Damn Those Swing Sets

Summer camp circa 2005. My best friend tells me about this summer camp he used to go for the past 3 years. I really hated summer camps since I was a little kid but I decide to tag along. He tells me that every year a group of French kids comes and stays there for 2 weeks. We high-fived each other and off we went. On the “disco” night and I still cringe years after the event and seconds after I wrote the name of the night I met Elodie. It was me against my poor French, her poor English, my inability to dance and her friend who wouldn't leave her side. Her friend left for a second and I asked her as quickly as I could ”do you want to go for a walk?” to my surprise she said yes.

Now, I don't know how things worked at the campsite you guys used to go when you were kids, but the make out point at the specific campsite was the swing sets. Right behind the main "event area" and next to the small basket ball courts. I'd never been there. At least not to make out with a girl. I'd heard stories and all but never had my own.

So, as we are walking outside the event area and towards the swing sets, I manage to put my hand around her shoulder. Then she turns around as we keep on walking and says “I have a boyfriend”. She didn't know much English but she knew how to say that. As I go to take my hand off of her shoulder and say “oh sorry...” she holds my hand down and says “he not here...France”.

Now, I have absolutely no idea why she'd give me that information but she did. I'd stopped thinking about it a couple months after it happened but I remembered it again a couple of nights ago. That girl was satanic. “I have boyfriend, France, but me make out with you at the swing sets yes?” Anyway, he was in France, she was in Greece, she'd kept my hand around her shoulder and I was back in the game. I was wearing the biggest smile. Like I was on one on one with the goal keeper and I was going to score and give my team the victory. She was pretty and soon I'd have my own story from the swing sets.

Steps away from the swing set area, a fat guard shows up and says in that authoritative voice that guards have: “where you two think you're going?” I say...”we thought of going to the swing sets and sit for a while...” the bastard smiles and laughs. He knew all about it and he says: “yeah right..you're not allowed to...back to the main area with the rest of the kids.” Some minutes later, when the lighting was low and the untalented dj was playing cheesy slow songs right after a fast pop song, I saw her kissing and dancing with one of our group leaders who was 20years old or something at the time.

My chance of having my own story from the swing sets was long gone. I told my best friend's cousin and a good friend of mine and for some weird reason after telling him I wanted to show him as well. We watched them kissing and dancing and he said something that can not be translated in English. Then after 10 seconds of re-witnessing my failure we walked back to where all the other guys were.

The very next morning my best friend told me that the previous night him and another guy had managed to sneak in the swing sets area with two other French girls. The girls were being extremely slutty and loud lifting their skirts as they were swinging on the swings and showing them their thongs. Then the guard came and told them to leave too. I know this story is true because the same night I got all Frenched out, I remember losing him for a while and then seeing him talking with one of the French girls as he was coming back from the swing set area.

The moral of this story is that to make it in this world you either have to speak French, know how to slow dance, be smooth enough and have the ability to sneak in the swing set area, or look like a moronic bald washed out raver that wears vests to show off the muscles you don't have. The theory applies if you replace the rave fashion with a current fashion.

p.s: if you had any idea why she'd go and mention the French boyfriend and then keeping my hand around her shoulder feel free to contribute.

BIG FISH SMALL CAT THIN LINE TOILETTE PAPER

A few nights ago I had this dream about a weird word that means absolutely nothing, "Castratania".

The whole world was covered in sand. No concrete, no asphalt just sand. Basically the whole world had turned out like a huge beach. Surfer's paradise one would say. So me and my best friend were riding on the sea shore on this strange vehicle. We were both sitting on the back and our driver was a crab. Then my best friend started talking with the crab about "Castratania". They both knew what it was and my character seemed to know what it was but I had absolutely no idea of what was going on.

The crab said: "Oh yeah, they've predicted it to happen in two years but I don't trust these guys" and he dropped us off. I started strolling around like nothing was going on when the sand split apart and water started flooding the place. My best friend yelled "IT'S CASTRATANIA" and I started sinking. We both started sinking. The whole world was sinking for that matter.

I started swimming under water trying to find my friend. Went through some debris on my left. Nothing. Then on my right. Nothing again. Then as I was running out of breath he tapped my shoulder and as I was ready to pass out and die, I turned into a fish. We both turned to fish.

We started swimming and talking just like humans but we were fish. Everyone had turned into some kind of fish. I know it sounds like a stoner's dream but I'm far from that.

8 months minus one week away from home. 8 months with malrboro lights, coffee, wine thursdays and daily 4 hours library study. 8 months with 001 communication and endless talks about the revolts in the middle east and the floods in Japan. 8 months without the smell of home and the people I like telling me to stop talking when I say punch lines I only find funny. But I keep swimming. I know it sounds whinny but I'll repeat myself here and say that sometimes it's lonely and some others it feels wonderful. Wonderful to the extent of whistling and walking or smiling for thinking moments from the summer. Am I going crazy or everyone else looks like their parents whispered in their ear while asleep when they were 5 that Santa Clause doesn't exist and they woke up the next day in the grumpiest of moods. A mood that still accompanies them.

A few days ago, as I was on my way back home from coffee and reading, a Mormon started talking to me. I don't mind having a conversation with these guys as long as they don't show up at my doorstep. We kept on talking for good two blocks, exchanging opinions and beliefs but he seemed so consistent like if he made me believe he'd gain extra space around his seat in paradise.

He said he knew that there was something more than this, but I've heard it all before and I respect it all together. Muslims believe that we're already dead and this whole life thing is just a test from God or something like that. As he was talking I kept on thinking of a conversation I had with my best friend. How he told me that when he dies he wanted to be fed to hungry dogs. I guess that's more original than the "scatter my ashes in the sea" or "don't worry he went to a better place." But that's just me. I end the conversation with the Mormon a block away from my flat, stopping and putting out my cigarette telling him that it was nice talking to him and whatever gets anyone through the day. He insists to arrange a meeting with me. I ask for his card and email. The easy way out. I'm not surprised he has a business card. He acts like a salesman trying to sell faith and I don't like that. I don't really need it.

I often hear second year students talk about religion like they've read the whole library. I'm surrounded with Richard Dawkins enthusiasts, so called punk rockers, hardcore dudes/dudettes with tattoos , hipsters that they wish they were born in the 80's and young girls that they declare their insecurities with exaggerated fake tan, painting themselves orange. I guess they're just paying tribute to Michael Jackson in a reversal kind of way. I'm sure that I fit in somewhere in these groups but I like to think I don't. At least not in the “fake tan” group for sure. My heritage gave me plenty of natural tan.

"I can prove you that God exists if you gave me 15 minutes from your time, sat down and talk with me." You can have two hours from my time, 5 hours, we can talk all you want, we can have a discussion but what if I don't want to be convinced otherwise? What if , what I believe in gets me through the day just fine and starting believing in God turned me to a maniac who thought he's the prophet and ran in a store with an ak-47 shooting everyone and then killed himself. We've seen many situations like this.

Richard Dawkins enthusiasts and flaunting non believers in general sound exactly the same with the extremely religious guys. With the difference that their leader exists, gives speeches at Universities and might publish another book full of punchlines that it'd be good to memorize before a night out. Just cause instead of asking for some minutes of the other guy's time you just keep bombarding people reciting lines from your "God", Richard Dawkins, and trying to prove them wrong does not make you any different from the most fundamentalist Christian out there. If you were a fish, you'd be a little one swimming along with a herd making fun of other same sized fish making hilarious remarks on their size.

I like to test others' opinions with stupid remarks trying to see if they'll support it. The only thing I've found is that there's a fine line between being opinionated and being an asshole. A fine line between a conversation and a lecture.


That's it for today. I'm going back to my reading. Much gangsta luv, your esse Felicito.


p.s: Did I mention that I keep on swimming?

Playing Bob The Builder

Four tall cans of budweiser, a pack of marlboro lights, one chicken and bacon sandwich, a pack of pepperoni and proschuito, a pack of sliced cheese, sliced bread and two cups of tea. Lots of notes, journal articles analyzing the area I was researching, some more books and a feeling of restlessness. I called this an essay night.

I had my window cracked, because I was smoking and my radiator was on, I was still freezing so I wrapped my scarf around my neck and wore one of my gloves cause I couldn't find the second one in the mess of my desk. Now that the 2000 words are out of the way I am going to rumble on a little bit and then I'm off to sleep as it's 3:30 in the morning and I'm hella tired.

So, you know how I've been going on and on and on about this back and forth from England to Greece, from University to back home and from my messed up little dorm room with the shitty bed to my spacious home room with the cat hair decorated bed courtesy of my cat Chester?

Well, when I went back for Christmas I felt lost. For the first couple of days I was waking up confused with no idea where I was. My mother would wake up to go to work with my brother and then there I was, all alone in the house as I was during high-school years when my brother was in Italy and my mother at work. But this time it felt weird as fuck. I had no idea where to sit, no idea what to drink and what to do. Long story short it took me a couple of days to get used to the environment and think “meh yeah that's home” especially when we were putting the tree up. My mother was sitting on the couch taking sips from a glass of whiskey while me and my brother were setting up the Christmas spirit and the cats were chasing the light the Christmas balls were reflecting on the floor. All Christmas lame ass jokes that only we would laugh at and stories from work from my brother and mother .

Then I met up with my friends and that enhanced the feeling of home. We went out, we got drunk, we played a show, it was amazing. We got fucked up on whiskey and beer, I ended up with 2 scars on my head and one on my chest from what we speculate came from broken glass and my best friend with a cut on his chin. We hit rock bottom and we woke up with the haziest of memories. In fact not remembering a thing after some point. We came up with more lame jokes. I had some interviews, gathered information, wrote 3 drafts for the 3 articles I had to write over Christmas and before I knew it, I had to leave again.

I came back in the U.K and that felt weirder than the weirdest shit you can ever imagine. Again it took me a couple of days and then BAM I felt the exact same way I felt after the two days I was home. I was back in my old ways. 10 minutes walk to the coffee shop in town, reading, aimless walking and smoking around town staring at windows of the shops and noticing the faces of the old people.

Now you might wonder, who gives a fuck and where the fuck are you going with this? So, since you were nice enough to ask I'm going to tell you. I came to a realization that it's both sad and awesome. No place feels like home anymore. I know I'll sound like a pseudo-romantic washed up cliché piece of shit, but I think that I find home in the faces of my family and friends. It's the way they look at you, the way they smile at you when you drink coffee with them at 6 in the morning and you're up just to see them fresh and happy before they go and come back home tired and worn out. The way they lie to you telling you it's all okay when it's not, the way they nag you, the way they support you, the way they get aggressive on you when you fuck up, the way, they right you up when you stray, sometimes the way they make you shut up when you run your mouth like an idiot. That's home to me folks.

No buildings, no rooms...I'm not going to go as far as saying “no bed” cause I do miss my bed. Hell home to me is the way my cat meows when he's hungry. The way he hides scared when he hears a sudden noise. All these things that make me feel safe and accepted for who I am even when I talk the shittiest of shit or even when I run my mouth saying jokes and punch lines that I only find funny.

So there you go folks, go and build your own home now.

One Plus One Makes A Fat Man

Dear diary,

Last night I dreamed of being on a train with my friends. There was us, our suitcases and the red comfortable cheap ass seats.In our carriage I also met another friend of mine. But we didn't get to stay in the same carriage for long because a drunk in the same carriage started being stupid and I started talking and he punched me in the mouth. Then I started bleeding but I kept on talking as my friends were laughing and telling me to stop and were trying to drag me away from the drunktard who by that time had a firm grip of my wrists and was just slurring muddled words in my face as I was bleeding. Finally, we got dragged by a security guard in another carriage. By that time people were getting in the train from the roof trying to not get caught at the ticket control.

Then we decided we'd get off. Then once we were out of the train me and that friend of mine shared our waving goodbyes and smiles. Then another guy came up to me and was trying to sell me a stolen chair while the roof of the train was packed with people digging holes and winking at me as they were trying to get in.

Surprisingly I had stopped bleeding by that time which is cool I guess. I still had my bags and my friends who I was traveling with at the first place though and then just cause I didn't want to buy that chair from that guy he wanted to punch me and then I woke up before I start talking more crap to him and get punched in again.

Hip hip hooray?

No serious stuff yet. I'll see yah laterz peoplez and stay true. And take your vitamins. And eat your veggies.

Let's Take A Crap On The Blogosphere

Since it's past midnight and I should be long asleep by now but I'm not, I decided to post a game that I used to play when I used to go for coffee a year ago.

So this is what came up from this game:

I want to find a bar where whiskey is cheaper than beer
I want to see Mother Teresa having to help someone and sneer
I want to find a place where being stabbed could feel nice
I want to find a place where people aren't as scared as mice
I want to read all the books in the world and then write my own
I want to convince the world that cats are better than dogs
I want to ask all the questions that a 2 year old wants to ask
but not being able to talk holding him back
I want to know if people would trade their skin
for an expensive suite or dress from the cover of an art magazine
I want to see all the pimps bow before their whores
and finally I want to find and name all the other things that I can't think of now

Now do your own. A real less crappy entry will come soon.

TO WRITE A HIT SONG

Hi there, before I go ahead and start with today's lecture, I'd like to tell you to go read “Wolf At The Table” by Augusten Burroughs and “Sunset Limited” by Cormac McCarthy.

Also, sometimes when I'm out with my friends all I want to say is “dude remember that time when we went to that show” or “dude remember when we rolled that wheel at 4 am drunk, spending our last money on beers for the road as we were walking back a 45 minutes to an hour walk back home?” or “this is what I actually want to say instead of this lame ass joke...” but all it comes out is “hey, how about another shot?” or “I'm going to get another drink...want another one?” So from lack of better words I come out as an idiot. But the thing is that like a five year old I come up with the right lines long after the right time,so I'd like to point out, I'm no good with words unless I have to and then I only try. To quote one of my favorite bands: "you know what I wanna say but I can't get it out."

Anyway, today I didn't have to go to “work” and no one told me, but I still have work to do but I'll postpone it for tomorrow to give you some tips on how to write a hit song. A song that will make your friends look up to you, your parents stop hitting you and your neighbors to want you to go out with their pretty daughter. Basically it will open a brand new world for you.

So, get your pens and paper out and get ready to take notes. Ready? Alright alright...Okay, I'm going to start now.

Right first off all, if you want to write a hit song you've got to think love first. A love song is always a hit song. It makes young girls wet and guys want to learn it and play it on acoustic guitar, so they can make their girls wet. Did you write that down? Love song. Don't worry it doesn't have to be complicated.

Alright, there are a few samples out there for the perfect love song, but for chrissake do not look at “Nickelback” for any kind of song. They might be cheesy but even the most insecure girl will call you a whimp. Make sure you repeat the words “baby”, “girl”, “love”, “eyes” etc and also make sure to have the back up vocals agreeing with every line you say, see Justin Bieber's “Baby” song for example. “Uh huh”'s and “alright”s and “yeah”s will do the work just fine.

Now, remember, repeat the words “love”, “eyes”, “baby”, “girl”, and vary from chords from G, C, D, A, AM. Do not put any complicated words in it. You don't want your girl to start searching thesaurus to see what you mean.

So for example, it could go like this “yeah baby...your eyes back up vocals uh huh etc etc”

That was all, now go and break some hearts, I'm going to make something to eat you can thank me later.