Well, everywhere has its national heroes. The Swedes, they have their blond (surprise) tennis hero, Bjorn Borg. And, because of that, you can have him on your ass, if you want:
Or, just on your handbag:
What I want to know why all the famous Swedes don’t have handbag and underwear lines? I mean I’d buy something from the August Strindberg lingerie collection.
Sweden needs to get hip to this.
From the time I was about 14, all my friends have been these artistic music playing types. When I was in high school, I always thought those guys were the sharpest people around. The “smart” kids didn’t hold a candle to them. There was this clever little band around at that time called “Tesla” who had this song called “Signs.” “Sign, signs, everywhere are signs, blocking up the scenery” was a lyric from the song. One day I realized that the band was named after a Croatian electrical engineer named Nikola Tesla. A far cry for something lame like “Dave Matthews Band.”
Anyway, on my recent trip back to the land of future president Barack Obama, I noticed a lot of signs, funny, terrifying, perplexing and otherwise. As it is my sworn duty to provide all of you faithful blog readers with a chronicle of all of this, here is a run down of the signs, signs, everywhere are signs that I saw in the good olde US of A.
First one:
This isn’t really a sign, per se, more like a t-shirt, but I still found it pretty funny. Question is, when will the beating exactly cease? Even funnier was the fact that I saw this at Newark Airport, not some store in the East Village. Weird. I almost bought this thing, but then I couldn’t figure out exactly where I would wear such a thing. To, uh, work? Yeah, not yet at least.
Up next, a hilarious sign from a Mexican joint in the city. They had a really nice quesadilla. I didn’t include it in the glorious gastronomy, but it was still pretty good. What made the place memorable was this hilarious sign:
I did get worried when the past about mentioning Boston while we were in there was mentioned. My parents live in Boston and that is kind of worrisome. However, the bit about the gentlemen lowering their collars was hilarious. I wonder if there is any way that could be sky written over New York City.
Next up, this little gem:
Not a clue what it means, but it just kind of caught my eye.
Another sign, courtesy of this young man in Times Square:
Thanks to his high pressure sale tactics, my window will now feature the Cheney-Satan bumper sticker. Like how Cheney gets top billing over Satan.
Next up, two interesting monuments from the great city of Boston. The first is something dedicated to the inventor of ether, that thing that you anesthetize people with:
A modern miracle for sure, but a statue? Well, that was kind of interesting. Here is the rest:
And, another statue of a person I’ve never heard of, described in the way you’d talk about a car:
Here is a sign, a sign my friend insisted on showing me, which is admittedly pretty darn funny too. He lives in a part of NY called Hell’s Kitchen, which sounds pretty funny, but isn’t really a good thing when you describe a neighborhood, so they changed the name. To Chelsea Clinton. Wait, isn’t there another person called Chelsea Clinton, who also happens to live in NYC? Well, yeah, that is true. It doesn’t stop her from getting a health clinic:
The whole thing didn’t come across, so here is the rest:
And finally, a sign for the train to nowhere, that leaves from track 2:
I kind of love France. There is something about that country that is just slightly funny. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t love France the way I love Iceland, but nevertheless, it is pretty funny. These days, the French have a new first lady. And not just any first lady:
She gets books like this written about her. Even those in the reading public who know no French can tell that Ms. Bruni, I mean Bruni-Sarkozy isn’t going to be fronting any literacy campaigns any time soon.
Here is a couple of shots of her for those of you who don’t keep up with the love lives of French presidents, past and present:
Take my word for it — the love lives of French presidents past and present are really worthwhile to keep up with. Well, so is the one of Ms. Bruni. This woman has been with quite a few major rock stars and has a child by the son of a philosopher whose father she also had an affair with. The son was married to the daughter of a major French philosopher. She later penned a book about it where she referred to Mrs. Bruni as a female terminator with the eyes of a killer. Ouch, but Mrs. Bruni, took it all in stride saying that it was better that than an old bag. She’s also said she tries monogamy every once in a while.
Mr. Sarkozy said he didn’t want to keep his love life a secret, like past French presidents and he had quite the history to build from. Mr. Chirac just wrote a book detailing his multiple extra-marital affairs. Francoise Mitterand had his mistress and his illegitimate daughter at his funeral. Not to mention the French president who passed on while, um, entertaining a lady friend. A lady friend who was a prostitute.
Remember the good old days in America when all we had to worry about was our president and his problem of keeping it in the pants?
Viva La France!
Returns! Yes, after a long absence, my food/restaurant reviews make a triumphant return. We also get a triple whammy with this one. Two reviews of the traveling variety and one of the regular variety.
First, of the regular variety. Ah, Five Guys:
This is their small fries. No, just kidding. This is their large fries. My favorite Five Guys, perhaps the best burger on the planet. Perhaps and now opened right next door to this Japanese soup place I went to with my parents for years. As my regular reading public knows because they memorize this blog and all, I am a fan of the Five Guys from the days of Washington and misery and am ecstatic that they have now opened an outpost in New York. I went to one of their places in Brooklyn and was underwhelmed, but this one was very good. I got my usual:
Cheeseburger, pickles, relish, mayonnaise and raw onion. Well, I kinda liked it:
Ok, the next shot should be of the hamburger gone, but it isn’t there. I am getting hungry for the burger just writing about it now, so it obviously get a 10+ for quality. Oh and the fries were pretty good too. My buddy who had this food fest with introduced me to the vinegar-fries combination I had shunned so much before and it turns out I do really like it. Who knew?
Moving right along. Airline food. I can say I have an advanced knowledge of the world of airline food, after the last year. I’ve seen the good, bad and in between of this world. SAS scored high, Northwest Airlines scored low on my scale. I’m sorry to say, but the European airlines came out well again in my survey. Case in point: Air France. Take a looky-loo at the food:
Close ups of the food:
Overall, I give it an 8. The ravioli was quite good for something you get on a plane, as was the salad, which was a curry couscous with shrimp. I saw seafood and thought it was going to be kind of gross, but it turned out to be pretty good. Sure was better than the Continental Airlines slop I had on the way over. YUK. There was one part of the meal I didn’t understand:
It was listed at “cake-cookie” on the dining card. I took one bite and decided it was enough, but it didn’t ruin generally good food, for a plane.
And finally, I spent 2 1/2 hours in Paris and had something typically French:
I know, half eaten, but that is just a sign I had eaten enough to decide it would be a good thing to add to the blog. Damn that was a good croissant. Delicious and I got it using my non-existent French skills. Weird. I was tired as hell and somehow wasn’t overly shy to use my small amount of French to order this thing. Man, it was good. Oh and Orangina, which I had to get because I was in France. I couldn’t help it. 10+ for the croissant too. Croissant means “to grow” in French. There’s a fun fact. Note of advice to blog readers — the next time you are in Charles De Gaulle airport, get a croissant. Good. Quite good.
Last Sunday Stockholm experienced a Strange Meteorological Phenomenon:
Sunshine. Weird. This is Ostermalm by the way, where I pay so much to live in, which I usually only see in the dark.
More of where it is I call home for now:
More shots of this city, illuminated:
And this place doesn’t lack for natural beauty either:
Or weird looking houses:
But the sun had to set, alas:
The sun does shine here. I never would have believed it.
Last Sunday Stockholm experienced a Strange Meteorological Phenomenon:
Sunshine. Weird. This is Ostermalm by the way, where I pay so much to live in, which I usually only see in the dark.
More of where it is I call home for now:
More shots of this city, illuminated:
And this place doesn’t lack for natural beauty either:
Or weird looking houses:
But the sun had to set, alas:
The sun does shine here. I never would have believed it.
Don’t sit in the house. I understand. Do you have to put that message on a pillow in a store window for me to really understand?
But I’ve never actually seen them expressed in the form of a threat:
and battled monsters, but I am back.
In appreciation of that I post a strange, abstract photo:
And of course, a ghost photo from a means of public transportation in the world:
I am back. Look out.
When I was taking these pictures, I was walking along and said to my mom:
“I don’t have any normal friends. Why can’t I have normal friends?”
At which point, I noticed the steam coming up from the street and stood there and took the following photos. I stood there for a good 10 minutes, shooting away, no regard for the fact that my hands were so cold they were about ready to fall off.
I guess the answer to my question is to be normal would be to have no passion for anything. Photographs:
This one above, I am totally and completely ambivalent about. As usual, I can’t make up my mind. I guess I just have to stare at it a while longer. Nevertheless, I like it, though people might think its boring.
Next:
The fog and the steam in a photo that scream New York:
And, of course, surprise, surprise, edited:
