I'm as lame as I want to be

So I know I haven't written a real post in a while (which I swear on the grave of Napoleon is coming soon) but this will have to suffice:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddUh2Aunz2I

Naughty, naughty Camden.

I don't wanna be stupid no more.

I don't wanna be stupid no more.

Still in search of an adequate French translation for awkward

Though I briefly touched on it in the first post, I feel like my arrival in Europe deserves to be recounted in a bit more detail. Yes, yes, we’ve all been made aware of Joey’s sucky flight courtesy of the bubble-invading elbows, but this was nothing compared to my encounter with a VERY friendly security guard in Amsterdam. Right after customs in the airport there is a security checkpoint, and like any law-abiding modern day airport security I am basically an aluminum pole shy of a strip show (oddly enough there was Marvin Gaye playing over the loudspeakers). Since I had gotten through security in the U.S., originator of the policy slogan “Speak softly and carry a 100 volt taser and a copy of the Patriot Act” without incident I figure how stringent can the Dutch be? I mean, serieusement people, here is a nation that teaches dubbie rolling to 5 year olds, what are the chances that the security system is even turned on? Yet in spite of my forced derobing I somehow still manage to set off the metal detector. The belt is already off, I have on linen pants (ergo no zipper…and linen pants are comfortable, so shut yer bouche), and mah grill has been obediently placed in a bowl. I walk back, go through again, and again the alarm sounds. No big deal, though, right? As the security guard approaches me I’m thinking, “Alright mon ami, bust out the wand and let’s get this done with, I’ve got a flight to catch.” But no wand appears. Instead he signals for me to put my arms up and then proceeds to frisk me. Still, not a huge deal, I’ve gone to clubs before where I’ve been frisked. Granted, I can think of certain infectious diseases that are preferable to being roughed up by a rather hairy, over-the-hill Dutchman, but it still isn't horrible…yet. He starts with the arms. Fine. Then he moves to the shoulders. A bit too close to the neck for comfort, but I hold my composure. Then he moves to the chest. I have to contain a tickled giggle, but contain I do. Next down each leg. Fortunately no cupping. Good. Great. I've done well up to this point, but nothing can prepare me for what happens next. Before I can even react he lifts up my shirt and sticks his fingers in my pants…

Not on my pants.

Not next to my pants.

Not in the general vicinity of my pants.

IN my pants, as in INSIDE, as in this is the kind of thing I was told in kindergarten to report to a responsible adult if it ever happened to me, because I am more than certain he brushed crack as he moved his defiling hands around my entire waist.

The indignity of it all.

I mean, he could have at least left a euro for the privilege.

Europeans.

I'm pretty sure my head wound has done more damage than I know

I tried to think up some witty opener for this update, but none came, donc I’m just gonna dive right in. It is officially the second full week of our time here in Grenoble and I’ll admit that at times it has gotten a bit stressful. Those of you who know me pretty well know what I’m like in uncomfortable silences…completely non-existent. I don’t tolerate awkward lulls in the conversation, I just talk my ass off to fill what I perceive to be dead air, which usually just makes the situation even more awkward with me looking like a fool on top of that. Interestingly enough word vomit is easy to keep up in one’s mother tongue, but in French I’m like friggen Teller without a Penn. Don’t get me wrong, in my head I’m constantly working to keep the conversation going, but by the time I’ve successfully mentally conjugated a verb, the topic has already shifted. However, sometimes that doesn’t stop me and I’ll interject a point that had been covered five minutes prior, which makes my host family pause, verbally pat me on the head, and then throw the stick for me to fetch again. Ok, ok, they’re really not condescending like that at all, that’s just how dumb I feel. To be more accurate, I feel like Michelle Tanner circa 1992 (from Full House for those of you who spent your childhoods locked in a closet. Shoot alors, that kind of stuff really happens (I saw it on Lifetime), maybe I shouldn’t make jokes like that…meh, I’ll look up the meaning of tact later), you know, with token phrases to recite every twenty minutes or so just to lighten the mood as I stare directly into the camera with a drooly smile and blissfully ignorant self-satisfaction as the audience has a good laugh. The only difference is that disjointed French is (surprisingly) not adorable coming from a twenty year old man, and I don’t have an identical twin with whom I can switch when I get cranky/spit up/make an uh-oh! in my pants. Now that would be the life.

Classes began this week, which has been a swift kick in the nuts of a reminder that this is in fact not an extended vacation. Granted, the workload as far as I can tell will be nothing compared to Calvin, but sitting through two hour lecture courses in a foreign language is rather exhausting. And then there are those unexpected instances when the prof throws a question rapid fire in your direction and at that moment you would rather suffer through malaria than have to give a coherent answer (which would also, unfortunately, require that the question was understood in the first place). On top of this, and I don’t know why I forgot about such an important aspect of studying French, probably because our group is devoid of any so far as I can tell, on top of this every class I go to has French class girls. I know, I know, not a very original title, but they are a rather unoriginal breed. French class girls are those girls who when asked to write a page double spaced about one’s arrival in France bring in two pages front and back single spaced and tell the prof that “there was simply too much to say, I’ve just loved absolutely everything!” Please excuse me while I upchuck all over my AZERTY keyboard. They actually raise their hands when someone gives a wrong answer so as to be called on (everything by the book of course) just so they can correct them, they laugh at every lame joke a professor makes, no matter how lame or un-joke-like it truly is, and their hair is always wet. I realize that last point isn’t relevant, but it had to be said. The only satisfaction I get from this all is the knowledge that they are almost all French majors, which does one next to jack shite (unless you are planning to become a well respected French professor…from me to Fetzer). Try turning answers to questions about the passé simple into a good job, I dare you.

Anyway, I think I’ve written enough for this post, à la prochaine.

Cheese and the many consequences thereof

I was a bit hesitant to put up another post less than a week after the first, for it sets a dangerous precedent of commitment to this thing and the maintenance of its relevancy. Then again, I’ve never been one to oppose disappointing expectations. Meh, we’ll see comment tout avance.

That said, voilà la deuxième.

Before I start on some random tangent (that’s kind of redundant, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t all tangents random? Well, I suppose not, since to be tangential a tangent has to branch off from the original train of thought, which means it’s not random, just an obnoxiously unnecessary distraction from the point…speaking of which) I would like to say that the euro suce des grands cojones. I don’t know if that is correct French (though I do know that it’s not appropriate), but I’m not particularly concerned with that. What I mean is that since the euro is worth more than the dollar, stuff n’ junk here is so much more expensive. So when I go to buy stuff I have to remember that for every euro I spend that’s like a dollar forty, which means in turn that I can’t even begin to think about buying junk, it’s simply way too high class for me. Add on European taxes and I might as well begin deciding which kidney would fetch more on the black market. I’m purty sure the left one sustained a soccer injury when I was thirteen. All of this money talk translates to Joey eating a boatload of the two things that remain relatively cheap, baguettes and cheese. I know what some of you back in the States are thinking, “Oh how idyllic, he’s studying in France, what could be more perfect than having du pain et du fromage every day? I bet he’s having a smoke with a hairy-legged girl just this moment.” Unfortunately you’re only half right. And beside that, my digestive system does not seem to be nearly as romantic about the whole situation. Otherwise my intestines are being more French that I know and thus have gone on strike. Ouais, c’est possible.

Somewhat related to this topic, the entire group was at the Fetzers’ apartment the other day for a cheese tasting thingy ma-bobber, and since it was crowded I was seated on the floor against the wall. At one point I rose excitedly, and thus quickly, to get myself un morceau de goat cheese (the waning of my and fermented milk’s honeymoon period that seemed to set in today hopefully is naught but mild turbulence in an otherwise beautiful relationship), forgetting that the window had been opened inward just above me. Alas, I cracked the merde out of my skull on the corner of it. Amma graciously commented on the fact that she could in fact hear said cracking. Initially I started laughing, that is until Sarah suddenly gasped aloud and lunged toward me yelling, “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!” Indeed, I was bleeding from my head. Though this was not my first time, oddly enough it’s something you never get quite used to. Again I tried to laugh about it, and really was fine while Mrs. Fetzer and others got me paper towels and napkins to stop the bleeding. However, I looked up and caught Professor Fetzer’s face (I know you’re going to read this). It was as though he was not only watching his own death but then stuck around to watch someone desecrate his grave. He looked mortified. And when some looks that mortified while looking at YOU, well, it’s not the greatest confidence builder to say the least. I felt like I should have asked him how much longer I had left, and if I didn’t get the chance, for him to tell my wife I loved her. Seriously Professor, it’s not that bad, I bled less from my ears this morning than I did yesterday, which must be a good sign, right?

Mmmm, I do have other stuff to talk about, but I better hold on to material if this is going to continue. Oui, et alors, bonne nuit tout le monde, je me couche.

Oh yeah, and if you ever stub your toe or bleed from the head or something equally painful, an effective French phrase for releasing frustration would be “Putain de merde!” Use in front of small children and clergy for maximum effect.

And yes, Professor Fetzer, I know you’re still reading, but I’m just sharing one of the nuggets I learned from my family here.

Le grand debut

Et alors, here I am, en France. That’s right, fancy shmancy antsies in ma pantsies France, you got it. But before I get to the meat of this first of many (finger crossies…wait, should that action phrase be accompanied by asterisks? Meh, sais pas, I’m here to speak French, not Internet, whateva) updates on those things which I will be doing here, and planning on doing, and contemplating doing, and just about to do but holding back from doing for certain legal reasons…whoa, I had one of those moments where I used a word so much (doing) that it lost all meaning and appeared to me to be no more than the sound made by a mildly handicapped Jack-in-the-Box...uhhh, I don’t remember how to finish this sentence, so, yeah, moving on.

I’m having a bit of trouble concentrating here primarily because in my head I keep trying to translate everything I’m about to write into French. It could also be the High School Musical soundtrack currently in my ears. Seriously people, could those tunes get any more mid-90s pyramid scheme promotional video?

But again, BESIDE THE POINT, hot damn. France, oui. It’s been a few days since I’ve arrived in Grenoble, the first of which was a nauseating, jet-lagged blur thanks to Mr. Elbows McPokemeintheribswhileisleepyoujackassson, but after that the adjustment has been relatively easy. The downtown area, ou en français si vous voulez “la centre ville”, is typically and thus fantastically French. The narrow, medieval streets, the grand plazas, the ubiquitous sidewalk cafes and boulangeries (bread stores, hedoy), the imposing, baroque-style municipal buildings. It’s friggin’ Amelie on steroids, no lie. Unfortunately I live no where near this part of town, but rather to the south in an apartment building, situated closer to a mall than any quaint shop owned by a little old man wearing a beret and spitting out adorable, folksy racial epithets. Mais, alors, c’est la vie. Besides, there is a light rail system that runs throughout the city, and there is a stop situated two blocks from my building. To be sincere for a rare moment, I really enjoy my host family, which consists of a mother and her daughter. They’re fantastic, so generous, so kind, and to date we’ve had no painfully awkward silences. Plus, when I asked if there were any house rules I should know about, my mother simply asked me if I knew how to work a shower, and that’s it. Otherwise we do what is only natural: have an apperatif (pre-dinner drink), a delicious meal, and then talk politics and religion over wine and cheese. Why the hell was I not French earlier, for serious now? It’s been more than I could have hoped for, donc je suis très content d’être ici.

There are two interesting things that I could not help but notice, however, and therefore am obliged to bring up here. The first is the weather. No, I’m not pulling the “Oh god, this conversation is more dead than Whitney Houston’s career, I’m so uncomfortable right now, what to discuss, what to discuss…” I mean to tell you a bit about how the weather is presented here. In America such an important topic is trusted only to well-tanned men with weather related names and fine suits, as it should be. Honestly, who else could be trusted to tell me my five day forecast than Dallas Raines in his knock-off Armani? It just makes sense. Mais en France, non. Ici they typically have women doing it! You heard me, real, live, ovary-bearing females!! INSANITY!!! No wonder they wouldn’t support us in Iraq. Fortunately, I think the functionality of said lady parts has since ceased due to the fact that most of these women are in their late 50s, early 60s, so you can all sleep soundly (holy shit in a barrel someone is going to HATE me for that sentence). Pregability aside, someone had the brilliant idea to not simply put these women on camera, but have them wearing skimpy cocktail dresses as well. WTF, mon ami, W.T.F. I’m sorry, but I have a difficult time believing that there’s actually a heat wave going on when I’m watching an AARP member nip out on live TV (though this is not America, obviously, so what do they call it, FARP? Nice, not only is it an acronym for the elderly, but a rather accurate onomatopoeia as well…I’m gonna get a buttload of hate for that, I’m aware, but you can’t say you’ve never heard an old man farp).

And second would have to be the fashion. Not my forte, je sais, but the pimple pop explosion of style in this city is a bit too much to handle. I can respect that someone would want to look nice when going out, but do we really have to try this hard? It’s like Ryan Seacrest at the Grammy’s, EVERY SINGLE DAY. On the real, though, imagine this guy cloned a thousand times over (only with less bleach and more eyebrow plucking). That’s enough gel to keep Lance Bass coiffed for the entire (never gonna happen, glory be, hallelujah) N’SYNC reunion tour…which is a lot of gel, if you were wondering. Phew, that many pop culture references in a row and I’m spent. If you want to get a picture of what the hairstyles are like, well, je pense que you could google image that ish, mais si non, think of a lionfish in the Marines for the guys, and that depressing cat chick from Nate the Great (only with a load of highlights) for the girls. Yup, French kids. Also, I’m sorry to report that there have been confirmed cases of emo here. Though they are relatively well contained, the destructive potential is very real, and every precaution is being taken...

Hunh, well kick me in the stomach and take my credit cards, that was longer than expected. Mais ce n’est pas grave, most of you probably trailed off around ovaries, so I suppose the rest is for me, and I’m good with that. Cool cool, well, I will write again soon, probablment, and I hope to hear from some of you (others of you not at all, and if you do it will ruin my time here, so don’t be a time ruiner, especially if you are an other, just don’t). I don’t understand myself sometimes.