Well, it seems that once you get used to something and you start to like it, then that something must leave and be replaced with something else that will take a couple of years to get used to and once you do then it'll leave again.
A flight from Athens to U.K, more specifically Newcastle or Manchester, takes up to 4 hours. Plus the waiting at the airport if your flight's not direct, say 6 or 7 hours. Terminals, passport checks, coffee, security check. All these seem so tedious but after the third time flying then you get used to them.
You get used to the loud always happy Americans with their huge back-packs and their face full of excitement cause they made it in Europe. They finally left their glass world and huge everythings and landed in a different reality. You get used to the straight-faced Germans and their creepy laughter. You get used to the French who will smile politely but won't speak any other language but French and when they do speak English then you hit Jackpot. You get used to the Greeks who will always talk about everything and everyone in their company will know everything about anything. You get used to the English, either getting dressed for a fashion show when at the airport, or in those tacky t-shirts with their nick-names on the back and their destination country. Tags so they can remember where they're going.
You get used to the expensive beer and meals. The different prices and the crappy burgers. The nice coffee and all the shops with all the touristic meaningless stuff that to me are there just to be there. The happy couples, the uncomfortable couches and chairs, the businessmen in fancy suits with one hand being the extension of their phone and the second of their briefcase. If they could they'd stick a 3rd one somewhere on the rib-cage area.
You get used to the questions: "How's England?!" "It's different, still there and floating", "How's London?!", "I don't think I like it, but I've only been there once or twice" "What's Amsterdam like?!", "I don't know I've only seen the airport but the airport's nice", "What's Newcastle like?!", "Different from Athens, I like it, you should go", "Why don't you stay there?! What are you thinking coming back here it's a shithole". Well guess I'm falling for shitholes. I hate this place but sometimes I love it and it feels like this place only hates me. That's passion right there right?
I still have a big blue suitcase right outside my front door, a red one outside my room where Chester sleeps on and has covered with cat hair and one down at the basement. It feels nice doing something for yourself and finish it. Just like masturbation but with lessons to be learned in the between and memories. It doesn't matter how it starts or how it ends. All that matters is the in between. Just like in apple-pies.
Thursday 28 July 2011
Friday 22 July 2011
That Shinny Big Spot On The Top Of Your Head
I'm 500 words or so away from finishing the first part of my final project which from how it looks like, it's going surprisingly well and will be finished right when I set the deadline for it. Now that's a surprise for me as I have the tendency to leave things for the very last minute/second and clown around in the meantime.
Anyway, with this entry, since I'm only 500 words away from completing the first stage of a project that has to be handed in on the 19th of August, I will stick to the tradition that follows me since high-school and waste some time writing this entry.
As I was looking for more information for my essay on the internet, on news websites, porn sites and petting a big elephant with a beak who was standing on my left, I came to the realization that, from what I've witnessed my whole time since I got back, bald dudes have hot girlfriends or when they hang out they have this coolness that no one can come even close to.
My hair started thinning on the sides a while back so I stayed up all night petrified trying to remember if I had any bald uncles or grandparents from my mother's side (cause that's where you get the baldness from) and I didn't. Thank god for that.
Anyway, as I was saying, bald guys seem to be the new hip. The new ponny-tail kind of guys of the late 80's/ 90's. I still don't want to get bald and I still hope not to get bald, unless going bald goes hand in hand with superpowers like being ridiculously attractive or a 100% chick-magnet. Like you're driving in a shinny red convertible car of the latest fashion with brown leather seats, a gold chain on your chest, an unbuttoned black silk shirt and a big cigar in your mouth. You and your bald spot. Maybe a mustache too. But on the other hand I still don't want that as that makes you look like a 50 year old super rich pervert hanging outside high-schools.
Anyway, with this entry, since I'm only 500 words away from completing the first stage of a project that has to be handed in on the 19th of August, I will stick to the tradition that follows me since high-school and waste some time writing this entry.
As I was looking for more information for my essay on the internet, on news websites, porn sites and petting a big elephant with a beak who was standing on my left, I came to the realization that, from what I've witnessed my whole time since I got back, bald dudes have hot girlfriends or when they hang out they have this coolness that no one can come even close to.
My hair started thinning on the sides a while back so I stayed up all night petrified trying to remember if I had any bald uncles or grandparents from my mother's side (cause that's where you get the baldness from) and I didn't. Thank god for that.
Anyway, as I was saying, bald guys seem to be the new hip. The new ponny-tail kind of guys of the late 80's/ 90's. I still don't want to get bald and I still hope not to get bald, unless going bald goes hand in hand with superpowers like being ridiculously attractive or a 100% chick-magnet. Like you're driving in a shinny red convertible car of the latest fashion with brown leather seats, a gold chain on your chest, an unbuttoned black silk shirt and a big cigar in your mouth. You and your bald spot. Maybe a mustache too. But on the other hand I still don't want that as that makes you look like a 50 year old super rich pervert hanging outside high-schools.
Saturday 16 July 2011
Like A Mother In The Delivery Room Giving Birth To A Snotty Little Brat
Well, let me tell you something, to whoever reads this: you'll always be miserable if you don't kill that stuck up brat that lives inside you. That snotty little kid that doesn't want to go out and play because can't face the fact of a maybe loss. No matter where you are and where you live. The only way to happiness is the murder of that little shit.
Now that I got you scared and thinking that I'm either high, delusional, pretentious or whatever you want to call it I'll talk to you about someone that I used to call my friend and wasted too many words on.
Well, let's just say that he (might be a she) wanted always to win. Wanted always to be the best in everything and he was in a way. He always had the perfect hair, best fashion sense, always listened to the perfect for the time kind of music and always had a couple of girls running behind him and boosting his ego even when he was down. Now, some would say that even when he was down it was all pretend for a much bigger ego-boost by others. But either way his techniques seemed to work just fine.
But time flies by so fast and so high kind of like a G6 ( yup just like the song) that the things you considered important and cool when you were 15 or 16 when you hit 20's they've become meaningless and silly. Long story short all he got now to make him (her) feel important is a bunch of objects as trying to figure out what went wrong.
That arrogant little kid still lives inside him (her), no matter how grown up he looks or likes to act and it shows in every move he makes no matter how grown up that move might be. As far as I'm concerned I'm trying to kill that fuck for a couple of months now and the operation is going pretty well. It's mutilated but not down yet.
Right, I'm out to take a shower cause summer makes me sweat like a future mother in the delivery room and if it wasn't for aircondition systems I'd have lost 4 kilos in liquid. Till next time bababooee and keep goofing it up.
Now that I got you scared and thinking that I'm either high, delusional, pretentious or whatever you want to call it I'll talk to you about someone that I used to call my friend and wasted too many words on.
Well, let's just say that he (might be a she) wanted always to win. Wanted always to be the best in everything and he was in a way. He always had the perfect hair, best fashion sense, always listened to the perfect for the time kind of music and always had a couple of girls running behind him and boosting his ego even when he was down. Now, some would say that even when he was down it was all pretend for a much bigger ego-boost by others. But either way his techniques seemed to work just fine.
But time flies by so fast and so high kind of like a G6 ( yup just like the song) that the things you considered important and cool when you were 15 or 16 when you hit 20's they've become meaningless and silly. Long story short all he got now to make him (her) feel important is a bunch of objects as trying to figure out what went wrong.
That arrogant little kid still lives inside him (her), no matter how grown up he looks or likes to act and it shows in every move he makes no matter how grown up that move might be. As far as I'm concerned I'm trying to kill that fuck for a couple of months now and the operation is going pretty well. It's mutilated but not down yet.
Right, I'm out to take a shower cause summer makes me sweat like a future mother in the delivery room and if it wasn't for aircondition systems I'd have lost 4 kilos in liquid. Till next time bababooee and keep goofing it up.
Saturday 9 July 2011
I LOVE TO SINGA
It has become a trend and an unconscious plea for values and ideals. Searching back in the 60's , 50's and way more back, desperately for things ourselves diminished in order to look cooler, “move forward” and in general have more “freedom”. But still like dummy dumbs, we look for what we're missing in fashion, trends and pieces of clothing.
I've been watching some T.V lately and every channel I turn to I see the same thing. References in the oldie times, either that's by clothing, genre of music, admiration of actors/actresses of the past etc etc. Even car models from 50's and 60's have come back in fashion this time touched by the amazing technology we have now. Take mini cooper, beatle, vespas (it's not a car, you know what I mean). Take the trend of pin-up girl fashion, the hair, the make up, the shoes, the long dresses, the flowers.
Take the guys. The mustache is back in fashion. THE MUSTACHE! If a guy had a mustache 3 or 4 years back, it was definitely a shining sign of some kind of perversion like pedophilia. But now the moustache carries the weight of coolness and the accessory to have above your upper lip. If you can make it twirl then you're the bomb. If you can't then it's just a pussy-tickler and you should not be allowed anywhere near girls under 18. At least I wouldn't let you anywhere near my daughter if I had one.
Here in Athens, more and more bars start having those “swing nights” or “50's nights” (50 year old swingers come bang and bone each other cripple, sorry but I had to say this). And everyone shows up dressed up like they came straight from the 50's. Acting and talking in the style of 2011. Shaking and dancing like Elvis possessed them and tries to escape their body.
Many are those who wonder why good bands don't come out anymore? Why something good doesn't come out anymore? Is it that we grew old and we're hard to impress or is it that everything is just a copy of something successful? Playing it safe.
I watched True Grit the other days. I really liked it. The acting was perfect, the plot was interesting and the morals of the story were also, well...amazingly portrayed or depicted or presented? If that's a way to say it.
Why true artists that have something to say and not just to show their pretty faces, is hard to find nowadays? Art imitates life. And if life is drained by spontaneity and feelings then art will suck. Maybe that's why this whole "oldie times" became a trend.
Hell I've even seen some porn with detectives from the 30's, shot in 2010. I don't think that's a coincidence. We even miss it when we jack off even if we never lived in that age. We don't miss the times we miss the values, ideals and standards of that age and we desperately try to re-invent them through clothing, style and trends. At least that's what I think. Is there such thing as false-romanticizing and if there is would you say that that's what we're doing? I don't know. I'll have to think about it.
Now I'm off to see my buddies, say some stupid jokes and play music with them. You can listen to our wonderful music on myspace.com/thetuxedoconspiracy. Yes I whore my band. So what? It's the internet. Now that you read all the nonsense I had to say, go and listen to our band and the first to comment this entry, I'll drive or fly wherever you are and give you a big hug and buy you a 200 euros worth of meal. Talking about the good stuff. Champagne, good steak or pasta etc etc. L8erz you n0obz.
I've been watching some T.V lately and every channel I turn to I see the same thing. References in the oldie times, either that's by clothing, genre of music, admiration of actors/actresses of the past etc etc. Even car models from 50's and 60's have come back in fashion this time touched by the amazing technology we have now. Take mini cooper, beatle, vespas (it's not a car, you know what I mean). Take the trend of pin-up girl fashion, the hair, the make up, the shoes, the long dresses, the flowers.
Take the guys. The mustache is back in fashion. THE MUSTACHE! If a guy had a mustache 3 or 4 years back, it was definitely a shining sign of some kind of perversion like pedophilia. But now the moustache carries the weight of coolness and the accessory to have above your upper lip. If you can make it twirl then you're the bomb. If you can't then it's just a pussy-tickler and you should not be allowed anywhere near girls under 18. At least I wouldn't let you anywhere near my daughter if I had one.
Here in Athens, more and more bars start having those “swing nights” or “50's nights” (50 year old swingers come bang and bone each other cripple, sorry but I had to say this). And everyone shows up dressed up like they came straight from the 50's. Acting and talking in the style of 2011. Shaking and dancing like Elvis possessed them and tries to escape their body.
Many are those who wonder why good bands don't come out anymore? Why something good doesn't come out anymore? Is it that we grew old and we're hard to impress or is it that everything is just a copy of something successful? Playing it safe.
I watched True Grit the other days. I really liked it. The acting was perfect, the plot was interesting and the morals of the story were also, well...amazingly portrayed or depicted or presented? If that's a way to say it.
Why true artists that have something to say and not just to show their pretty faces, is hard to find nowadays? Art imitates life. And if life is drained by spontaneity and feelings then art will suck. Maybe that's why this whole "oldie times" became a trend.
Hell I've even seen some porn with detectives from the 30's, shot in 2010. I don't think that's a coincidence. We even miss it when we jack off even if we never lived in that age. We don't miss the times we miss the values, ideals and standards of that age and we desperately try to re-invent them through clothing, style and trends. At least that's what I think. Is there such thing as false-romanticizing and if there is would you say that that's what we're doing? I don't know. I'll have to think about it.
Now I'm off to see my buddies, say some stupid jokes and play music with them. You can listen to our wonderful music on myspace.com/thetuxedoconspiracy. Yes I whore my band. So what? It's the internet. Now that you read all the nonsense I had to say, go and listen to our band and the first to comment this entry, I'll drive or fly wherever you are and give you a big hug and buy you a 200 euros worth of meal. Talking about the good stuff. Champagne, good steak or pasta etc etc. L8erz you n0obz.
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Metro Rides, Armpit Sweat And Gypsy Accordions
Normally a ride on the metro equals with awfully strong arm pit sweat odor, tired/anxious faces and 15 year old kids who play music on their phone or smile for absolute no reason. But during my last ride there was another thing added.
I was sitting waiting for my metro to arrive, reading a pizza menu contemplating if the prices were right and how badly I'd like to have one of those pizzas right then as it was 15:54 and I had nothing to eat all day when a group of what I think they were Romanian Gypsies came and sat on the seats next to me. There were 3 guys with accordions and 2 women with one of them pushing a baby trolley.
I lift my head looking at those guys and the woman, trying to see the baby in the trolley but the trolley was covered with a blanket and if there was a living soul in there I have absolutely no idea how it was still breathing. Anyway, the train arrives and we all walk in. I take a seat and I'm ready to fall asleep when I hear an accordion playing.
I turn around looking at the guys that walked in the same car with me and it wasn't them. They were talking. The noise was coming from the other car and was approaching our car. Now in Athens it's a usual thing having hobos, drunks or junkies begging for money in metro rides, telling everyone their problem real loud and then going to each one of the passengers separately asking to spare some change. But I never heard some one playing the accordion and begging for money in the metro.
Anyway, I think it'll probably be one of the Gypsies' friends that got in in another car and started playing asking the passengers to spare some change and I wasn't far out. I lean forward to check and I see this gypsy girl that couldn't be over than 18 years old walking towards my car playing the accordion. She walks over and stands above the person who was sitting right opposite me. I could only see her back and listen to her music.
She turns around, still playing and smiles at me. She had the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, the most perfectly structured face that others pay lots of money to have and a body that again a model would kill to have (and I'm not saying that in the “my hand's down my pants ready to jack off” kind of way) It's the first time I look up at a beggar and then straight down again feeling lost for words and searching frantically for change in my pocket.
I still remember her face and I can say with the greatest of certainties, it's prettier than your girlfriend's. Not in the “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” kind of way. You'd admit it yourself if you were there too. And if you're a girl you'd either cringe of jealousy or you'd question your sexuality for a couple of minutes.
I was sitting waiting for my metro to arrive, reading a pizza menu contemplating if the prices were right and how badly I'd like to have one of those pizzas right then as it was 15:54 and I had nothing to eat all day when a group of what I think they were Romanian Gypsies came and sat on the seats next to me. There were 3 guys with accordions and 2 women with one of them pushing a baby trolley.
I lift my head looking at those guys and the woman, trying to see the baby in the trolley but the trolley was covered with a blanket and if there was a living soul in there I have absolutely no idea how it was still breathing. Anyway, the train arrives and we all walk in. I take a seat and I'm ready to fall asleep when I hear an accordion playing.
I turn around looking at the guys that walked in the same car with me and it wasn't them. They were talking. The noise was coming from the other car and was approaching our car. Now in Athens it's a usual thing having hobos, drunks or junkies begging for money in metro rides, telling everyone their problem real loud and then going to each one of the passengers separately asking to spare some change. But I never heard some one playing the accordion and begging for money in the metro.
Anyway, I think it'll probably be one of the Gypsies' friends that got in in another car and started playing asking the passengers to spare some change and I wasn't far out. I lean forward to check and I see this gypsy girl that couldn't be over than 18 years old walking towards my car playing the accordion. She walks over and stands above the person who was sitting right opposite me. I could only see her back and listen to her music.
She turns around, still playing and smiles at me. She had the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, the most perfectly structured face that others pay lots of money to have and a body that again a model would kill to have (and I'm not saying that in the “my hand's down my pants ready to jack off” kind of way) It's the first time I look up at a beggar and then straight down again feeling lost for words and searching frantically for change in my pocket.
I still remember her face and I can say with the greatest of certainties, it's prettier than your girlfriend's. Not in the “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” kind of way. You'd admit it yourself if you were there too. And if you're a girl you'd either cringe of jealousy or you'd question your sexuality for a couple of minutes.
Sunday 3 July 2011
Puppies Kittens And Candy
This entry has nothing to do with puppies, kittens and candy apart from the last sentence which is referred to puppies, kittens and candy. I've been thinking of what to write about on here as nothing exciting or worth mentioning is happening right now. WHATTODO?! Tadaloo! As one would say. I don't know...
Anyway, so I'll write about nothing and hope it doesn't come out so much as a big waste of space, but you might say that that's what blogging all that is: the kid with the hook nose, acne and braces in a family of models. A tool for taking up some space on the internet, dressing up stinky turds in the fanciest and most expensive piece of clothing and placing them strategically every time when creating another entry and sharing it with your buddies.
But blogging can also be alright because blogging promotes the freedom of speech (not that freedom of speech is restricted in our days, or is it?), sharing of beliefs and opinions and blah blah blah but all that with the capability of doing it anonymously. So for example you can trash a “respectable” member of our society spread a stink about him or her (the way your friend spreads the stink of his fart when performs the craft of silent farting right in your face and waves his hand in a right and left motion right across and inches away from his butt cheeks) and ridicule that other person without him ever finding out who really did it apart from “bighungdude23” giving a clue of who might did it.
Right, anyway, let's see what I've been doing lately. I've been working on my final project for University, I went to a house party, I've been playing guitar and writing more crappy songs and I've been singing some too. Under different circumstances I'd describe the party and what happened there but nothing worth mentioning happened. We talked, we spaz-danced, we drank and laughed. Ah...good times.
Revolts and riots are still happening here so if you're contemplating of visiting Athens GR, then you better gear up with masks and make sure to avoid the center of the city till around 7 in the afternoon.
Right, that's it for today, I'll see you around some time and if I don't then come and see me, call me or send an email. Puppies, kittens and candy.
p.s: that puppy on the far right in the picture looks a bit like an asshole.
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