.

The dirndl. Some are born to wear it, with their ample curves almost spilling forth from the bodice. Others look just a bit too ample for the form-fitting corset. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to squeeze into one for a few days while swilling beers and noshing on the cornucopia of pork products to be found around every corner of the legendary grounds. My traveling companion, despite looking fetching in her budget costume, felt a bit out of place since hers was cut comparatively high, eliciting more than a few stares and catcalls. Feeling self conscious and a bit allergenic, the dress lasted a few hours before being jettisoned, but the pictures were worth the price.

The weekend went by fast, a blur of hoisted beer steins and the ooompah of brass polka bands. This was one trip I won't soon forget. Hope to be there in 2010!

Part II: Think positive. At least now you have zero chance of dying!

Back in the friendly confines of the Polskaland and taking time to savor the little day-to-day intricacies that make working and living here a true pleasure. School has started, the kids have been rejuvenated by a full summer of doing nothing and the editor of the KC has been newly minted as a master of education, whatever that means. Take it with a grain of salt since this is only year 10 of what I feel might be a Ripkenesque career as an educator.

Or maybe I should use a Brett Favre analogy? Here's hoping I don't need a veritable cocktail of painkillers to make it through my day when I'm in my early 40's. By the way, I really have no feelings about the Vikings' signing of the scourge of Green Bay since the boys in purple have been dead to me since the ruinous end of the 1998 season, which you can relive in painful, raw detail here. It almost brought me to tears all over again, but some masochistic part of me watched it until the bitter end. Damn you Gary Anderson! Or maybe I should be thanking him since the last 11 years of Sundays have seen me anesthetized toward any feeling of living vicariously through grossly overpaid athletes that couldn't care less about the average fan. But I'm NOT bitter.

Anyway . . . I never did finish my story about Pamplona. I will let the rest of it pour forth in the hope that it will provide some catharsis and rationalization. Where was I?

The running takes place at 8:00 AM every day for the whole 8 day festival. The average time it takes for the bulls to get through the 850 meter course (about 1/2 mile) is around 3 1/2 minutes. At around 6:30, I was lined up at where I thought would be an ideal spot (see video), midway between point 5 and 6 on the map. My thinking was that I would only be faced with a short 200 meter pants-filled dash into the bullfighting arena where I would bask for a few seconds in the admiration of the cheering throngs while simultaneously getting the hell outta the way of 1,500 pounds of pissed off hamburger. The rest of my traveling party had retreated to a balcony overlooking the course, for which they each paid 40 Euros, including breakfast.

About 6:45, Juan Law (Spanish cousin of Johnny Law), started clearing the streets. They had an ingenious method of closing the gates on each cross street to divide the course into one block sections, separating the crowd that was trying to do the same thing I was doing. Us glory-hounds were quickly surrounded by cops in nasty-looking berets and forcibly removed from the course. Oops. Didn't read anything in my research about that. Back to the drawing board. So I had been pushed off the course around point #6. I then needed to hightail it all the way back to the start, fighting my way through drunken cowards the whole time. I made it all the way back to #3 in the main plaza about 200 meters from where they release the bulls. There was a huge crowd assembled and all of them had that "What the eff have I gotten myself into?" look of terror on their face. In fact, there was even a procession of people lined up behind the cops who marched them out of the plaza after they elected to "use better judgement" as my mom would say. Pansies.

So all runners are packed in between points 3 and 4, but around 7:30 they swing open the gate (#4) that confined us to that area. This gives us 30 minutes to spread out along the course and take our positions from which we will attempt to avoid getting trampled by not only bulls but each other. At this point, there is no turning back. Foremost on my mind was the fact that one of the bulls scored a kill the day before when it was turned around going the wrong way on the course. It proceeded to gore anything in his path including an unlucky Spaniard who took a horn in the lung and jugular. Medical personnel pulled him under a gate only a few seconds after he was hit but he bled out in an instant was declared dead soon after.

As luck would have it, I ended up camped in the same position I had been in one hour previously. The adrenaline was pumping and, as per my nature in situations such as these, I wanted to capture the scene, bringing some of the sights and sounds of Pamplona home with me on my camera. Where I went wrong at 7:52 on that fateful day is anybody's guess. But after making a short video of the minutes leading up to one of those "gotta do it before you die" moments, one of Pamplona's finest spotted me from his perch on one of the wooden gates that seals off the course from any overzealous spectators. He barked at me in Spanish, which I took to mean "Sir, could you kindly put your camera away since the bulls will be released in just a few short minutes. I know you wanna capture this momentous occasion but you should really pay attention while trying to tempt death."

Alright, it's been 17 years since my last Spanish class so forgive me if I got the translation wrong. Soon enough, I felt like John Hinkley at the Washington Hilton in 1981. Surrounded by four of Juan Law's cousins as my heart pounded with fear, there was no escape and all I could think about was how stupid I was for not running into the crowd as soon as he had singled me out. I showed them that I had put my camera away and was ready to dodge bulls. But instead of congratulating me on my courage and my desire to showcase their fine city, they shoved me to the ground and under the gate. Not only was my dream of running with the bulls crushed but my brand new white pants bought specifically for this occasion were stained with the dirt, grime, and fluids of an all-night Spanish bender. As I frantically scrambled to run back to the start of course and fight again, the fireworks signaling the start went off and I wasn't even in a position to watch others get gored. Was it the blonde hair and blue eyes that made me the victim of police brutality? Or maybe stupidity? I guess I'll never know, but at least it makes for a good story.

My turn to cry . . .

I have the best family in the world. They got me this time thanks to modern technology. Thanks to my cousin Michele for coming up with this fantastic birthday surprise. Once again, before you sit down and watch this, grab the box of tissues. I love all of you guys . . . see you in a few weeks!

Beauties and Beer Tents

The Warsaw Open, a stop on the ATP Tour for some of the world's great female tennis players, commenced this week. The tennis gods smiled down upon tour organizers and this reporter when former world #1 ranked player, and Russian uber-babe, Maria Sharapova decided to use the tournament to launch her comeback from a shoulder injury that has sidelined her for over 9 months.

A couple friends and I hustled out of work in order to catch the end of her match against an Italian, Tathiana Garbin, and were lucky enough to see Sharapova blow three match points in the second set. This allowed us to actually find our seats and enjoy the third set which she ended up winning 6-3. The reigning queen of grunts did not disappoint:

She has been measured at over 100 decibels on the grunt-o-meter, the equivalent of standing near a police car with its blaring siren. The evolution of grunting in tennis is chronicled in great detail here by the BBC. Sharapova owes a great deal to the pioneer of the grunt in women's tennis, Monica Seles.

Also, last week, on a sun-drenched Friday afternoon, the hard-working folks at AS-dub convened for a faculty social at the nearest oasis, just off the bike-trail leading to school. We at the Chronicle would never condone drinking and cycling, and Polish law is quite strict in this regard, but there's great comfort to be found in enjoying good beer, good food, and good company after only pedaling a couple short kilometers from school. Patio culture is certainly one area where this country is leaps and bounds ahead of my former homeland.

The Big Apple . . .

With the drop in airfare from Europe to the U.S., it was possible to spend spring break this year in New York City. This was my first visit to the Empire State and Luiza's first trip across the Atlantic. To make the trip all that much more exciting, we met my parents, brother Dave, and my two BFF's (that's best friends forever for you folks not versed in adolescent lingo) Brian and Jeff. Brian drove in from Pennsylvania with his girlfriend, Lindsay, and Jeff flew in from Minneapolis with his new cell phone.

We were pretty jet lagged to start things off but managed to go out on the town until the wee hours the first night in town. The next day, we took in the Easter parade before checking out Rock of Ages, a musical based on the music of my formative years, the hard-rockin, spandex clad 80's. If you grew up in that era, you will love this show starring American Idol alum Constantine Maroulis. It was a heaping helping of cheese, but who doesn't love cheese? They even worked in a four-pack of Bartle's and Jaymes as a prop.

The next morning, the boys left and we had been lucky enough to score tickets to Letterman. All of you High School Musical fans out there will be jealous to find out that I was seated only twenty feet away from Dave's first guest, Zac Efron. (queue squealing girls) It was interesting to get a behind the scenes look at how the Late Show is produced but it loses a bit of luster when you are being goaded into laughing and clapping. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a big Dave fan, but think he was much funnier back in the NBC days when the comedy was edgier and he interacted with the audience a lot more. Through the magic of youtube, check out the classic Velcro Suit, Marshmallow suit, and Chip Suit. Just the Chronicle's small contribution in keeping you productive at work.

The rest of the week was spent just being tourists. We went to see Billy Elliott, the Tony Award winning "it" musical this year. It was spectacular to see all these kids performing some jaw-dropping dance moves with impeccable timing. Though I'm sure they've broken some child labor laws while preparing for the show since the choreography and songs were mind blowingly complex. One of the tiny ballerina girls who stole the show was only seven years old.

We saw our share of tall buildings, heading to the top of both the Empire at night, and Rockefeller Center during the day. If you only have time for one, make sure it's the "Top of the Rock". They've really streamlined the process by putting a time for you to show up on your ticket, and then showing a video detailing the building's history during your brief twelve minute wait.

Mom and Dad tooled around Central Park in a bicycle cart driven by a Macedonian medical student. They learned all about Yoko Ono's dominance of the Dakotah Hotel (she owns seven apartments there) and how she blackballed Madonna from getting an apartment. There were many other trivial tidbits that escape me but my Mom can tell you more about them.

While they were learning the inside celebrity scoop, the proverbial cherry on our sundae happened on Saturday, when we just happened to ride our rental bikes through a shoot of "Law and Order: SVU". I just wish my parents, who are HUGE fans of the series, all three installments, were there to see it. I was hoping that Mariska Hargitay, who my father informed me is the daughter of famed pin-up gal Jayne Mansfield, would arrest me, but no such luck. The locals paid no attention, however, since the city is such a popular backdrop for both film and television.

Luiza, Dave, and I saw a show at the famed Comic Strip, but unfortunately most of the comics we saw were hacks, especially the final five we endured who were given just a few minutes in front of the mic to prove their comedic chops. All of them failed miserably and made me glad that I only have to make sixth graders laugh everyday. Comedy is not easy folks. It was cool to have this uniquely American experience since there is no stand-up scene here in Warsaw.

I feel really lucky to have had this chance to see my family (Chicky and Scrote too!) for a week and introduce them to Luiza. Having the time off in the middle of the spring to hop on an overseas flight and play in New York City is just one more reason I never take this job or the special people in my life for granted*queue the video*

The real deal . . . spring that is.

Now this is more like it. Mother Nature has decided to let go of her lingering embrace of Jack Frost. The blizzard of "snirt" captured by my camera a couple weeks ago seems like a distant memory as the darkness of winter's tunnel has ceded to the inevitability of changing seasons, toasty sunshine, and the fairer sex shedding their winter coats in favor of something more, errrrr, revealing.

The first race on the burgeoning Warsaw running calendar came and went with lots of fanfare. The Carrefour (French supermarket chain) Warsaw Half Marathon, which is a distance of 21 km over here, not 13.1 miles, turned a crisp Sunday morning spent recovering from Saturday's rugby match into something akin to running through a crowd armed with bamboo sticks. Nobody was actually hitting me, but with every step on the uneven cobblestone streets jiggling my bruised, pasty-white thunderthighs (it's tough to run in the winter), it certainly felt like it. Special guest at the runner expo was none other than famed run-walk-run guru and U.S. Olympian, Jeff Galloway. I wanted to see if he remembered meeting me at the Portland Marathon back in 2001, but didn't see him after my finish. Maybe I should've looked around, but the post-race celebration at Rooster was calling.

Last Sunday, it seemed like the whole city decided to spend the day outdoors, after the requisite trip to mass, with palms in hand. The Old Town was bursting with both tourists and locals queuing up for ice cream, sipping beers on the square, or capturing footage of their youngsters chasing each other around the fountain. Those of us who opted for a faster mode of transportation, the bike, cruised from park to park and over bridges in search of pubs and restaurants with inviting patios. From Pub Lolek to Metal Bar to the legendarily eclectic Spider Bar across the river in Praga, we cycled for hours, the last stop being my favorite spot for grub, Boston Port.

It's all downhill from here as we roll on towards summer like an 18 wheeler crossing North Dakota on I-94. This beautiful weather makes me so metaphorical. Anyway, check out this vid. Bluegrass music is taking this great nation by storm and I was one of the first on the bandwagon. It sounds great with Louie Armstrong lightly playing in the background. There is also a great clip of one of the funniest running costumes ever, second only to Mr. Blister and Captain Cramp in creativity, but definitely tops in degree of difficulty. Thanks for reading!

Oh S**t! It's actually on TV!

Nobody in this country cleans up after their dog. There are brown landmines of every shape and size littering the city of Warsaw. I probably have to dodge these lawn sausages at least a dozen times a day from the moment I walk out of the gate of my building until I ride my bike through the Kabaty Forest on my way home from work.

People really have no collective fecal conscience here. I'm sure they believe that these canine colon cannonballs are biodegradable and will eventually be swallowed up by the ground. Instead, they just lie in wait for some unlucky pedestrian to plant his painstakingly polished loafer into its squishy goodness.

On a related note, did you know that through the power of the internet, you can send somebody (preferably someone you don't like) a bag of doggie duds? Check out this site . It's even been featured in Time and Maxim magazines so apparently someone is ordering enough to keep them in business. Too bad this didn't exist back when the Unabomber was terrorizing America. You can't be sentenced to life in a super maximum security prison for Fedexing dogcrap but it sends the same message as a bomb without the bloody mess: "You're not really my favorite person."

Anyway, the commercial crusade that encourages Poles to "Clean up after your dog man." has reached the airwaves of MTV. I haven't personally seen it, since that would require me to sit through some of their mindless programs (Tia Tequila? My Super Sweet Sixteen? Whatever happened to music videos?) but the magic of Youtube will allow you to watch it over and over.

It took fourteen hours and around forty people to film this one minute commercial. I was happy to be a part of something that gives back to society, something that just may make Europe (it will be shown in other countries) a safer place to wander around without constantly staring at the ground.

Off piste or piste off?

Last week, we had "winter break", more commonly known by its other name: Ski Week. Luiza and I were lucky enough to find a cozy little apartment nestled in the French Alps near the famous Alpe D'Huez resort. Click on the map to the right for a better view.

This was my first European ski experience and I found it much different than the U.S. Here, you are treated too much longer runs, some as long as 4-5 miles, but you are riding / skiing straight down the face of a mountaintop glacier rather than through powder-covered mountain runs carved out of vast stands of evergreens. Finding pockets of "freshies" can prove to be quite difficult, especially when day after day is bathed in glorious sunlight. I'm not complaining . . . it was just a bit, like I said before . . . different.

Also, rather than one ski lift taking you to the top of the mountain, you might have to hop onto an aerial tramway or gondola lift before jumping on a chair lift to take you to the peak. The area we were at reportedly has 93 different lifts. This may seem like a mind-boggling number of ride choices but I am thinking they are including surface lifts in order to inflate that figure.

The Dutch continue to live up to their reputation as a fun-loving, hard-partying bunch. We walked to the only hotel in Allemont for Après-ski and found out that it had been bought in the last year by an Amsterdammer. The place was filled to capacity by fifty of his fellow countrymen and boy did they know how to party. The hotel bar was packed with people dancing on tables (which included us after awhile) and singing along with the in-house band. Strangely enough, their well-behaved children, numbering at least twenty, were in the adjacent room having dinner while being attended to by hotel staff. After eating, they then left their parents to party while they went to bed, on their own! Not only do the Dutch know how to party but their children are self sufficient. Not bad.

After five straight days of me riding my board and Lu on her skis, our bodies felt like one of those Stretch Armstrong dolls from back in the 70's. Next time we will enjoy more Apres Ski and less of those quad burner 10K long black diamonds. Though over here, they aren't diamonds, just black lines. However, you can't possess nearly the same amount of bravado when you tell your sporty friends how you were rippin' it up on the black line runs.

Anyway, hope that spring has almost sprung in your neck of the woods. We are still getting some dustings of śnieg over here in the Polska land. Oh, by the way, we wish you a happy Women's Day. This is the day that you honor the women in your life which means makeshift flower stands all over the city are having their best day of the year selling tulips and roses. So if you have a Polish woman (or one of Polish descent) in your life, make sure you surprise her by acknowledging her existence on this special day.

The feminists were out in force today, making sure their calls for liberation for Polish women were heard in the form of a live female rap group on the back of a semi truck. Yeah, I don't get it either. Whatever happened to the art of the protest song?:

Sh!t . . .

Ever since I was a precocious youngster playing the lead in St. Leo's third grade stage adaptation of Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree", I knew I was born to act. I wanted to be mentioned in the same breath as Gary Coleman, Ricky Schroeder, and Kirk Cameron, but it was never in the cards for me to be on the cover of Tiger Beat magazine as the next teen heartthrob. I attribute this to the fact that my family never went anywhere for vacation beyond Wisconsin. There are a distinct lack to Hollywood talent scouts in America's Dairyland, or the Land of 10,000 Lakes, for that matter.

But here in Poland, the rules are different. Knowing somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody leads one to be involved in situations that can only be described as surreal. Recently I had such an experience.

Somehow word spread to Warsaw about my broken childhood dreams and unfulfilled potential as the male equivalent of Punky Brewster. Through some strange twist of fate, or the need for a native Amerenglish (not the Queen's English) speaker, I was called for an audition at Propeller Film. They have amassed an impressive portfolio of cleverly filmed commercials that air on television throughout Poland and the rest of Europe. These guys are professionals. And I am certainly not.

Somehow, after thirty minutes of channeling my inner Deniro (You talkin' to me?"), I landed the role of a gangster in a commercial about dog poop. My line was brief, but required the utmost feeling of steely emotion in its delivery. I need to look into the camera with the look of a man facing a lengthy prison sentence and simply mutter "Shit!". Sorry for my profanity Grandma, but it was pretty cool getting paid to repeatedly say a word that used to result in a mouth full of soap.

The commercial is still in the process of being edited, but I can tell you that those who are not in "the biz" have no idea how complicated the production process can be. The actors have the easy part. We spent most of our time sitting in the make-up trailer sipping Red Bull while waiting for the crew (around forty people) to adjust the lighting, sound, and camera angles.

The finished product, around one minute in length, was shot in the style of an American crime thriller set in an abandoned factory. The entire shoot lasted around twelve bone-chilling hours. I was only there for eight but the production crew spent all of their time outside in sub-zero weather. I can't imagine how much work goes into producing a full length feature film.

I hope to provide you with a link to the completed project in a couple weeks, with permission from the film studio. For now, I've included some behind the scenes action.

Are you moving back now?

I've been asked that question by a few of my friends back in the U.S. since G.W. made his final flight off into the sunset. The definitive answer for this is a resounding "NO!". I'm absolutely shocked at some of the things I've been reading about the educational funding cuts slated for 2009. This does nothing too instill confidence that there will be sweeping reforms designed to undo the damage of NCLB anytime soon.

Anyhow, how about that inauguration? Here in Warsaw, we gathered at the Hard Rock along with some U.S. Embassy folk to get our glimpse of history on the monstrous plasma screen. It really was an occasion that made me proud.

I was also happy to be sharing the moments with some friends from other countries, i.e. Australia, Ireland, Canada, Sweden, and of course Poland. This certainly made me a bit more conscious of how the rest of the world must view all the hoopla surrounding a change in leadership. Some random observations:

• Whatever happened to the separation of church and state? I am fully aware that there must be a higher power up there, over there, wherever, but isn't religion supposed to be between myself and God? Government shouldn't be telling me when to pray. However, with the severity of the economic crisis, now might be a good time to start.
  

• That Rick Warren guy sounded creepy. "And his daughters, Maleeeeea and Saaasha . . ." made my skin crawl.

• Aretha Franklin would've sounded better singin' this number. She and Obama could've done some sort of duet song and dance.

• Speaking of dance, this was a great vid on youtube. I just wish that Beyonce would've launched into "Bootylicious" after this poignant moment. And it's in High-Def, no less!

• Could there have been a more fitting image to epitomize the legacy of this administration?
  

Making history in Albania . . .

Last year around this time, the Chronicle reported from frigid Ukraine after taking the ASW middle school cross country team to the capital, Kiev. As we strive to push the touristic envelope by squiring you, the reader, to the deepest, darkest, least visited corners of Europe as well as the more popular destinations, the Kielbasa sports editor was sent to Tirana, Albania a couple weeks ago.

"Why Tirana?" you may be asking, as well as a few parents concerned about their child's safety. Well, think of CEESA (the Central Eastern European Schools Association) as a sports league, in the same vein as major league baseball except without the steroids and exorbitant payrolls. Schools in Warsaw, Moscow, Prague, Budapest, Istanbul and Bucharest have outstanding facilities for hosting the team sports, i.e. soccer, basketball, volleyball, and softball. These are the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox of international schools, which operate on healthy budgets but charge twelve dollars for a beer and a hot dog. Oh wait, that's still baseball.

International schools in cities such as Vilnius, Tallin, Riga, Zagreb, and Belgrade are the small market teams, the Minnesota Twins, Milwaukee Brewers, and Kansas City Royals if you will. They lack the facilities to host the major tournaments so they take turns hosting smaller events such as tennis, Math Counts, Knowledge Bowl and Speech and Debate. Oh yeah, and cross country too. It doesn't take much to host a cross country meet except a big park, some road construction cones, and a few volunteers.

So consider a school like Tirana International to be the Nashville Sounds, a AAA affiliate of MLB. They want to be invited to the major leagues but have to prove themselves worthy by hosting an event. Which is why the Chronicle sports department was witness to the first ever cross country race in Albania's history:





One of the more fascinating, albeit tragic, reminders of Albania's isolationist past are the bunkers that dot the landscape from the coastal beaches to the rugged mountain terrain. Everywhere you look, there are small, cylindrical concrete shelters large enough for only one man. Albania's Stalinist dictator, Enver Hoxha, commissioned the construction of 600,000 refuges, enough for 25% of the country's population. He feared invasion not only from the West, but from his ally, the Soviet Union as well. Check out some of the beachside huts of Albania:

T.V. Guide

I've been surviving without television for quite some time now. Despite being one of those kids who lived for the Thursday night lineup on NBC (Cosby Show, Different World, Cheers, and the very underrated Night Court), I was able to wean myself off the tube during my years spent in Boise. This stemmed more from my inability to afford basic cable on a teacher's salary than from some conscious decision to put down the remote and participate in life. Okay, I did spring for high-speed internet and spend an alarming amount of time clicking the mouse, so to speak.

Viewing choices here in Poland are limited for the linguistically challenged. You can catch American movies on every night, but must train your ear to ignore the monotone recitation of the dreaded "lektor": the deep-voiced Pole who is doing his best impersonation of James Earle Jones. Unlike countries in western Europe, where they hire individual artists for overdubbing each actor's lines, there are identical utterances heard for each role.

However, there is one thing I enjoy about Polish television. They have no qualms about showing liberal amounts of skin, no matter what time of day. Last night, for example, I was treated to at least a full two minutes of Demi Moore's silicon enhanced torso (cleaning it up for the younger readers)in a scene from her 1996 smash hit about exotic dancing with Burt Reynolds. And of course, dropping the dreaded "F-bomb" during prime time is certainly no big f'ing deal. It's akin to me appearing on Sesame Street and saying "K*#@a!", the mother of all Polish swear words. In deference to my Polish readers, I will refrain from such profanity in future postings.

Yes, you will never see a Nipplegate scandal here in Poland. As Luiza says, there are some "pretty strange American rules" about television. "Not German, not British, not Polish, ONLY American rules." I think this probably pertains to the rest of Europe too.

Two programs that I have thoroughly enjoyed recently, despite the language barrier, are "Mam Talent" (you have talent) and "You Can Dance". Yes, I realize that these are blatant rip-offs of shows produced in both England and the U.S., but they are infinitely more entertaining. Like their predecessors, both of these shows rely on the delusional for comic relief. We all derive some twisted pleasure out of seeing somebody make a fool out of themselves and then become enraged because they believe the judges just can't see how really gifted they are. Only mom and dad, or some incredibly desperate life partner still believes in them.

Here are a couple clips from Mam Talent. The first is of my dark horse candidate for bringing home the title, Sssssnake. Pay attention to the Gene Simmons inspired tongue-flicking. He made it through to the next round. All he needs to do to push him over the top is swallow a live field mouse on stage. It would be Game Over for all the other contestants. Ssssnake, if you're a reader of the Chronicle, I am a big fan! Oooops, no more youtube clip, but you can find the vid HERE.

Of course, there was the obligatory little girl with the big voice act. These always make the judges cry. She really is cute, but I don't think she holds a candle to Britney Spears on Star Search:


As for "You Can Dance", here is my dark horse contestant, Justyna. The judges loved her, ahem, "spunk", so much that they kept a running dialogue with her for five minutes. I think these two guys have been hanging out at the Bulgarian Embassy in downtown Warsaw.

But the man to beat is Jakub, who made the judges cry. He's gotta shave the awful peach fuzz beard if he wants to win. It's as bad as my attempts at facial hair. Okay, almost. Have a good weekend!

Back from the Baltics . . .

I've returned from a couple weeks of traveling around Eastern Europe with my friends Kyle, from Boise, and Joe, from way back in the kindergarten days at St. Leo's elementary. I had a wonderful time shirking the inevitable responsibilities that will come along with my enrollment in a graduate program this summer but am looking forward to my arrival in Madrid tomorrow. Until the Chronicle establishes communication from there, we hope you enjoy this video slideshow of our Baltic journey . . .

The fine art of wearing a Speedo.

With the arrival of swimsuit season, we at the Chronicle want to post some friendly advice when it comes to choosing men's beachwear. Here are some rules to follow when deciding whether or not to squeeze into that skimpy Speedo:

Don't do it if . . .

1. You are not a competitive swimmer.
2. You can't see your feet.
3. When you're significant other runs her fingers through your hair, she's rubbing your back.

The above rules do not apply if you meet any of the following criteria:

1. You are German. (but you must be on holiday in Croatia)*




2. You are Polish (but you have to be living in Poland)*



3. You are an American wearing skis.
(CAUTION: This video is NOT to be viewed by small children!)



Thanks to my friend Ethan back in Boise for inspiring this blog entry. He breaks all the rules when it comes to pulling off the pink banana hammock. I'm so glad that he wasn't wearing this when we skied Brundage back in January.

*I took the photo of the German back in 2005. The other magnificent specimen was captured on film at Powsin Park a few days ago when we took the kids there for a field trip. I was so proud of them for not gawking like their teacher did.