“Boobs, dude; I saw lots of boobs. The girls walk around in little stickers they call pasties that barely cover their nipples, or sometimes just go completely topless! And beer. Lots and lots of beer. Everyone’s shotgunning or beer-bonging right in front of the cops and they don’t do shit about it! Cuz there’s like so many people, ya know? They can’t. All you gotta do is walk around with some beads and the girls will flash you or even make out with you for some. It’s just that easy!”
 I live in a neighborhood of Izmir called Kahramanlar. The neighborhood itself lies to the east of Kültür Park, a large park at the city-center, built upon the part of the city razed in the fire of 1922. In fact, I can see the park and ferris wheel from my balcony. Beyond the park to the west is Alsancak, the wealthy downtown area with shopping, nightlife, and the sea. To the east is a substantially impoverished part of my neighborhood inhabited largely by Gypsies (or Roman in Turkish). Their horse carriages clickity-clack by my place towards the waterfront to give rides to Turkish families and tourists. The streets are loud and chaotic, which can be fun to watch from the balcony. It has a slight reputation among the middle and upper-class Izmiris, due to the gypsies, for being dangerous. But my experience has been anything but, mostly because any gypsy nefarious antics don’t apply in their own neighborhood, as if they are off duty. It’s my opinion that the neighborhood is on the perfect cusp – run down enough to be cheap yet enjoyable. It is also perfectly sandwiched in the middle of the city; with access to the downtown, metro, and bus lines while being much cheaper than a neighborhood two kilometers away. While in Turkey I have supported myself by teaching English, working a maximum of twenty-five hours a week. In addition to cooking, exercising, and studying Turkish, I have been reading a lot. Doing my MA in Portland, Oregon, I never had time to read for pleasure – being swamped with Political Science texts. So this ample free time is a blessing that I have taken full advantage of, but there is a catch. Good books in English are hard to find in Izmir and are also pricey. So I have developed a system; I read book reviews in newspapers and order them via Amazon.com to my family’s address in the USA and have the next visiting guest from the States lug some over for me. Also, my mother was kind enough to send me a box of books through DHL for Christmas, and as anyone who has ever lifted a box of books knows, that package couldn’t have been cheap. As an added bonus she also included little post-it-notes throughout the books with little hand-written love messages. There is nothing like getting half way through a book about Medieval Grimoires and finding a note from mom that says how much ‘she loves her boys.’ As a result of the steady supply of literature procured through the kindness of family and friends I have burned through a lot of books. However, some I leave half way, and this is the topic of this web log.
The computer science lab at the University of California, Irvine was a clinical and unpleasant place. This lab was an extremely long room filled with rows and rows of computers as far as the eye could see. The floor was raised to accommodate for the 4286 miles of cables that were underneath it and there was a perpetual droning sound that I believe to still be making a ruckus in my head. The people that spent their time here were, in general, a bunch of douchebags. They would put blinders over their screens to make sure no one was copying their code. They would make snorting sounds and slosh around in their troughs while they grunted at somewhat hilarious images of sesame street or Rogan’s Heros. I hated going to this place but it forced you to work and even with blinders on, you could still maneuver your set of mirrors in such a way to read the screens of those bastard rapscallions. One long night, frustrated over the fact I could not find a freaking semi colon somewhere in my code, I paced the hallways. I happened to notice a guy who was slouched all the way in his chair, only his back was on the seat while his hands were on the mouse and keyboard, obviously not hiding his screen. And he had no reason to, he was bouncing his head and tapping his fingers as he was scanning some website trying to find music. It just seemed odd so I had to enquire.  Basketball is my favorite sport – fun to play and exciting to watch. What’s not to enjoy about high-scoring games where the tide can turn at any minute through the superhuman talents of Goliaths-in-shorts? While drinking a beer no less! (Yes, that is directed towards many alcohol-free European venues, you hooligans.) And the Lakers – oh my Lakers, how I love you so. I have always been a fan, but living in hostile territory takes your allegiance to a whole new level. In Santa Barbara (technically neutral territory) I battled with Kings fans and in Portland Oregon I had to educate many a Blazers-lovers that although their passion is admirable (and it is), and that they have tremendous potential, their young team is not yet Lakers-grade quality. When I hear Beat L.A.! – I say bring it on. I may have done this drunkenly in the stands to my friend Andrew’s embarrassment, but some times you have to spank a naughty child. At the end of the day there is no skin off my back if they lose (they don’t often anyways), and it is an entertaining and social activity which is probably good for my health (I have no proof, but I feel that it’s true). I have realized that watching the basketball season had become an important part of my recreation, and I miss it. This may be the most painful thing about living in Turkey (apart from missing family and friends and other things that it would be indecent for me not to care about), and it is why I go to great lengths to try to watch the games here in Izmir. As I prepared to move myself to Santiago Chile, I frequently told people that I planned to “inject myself” into the cycling scene and eventually “dominate.” Well after almost two months, six trips to various bike shops, and countless kilometers, I finally injected the scene. However, I think in the end, the scene did not like me sticking it with sharp objects and turned around and bitch slapped me to the other side of the road. Here’s how it went down. I’ve always hated getting my hair cut. I blame this on every guy in 1996 that decided they would look good with hair that was faded on the sides and had spikes on top. When you have a long face with a large forehead, you want something that hides these features, not showcases them. This fashion phenomenon seemed to spawn a new breed of incompetent barbers that were essentially one trick ponies. “Keep it fairly even all the way around, just a light trim,” I would instruct before I sat in the padded swivel chair. They would smile and nod as I could hear the ominous sound of the electric razor buzzing next to my ear. I eventually learned it was a pointless argument which I was sure to lose. They seemed to know no other way to cut hair, kind of like in that episode of The Simpsons where the family visits the land down under and Marge tries to order a non-alcoholic beverage from an Australian pub. Continue reading An Uncomfortable Haircut There are plenty of negative stereotypes abroad about Americans; most of all that we are fat and stupid. Yes, we may just be – America has ranked third fattest in the world, behind American Samoa and Kiribati, both of which are tiny island populations, with little to do besides drink beer and lounge on the beach (see Globalpost.com). Our knowledge of the world is the most pungent example of our stupidity; in 2006, two-thirds of young Americans between the ages of 18-24 could not find Iraq on a map after three years of American troops occupying the country. In 2003, only six months after Hurricane Katrina, one-third of the same demographic group could not find Louisiana on a map (see CNN.com – there are some other unfortunate stats worth looking at). Of course, these studies don’t prove with infallibility that all Americans are fat and stupid, but it is sure convincing that a lot of us are. I’ve found myself in many uncomfortable situations over the course of my twenty-seven years. In Jr High, trying to hide my erection when Mrs Monson made me go up to the front of the class to multiply some fractions. Accidently calling and asking Shasta (an ex hook-up) how to get to her house when i was trying to call Shana’s house (my current fling). Damn cell phone contact list! And just generally any situation with a girl all throughout high school. But none of these compare to spending a night on cold concrete in a 10×15 ft cell with 15 scary mexicans behind bars. Continue reading An Evening With Dustin……in Jail When my dad married his brother’s ex-wife, my cousins become my brothers in law. Co-bros or brosins, whatever tickles your fancy more. My entire life I have been a distant relative to my European family as I was living in southern California. But my brosins hold a special spot in my heart and they need help. Please read on to learn more.  Eudaimon Stokes Croft Continue reading Help Beautify Stokes Croft in Bristol, England |
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