I've been a stalker.

Heather is hardly surprised by this, I’m sure. Honest Jon , I’m not stalking, just incredibly envious of her skills. I swear I become a better writer everytime she posts. Part of me wonders if I would be willing to give up my atomic-clock-like regularity to write as well as she does. I know this is probably not the best plan. I’m no fan of Metamucil. The diet of a vegetarian is bland enough. Besides, I’ve always had someone to stalk. Don’t wanna spread myself too thin.

I digress – and so early too. Better settle in, this is likely to be a long one. I’m on a four hour flight, and I’ve already gone traipsing through the tangents by paragraph number one.

In 1989 I was a senior at Sahuaro High School in Tucson Arizona. I was 120 pounds of annoying, mulleted desert rat in pegged jeans, rolled t-shirts, a letterman jacket, Ray-Bans, and a “Gotcha” Baseball cap, worn backwards, every day. And I mean EVERY day. I was an average athlete, an above average but under-achieving student, and obnoxious in my overcompensation for a lifetime of insecurity. Not much has changed, actually, except thirty pounds, the mullet and the baseball cap. I’m partial to bandanas and beanie caps now, but I just cannot wait to break out my Z’Cavarichi shirts from Millers Outpost and to start pegging those button-fly 501 jeans again.

I shared three classes with a tall and thin girl named Latasha. A girl whose dark curly hair used to hang playfully across her face, veiling brilliant blue eyes, the brightest blue I would see until meeting Meredith in Africa eleven years later.

Latasha and I somehow ended up next to each other in all our classes. Maybe it was alphabetical (our last names both began with the same letter) but more than likely it was my overwhelming predisposition to place myself as close to the pretty girls as possible.

I’ve got Italian genes. Gimme a break.

Latasha and I became good friends. Hell, it was hard not to. We saw each other every other hour, five days a week. Yet our friendship never drifted anywhere beyond the classroom. Despite the chemistry, for some reason, nobody seemed willing to blow on the spark. More surprisingly I think, we rarely associated outside of school. We each had our own circles and those circles rarely intersected. She was into Depeche Mode and fashion, and I was into, hell, I don’t even know. Frozen Yogurt? 100 yard breaststroke? David Lee Roth? Masturbating to fantasies about Paulina Porizkova? Hell if I know. I know I hadn’t found any passions yet. I hadn’t DONE anything yet. And as I had kissed maybe (big MAYBE) four girls by that time and the glorious sight of a bare breast was still a year away, I can barely say I was into girls. Sure I was into them. I just didn’t know how to get them or what to do with them even if I did.

This fairly typical adolescent ignorance was compounded by a strange and growing sense of detachment toward everything and everyone in Tucson. When I graduated, I knew I was leaving – probably forever. I was heading to Flagstaff, my parents we already en route to Dallas. I knew which friends I was hanging onto (those three are still hanging onto me), and for some reason I already knew the people and experiences that filled my life at the time were ghosts. I knew that any sense of permanency and the concept that these were the best years of my life were as fantastic as the dialogue in a John Hughes movie.

Latasha was also leaving Tucson. Her family was moving to California, and she was leaving with them. I didn’t know where in California. Just away.

It was right before graduation. Sometime after the comic disaster that was prom I looked over at Latasha and realized that I was probably never going to see this girl again and that I had spent a year sitting next to a beautiful young woman who laughed at my jokes and who always made me smile and yet had never done anything about it.

Good Lord, what I wouldn’t give to have ten minutes with my seventeen year-old self just to throttle some sense into him.

I asked her out on a date. She accepted.

I asked her out on the last day I was in Tucson.

I asked her out on the same day the guy she was seeing asked to be her boyfriend.

You can see I’ve had the same knack for timing for a while.

And with a hug and a kiss goodbye, Latasha was gone.

I spent fifteen years regretting that. She was the one person I lost contact with after Tucson that I wished I had hung onto. Sure, there were some others, smart, charismatic people I realized I should have been friends with as opposed to a lot of the stoned Iron Maiden fans driving rusty Camaros that I had originally considered my peers (who not surprisingly are still stoned and driving rusty Camaros). But Latasha was a real friend whom I kept in the margins of my life when I should have written her into the story.

Over the years I would periodically try to find out where she went. I called around old haunts, old numbers. Every year or so I would spend some time Yahooing the hell out of her name. I even joined that most notorious of spam producers, Classmates.com in a last, desperate attempt to uncover her whereabouts. I even considered an investigator once, but that was a level of creepy to which even I wasn’t willing to descend.

I’m glad someone else was willing to descend to it for me.

Two months ago I received a phone call from an alumni group wanting to verify my whereabouts and whether or not I wanted to buy the Sahuaro High School alumni directory. I jokingly told her only if it has the contact information for Latasha. She quickly replied, “Not yet.” “We’re still trying to reach her at her home in Northridge to verify her contact information.”

Blink.

“Thank you.”

Oh, the sweet fruit of the Ethernet and the bounty of broadband. Thirty seconds later I had her phone number.

For those of you who don’t know SoCal, Northridge is in the San Fernando Valley just north of Los Angeles. Just about 70 miles from my house in OC.

Now of course, comes a problem I hadn’t anticipated. What the hell I was going to say to someone I hadn’t seen, spoken to, or even had any peripheral contact in fifteen years.

“Hi. You may not remember me, but I’ve been stalking you for more than a decade based on our extensive conversations on the genius of INXS and that nice note you left in my yearbook.”

“Hi Latasha. It’s Jimbo. You know, from high school. What’s up? Oh, nuthin.”

“Hi Latasha. It’s Jimbo. Jimbo. Jim. From high school. Yes. Sahuaro. We sat next to each other a lot. We went on a date once. At least I think it was a date. Jimbo. Come on. You gotta remember. Big nose? Mullet? Van Halen? I used to play with your hair in class? Hello? Hello?”

“Hi Latasha. I’ve found you my sultry blue eyed goddess of the desert! I’ve found you! Take me my desert queen! Take me now!”

It just seemed that no matter what approach I took it was going to be translated as, “Hi. Remember me? You might want to get the restraining order ready now.”

I tried her number and got a voice mail. I hung up. How do you leave a voice mail for a call like this? Especially if you aren’t sure you even have the right house. “Uh. Hi. You may not remember me, or even know me if this is the wrong person, but this is Jimbo from Sahuaro High School, and if this is the right Latasha, we used to sit next to each other in class, and I hope this is the right person because I have been trying to find you since 1989 and I promise I’m not like a stalker or anything. Please call me ba...BEEEP.”

A week later someone picked up. I asked for Latasha. She asked who was calling. I said an old friend from high school. She said, “Tell me who and I’ll go get her.” I said “well, she may not remember me, but you can’t tell her it’s Jim Parisi.”

“Oh my God! Jim Parisi! How are you?!”

She even remembered my stupid baseball hat and Ray-Bans. It was nice to know that the connection I had feared was merely the fantasy of an under-sexed seventeen year old boy was real. And it was good to know that, in spite of fifteen years and two journeys in wildly different directions, the tides that carried two friends apart could just as easily bring us back together.

We talked for an hour and agreed to catch up in person at the next opportunity. I’m hoping soon. Seventy miles doesn’t seem so far to travel after fifteen years.

Welcome back, Latasha.

I’m glad to have you back in my rolodex. Back as a friend.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Go send Dave a llama for his (belated) birthday. Happy number 30, D. This is where it starts to get good. Well, it starts to get good if you are making lots of money and dating a busty, bisexual ex-stripper with gorgeous blue eyes and racking up loads of really handy frequent flier miles which is what I was doing when I was thirty. Actually twentynine, but close enough. Thirty for me was a little too close to 9/11 for comfort so I tend not to think about that. Regardless, happy birthday!

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I woke up early, grabbed my camera (in my futile attempt to learn to take pictures like her ) and walked the twelve blocks to Albertsons for a bottle of soy milk (shouldn't it really be called soy juice?) and a blueberry muffin depressingly devoid of blueberries. It's right there in the name people. Jesus.

It was one of those mornings that makes me realize why I have lived here for so long and why, despite my incessant bitching about this place, it will be so hard to leave.

The air had that crisp morning cool with the usual taste of salt. It was a vibrant blue sky straining to expose itself behind the low, tattered clouds. Rays of sunshine lancing holes in the veil of bright white. Walking to the store and back, the peninsula free of tourists. Just the usual morning locals off to work or off to coffee or off their rocker, blabbering to God in front of the pier. Everything seemed both vivid and subdued. The usual morning affair. Colors leaping out in the gentle morning light, but the air, the ocean, the traffic, all calm.

I enjoyed the eclectic collection of beach houses all crowding the sidewalks and streets, each straining to get that extra patch of land or a slightly better piece of sky. No tract homes. No suburban wallpaper of completely identical housing developments all separated by borders of completely identical mini-malls.

The ocean was calm and gray, a handful diehards out for dawn patrol just north of the pier, each hoping for one or two little rides to make the morning worthwhile.

But then again, out in the cold, dark water, bobbing on your board, looking at the peninsula as dawn breaks over the Irvine hills, watching the pelicans in formation in their slow, graceful sortie over the water, even without a decent swell, the morning is certainly worthwhile. To this day I have rarely seen anything as beautiful as a pelican in flight. Ironic that the ugliest bird on land is the most stunning in air.

I walked home and realized why I have been here so long. Frankly, I live on a little peninsula in paradise. I live in an eclectic, colorful haven away from the subdivisions and McMansions of Orange County. I live in place where every day you can look out your window and see something beautiful. I live in that rarest of settings where urban life and the great outdoors coincide. Where the city and the small town meet and miraculously combine. I live in a place that, despite my frequent feelings of loneliness, has always, since my first day here in 1995, always felt like home.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Why is it that all the homosexuals I know seem to get way, WAY more action than me? Nothing against the gays. I love them. Honest. I have an honorary membership card (unfortunately I have to join to get the toaster). But damn, all the non-breeders I know seem to do a whole lot more breeding. So to speak.

And, I swear, hot lesbians are like make-out machines. Somebody is always chewing on a bottom lip. Then again, who doesn’t like a hot lesbian?

I, on the other hand, can't seem to meet anyone who might be interested in chewing on mine. It's been so long since I've kissed anyone I'm wondering if I've forgotten how. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a real date. Two months? Three?

Look, the odds are remarkably in my favor here. I have a much larger dating pool (regardless of how shallow) to choose from, I'm not unattractive (despite my monumental personal insecurities), I smell pretty good, and although I can be a world-class pain in the ass, this doesn't seem to stop anyone else from getting laid.

Come to think of it, it's not just lesbians getting more action. Everyone seems to be getting more action. If I had a dollar for every total asshole that gets more luvin’ than I do, well, frankly I'd be rich enough where this really wouldn't be a problem now, would it?

Sigh.

I gotta get out of OC. Or become a hot lesbian.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

More fun at the expense of my ancestors. No place short of Jack Nicholson’s house will you find more people wearing sunglasses at all hours of the day than in Rome. Sure, it’s frequently sunny and warm in Italy, but you know it’s bad when a man from Arizona who lives in Orange freaking County noticed that Romans are really, ridiculously into sporting the shades. In Rome you will find a sunglass store on almost every corner. It’s a toss up whether the pizzeria or the sunglass shop is the more ubiquitous establishment. You can’t get a bottle of Tylenol without a note from your mother or a pharmacist in the family, but dammit you can protect those peepers from harmful ultraviolet rays at midnight should you feel so inclined. Roman men are never without their D and G glasses, shielding the helpless, hopeless masses from their unbearable sexiness, and Roman women, with their sun ripened lips and hippy, confident struts, they walk the cobblestone boulevards behind their Gucci lenses with a style even Jackie-O would find enviable. Italians may live off cheese and smoke filter-less cigarettes with reckless abandon, but for sure, cataracts will not be a problem in this country.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Since you all seem to think I shouldn't be allowed to bitch at all on my blog because, "hey, you were in Italy, that should make up for the fact that you spent five days in near agony, three days in the rain, $2000 more than you planned, got scammed by a con artist and spent an afternoon on a train that smelled strongly of an outhouse, and should therefore cease to post anything that isn't funny or naked," here are a few more of my FAVORITE parts of my vacation.

This I like more and more every day.

You know, budget cuts.

This is my personal favorite. I took close to fifty pictures of these guys before on the last one, just an impromptu snapshot, I got the shot I wanted. It's also my favorite night in Italy. The Pantheon. Warm summer night. Drinking a beer. And jazz.

Can't you just hear the choir? It's like TBN only without the big hair.

Ever feel like that kid?

Tassy! Have you been to Italy lately? How do you say "stoner" in Italian?

In case you aren't bored of pretty pictures yet, the rest of my better pictures can be found here .

Now quit yer whining. That's MY job around these parts.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

So another observation about Italy: everyone seems to know where everyone else is from based on his or her last name. In as much as Americans are frequently first identified by their region, as in the case of the South, or in the case of Texas, their state, or in the case of Boston or Chicago, their city, or, in the case of New York, their borough, people in Italy seem to be first Romans or Milanese or Venetians before they are Italians. Remarkably, a half dozen people have actually recognized my last name as hailing from Calabria. How in a country of 56 million so many people can identify the source of my genealogy is remarkable, if a little spooky. I kept expecting someone to recognize me.

That being said, however, it gets a little frustrating when all those people, who after learning you cannot speak Italian, feel compelled to express their obvious disappointment with you.

Look, I’m disappointed all your ancestors decided to strip the coliseum to its shell and support the Nazis in WWII and stand by silently while Americans created stuffed-crust pizza, but I’m not bitching about it. So for all you Italians who just might be reading this, allow me to explain ONE LAST TIME.

ONE HUNDRED YEARS. That’s how long my family has lived in the United States. Four full generations now have been born as Americans, not Italians. I am NOT Italian. As much as I bitch about my country, I am now, and for the foreseeable future, unless I lose too many more freedoms under our current and hopefully soon to be exiting presidential administration, will remain an American. My ancestry may be Italian, but my history, my parent’s history, my grandparent’s history, is American.

So if you choose to turn your nose up at me, turn it up because I am American, don’t turn it up because my great-grandparents chose to become American.

Me? I’m just going to turn up my nose at the almost unbearable stench coming from the toilets in this goddam train. Pardon me, but in my country, first class smells like first class. Not like number one.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

I liked Florence. Florence reminded me of Berkeley contrasted by Rome’s San Francisco. It was yellow and warm and even the sky seemed inviting. No wonder Florence has inspired so much artistic output. The landscape frequently seems painted by the hand of God. I spent two days roaming around Florence. Getting lost in ancient cobblestone streets, admiring the river and the architecture and the sky which all seemed painted in the same shade of yellow at dusk and dawn.

Florence will make you love sunflowers.

I took the E-star train to Rome several days ago, and arrived to mostly what I expected. Chaotic and crazy, plastered and polluted, a strangely familiar cacophony of squeals and sirens and scooters. A tangled maze of alleys and boulevards peppered with piazzas and churches and basilicas all older than our constitution. I arrived on the “white night,” a Saturday night of celebration in which every store and every vendor is open through the night and the streets are filled with quite literally hundreds of thousands of people. Think Vegas on New Years. Only the marble and the statues and the palaces are not fake. Neither are the boobies, but maybe that’s an observation for another time.

Of course, I arrived to find out that my hotel had never received my reservation confirmation.

I learned a long time ago, never trust anyone who approaches you in a terminal, be it bus, train, or airport, precious little good can come of this. Within ten seconds of my reaching for a pay phone to confirm my hotel reservation (something I should have done hours, ok, DAYS, earlier), a seedy looking gentleman approached me wearing a “Hotel Services” badge. How these fuckers can smell it, I will never know. I knew I was pretty much screwed as a result of the celebration, but figured I could find a hotel through my travel agent. He offered me a number of different hotel options, none of which seemed particularly appealing, as I couldn’t verify the location or quality of any of these establishments, and as payment was due up front, my thumb was hovering dangerously above my “go fuck yourself” button. One of the places he mentioned, however, did receive a good review in my trusty, rusty Lonely Planet, and as the price quoted seemed to correspond with their reviewed rates, I figured I would give this huckster a shot. Of course, that hotel was full for the night, so I had to stay in a better ‘four star” hotel first, followed by my “three star” for the rest of my stay.

A little about these precious stars. Seriously people. The average freshman dormitory is more elegant, better furnished, and almost certainly larger than your average European four-star hotel room. And what’s this they are using for beds? Military surplus? Has terry cloth made it across the pond yet? Must my hand towels more closely resemble table napkins? I appreciate the alarms in the shower should I happen to fall and can’t get up, but if I could wash my face with something just a little softer than a dishtowel, I would greatly appreciate it.

So really. Just how do they distribute those famous stars? A roof equals one star? Indoor plumbing gets a second and electricity a third? Lord knows I should have sprung for that elusive five star hotel. I might even have had room service.

My three-star in Arco had beds that were roughly as soft as particleboard and linens that were about as comfortable. My Westin in Venice was obviously better appointed, but at nearly $500 a night, I was expecting complimentary hookers. The collection of random rooms in the Veneto could all easily be compared with your average truck-stop Motel 6, only they served breakfast. Yet the two-star I stayed in while in Florence was easily the most generously appointed and tasteful establishment of the bunch. And the cheapest.

Now Rome, Rome, has put me in two rooms that are each just slightly smaller than my parent’s master bedroom closet, and kids, that’s so not an exaggeration. The four-star room literally had me sleeping on a squeaky military style cot, and the three-star is a mere stone’s throw from the central train station. And honestly, from what I can tell, these are on the upper end of the establishments around here. I have slept in better hostels.

And next time I come to Europe, I think maybe I will.

So back to my story. They had me playing musical motels, as I was supposed to visit the Hotel Iberia to pay for the stay, at which point I would be transferred to the Hotel Genio for one night, then on to the Hotel Palladium Palace. My guide put me in a “cab.” And by cab I mean a friend’s car. Which I didn’t notice until AFTER I was in the car. The stupid Fiat had an elevated dashboard display that I mistook as a meter and didn’t realize until after we were on our way I was in a private car. We reached the hotel in about three minutes, and he asked me for thirty Euros – a “fair price” for a “private car and driver.”

Jimbo furiously begins pressing the “go fuck yourself button.”

In the end, it was nearly eleven, I was damn tired, and I just wanted a room. Cardboard sheets or otherwise. I didn’t have the patience to continue arguing with this asshole, so I negotiated him down to a point that I figured was a fair price for getting him out of my sight before I belted him with my camera bag. I know I paid too much, but I figure it’s the price of convenience. It was convenient that I didn’t have to look at this asshole anymore or listen to him try to bullshit me that all the cabs were “on strike.”

Funny how that taxi strike miraculously ended when I switched hotels, walked outside and found a cab waiting for me.

The more time I spend in Italy, the more I see evidence of what I perceive to be an ugly, universal attempt the fleece the traveler. Whether it’s the four dollar Gatorades at the Vatican, the tourist menus with gratuities included, the price of ANYTHING in Venice, or the “authentic Murano glass” that seems to be available at every corner souvenir stand, it’s almost enough to make even the gelato taste bad.

I said ALMOST.

You know, I like to get laid when I go on vacation. But I really don’t like to get screwed.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 06:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

You know the Italians are famous for their food. 400 kinds of cheese, at least that many kinds of pasta, and need I mention the gelato? I think not. But even the best can make some, uh, questionable culinary choices.

Like when I was in Arco and found horsemeat on the menu.

Horsemeat.

Hi Ho Silver! Filet!

I heard you all groan from here. The depths I’ll go for a stupid joke. It's almost 2 AM in Gatwick airport. Gimme a break.

I’m sticking with vegetables, thank you. If only because I would never, ever hear the end of it should I one day eat the flesh of an animal my mother loves just slightly more than her children.

I promise, ma, I will never EVER barbeque your horses.

At least not while the glue factory pays so well.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

I don’t understand it. I have seen very, very few fat people in Italy. I have seen lots of wonderfully curvy dark haired girls with light eyes and real boobs, but I kind of expected that.

My carbonated hormonal state notwithstanding, I can’t figure out how a population the size of Italy’s, combined with such a famously calorie rich cuisine, has so few obviously obese people.

Seriously. From what I can tell so far, Italy is a nation of people that survives mostly on, well, cheese.

And ice cream. But if you have ever had this ice cream you would understand. Sweet, frozen nectar of the gods. Or saints. Whatever.

I’ve gone two weeks without eating a single thing based on soy. This may not sound all that strange, in fact, I’m willing to be that to most of you this sounds like a very, very good thing, but trust me, in my life, this is worthy of an introduction by Rod Sterling. I’ve been eating mozzarella every day. With every meal. Frequently AS every meal. Usually followed by ice cream.

That my ass isn’t the size of Sicily is a miracle worthy of Saint Simmons or whomever is the patron saint of jazzercise.

I swear if I wasn’t walking roughly twenty miles a day getting to and from really, ridiculously old things someone has written about in my guide book, I would probably need two seats for the flight back home tomorrow (today).

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Nice to know our elected leader is so well respected that people would rather polute their city bitching about our corrupt government than their own. And this is in a country where their own president owns or controls nearly 90% of all the media outlets.

Sigh. Makes me proud to be an American.

Six more weeks and we can send him home. Six more weeks. Let's get him out of office so Italians can get back to bitching about their own government for a change.

PS: Speaking of going home, I'm on my way.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

So if you’ve been to the forum of ancient Rome, you may have noticed that the forum includes a giant, 2000 year old stone arch commemorating the defeat and subsequent pillaging of Jerusalem. You may also have noticed that the entrance to this arch is roped off and no one is allowed to walk underneath it because that would be considered “anti-Semitic.” Of course, a few hundred yards away is another giant stone arch commemorating the defeat of the Arab middle east. This arch, however, you are free to walk through as often as you please.

I’m not making any judgments. Just observations. You make the call.

Enough with the loaded observations. On to loaded evenings. It's my birthday, and I'm going to dinner with my old friend Alessia tonight. I fully intend to drink lots of red wine and make a total jackass of myself with every pretty Italian girl I see.

Now how about pictures of the birthday boy?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 02:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

I suppose it's my Roman holiday. Now if I could only get used to these Roman keyboards. Friggin typos.

Rome is OK. It's big and loud and has more history than your average library.

I have stories to write eventually, but frankly, I can't find any internet joints that will let me plug in my laptop. There is no way I am going to drop twenty Euros just to keep you goobers informed.

Besides, I can't deal with this keyboard anymore.

Hasta. And happy birthday to me. Fucking whee. Thirty-three.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Posted by themightyjimbo at 03:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

In Firenze now, which I believe is loosely translated as "city of a thousand stone penises."

I may not have liked Venice, but I'm digging Florence, though not because of all the marble dildos. It's warm and yellow and vibrant and friendly and inviting. I'm here for one more day. I need a date. Anyone care to meet me for dinner?

I'll buy the gelato.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I arrived in Italy sick as a pig. Every time I sat down or stood up or went to sleep or woke up or exerted myself or relaxed too long I felt like someone was using my head as the clanger in the church bells that ring every hour in every square in every community in this country. Clang! And yes, I know it’s not called a clanger but it’s after midnight and I can’t remember what you call that part of a bell. Sue me.

I was out of Advil by day two.

Funny thing about Italy, but you can’t buy Advil (or aspirin or Tylenol) anywhere but at the pharmacy. And the pharmacy is closed on Sunday. Don’t these people get sick? I’m not sure I like the idea of one guy in town controlling the fate of my headache.

Ever tried to rock climb with headache so bad you lose your balance? Needless to say, it put a bit of a damper on my climbing plans. Of course, it has rained for two of the five days I’ve been here, and tomorrow looks grim. Gary and I have had really bad luck with these things. This will be our third of five rock trips that has been rained out.

Still, Arco was an amazing little town with cobblestone streets and set inside a little valley surrounded by huge limestone cliffs, several topped with medieval castles. The town hosts the world climbing championships so the community is just crawling with climbers, so to speak, and it caters well to all their needs with at least a half dozen climbing shops within the town square. And the best gelato I have had so far.

A creamy, lemony, scoop of heaven, right on a cone. I also had a berry scoop of heaven, a vanilla scoop of heaven, and a minty, chocolately, chippy scoop (or three) to go with it. I’m not sure if my gluttony for good gelato is going to send me to hell, but they sell the stuff right next to the church so I’m pretty sure I’m OK.

We spent a good afternoon outside on an amazing yellow limestone wall, watching significantly stronger climbers clamber up sharp edged pockets of stone, gracefully pulling through the relentlessly steep routes and lowering off to do them again. Even Gary who is an exceptionally talented climber by anyone’s standards was getting sandbagged by the routes in Arco. I suffered my way up three or four climbs there. It was all I could reasonably deal with considering the state of my health, and as the routes seemed to be significantly harder for the grade than their American counterparts, even healthy I would have been suffering.

We motored out of Arco at the sight of rain and passed through some dramatic mountain villages. Giant limestone cliffs that rival Yosemite, lush green mountainsides. We bought a crate of sour green apples from a street vendor and have been eating a good half dozen to a dozen a day. This worked out well for me as for a couple days this was all I could reasonably eat anyhow. We couldn’t escape the rain and motored across to Venice and spent several hours just figuring out the circular logic of parking the car and finding the damn ferry. Saw San Marco, had a ridiculously overpriced meal, and motored on out to find a hotel. All the hotels in Venice will cost your kidney at best, your soul at worst, and on a weekend night in September, they were all sold out. We drove all the way back to Vicenze only to find out that every hotel in the city was sold out due to a week-long street fair and finally had to drive back again to Padova before finding a Sheraton with availability. By this time at night, after endless circling the Autostrade, neither of us were going to argue with the $170 Euros for the room. I was having fever chills, my head had progressed from clanging to screeching, and I was just about ready to prostitute myself if it meant I was going to find a bed.

Somewhere that night the fever broke, and although my climbing in the cliffs around Vicenze the next day was still hampered by headaches and fatigue, I had finally turned the corner.

The Sheraton, besides renting the bed that broke the fever, gave me a good idea. The following day, I called Starwood and used 12000 of my 34000 points to book us a room inside Venice.

Gary should be thankful. I used half of my hard-earned Starwood points, points collected after years of having to stay at one of the best hotels in San Francisco, week after week, eating at nice restaurants and racking up frequent flier miles, all on an expense account, just so he and I could save a few bucks on a hotel.

Well, maybe more than a “few” bucks. Try $470 euros. Incredible property. And like most things in Venice, totally impossible to find. Took well over an hour and probably two miles of walking in circles before we found the place, despite the fact that we had a map AND the address AND a general understanding of the area around San Marco.

We spent all of today in Venice.

Venice? It’s old and beautiful and decaying and famous and confusing as hell and amazing in its mere existence and smelly and Marco Polo lived there and outrageously expensive and there is no chance you will figure anything out while you are there so don’t try and a pigeon shit on my head. And it is teeming, broiling, fully infested with tourists. Tourists of every race and creed and culture. All wandering around, spending too much for cappuccino and pizza and gaudy pieces of glass and getting all smoochy in $70 gondola rides while other tourists take their pictures because they want pictures of gondolas.

It’s Disneyland with history. A sight worth seeing.

Once.

It was pouring on my by the time I made it back to the car. Gary had had his fill of the place way earlier and had apparently left to read in a parking lot by two.

The rain didn’t push me out until six.

I’m back in Padova now. Posting this from the hallway of my hotel as they have no wireless in my room. Go figure. If the rain stops, more rocks tomorrow, if not, who knows?

Eventually it’s off to Rome and then Naples. Maybe Florence first if I can find the time.

Until then, a few other little observations about Italy. Speed limits are merely suggestions. Traffic on the Autostrade routinely moves at 50 or 60 Km faster than the posted limit. I have not once seen a traffic cop or a speed trap. Motorcycles abound, and not just the ubiquitous scooters. Full-blown, leathered-up asphalt eaters on snarling Ducatis or Japanese race bikes or fat BMWs are regularly blasting past you, in and out of multiple lanes and making the lane splitting we do in LA’s own asphalt jungle look like kids play, much the same way their Formula One drivers make NASCAR look like a bunch of guys making left turns.

Italy is positively teeming with beautiful blue-eyed girls with dark hair. I’m a sucker for the pretty ones with the light eyes. Not surprisingly, these pretty girls with the light eyes are usually escorted by dauntingly attractive men with dark skin and tousled hair and jeans that are probably too tight for their reproductive well being. And they sound way more charming when they say “ciao bella” than when I do. Maybe I should stick with “hey baby.” Maybe it’s cute when a foreigner says it.

Italian hotels have alarms in the showers. “Help! I’ve run out of conditioner and I’m starting to frizz!” This makes sense to me. Ever seen an Italian girl on a bad hair day? Sceeerey.

European light switches turn down to activate. Just see how long it takes you to unlearn a lifetime of physical conditioning. Though my fumbling for a light in a dark hotel room is nowhere near as entertaining as watching Gary every time our rented Fiat barks at him for not wearing the safety belt thirty seconds after starting the car. Gary isn’t used to wearing a belt all the time and never has owned a vehicle that has been so adamant about enforcing that law. I would think that for someone so irritated by the incessant ringing, he would have received enough negative reinforcement to keep that damn belt across his lap. But no. Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Chimps get conditioned faster. I’m curious if now every time Gary hears a bell he will instinctively reach for a seat belt. Could be lots of fun at parties!

Mussolini may have gotten the trains to run on time, but he sure didn’t help street signage. An Italian freeway sign posts the numbers so small fighter pilots would have trouble seeing them, and an exit seems to happen before the sign, or at least before comprehension of the sign. Yeah, we are dealing with translation issues for sure, but it would help if the signs were printed in a font a little larger than the text you are reading on the screen now.

And about the stoplights. In America, we learned that the driver can see them if you place them AHEAD of the intersection. Not behind it. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. I hear in Rome, traffic laws are more like traffic ideas, and the uninitiated should steer well clear off those intersections.

Atkins wouldn’t like it here. Fuck it. He’s dead. I however, do. Wish I had been healthy enough to enjoy it those first couple days. My first night wolfing down an entire pizza (they only serve you the pie) while still with questionable digestive capabilities left me tasting salt and mozzarella for six long hours and waking up with strange dreams involving Alfonso, the infamous Tucson pizza murderer (allegedly) and Wolfgang Puck. And Tassy. But like that’s a surprise to anyone.

Hasta.

Hey, just cause I’m in Italy doesn’t mean I’m gonna start typing “ciao.”

Posted by themightyjimbo at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Let's just say my holiday has not gotten off to a roaring start. I was up far, far too late getting work done the day before I left, and as I was unable to get my upgrade to business class (the flight booked full), sleep was not really an option on the way to London.

Then, after spending eighty bucks on a new DC adaptor for my Powerbook with the intent of using the uninterrupted eight hours to do some serious writing, I discovered that my seat did not come equipped with a power supply. Every international flight I have boarded has come complete with a power supply EXCEPT the one flight where I actually brought my laptop.

My life is dripping with irony.

By the time I landed in London, I was a little cranky. 48 hours with four hours of sleep isn't good for anyone. Especially me. I was so tired I couldn't eat. My day got better when I was taught a valuable lesson about double checking your reservations and perhaps more importantly, not making reservations after midnight. Seems when I booked my flight to Milan, I accidentally typed an eight into the date field. Not a nine. Hey, they are right next to each other. I subsequently missed my flight. My flight that cost only thirty pounds (about seventy bucks) to book in advance. Of course, now I had to book a new flight. One that cost me almost $300. And I had to get a hotel. In London. With an exchange rate of more than two to one - NOT in my favor. And I had to change my reservations in Milan. Of course my travel agency has a collect calling number that was blocked so I was forced to use my credit card to make those calls. And to sit on hold. Three times. At about a buck a minute. Throw in three internet sessions at ten bucks a piece and the thirty bucks I just spent for this connection here at the hotel, and my little oopsie cost me about $600.

But wait! It gets better!

We were told the Milan flight was overbooked and they offered Gary a hundred pounds and a free hotel to take the flight tomorrow. We wouldn't know if he would get the bump until after he left for the gate. As neither of us had a global cell phone, I agreed to wait for him at the internet depot in the South Terminal. Which is located right between the two smoking sections. Oh joy. I spent an hour there waiting for him before inquiring at the terminal if he made the flight. They told me it appeared that he was bumped. So I waited. For another two hours.

Went back to the desk to ask again. They said they couldn't tell me the status of any passenger without a police request. So I asked them if the flight checked in full. They told me it had and no one, in fact, was bumped. So now Gary was in Milan, I had spent nine hours in Gatwick, and I still needed to find a hotel. Which required another call to Amex in the states and another fifteen minutes on hold (fucking hurricanes) before I was finally able to check into the Renaissance Gatwick.

Of course, two days without sleep followed by smoke and stress does wonders for a person's health. And despite my going to bed at seven PM, I only managed about seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. I've been up on and off since two. Feverish. Body aches. A canker sore. Add an upset stomach and, frankly, intestinal pains that made me want to curl into a ball and cry like a girl. It didn't help that sometime during the night I managed to turn off the AC and turn on the heater. And if I can make a minor, bitchy editorial comment, British television blows. Although I did get a kick out of the Polish music videos.

I had a ginger ale and a fruit cup this morning to wash down the veritable pile of Advil so I admit I am feeling better. My head still feels like the inside of the Liberty Bell, and I am not excited about coping with foreign languages and foreign streets and foreign food while feeling like this, but honestly, if I have to spend another hour with the BBC, I might go insane.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

(Posted from the South Terminal at Gatwick for the low low price of six dollars.)

So I've got a few hours to kill while in DFW waiting for my flight to Gatwick (followed by my flight to Milan and my drive to Arco), and if this infuriating T-mobile WiFi signal would work for longer than two minutes at a clip I will post something new. Goddam Admirals Clubs. Like everything else in these clubs, good idea, bad execution. I really wish American Airlines would do SOMETHING right.

Anyway, in the spirit of the moment, I bring you my take on one of my favorite elements of air travel, the ubiquitous Sky Mall catalog, or as I like to call it, “Shit You Don't Need, Shouldn't Want, and Probably Can't Afford. “

My personal favorite products from the Summer 2004 collection:

The Electronic Pepper Mill. That's right - battery powered, for those of you who can't manage to grind those massive peppercorns under your own power. Look, if you are so out of shape that you can't manage to twist a pepper mill, I'm thinking you probably ought not to be eating anyhow. And it only takes six, yes SIX double A batteries. Just $30. Batteries not included. Just curious, but what could you be doing at the dinner table that you couldn’t dedicate two hands to adding spice to your food? Never mind. Don’t answer that.

Or how about the neck mounted evaporative cooler. Really? You would wear a one-pound swamp cooler around your neck just to blow the sweat off your face? A product for only the most affluent white trash. If it's that hot, here's an idea, don't go outside. Or better yet, move to Canada.

There is also a $50 one-minute eyeglass cleaner. I didn’t know cleaning your glasses took so much time out of your day that you needed to automate that process. Just how long does it take you to spit and wipe? More than a minute? Really? I'm just guessing that a lifetime of snot rags and saliva is still less than $50.

Then of course there is the $140 pet staircase designed to help your porker of a pooch convenient access to places dogs shouldn't be allowed to go anyhow. He's a dog. He's not supposed to be on your couch. I'm increasingly convinced this product doesn’t exist to help the dog jump onto your lap. It's to keep you from having to pick him up. I think it's time for both of you to break out the Fit and Trim. Or better yet, take him for a walk. And don't forget your portable swamp cooler. You don’t deserve a dog. Buy a cat you pussy.

I’m not even sure what the hell this thing is, but the $100 Healthy Swinger supposedly “tones” your body when you lay down on it as it rocks you back and forth. Basically, it moves your ass for you. Look, if you have become so fat that you can’t even wiggle, really, your problems are way bigger than your immobile rear end. Don’t look to Sky Mall for help. Look to serious therapy.

Then of course we have the $129 wheeled roller bag pet carrier. Tell you what, give me the $129, I’ll invest $2.50 for a leash, and I’ll walk your dog through the airport to the gate.

They also sell a $125 wearable air purifier. Unless you live in Riverside or San Bernardino or, God forbid, Norco, you can certainly live without this device, and probably should. For those of you who do live in Riverside or San Bernardino or, God forbid, Norco, you really are better off using that $125 to move somewhere that doesn’t smell like diesel, dust, and dairy farms.

The Sky Mall also has four PAGES dedicated to Lord of the Rings merchandise, concluding with a $200 set of Gollum/Smeagol collectable bookends. What library is complete without a pewter replica of perhaps the ugliest literary character in history? Perfect for the man who has everything. Except a girlfriend.

Finally, and my personal favorite, the $900, eight foot tall “Mombassa,” your own “garden giraffe.” “Yeah, my house is easy to find. Make a left at the 7-11 and just look for the giraffe.”

WTF?

Look, this passive/aggressive pedophilia shit isn’t working out so well for Michael Jackson, It’s not going to work out for you either.

I don’t know who buys this stuff. But I think I know where I’m doing my Christmas shopping this year.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (13)

I'm off like a herd of turtles. As I have had roughly two hours of sleep today, let's hope they were able to process my upgrade request so I'll be off like a herd of comfortable turtles. I may or may not be posting from Europe. I'm betting on may. Like I can stay away from the internet for that long.

Ciao.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Does Vegas do it to you? Is there something here that makes women want to look like little reptillian clones of Donatella Versace? Does Vegas attract people with more money than taste? Or does the combination of sun, alcohol and electromagnetic radiation do something to the brain to make otherwise well meaning women make profoundly bad fashion choices? What went first, the cash or the common sense?

I swear it’s spooky. White blond hair and charbroiled skin tanned so dark it matches the grain on their handbags. I don’t know too many women with blonde hair who have a skin tone best described as burnt umber. Four inch heels and sweat bands that double as a mini skirt and a tube top. They don’t want to look like hookers. They want to look like photonegatives of hookers.

I can’t wait to get back to Southern California. You know, where people are normal.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

It's been quiet around here lately. This I know. No posts. No comments. Barely any creativity. For this I apologize. I'm leaving for Milan in just two days, I have a pile of stuff I need to take care of before I split, and my brother has been here two weekends in a row. Sleep is becoming more of a priority than blogging, but if I can find the juice, you'll have a few more stories before I leave.

Until then, how about some random pictures, rants and observations that I can't be bothered to turn into real posts.

Best bumper sticker I have seen maybe ever, surprisingly enough stuck onto a ubiquitous, brown minivan driven by your everyday, average soccer mom: "If you're going to ride my ass, the least you can do is pull my hair." Now that's a slow driver I can totally get behind.

Ten years I've lived on the beach. I think this is the first time I spent an afternoon there in at least two. So I live in Newport for the view. I figure I can't afford to buy a home (I'm told Orange County just surpassed San Francisco for the highest median home prices in the state), so if I gotta rent, I might as well rent well.

Why the hell I wasn't born with the genetics for the South Beach style as opposed to my 1976 porn star look is totally beyond me. Fuck it. I'm taller.

Have I mentioned how much I dig this motorcycle? Sexy isn't it? Why is it that all the things I enjoy the most in life are destined to end it? I think the same can be said of my relationships too.

We spent the day barreling down the single tracks at Big Bear. My knees don't like me so much tonight, but it was sooooooo worth it.

Even Marines can rock a mean man blouse.

I took this just for you Tassy. Just for you.

Three more reasons why Friday night at the DVL's birthday party in Santa Monica kicked ass. The reason on the left seriously lit my fuse. I was all a flitter. And despite my current connect-the-dots complexion, a sub-six hour sleep debt, and whimpering like a little girl when she first shook my hand on account of the recent, training-induced inflamation of a long pulled ligament in my right middle finger, I still managed digits. Yeah, they probably ring to Ming's Mongolian Bar-B-Q on Sepulveda, but a man can dream, can't he?

I watched Kill Bill Volume 2 last week from Netflix. Am I the only person who thinks that Hulk Hands were just plaster casts taken from Uma Thurman's positively gargantuan mits? They must use a Dremmel Tool to give this woman a manicure. I swear I find few people in Hollywood less appealing.

Anybody wonder why the Kerry campaign seems to be rolling over and playing dead in the face of repulsive, untrue, and wholely unethical attacks? Seriously. Is everyone in the Democratic party a complete pussy? Hiking the high ground isn't necessarily the best political policy when the campaign trail is covered in mud.

I'm dirty. It's late. I have to fly to Vegas. I'm off to bed.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)

So, just curious. After you and your grandmother have been properly stripped, fondled and wanded, and shown your driver's licenses to a half dozen different people who probably hate their jobs, let me ask you, do your feel safer, or just more inconvenienced? Seriously. If I'm gonna get the wand, at least make it Hitachi.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Yeah. So I don't have the juice to write anything of substance. Or anything. At all. Too much to do, less than a week left till I split for Italy. How about pretty pictures instead? Pictures! And pretty! Not naked Tassy but still pretty! And you know you are all like racoons with pictures anyway.

Back to penis jokes and public scab removal later.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

It was good. At times it was amazing. And I have no regrets. Well, aside from not taking her to Hawaii. To be totally honest, I still have never had sex on the beach - in spite of that big, sandy, wet place just 100 yards away from my bedroom. Then again, sex on Newport Beach doesn't seem all so desirable. Or, uh, cleanly. That's one place I really don't want to get a red tide.

She remains an amazing woman. And thankfully, she remains as she began, as my friend. But she was also a fantasy realized. More than she will ever, ever know. From the time I first saw her photograph, her face was burned into my brain. She was like a flashbulb going off in my skull. Even after all this time I can't look at her without losing a heartbeat. She remains the prettiest girl in the world.

(Shoosh!)

She challenged me. Made me feel wanted. Made me feel alive. She made me take beefcake pictures. Deepest apologies to anyone with my last name who saw them. She pushed me. She pulled me. She tied me up. Now if she would only tell me where she put the keys to those cuffs.

That night on the dance floor. The night I first met her. She was still married. I was barely single. That unspoken attraction. Dancing. The touch of a hip. The hand on a waist. Secretly, silently, undeniably erotic. Months later, that hungry, decadent kiss in the doorway of Todd's bedroom. That week in the hotel. God, that week in that hotel. Those are moments when I thought I had to be dreaming. And maybe I was. But so what? It's good to have good dreams. Even better to live them.

She was the most exotic of adventures. She pulled me out of my shell as easily as she pulled me out of my clothes. And honestly, you know it's good when after every visit, I got injured. Bruises. Strains. Sprains. Bites. Scratches.

(Heh, Todd always said you were dangerous.)

But maybe that's not a good thing. We had chemistry. But chemistry isn't always stable. Or healthy. As we found out. It's funny, when she called to call it off, I wasn't surprised. I wasn't hurt. Frankly, I expected it to end. I am surprised it lasted as long as it did. Hell, I'm surprised it happened at all! I may well be a Narcissist, but I'm an insecure Narcissist. It may be all about me, but that doesn't mean I expect it to be. Nor did I ever expect to wake up next to someone who embodied everything I find physically attractive in a woman. Or a man I suppose, if there's a man out there with those boobs. And no, I'm not interested in links to any she-male sites, thank you so very much.

(Pervert.)

I never expected any more from her than what we had. And Lord knows I was grateful for even that. But I'd be a liar if I didn't say I kept a not-so-secret fantasy that maybe, possibly, miraculously things would change and that maybe, possibly, miraculously it would all magically work out. Like maybe I would wake up and things would be different or she would be different or I would be different.

It's the same improbable fantasy that keeps people buying lottery tickets week after week. Nobody believes they will win, but they love the fantasy. I suppose there is always the chance. Regardless, removing her cover always paid out way better than removing the cover of a lottery ticket.

(That lingerie looks way better in a pile on the floor than little sticky metal shavings.)

In the end, like most people in my life, she is like the tide. She comes and she goes. She isn't controlled, isn't easily influenced. And I'm not delusional enough to try. I could make some corny or crass "ride her" or "left me high and dry" or "all I got is wet" joke but really, I'm totally above that kind of thing.

(As if.)

And so my naughty little adventure with my rock and roll diva has sadly, depressingly, tragically come to its unfortunate, if inevitable end. Well, you know what they say about rock and roll. Here today, gone later today.

Me? I look forward to tomorrow. As I said, I have no regrets. I had fun. I think she did too. And through this year I've come to learn more about what I want and what I need. What I miss. And yes, I already miss her. Wouldn't you? Have you seen her? I hope you did, because at least on this site, you aren't likely to see her again. At least not in the way you have become accustomed. It's time to curtail the provocative stuff. She was the inspiration and the impetus. And as sexy as compelling as she remains, it isn't healthy to covet. I think it's time to take some of my private life private. At least for a little while.

(Don't let this stop anyone else from sending me naked pics.)

And so, my favorite pink piggy, thank you for being my lover. And thank you for remaining my friend. I love you dearly. I did before and I do now. Come visit again soon. Only you had better leave the boobs at home from now on. I don't think I need that kind of temptation.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)