Never, ever, ever(!) try to ride public transportation in Vilnius, Lithuania without a ticket. Actually, let’s take things a step farther: don’t even try riding public transportation WITH a ticket. You might be in the right; you might be in the wrong; but in the end you will only lose. This piece of information will probably prove to be as useful to you as the common “Red on yellow, kill a fellow/red on black, friend of Jack” school rhyme (there’s a junk of the brain that’s just screaming “waste of space!”) but I figured I’d throw it out there to all you would-be adventurers out there regardless.

Today is the first day of football season.

I was already celebrating its arrival on top of the Palacy Kultury in Warsaw-y.

Within 12 hours of arriving in Warsaw, I’d already consumed over 25 Pierogi: a number any man (and his mother) should be proud of. While in Warsaw, pierogi was the only meal I’d ordered, and while the Law of Sleep would hamper me in my conquests for the mythical 50 pierogi in 24 hours level, I still like to think I made a pretty solid dent in the national Polish pierogi stockholds.

“Do you mean you honestly can’t smell that”?

My nose was clogged and my dreams were twisted as our British roomate properly reprimanded Jeff for closing the window to our dorm room in Danzig during an early morning’s traffic jam. British politeness can be such a comical pain sometimes.

The events in the past two days reconfirmed my already steady banks of knowledge concerning anything involving Oklahoma and the subject of cheating. I gotta admit… when I first read the article on Bomar’s dismissal from the OU football team, I had one, big, shit eating grin on my face.

Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!

Ohh you frothy sip of goodness you, I’m sorry I left you. It’s been a complete week since we last saw each other and I’ve thought about you every second of every day since then. I want little more than to touch you, to feel your cool insides warming my body—I sit alone at nights and dream of grabbing you and pulling you close to me and tasting your sweetness against my lips. Soon it will all be over. I’m sorry I left you. It wasn’t you, it was me. We will see each other again soon though… tonite maybe. Until then, just know that I’m thinking of you…

I finally made it down to Würzburg last weekend. I’ve been meaning to visit the Fränkish town for years: ever since I heard my German Professor from the University talk about a “gemütlich” Beergarden sitting along the river my interests had been piqued. While a visit to a Beergarden is as commendable reason as any to visit a city, as far as I’m concerned, there happened to be a slightly larger draw pulling me towards the town. And in Würzburg’s case, it wasn’t the two wine fests that were intoxicating the hills surrounding the city at the time, nor was it the beautiful Tiepolo fresco adorning the Palace ceiling, though worthy features in their own right. This time it was a girl named Sonja.

Floyd Landis, you rock my face.

I looked over at Hilmar and saw tears in his eyes. His head was buried in his hands. For a good five minutes I don’t think he moved.

The streets were ridiculously silent considering the masses of people clogging them up.

Italy had just beaten Germany 2:0 in a heartbreaker of a World Cup Semi-Final match.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I wasn’t supposed to somewhat miss the job once it was over. It was supposed to be a take-the-money-and-run type situation. I’d be there until I didn’t need to be there anymore, then I’d skip out for the next job. And how sweet it was going to be when I finally did skip out — I used to collapse on the couch in utter exhaustion after a long day in the Kitas and tell myself “just two more weeks, then I can get out”.

My all-time, Top 5 stadium atmospheres that I’ve ever experienced.

Just got my hair cut by the lovely Christina, Ulla’s daughter (Ulla being the bartender at the pub downstairs). She does a really good job .Point of the story: no matter how many hairdressers I visit and how hard I press, no hairdresser in Europe has ever given me a solid clean-up to the back of the head. There’s always just a bit too much hair left back there for comfort. Its not a Mullet hanging out back there, but it certainly doesn’t help to create a mulletless situation. Say a gust of wind picks up the back of the hair one day while you’re at the park… you suddenly pick up that whole Brandenburg/Arkansas vibe and nobody needs that.