"Laundry Days Suck" An Excerpt From My Latest Book "Tangles in Paris"

Laundry Days Suck
by Jim Marquez



www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez




Laundry days suck. Always have. You can’t go anywhere; you can’t do anything but wait. Maybe have a seat outside on a rickety chair, lean against a wall, and watch the morning trickle of traffic in an isolated Parisian neighborhood.

The Metro Station-Denfert Rochineau-was about a 1/4-mile away so Hector was about as cut off from Paris as you could be while still being in Paris.

Only having been in town a week and already Hector had managed to soil every article of clothing in his pack. He and Billy still had another week to go before shoving off to London, then, parts unknown, but Billy, being the German taskmaster that he is, had already waken early, got his shit together, and was off to the Luxembourg Gardens.

Fuck it. Might as well get it out of the way. Hector brought down from the room a liter-bottle of Beck’s, a pack of smokes, loaded up the washing machine in the launderette-which was damned conveniently located directly across the tiny street from the Mom & Son operated hotel they were staying at-and relaxed.

The usual early morning rain shower had dissipated into those high, wispy, Monet skies with the sun filtering through the clouds to make it feel hotter than it actually it was.

Hector leaned back, beer in one hand, smoke in the other. He saw the young Pakistani who ran the Gyro shop across the street sweeping the sidewalk in front of his storefront. No customers. Just making up work to keep himself from going mad. Hector waved. The young man waved back. Lunch was usually a Gyro to go. Step out of the hotel, turn to the right, and there he was.

At first it was the basic Gyro: slab of greasy beef sheared off a rotating carcass-god knows how long that fucker’s been hanging around-then it’s slapped into a stale slice of pita bread, add a raunchy salad with watery dressing, and top it off with a pinch of stringy, greasy French Fries.
But after going there day after day, and, seemingly, being the only return customer, the servings became substantial: double portions of beef, fresh salad, thicker dressing, and soon steak-cut fries were overflowing take-a-way bags.

Not to everyone’s liking, but goddamn, what a treat after the all night boozing, the morning self-flagellation, curses at God, the shakes in the shower, then the slow crawl to the front door at half past noon.

The Pakistani made another pass in front of his doorway, then, with head down, stepped back in. The faint echo of Mariachi style Mexican music coming from around the corner at the neighborhood Brasserie caught Hector’s ear next.

The busboys were cleaning up from last night’s drunken reverie where they had made quite a mess of it. A surprising number of French have a refreshing taste for things Latin: Salsa clubs, Mexican restaurants, and many speak more Spanish than English.

Sure, everybody has prejudices-The Vichy Government comes to mind-but all Hector cares about is that when he’s in Paris it is absolutely the best he has ever been treated. Well, Scotland is a runner up, and the carnival of souls they call Amsterdam. Fuck it, it’s just a sweet and refreshing change of pace from L.A. is all.

The Brasserie around the corner was a place he and Bill said they would check out, but never did. The need to dash over to the metro and shoot off into the rest of the city was overwhelming. They can be bad drunks, and have the attention spans of monkeys, and so usually everything else falls by the wayside.

Halfway done with his beer now, Hector could see the park where he ate his lunch. The park was divided in two. Across the street children played pick-up games of football. On this side, grandparents sat and waited. Or nibbled on their lunches. Or played checkers on the benches, with their legs crossed, their bodies supported by the high comfortable backs, one of their arms slung over the top.

Hector, sat on a bench of his own, devouring his Gyro, listening to his Walkman, his head bopping up and down. Must have been a shock to the old Parisians; but, like most things, they got used to seeing him everyday; two even smiled at him, and how could they not?

Hector sat there with a big ‘ol the-condom-ripped-and-she-doesn’t-even-know-it-grin on his face, happy as hell to be in the middle of Paris, having lunch, locals around him. Why shouldn’t he be happy? Very few get this tranquil opportunity, away from the tour buses, away from the mobiles, away from the sonorous gaggle of demanding Americans.

Up the street from the park there was the Boulangerie. Bread baked fresh every morning, he could smell it coming in through his balcony. That was the last stop before hitting the main drag. A genuinely sweet “Bonjour” from the mid-40s Husband & Wife proprietors started off a day the right way.

Hector soon discovered that buying one long loaf of bread was cheaper than buying two shorter halves. His daypack was compact, and simply breaking the larger one in two cost a few Euros less. Screw it, he budgeted on the road and it always paid off.

Then, there was the Egyptian girl-must there always be a girl?-he saw standing outside her doorway, holding on to the doorframe for balance. She and her mother ran the shoebox-sized market to the left of the hotel as you walked out.

Talk about convenient. Jesus. Anything you wanted, from high-end hooch all the way to the brown baggers. A true godsend because every night before heading out for the evening, a stop and grab was made by Hector and Billy for the cheapest of wines and the most bitter whiskey.

Suddenly, Hector caught a quick glimpse of the Young Pakistani as he reappeared at his own doorway again. Broom still in hand, looking over at the girl too. He looked back at Hector and ducked inside without acknowledging him.

“You perfume is pretty, yes.” Those were the first words the oddly attractive 13-year-old Egyptian girl said to him as he put his purchases on the counter for checkout a few days ago. The mother sat heavily on a stool guarding the register. Shawl over her shoulders; unfocused light in her eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Hector smiled back, flattered. “It’s cologne.”

“Oh yes; okay. Mother say your perfume smells very nice.”

“She does, huh?” Hector looked at Mother. He doubted she even knew he was standing there.

“Well, thank you, Mom.”

“I like it too,” the girl said and fidgeted with her fingers.

“Glad you like it.” Great, the first local female to notice him and it’s a kid. “It’s Tommy.”

“Oh, yes, I know the Tommy. It is expensive.”

“Not really.” She smiled at him while ringing up the booze.

“Dude,” Billy nudged Hector in the back, “We gotta get going. The women are waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah,”

“Okay. You are all good.”

“Yes, we are. Merci, Mademoiselle.” She giggled at that.

“Merci, Monsieur. Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir.”

Oddly arousing indeed. Sure, Hector had his fill back in Amsterdam, their first stop on this mad dash across the continent, two whores a day for five consecutive days, but this was a local. All right, not from Paris exactly, but Christ, take a look around, who was? Despite the looming shadows of resurrected Nazis, this was still the place to see half the world.

“And exactly what are the statutory laws in France these days?” Billy prodded Hector as they high tailed it to the metro.

“In England it’s 16. The Czech Republic is 15. I’ve done my homework on this one, but France…I forgot.”

“You didn’t even notice she had a handicap, did you?”

“What?”

“Didn’t think you did after raping each other with your eyes.”

“What handicap?”

“Dude, her leg. Her left leg is crooked, like, bent in at the knee; turned inward almost. Pretty fucking nasty.”

“Underage and handicap, huh?”

“Oh you sick fuck.”

Hector saw the girl the next day, and the next day, and everyday the conversation grew. Where are you going now? Do you like Paris? How was the museum? How were the catacombs? Have you met any girls? Do you have a girlfriend in America?

Then there were the coy, blank, yet, curious gazes into his eyes, and always the mother was at the register. Never said a word. Never moved. She could have been dead for all he knew. Hector wondered what would happen if he leaned over the counter and planted a big wet kiss on her daughter’s pouty, desperate-for-affection-lips.

A girl will always steal a glance at another man even if she is with her mother; flick her hair back behind her ear, or maybe pretend to adjust her sandals, all the while looking. Fathers are tougher to be around for the girls because daddy is always keeping guard, they know the dogs that are out there. A boyfriend though doesn’t notice his woman is looking elsewhere. He actually thinks he’s the only one. A husband half cares; doesn’t. He takes comfort in the fact that he’s the one she’s going home with.

It takes balls on a wife anyway if she’s going to stray, but eight times out of ten she digs the attention, then she’ll brag to her girlfriends on the phone all about how some dirty little so-and-so was leering at her down at Starbucks.

But how could Hector think of this girl with such embarrassing desire? No, it’s not right. Well, once, passed out on his bed after an all night romp through the city, he did rouse himself back to semi-consciousness and tried to masturbate; under his blanket, thinking about bringing her up when Billy was out somewhere in the middle of the day, but he was just too goddamned tired to finish.

The next morning Billy was off to another museum, but Hector wanted to be outdoors, maybe do some writing by the Seine. He saw the girl as he was about to run down the steps of the metro. She stood by the entrance, near the curbside of the busy boulevard. “Hey!” Hector shouted too loud, too enthusiastic.

The girl stood as tall as she could despite her handicap for she straightened up when she saw that it was Hector. She ran a hand through sloppy curls, adjusted her eyeglasses. If there were a mirror nearby she’d put on more of the lipstick she was forbidden to wear in her household.

Her clothes, faded, flare leg jeans, pajama-pattern-top, 70s style, and tan, suede boots were the norm for most young European kids. Not because they tried to copy any retro movement of The States, but because that’s all many could afford, the thrift store fashions.

Go to the Czech Republic someday. Take a bus out of Prague, an hour’s ride, then, get off at whatever town you come across. Hector had chosen Terezin: sideburns, wide collars, polyester jackets, elastic waist slacks. Paris, London, Munich; sandals and black socks, tennis shoes and pantyhose. Fashion capitals of the world, hardly.

And then there was her leg. Her left leg was just as Billy had said. All this time Hector had saw her standing behind the counter. The girl stood with her hands at her hips, and she balanced herself, like a person does when he or she sprains an ankle.

They favor the foot, lift it, and let it hang, and they try to balance themselves in spot if they have nothing to lean on. That’s what she was doing there in front of him, but trying not to do it. Her knee looked to be slammed over to its side, like somebody stepped on it, hard, at birth, and permanently maimed her.

Hector remembered handling his puppy, Pokey, a thousand years ago when he was four, then dropping her accidentally onto the kitchen floor. She landed on a hind leg, forever pushing that leg of hers in more than it should. And if you looked at her from behind as she ran you noticed the limp….

There was nothing slight about this girl’s malady though. And yet it still aroused Hector. Like fucking a pregnant woman, and then getting to milk her before her own baby does.

“Hi,” she finally answered. You have any money?”

“What?”

“My mother gave me little money for school, but I want to be with my friends. You have twenty Euros?”

Hector was startled. The fucking nerve! “Um…no.”

“Ten then?”

“Honey, I need that for the rent.”

“I see how you buy liquor in our shop. You must have a little something.”

Shit, no getting around that one. She had him there.

Then, Hector, caught between rage and arousal (is there any other place?) heard the girl say what Hector hoped he wasn’t thinking: “I can earn it,” she said.

Oh Jesus. Is it written across my forehead? Does it say WHOREMONGER? DEPRAVED FIEND! CHILD MOLESTER?

“You like me, yes?” she asked me in a whisper above the rush and madness of early afternoon traffic; horns, motor scooters, languages other than French.
Just leave! Don’t say anything! Don’t say anything!

“Yes.” Oh you’re a fucking asshole!

Christ, was this how she made her spending money? From the foreigners like himself? From the Young Paki back in the neighborhood? Had he fucked her too? Was that why he was out there as Hector did his laundry, to keep an eye on him?

Was he her boyfriend? No. Girls like that didn’t have “boyfriends”, at least not in the traditional sense. But the boys and men she fucked thought enough of themselves to anoint that honor you can be damn sure.

Do the French give a damn about this? After all, it is the city of love, isn’t it? Think about it: if she’s willing, why not? Who’s going to know? Hector’s never had any moral objection to this to be honest despite all the melodramatic inner conflict-one must at least try to keep up the pretence of humanity-but as long as they initiated it, as long as they consented, as long as they used protection, as long as they were cool about it, as long as….

Ok, just how many times has Hector done this? Well, none. The girls in Amsterdam were under sneaky suspicion, and it wasn’t until afterward that he asked and was told “16” by two of the girls. One was “14”. The rest were no more than 20.

Then again that could have been part of the “male fantasy”: fucking a young girl; maybe they were keeping up the act. No. You could tell.

How young? How old? Who’s inexperienced? Who’s had a kid? Who’s had several? Who’s uptight? Who’s a slut? Who thinks she’s a slut? Who wants to be a slut but will regret it and then months later send you damning e-mails complaining that all you did was shove it in and that you never said you loved her after you came?

But the real question here is this: where? Where can you take her? Back to the room, but what about The Boy? Either The Boy or The Mother was always at the front desk at the bottom of the staircase before you headed up.

You could never just walk by without having to exchange pleasantries: Bonjour, Monsieur! Comment tu vas? Ca va? Ca va? You like my city, yes? You like my city? Oh, and by the way, just where exactly do you think you’re taking that obviously underage girl and why do you have a massive hard on stretching your pants there? Hey, that girl looks familiar too! Isn’t that the girl from the shop? Oh my god! STOP! POLICE! POLICE! STOP THAT MAN!

Jesus, then what?

Run!

“What?” And Hector looked and the girl was suddenly at curbside gingerly getting onto the back of someone’s motor scooter, the kind the French use to deliver the mail. “Where?” Hector barely got out but she had already pulled away, her arms wrapped tightly around a man’s waist. Looked like a local. She glanced over her shoulder as they skirted into traffic and she smiled at Hector and then they were gone.

“Fuck!”

A shaky writing session at best out by the river followed…

That was yesterday.

The washing was finally done, but now the hard part: at least two hours in the dryer. Hopefully. Hector stuffs the machine and sets the timer. He sits back down in his chair outside, reaches for his bottle. Empty.

He sees her again, in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe for balance. She’s looking at him. She looks over at the Gyro shop and sees the Young Pakistani peeking out. She waves Hector over. Who hesitates, smacks his lips, thinks it’s time for another. Stands up, lets the chair fall, and makes his way across the street.

"Tangles in Paris": A petit book of stories about the City of Lights as told through my blood-shot eyes. Pick up a copy today, web only, at www.LuLu.Com/JimMarquez

$14.50 each plus shipping

21st Century War Memorial Sites in Germany

21st century Nazi Sites in Germany
by Jim Marquez

“He who closes his eyes to the past, closes his eyes to the present. He who suppresses the memory of man’s inhumanity to man, is himself in danger of one day becoming inhuman.”
--Richard von Weizacker
1985

Mayhem ensued for myself and my buddy as we trekked across Germany for World Cup 2006 this past summer; gracious and kind hosts the Germans were. This being my fourth world cup experience, I especially looked forward to not only the matches and football fan festivities shared by the 4 million international guests, but, also to the darker, more historical aspects that Germany openly sheds light upon.

Two such places exist for our benefit: the “Documentation Centre on National Socialism” in Cologne along the Rhine River, and the newly christened “Memorial to the Murdered Jews in Europe” in the middle of Deutschland’s capital of Berlin. Both are staggering glimpses into the madness that once was.

“The EL-DE House”, Cologne:

On an unremarkable middle-class neighborhood corner, just down the street from a pedestrian-only zone of shops and cafes frequented more by the locals than the tourists sits the “EL-DE House”. The old headquarters of the secret police, or “Gestapo”, from 1935-1945. And that’s usually the case, isn’t it? Where horror dwells, on any given, drab anonymous street just around the corner from the local bread shop.

At the end of Germany’s involvement in the war, April 1945, Cologne, targeted for its strategically placed rail system and close proximity to the French and Dutch borders, was wiped off the face of the map by Allied bombers. Two structures withstood the hell from above: the city’s 1,000 year old cathedral, and, ironically, western Germany’s Gestapo HQ: “The EL-DE House”, so named after the initials of the building’s architect Leopold Dahmen.

Imagine the odds. And, after 5o years of collecting dust, it wasn’t until 1997 that the building was put into full use for one sole purpose, the same as with all the memorials in the new Germany: so people won’t forget…

Entering the building, bright lights, antiseptic in the air, cold despite the insufferable heat of the summer, the only thing that stands out in the oversized lobby is an old man sitting at a bare desk, smiling, asking for a modest donation. He hands you a brochure and directs you to start your tour down a stairwell. After, he says, you can take your time upstairs in the archives room.

In contrast to the lobby you enter a dark, musty, corridor with flickering lights, yellow streaked walls, and squeaking doors. Low ceilings add to the claustrophobic vibe. You immediately feel something is not right. It’s the same itch I got when I entered Dachau some years ago. And, Terezin outside of Prague.

Nothing is pretty down here. The basement has retained the old horrors. The coffin-like cells remain. Those used to squire away the political prisoners before the war broke out, then, used to torture, brainwash, rape, and persuade others to serve the Fatherland. The air is heavy, hopelessness settles over your shoulders. There is no escape, other than at the end of the hallway and out back where the small courtyard sits with a tiny patch of grass that was used for the executions.

Most disturbing are the scratches of words, sentences, drawings, etched up and down the pitted and poorly plastered walls of the cells. Whittling away time before your next beating. Or worse. Thankfully the rooms are closed off by Plexiglas; you see the entire cell, catch a glimpse of the confines, shiver, then move on. The air gets harder to process. You must leave.

Shaking off the effects from below is no mean feat, but they quickly abide when you take the stairs back up into the light and continue to the archives: an airy, spacious but oddly sickly-tinged series of rooms. Again, that uneasiness returns but there are at least windows open to breathe in fresh air. And, haphazardly displayed about this top floor of the building are the meticulous records that were kept to document a regime thought to last a millennia.

War photos, government sanctioned newspapers, typed orders, propaganda cartoons, portraits of various officers, and films are placed somewhat in chronological fashion, but most are scattered on the walls, the floors, in book cases, on tables, matted within hanging glass partitions; not the tidiest of museums, the viewer is left to wander on his own, to gather information at a leisurely pace. There are no headsets to fumble with, nobody waving you on with a folded umbrella leading the tour, no peering security guards, no coat check-in. As unobtrusive a museum experience I have ever had.

Though this may turn off those used to a more traditional gallery excursion, you will certainly be rewarded by what you find near the end of your visit: a movie theatre.

Actually, a darkened room. With benches. And a screen. Push a button on the console below the screen and any of the dozens of pre-programmed movies they have pop up. Black & White. Silent. Pristine quality. Hitler riding into Cologne in an open air-car, the camera riding over his shoulder as he blesses the adoring crowds. Snippets of film showing a tracking shot riding alongside Hitler as he waves to the children in particular. Another angle of his hand up in his famed salute, but the camera has caught the setting sun from behind and it looks as if he is holding the sun in his right palm.

Films of the Nazis marching into Cologne by the Cathedral, out of the train station, and young girls swooning over them. Rallies with hundreds of thousands, at night, raising torches and chanting Hitler’s name. Hitler smoothing out his hair and mustache before going to the podium. Stuff you never saw in high school history class that’s for damn sure. The propaganda machine working overtime. Fascinating. Like watching a car wreck. You absolutely want and should look away, but you’ll find yourself, mouth agape, pushing the replay buttons over and over and over again...

“Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe”, Berlin:

Taking a few hours off from the World Cup was a must, for beyond the Brandenburg Gate was the nightly two-mile long fan fest and match viewing party. But just off the bustling Unter Den Linden metro stop, at the famed Adlon Hotel where heads of state spend the night, and past the British Embassy with its numerous armed-to-the-teeth-guards, sits the newest and most staggering of Holocaust memorials.

Opened in May 2005 and designed by American architect Peter Eisenmen (topside) & Berliner Dagmar von Wicklen (below ground) at the cost of Euro 28 million, this memorial is ironically and sweetly situated above the war time offices of Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels and a mere 300 meters from the Fuherbunker itself.

The memorial is simply a large parcel of land with 2,711 concrete slabs of various lengths and widths, placed head-to-head, side-to-side, row by row, short and tall, perfect rectangles, box-like shapes with no discernible names, writings, or dates; a grey and ominous labyrinth meant as a not too subtle glimpse at what it might be like if lost at a cemetery in purgatory.

You are left alone to wander the mazes, but be careful, the ground underfoot is undulating, so you are constantly veering left to right, up and over mole hills, at eyesight to the slabs one second and the next finding yourself standing nearly 5 feet below and traversing a canyon of these 2001- Space-Odyssey-type monoliths. Quiet as a morgue on a Sunday afternoon too. And since there is nothing but dull gray and cold concrete that flashes across your field of vision, you are left to your own thoughts, disquieting, and, no doubt an unnerving proposition to many. What are these things supposed to be? Caskets? People? And why are there only 2,700 of them? There were more victims than that.

You feel dizzy upon emerging. But, you are not done.

After a time to reflect, head down to the “Information Centre”, easily one of the most comprehensive and beautifully realized of such establishments.

Divided into five distinct rooms, the visitor is continually reminded of what is above because the same motif and color scheme is integrated into every square inch of the place. Dark hues, rectangular rooms, and the shapes of the slabs are embedded into the ceilings as if to show they are one and the same.

The “Introduction Room” is a long hallway with the history of the Third Reich and their insidious plans done up in photos, text, audio recordings and presented in large, clear, easy to follow text in multiple languages. The information is a bit much to take in all at once, but well worth the perusal. You are then led into another darker, chillier, and muted “Room of Dimensions”.

Personal accounts of their eradication in the forms of letters, postcards, diary pages, and scraps of paper are enlarged and encased in frosted, dimly lit displays embedded into the floor. You have to walk around these parcels of illumination and look down, just like visiting a loved one’s grave site.

Here is one postcard that was found on a dirt road in eastern Poland written by a 12 year old girl:

31 July 1942
Dear Father,
I am saying goodbye to you before I die. We would so love to live but they won’t let us. I am so scared of this death because the small children are being thrown alive into the pit.
Goodbye forever. I kiss you tenderly.
Yours, J
(Judith Wischnjatskaja)

The next “Room of Families” is just that. Fifteen families, young to old, are traced, followed before, during and after their persecution via family photo albums, government records, and letters in an intriguing attempt to personalize the tragedy even more for the visitor.

The “Room of Names” is an innocuous moniker, but it is the most haunting of the whole lot. The cavernous room is dim, cold; benches that look like tombs are spread out and about. Jumbo screens adorn the walls on all fours sides. It feels like you’re in a lonely train station in the middle of the night. A distant voice, then, intones the names of the dead. Their photos, worn & tattered & black & white, most smiling, flash on the screens along with their names and places of birth and eventual places of death.

It is calculated that it will take 6 years, 7 months, and 27 days to read all the names of these dead. Over six million. On a constant loop. Sometimes it is a female’s voice, or young man’s but the effect is chilling either way. You sit; lower your head, listen, an eternal roll call. A man can only take so much.

The next two, the “Room of Sites” and “Holocaust Memorials”, offer the visitor interactive screens, computers, audio, maps, all designed to show where these atrocities took place; their addresses, facts, figures, camp photos, death march routes, deportation centers, mass graves.

Nobody is left wanting for information.

These are but two of the many sites in Germany that house the knowledge to help us understand, reason, and learn. Never forget. Never again.

For more visit:

“The EL-DE HOUSE” Cologne.
www.NSdok.de
“The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe”
www.Stiftung-denkmal.de

Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup Part 3

Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup 2006
Final Installment-Part3
by
Jim Marquez

June 22, Nuremburg: USA v. Ghana

*Third & last opening round match. 40 minutes outside new home base of Munich. Nurm a medieval town, wish we could’ve explored. The freakin’ trials were here, man! But badly hung over. No dicking around this time. Make for stadium.

And what a blessing: 10 minute commuter train/5 minute walk. Voila! ‘bout fuckin’ time we get to a match easy instead of the hell we went through back in Gelsenkirchen & Kasierslautern for the other two.

Stadium: half the crowd from the Italian match where we slapped some respect back into those turf-divers to a 1-1 tie. Great seats here, 10 rows behind goal, but sense air is flat. There’s no tingle in the groin. We heard Italy is already up 1-0 over Czech so a win here would advance us.

But we come out flat. That miracle of 5 days ago took a lot out of our boys. That listlessness transfers to the crowd. Try to holler, rile up the troops, but no go. Ghana is huge, smart, surprising how they control match. They go up 1-0 quickly, but we tie in minute 90. Life anew! We can do this after all!

Then last minute of stoppage time we get called for a non-existent take down in the box. Penalty Kick is awarded by German referee Markus Merk and we know then the fix is in. Germany will NOT let the U.S. make the next round. Damn near defeated them Cup ’02 in the semis. This is their revenge, for many things no doubt.

Second half Ghana takes out our captain Claudio Reyna, shattering his knee. The ref conveniently scratching his ass elsewhere and no red card pulled. The air is let out. All hope is lost for those that dared enter.

We watch Ghana jump for joy as they advance to play a sub-par Brazil. Joey & I stew. Miserable in our seats. Dark faces. Frustrated. Too old for this. Sulking & bitter. Off myself….

June 23, Munich:

*Consider blowing off Berlin for Budapest. Get email from Joey’s distant relatives, he’s half Austrian. They’re visiting from neighboring town. Let’s meet for coffee. Ok, do something civil.

*Great lady, 70, and her daughter, world trekkers, teachers, defenders of the old liberal guard. End up at posh tea garden. My brown buffalo-ness stands out like an empty pocket at a strip club. They foot the bill. Homemade apple strudel! At one point the grand dame says, “They spotted Bruno The Bear 20 miles from Nancy’s house.” What? Bruno’s still alive? I had forgotten him. Poor beast, I must see him! Touch him! We’re invited to spend weekend at Nancy’s with her family in Landsberg.

*That night hit the “Hofbrau House”; Hitler’s early, zanier days. And true to those ear splitting times, this historic beer hall, due the freaks that have descended upon it for the cup, have placed the joint teetering near the last rung of the Inferno.

I wept when I saw tables overstuffed with supporters from each country violently shouting each other down, jumping table to table, women dancing on said tables, much nudity, grinding, loopy & lascivious behavior. Flashes going off, stars exploding, chocolate-flavored cigars probing, banshee wails, beer steins pounding, primal; frightening.

Alle-fucking-luia!

June 25, Landsberg-45 minutes outside Munich:

*A village, really. Joey’s third cousin’s house, in the country, by a river. Time comes to pleasant halt. Picked up at station, fed with grand feast in their gardens; could hear the waters flowing beyond the trees. After, a hike into surrounding hills; then, off to a festival complete with oompa band & bonfire by river’s head; fireworks across the late darkening sky; the soft buzz of a summer night as we sat & smoked & chatted at local beer garden. Away from the carnal madness of Cologne & Munich, the insanity of the matches, the horror of travel days. Heart rate slows. Antennae down. Introduced to townspeople as “our American friends”; get smiles, handshakes, tips of the hat. Then, to sleep on clean sheets, on a bed! In my own room!

*Next day, despite heat, husband takes us to two former concentration camps hidden in back fields. Yet more not taught in American schools. Amazing! The old man’s father was a political prisoner at Dachau before the war. He managed to escape.

*Here, by the river now, getting dark, storm coming. This town an absolute treasure. Sedate. So unexpected. Best part of trek. I-don’t-want-to-leave! It’s cooling off fast. No Bruno in sight. The family inside, Joey out for stroll. Decided to forgo Budapest. Make a b-line for Berlin. An incredible journey so far. Money’s tight.

June 26, Midnight Train to Berlin:

*Munich station waiting for train. Hellacious thunder & lightning overhead. Buy wine, beers, Jagermeister for 8 hour trek north. Fuck sleep! We’re off. Booze goes annoyingly fast. Smoke hash in WC. Hit bar car. There’s a party. Private stock passed around. 16 year old women exercising their legal rights to pick up on car load of drunken, singing internationals. A joyous journey to the nation's capital.

*Pull in 8 am. Hostel far from city center. Not good. “TAXI!” It’s 7 stories high. 800 beds. Blue pastel on every floor. Casino-pattern carpet! Bad, early 80s tunes in hallway speakers 24/7. And one working elevator. Drudgery. Running on fumes. Crap room w/bunks. Pass out.

June 26-June 30, Berlin:

*Huge-fuckin’-city. Manic. Expensive. Wicked. Over these days life becomes a dizzying, whiskey splashed blur. Touring is out of the question as daylight hours are reserved for hibernation. Everyday I come to I check to see if Joey’s still alive in the top bunk then see if our gear has not been stolen by the Ukrainian kid who’s been hiding out nights in our room and disappearing whenever the house manager knocks. There’s also an Italian, but he too is just a kid, we stay cordial.

Gallons of water are consumed as much as the alcohol. A long, freezing shower is a must too, and since I get up so late there’s no line. Laundry done in the sink hangs on window sill. The hallways are empty; our schedule’s a vampire’s, feels as if we’re the only ones there. Lunch is a greasy doner kebab; soaks up the booze and gives you energy. Then it’s off to the next match at the fan zone set up behind the Brandenburg Gate.

Security horrific but oddly manageable. It’s a 2-mile stretch of movie-screen size plasma TVs, beer gardens, carnival rides, DJs, stages, & bars. And the young women come to dance and drink and enjoy the afternoon/evening matches. Every night’s favorite to win I buy their nation’s flag and wear it across my back. Our own team crapped out, might as well make new friends. I do, but can’t keep up with Joey. Masher!

*The only people who bother to email me are an ex-girlfriend, Emmeric J Konrad, Paul Whitehead & Linda Ford. Oh, and my brother. A surprise. During this time also I manage to read “The Brown Buffalo” by Oscar Zeta Acosta.

*The nights get interesting because of “Mitte” or “Center City” off Friedestrausse. An artist’s haven at one point, now more commercial, but still filled with underground galleries, bars and gorgeous Russian-meth addicted prostitutes who openly ply their wares and will unzip you in front of crowded cafes and massage you into going with them. Place reminds me a lot of the Downtown L.A. art scene but without the hot & legal prostys and the fact that cops here don’t care if you drink or “smoke” in public.

Though they have mini-raves at the fests after the last match of the night, thousands, the park rocking, it is only until they decide enough is enough and push you out, so it is back to here, in this “artist district”-though you’d be hard pressed to find any actual artists-where all the serious drinking, drug play and sex come to fruition, away from prying eyes, away from the normals who bed down early for the night and want to tour, of all things, in the morning. And even though Joey and I tried other parts of Berlin, way in the fuck out there, getting lost, taking metros the wrong way, taxi drivers trying to stiff us, where we’d remain for at least one drink to justify the bullshit we had to go through in order to get to some kind of “party” area, it was always back the Mitte.

True to German eccentricities, a beach is set up behind the used-to-be-cool “Troches Gallery” complete with sand. EVERYWHERE! Gin joints surround this staging area and stay open 24h. Zombies float back and forth. Coked up. High on Hash. Blind drunk. Erections & hardened nipples leading the way.

*On one of these nights (and time has become smoke trailing dramatically from the end of a lit cigarette, as we usually hang onto whoever we’re crying all over ‘til the sun rises and shield our eyes as we wolf down large chicken kebabs and hail bored Turkish taxi drivers to take us back home only to have the morning crew at the hostel shake their heads and mumble something in German and point) I actually managed to have a date, of sorts, with a real lady.

Call her “Emily”; an old friend of Emmeric Konrad’s. Emmeric, a gentleman, was kind enough to give Emily a call and told her I was in town. I called post haste (she had a sweet voice that could melt the coldest of hearts), and here we are, Joey and I, looking all over the Mitte for this gallery where we’re supposed to meet.

A stunning woman. We’re on our best behavior. Even washed behind my ears. After the show we end up at this groggily suitable café and sit in the back and laugh and talk loud and drink many drinks. Regale each other with stories of life on the road, tales of Emmeric, the “horrors” of being an artist. And I order away, not thinking of the bill. My God, can I be more fucking bourgeois? But you know what? Fuck it, man, it feels great. I deserve this. Yeehaw!

Getting late, photos taken, more drinks called for, but she must leave early. No, no, no, yes, yes, yes; ok, sweetie, ok. Flirtatious & lurid lobs are served up as we escort her down the street and she makes a mad dash for the ever present taxi and not a moment too soon. Ah, what a lady!

*Another night finds us forming a relentless conga line at the fest with the Brazilians as we watched them defeat Ghana. Bastards! We could’ve beat Brazil. The dancing & free flowing booze stuffed into our hands goes on for hours. Hey, it’s the Brazilians, enough said…

*Another night has us in the midst of a celebration as the surprising team of the tourney, Germany, crushes Argentina and advances. Mayhem. Roman candles exploding in the crowd. Hugging & kissing. Crying. Disbelief. An estimated 700,000 imploded. The city splits at the seams. Horns & cheers fill the air. Civilization at a standstill. Unabashed emotion is rare for the typical German. But not tonight. Fuck no! It’s the end days...staggering the amount of passion & pride. I’m envious.



And as we careen down the Unter den Liden, past the Hotel Adlon where heads of state sleep, past the British Embassy with their armed-to-the-teeth security, dodging parading hoards, we see him. Standing guard in front of a cheesy, overpriced souvenir shop.

Bruno The Bear!

10 feet tall! Wearing a team jersey. A giant stuffed toy. Passer-bys point and children run up to hug him and scream “Bruno! Bruno!” and we foreigners take pictures and gawk. Fuckin’ Bruno. Is this where you been hiding? Seems so long ago we met. On tip toes I reach, give him a peck on his furry cheek, pose for a photo. Then, crack open a bottle of Berliner Beer. Nasty, but it gets the job done. And I guess that’s all that can be said for a lot of things.



July 1, Berlin:

*Soul numbing hangover. Over lunch can barely read the headlines: Bruno The Bear Is Dead!

Aww fuck!

100, 000 Euros went to some Swiss hunter.

Damn You! Why did you have to go and fuckin’ die? Am I the last of the beasts then? A brown buffalo lost among the animals?

B-R-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!

*Later to Mitte. Pounding salsa club. Last night in Germany. 3am. Joey’s bouncing off the walls. A Polish girl: Can I buy you a drink? I offer. Yes, come sit with me and my girlfriend. You’re so pretty. That is nice. Thank you. Do you have fire? Of course, love. Few minutes later: Let’s go to the bar, I say, I need another drink. Ok by me. So, how old are you anyway? I am 18. Sure you are, honey. She says, My friend does not like you. They never do. Let’s go outside, I suggest. Get some air. But my friend. It’s ok, she can watch. And we did.

July 2, Berlin:

*Morning get two hours sleep. Leave Joey a note: Hold the line, son! Hold the motherfuckin' line!

*New Berlin Hofbanhauf is a freakin’ palace. Talk about the Jetsons. 8 hours & hung over back to Amsterdam on the screeching-baby-in-a-foreign-language-with-no-air-conditioning-express.

*I have 2 hours in town once I get there, so I stuff my bags in a locker, tie the stars & stripes around my neck and run into Red Light across the street. It’s 106 degrees. Fuckin' Madness!

Who? Where? Ah, here we go. Thai. Little older (mid-20s) than I prefer but time is short. I insist on keeping the flag on…

I scamper recklessly through trams & bicycles, my flag fluttering behind me. I grab my gear and stowaway on a commuter headed to the airport. I hope.

*45 minutes to London. I hate London. Goddamn noise & traffic reminds me of what awaits in L.A. I’m the only one in the hostel bar 'til 4am. I don' t want to hit on women. I don't want to talk to anybody. I don't want to be near people. I don’t give a fuck.

July 3, London:

At Heathrow bumped up to “Business Class” . Yes! First time in my life! Champagne anyone? 13 hours later stuck in endless customs line @ LAX. Entire clans from other nations with steamer trunks, wheel chairs, IVs dangling & 3-seater baby strollers are backing up, pushing & squealing to get in. No AC. They do that on purpose.

“They flagged you, sir.”

“What?”

“Hold on.”

“Why?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Who do you write for?”

“The Arts District Citizen.”

“Never heard of ‘em. Welcome to America. Next!”








books by Jim Marquez can be found at www.lulu.com/jimmarquez

Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup Part 2

Fear & Loathing In Germany: World Cup 2006
Part 2
by
Jim Marquez



*Tried downloading 100 photos to flash drive from new digital camera, 1G chip, in a cyber café run by, as all the these cafes in Europa, the Turks, Iranians, Pakistani, Indian, & Iraqis; they corner the Internet market. Good for them. But, with German technology, my photos get erased and my chip fried.

*Still need to work on new book. Damn drunk!

*Called KATRINA, my love, my future wife. I’m happy as hell to have met this goddess on train over from Amsterdam, elated to have snagged her number. Waited the requisite 3 days. This is the one. A real woman! And this is what I hear: “Sorry, the number you have reached is not in service.”

It’s official: God hates me.

June 15, Cologne:

*Hunters Take Shots At Bruno The Bear!

Vets spray bear piss, from a female they have at a zoo, to try to trap Bruno. He reportedly sniffs the wooded area, becomes disinterested, and lumbers off. Closer examination determines Bruno to be about 1 years old. Too young to care about girls but still hungry like the wolf. Bruno tears through hen houses, sheep pens, barns, and storage containers for grub while on his loopy ramble through southern Germany. Locals are incensed. Bounty on Bruno’s head upped to 50,000 Euros.

The brown buffalo, on the other hand likes the females, so for a quick 10 euro taxi ride outside of city center I hit the local, very legal brothel. “PASCHA”.

Pascha! Pascha! Pascha!

5 Euro entry fee. Class joint. 7 floors in a converted hotel, each room rented by the women for daily shifts. Dark hallways, carpeted walls, chandeliers, musty scent, sound proof, shhhhhh; this afternoon the place empty, relaxed. Stroll the floors at leisure. See the “Glory Hole” room. The “Dungeon”. The “Car Sex” room--yes, for extra cash you can have sex in the back seat of a VW Bug. I don’t even wanna know how the hell they got a car up five flights of stairs and squeezed into one of the rooms. Floors 5-7 is tranny heaven, from what I’m told, and there’s even a hair dresser & haberdashery for your grooming needs.

Bulgarian. 25 years old. 50 euros. Clean, comfortable, cozy; less rushed & manic as in The ‘Dam. My God, what convenience! I love PASCHUA!

After, have beer at one of the bars they have set up on each floor. Snacks too. Grinning Russian bartender says, “Don’t want to troll the hallways like some kind of deviant? Well, hell, buddy, meet some of the girls in our ‘bar setting’, just like picking up a chick out in the real world, only ours are smart enough to get paid for it! HAR! HAR! HAR!”

Must tell Joey.

June 16, Cologne:

*Can’t stay away from Starbucks. Second visit. Goddamn mystery what they really put in the coffee. Few days without it and the headaches come. You know what I mean.

*I like how the locals look at me: they’ve seen Americans before, the big, blonde, blue-eyed giants from the plains states, but never the bulky, Mexican-American from East Los Angeles; 4 world cups, 7 solo Euro treks, 200+ women under my belt; a battle scarred buffalo with blood-shot red eyes & a grumpy disposition.

*Two fan fests in Cologne every night for matches. One behind the cathedral closest to posh hotels and old rich fucks that only want one beer then go to sleep early. The other by the Rhine River, three minutes further walk, a drunkard’s wet dream: bar after bar lined up, ready for the plucking.





Here they have also have a gigantic plasma screen in a pent up area that holds exactly 5,000. Then, you’re cut off! The rest of us left to inebriated devices. Hoards scour the nether regions along with hundreds of police in riot gear; muzzled dogs strain their leashes, water cannons take aim, and tear gas riflemen pick targets.

War-like chants fill the air, drums beat, chairs tossed, bottles thrown, glass every-fucking-where; air horns blare, barkers sell everything from burnt Bratwurst to knock off souvenirs to weak whiskey; we slam into each other, tens of thousands caught on a blissful & unconscious boozed soaked wave called The World Cup!

At a corner meet 25 year old German chick, just off work from the fest. Exhausted. Drunk. Wants to smoke. I say, Joey has some shit. She says, where’s your hotel? I’ll go back with you guys. Cool. But where the fuck is Joey? Out gallivanting, hitting on everything that breathes. She coos into my ear, my boyfriend doesn’t know how to take care of my needs. Really, now? That bastard! So where’s your friend? Let me look, I say. Wait here. I run, poke my head into every bar on the street. Check the paddy wagon-tank they got parked off to the side. Run down to the river. Fuck! Come back, she’s still there, nice surprise. I’m hungry, she says. Let’s grab a salad, I offer. Sure. Pop into Kabob shop. Eat, buy big beers, flirt, graphic talk about oral sex; I’m outstanding by the way, I assure. Is your friend coming back? I really want to get high and fuck around. I implore, We don't need him. Yes, we do. No we don’t, it’s fine, let’s go take a walk by the river, I urge. And, we did.

After: And where the hell were you, man? Dude, there was this Mongolian chick. 19 years old! You bastard! We finish the night, as we did in Cologne on every other night, at this tiny Spanish tapas bar that closed at 5am. Got to be familiar faces, Flamenco cranking, friendly with the jefe, free drinks.

Ah, Cologne…

June 17, Kaiserslautern, Germany. 3 1/2 hours by train from Cologne. USA v Italy:

*Pre-game fest outstanding. Hundreds of thousands on streets. Slow moving train of fire breathing flesh. Hot like a bastard. Italians en masse. Street-wide national flags. Carnival parade pushes through. Alcohol splashed spectators. Foul trash-talking by both sides. And again, come match time, there are no stadium shuttles, no officials, no direction other than two volunteers saying “just a few minutes walk over there”. Turns out to be a 4 kilometer walk, up hill, and they don’t even bother blocking off the streets so we have to dodge traffic along the way. Barbarous…

Stadium holds 46,000. Surprisingly about 30,000 Americans. And we absolutely crushed the hell out of those turf-diving-pay-the-referee-bash- our-guys-in-the-faces-half-the-team-under-investigation-back-in-the-old country embarrassment that call themselves Team Italy. What a joke they are! We steamrolled over them. Put the fear of God in them. Outmanned them even though we played shorthanded due to obvious FIFA match fixing calls that would have never gone against Brazil or England or Mexico. And, just like the old days, put a stop to them dead in their tracks. 1-1. We were the only team Italy could NOT beat during their tournament run and ultimate World Cup championship.

The world witnessed true greatness on the pitch this day. Kesey Keller, our goalie, egged us on, and we responded by throwing seat cushions at the refs, money, beers, hats, fights broke out in the stands, shit they never showed on TV. A feral & ferocious air took over as we hollered, screeched, pounded the seats, stomped the ground, banged the drums; it became shamanistic, our voices carrying, penetrating another plane. Our boys took shit and flung it right back, saying fuck you; you will not get away with this!

Four world cups I’ve been to personally, and that’s the best goddamn play I have seen in 16 years of this madness. It was glorious. I was never prouder to be an American. WE DID NOT QUIT AND THEY COULD NOT BEAT US!

And there was nothing the Italian supporters could do about it. They didn’t expect this play, this support. How quiet they were at the end of the match as we shuffled back down the hill. They knew their team tried to pull the same boring bullshit they’re famous for, but this time it didn’t work, and they were speechless. We CAN play at the European level. If we beat Ghana the next match, and Italy beats the Czechs we move on.

A slow train, 5-freaking-hours for some goddamn reason, back to Cologne, is interminable.

June 18, Cologne:

*Tour the “El De Building”. The official Gestapo headquarters of the secret police 1935-1945. The cells still there, the interrogation room, the executioner’s courtyard outback, as are the prisoner’s scribbling on the walls. The archives; films, photos, documents are astounding to behold.

*Pascha again! Thai. 19. Wow. Think I’m in love. No, seriously…

*Must work on new book damn you!

June 19, Cologne:

*Tomorrow England v Sweden in Cologne. Tonight, 40,000 Englishmen storm city. A rowdy, frightening & joyous scene. Think last reel in “Ten Commandments”. Golden Calf time.

Stampeding madmen fill the streets by the river. Tables, chairs, patio umbrellas take flight, sail through storefronts. Scaling 100 foot high water fountain in town square then cliff diving into drunken masses below. Running naked through bars. Again, unfathomable piles of bottles, glass, car parts, furniture, food, trashcans, souvenir stands, fencing, piss, bodies, vomit, hollering national pride tunes, insults, foulness, all related to the war. “THERE WERE FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR. THEN THE RAF TOOK TO THE SKIES AND NOW THERE WERE FOUR GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FOUR …”

Deafening, giddy, snarling, fuckin’ tribal, man, and the police, to their credit, let them do whatever the hell they wanted. Oh sure, you saw Brits being discreetly muffled, thumped on the head, hog tied and dragged off by the troops, but despite the carnage there were no outright riots.

Joey & I stood at a corner. Every other nation’s supporter had taken refuge. Brave Swedes though encountered walls of Brits and spitting and cursing contests began, pushing, shoving, blurry swings and misses. I tied my Stars & Stripes around my neck. Somebody had to represent. Walk confidently into their midst…

“OY! ALLIES TO THE END, MATE!” Bear hugged, kissed on the cheek. Beers put into my hand. Slaps on the back. Photos taken. More beers in hand. Hugs. Raucous laughter. “BEST MATCH OF THE TOURNEY THE OTHER DAY BOYS! WAY TO SHOW THEM OPERA-DIVING DIVAS!” High fives. Handshakes. Smiles all around. “SAY ‘ALLO TO THE MISSUS WILL YA? SHE’S NEVER SPOKEN TO A REAL YANK BEFORE!” Man shoves his cell in my hand! More beers. “GOOD TO REPRESENT YOUR COLORS, LAD! NO OTHER AMERICANS OUT HERE!” More beers. Photos. Video. Hundreds of men, women, children, jumping on us, grabbing hands, kisses, hugs, wanting to pose with the flag, touch the flag, my hat, my hair, I felt like freakin’ Jesus! I felt like a rock star! Flabbergasted by response. In-fucking-credible!

6am. Joey & I the last staggering the streets. Out drank the English! Hoof prints and wreckage everywhere. Not a soul in sight. Joey bet me 2 euros I couldn’t climb the water fountain, and we were promptly arrested by German Police. Thought we were English. Passports shown. Laughter. Sent on our way. But not before jovial photos taken of arresting officers.

June 20: Last Day, Cologne:

*At station reserving seats on ICE train to Munich I hear, “Hey Jimmy!” I freeze. Who the fuck knows me here? Not good. Turn: pretty Asian girl in pink wool cap, smiling, waving me over with shopping bag in hand. Joey says, “You’re on your own, pal” I approach. Don’t recognize her. “It’s me! From Pascha!” What? Good God. Didn’t recognize her, you know, with clothes on. We do the kiss-on-each-cheek-Euro-greeting-thing. Um, that’s a pretty hat. Thank you, sweetie. So, how’s it going? Great, just getting some shopping done. How about you? Heading for Munich tomorrow. Really? So soon? Yes. You come see me later, we make love for real. What, for free? Cool.

Take Joey this time. Give him lowdown. I sit at bar, chill. Within 15 minutes he’s back. “All done!” What? You animal! “You find that chick of yours?” I just got here, man. Let me finish my drink for the love of God!

“I thought I heard your voice, saying ‘Hi’ to all the girls, what a gentleman! Now get inside!” I ask her to put on the pink wool cap. We go bareback. “Come in me,” she breathes into my ear. And, I did.

June 21, Munich:

*Gorgeous trek east across countryside. Did I see Bruno looping across a stream? Horrid walk though from train station-nasty humidity-not to find hostel, but actual hotel. Reserved: two beds, balcony. 80 euros. No AC though.

*Conservative town. Tough to find late night bars. Ask, poke around, tip doorman at swanky joint, then, happily stumble into an Irish pub of all places. Pumping international crowd. Loose Aussies. Hammered English chicks. Perfect. Put Levi’s Denim Jacket on hook with other coats, raining out. Order double Jameson-rocks. Turn back. Gone! Dammit! Find out this brand of clothing most stolen in Germany. Bartender mortified, says, drinks on the house all night! Well, if you insist…

Home early. 3am. Joey crashes. I sit on balcony, crack open Joey’s magic bag, pack some bowls, light up, slip on headphones, listen to soundtrack of “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas”, and ride the wave…a man at peace.


To be continued…


books by me can be found at
http://www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez

Fear & Loathing In Germany: World Cup 2006 Part I

Fear & Loathing In Germany: World Cup 2006

PART I
by
Jim Marquez




June 6, Amsterdam:

Bruno the Bear is alive and well, according to the daily rags, and trampling the county side of Germany; he is the last of its kind because for some odd reason the Germans have not had a bear in their neck of the woods for hundreds of years. And, true to form, in order to keep order, a bounty has been set and hunters from all over the world are gathering, as well as us decrepit folks for the freak show they call WORLD CUP!

Name another event on this flaming bag of manure where a Jew, an Arab, a Mexican, a German, an American, an Italian, a Swede, a Costa Rican, a Korean, a Frenchman, an Englishman, and every other street freak in between can sit at a table over a pint and shoot the shit instead of each other. A genuine affection for not only the football but what is represents: humanity! A big, fat wet juicy screaming orgasm full of it. Fuck the Olympics. Fuck the Superbowl. 3 billion tuned into the last World Cup final. Case dismissed.

So, as I rinse my mouth of last night’s bitter remnants with the left over Johnny Walker because I couldn’t find any goddamn Jameson for cheap, I think, no, I feel, that I will be one of the lucky ones to actually see Bruno the Bear. Between the soul damning whorehouse visits, the street fights, the bars, the agonizing heart break of witnessing Team USA crash and burn in the tournament, I feel it is our destiny to meet, for we are one and the same, Bruno and I, the last of our kind: for I am a beast, the last of the great Brown Buffaloes, and Bruno is the last of the great brown bears. We will see…

June 7th-Amsterdam:

Fighting horrendous sleep deprivation I manage to put on a bad drunk, sloppily hit on every woman in the Flying Pig Hostel bar, and not care about any of it because I know I can get my fix fixed over in the red light district a five minute walk away and so therefore they can’t hold a fucking thing over my head and that feels so liberating, and I do so with a hot little Bulgarian number, 20 years old, then, manage to stagger home early, 4:30am, and wake up even earlier the next day with no side affects.

Amsterdam is great, my 5th run through, but let’s face it: this time around it’s serving as distraction before Deutschland. It’s like Vegas, really; 2-3 days and then you want to get the fuck out because you know yourself, and you damn well know you can easily die here from excess while going through thousands on booze and prostys.

June 8th, Amsterdam:

High on hashish. Though my demons are the booze and the dames I bounced through the cafes, got ripped, then had the temerity to hit the Van Gogh Museum and discovered myself crying at every piece of the man’s work. Blubbering I was. Absolutely lost….

Ex-girlfriend, as if on cue, like she did for Korea/Japan World Cup ’02, starts to email me, discovering, I guess, that she can only stomach communication with me when I’m out of the country rather than when in the next town over. Ok, cool by me. In & out of each other’s lives for 15 years now. Christ, that’s longer than most fuckin’ marriages.

5am stumble into Red Light. Italian. 22 years old. Rock hard and pumping but no end result. She’s sweet about it, says, “Next time get it out of the way before you party.” Yeah, honey, heard that one a few times before.

June 9th, Amsterdam:

Come to with a nasty-fuck-you-wish-you-were-beheaded-hangover. My body hits me with this type of unholy misery every so often as a reminder that I am not, despite my protests, a God, after all.

Tons of Americans pouring into town in Team USA jerseys. Spilling out of the Centraal Train Station in unison like our boys did 60 years ago as they came off those boats on the beaches of D-Day.

They’re smart. One day to get high, do the ol’ in-out, then, push on to Germany. That’s what I should’ve done. But I can’t quite do that. It’s the beast in me…

Talked to Joey via email. He’s still in Paris getting his shit together. We’ll meet in Cologne tomorrow afternoon. He said he has a bottle of Jameson ready for us to toast the upcoming madness.

Afternoon Red Light visit. Thai. 19 years old. Yes, I am a crude man!

Tonight must find public viewing area for the opening match: Germany v. Costa Rica. Or, a Dutch bar. Needless to say this city, nay, this entire fucking continent will be cheering on the Ticos. (The Germans came out swinging though, thanks to their manager Klinsman, and wipe the Ticos all over the pitch 4-2. Fuckin’ brutal!)

Still need to work on my new book. Tomorrow…

Witnessed first brawl. One man, late-40s, taking on 4 others in their early-20s in a public square called the Leidensplien. Tables turned over, beers shattering on the ground, confused & slurred voices; broad daylight. The old dude connected on every single kid. They couldn’t quite comprehend the blithering madness of a true drunk unleashed. The old guy’s friends had to drag the old guy off before he killed those boys.

Which reminded me of a scene from last night. Terribly twisted on overpriced whiskey and cheap drugs I’m bopping out of the men’s room in the upstairs of a very loud bar when a huge fuckin’ Dutchman comes up to me. Think he wants to fight. I’m game. My right hand resting on an empty WC attendant’s chair.

“Hey, American! Come here! I want to tell you something!”

Oh Christ, here we go…

I grip the back of the chair, ready to swing, I am not a gentleman; I do not fight fair. I scream and bite and kick and flail about like a pent up buffalo. It’s not pretty. I say, “What’s up, man?”

He sticks his hand out for a shake, says, “Thank you for making my family free: my grandparents, my parents. Without you, I would not be here. Thank you!” Then, he hugs me, he’s in tears. Drunk, yes, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

I heard a lot of that too in Korea at the last cup and it’s a touching, passionate thing to hear and sad at the same time because we used to be such a great nation, doing actual good, doing the right thing for the right reasons. And now, and now…

June 10, Amsterdam Centraal Train Station:

Morning Headline: Bruno in High Country Outside Munich.

Travel days are the worse. You sweat like an overheated buffalo, or bear, carrying all your shit on your back. No bellboys here. No 4-star service. It’s hotter than hell. You haven’t bothered to sleep for fear of oversleeping and missing the train.

Platform is crammed with football supporters in dreadfully loud boosters’ regalia, all headed to Germany on this stifling afternoon: Mexicans, Dutch, Irish, English, American, Brazilian. We wear our nation’s flags over our backs like Superman capes and have to jump tracks to the other side of the station when we’re told in typical clipped-European-fashion by a stray porter that our speed train to Cologne is leaving from an entirely different platform than the one clearly stated on the tote boards. And, it’s leaving in two minutes. With or without you. Is this dude high, or do we trust the Intel?

It takes a few seconds, then, thousands of voices cry out and we scamper off like drunks whose turn has come up to buy the next round, dragging roller luggage across shit-stained floors, crates of bottled beers, bags stuffed with cheesy souvenirs; sombreros and flags flap in the wind as we run and push each other out of the way through the tunnels, trampling the old and the weak and the very young. “Run you fuckin’ tourists! Run!” I can hear the porter laughing behind us, lighting up a spliff no doubt “Run!”

I throw first my large backpack, small daypack, Levi’s denim jacket, and cloth book bag into the wagon assigned for us second class folks and I follow suit just as the train jerks, then, lurches out of the station.

Bastards!

Cruising at 230 mph. happily find myself sitting with a cool German family back from holiday in New York. Mom, dad, & their hot, 25 year old daughter. We glance at each other coyly. I must engage.

Laughter. Teaching them words in English. They practicing the Spanish they picked up in the states. Then, more eye contact. She understands! Oh God I’m falling in love. What’s her name again? Katrina. I want to take her into the WC and make love on the sink.

Katrina!

I can picture us making babies. Getting married. A whole new invigorating life for me in Europe. Fuck L.A.! I’m sick of it all! Time to shed skin! I want her innocence. Her passion. I want her to want me! Be my wife! Jesus-fucking-Christ! She’s the one! She’s the one! Finally! Oh-Christ finally!

2.5 hours later: Cologne. She lives here. Wait for her to say goodbye to parents as they push forward to Frankfurt. I’ll be in town two weeks, I’ll get her cell, ask her to dinner like a gentleman. She happily obliges. Cool! Call in a couple days.

Finding the “Station Hostel” is a bitch. Crap joint, but for 24 euros a night fuck it. And, Joey, true to his word, the original beast himself, the man who I joyfully allowed to lead me off the path a lifetime ago, is waiting in the room with a sack full of weed, a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and a lascivious smile.

Is that sulfur I smell?

June 11: Cologne, Germany:

24 consecutive hours of abusive alcoholism, hashish, dancing the samba in the streets with thousands of Brazilians and Englishman ‘til dawn, partying by the water (Cologne sits along the Rhine River), getting picked up by every young German girl in sight (I know we’re still in high school, but I’ve never kissed a brown buffalo before. And neither have my friends. Oh really now?), running into the 1,000 year old cathedral that is the center of town to pray for our wilting souls, getting interviewed by the local press, battling 100 degree heat and humidity and no air conditioning while sharing a room with 4 others; transitory, people come and go throughout our stay, we being the only residents, and the train station around the corner.

5am-6am hear the lone, longing whistles popping off; can hear the echoes, the ghostly voice of a female conductor announcing the arrivals & departures and I wished every night I could be on one of those trains moving further and further away…

Tomorrow the first match.

June 12, Gelsenkirchen, Germany. USA v. Czech Republic: 1 hour train from Cologne.

A debacle on every level. Getting our asses kicked in front of the world 3-0 was the icing on the cake to an otherwise fucked afternoon. The city of Gelsenkirchen woke up one day, apparently, and realized they had to host a world cup match.

The street festival in front of the train station is hot, raucous, people drunk, happy as hell, anticipation of things to come. We went all the way to the semi-finals in Korea ‘02, we expected the same here.

Time to go after two hours of drinking. Below, metros with only two cars! Thousands descending into the tunnels, there are no signs, no guards, no directions. Instead of trains with 10-12 cars allowing hundreds to board for the stadium 15 miles away, at most 40 are getting on each time. Screams, pounding of walls, cursing, blistering heat, humidity, crying, children freaking, drunks hollering, chanting, growling, can’t breathe, elbows in throats, knees in crotches, pressing together, sandwiching, no air, no air, let’s go people, move it! The match is in two hours. Fuck this shit! Joey and I look at each other “THE BUSES!”

We bulldoze back up the stairs; kicking, shoving aside drunks coming down who haven’t seen how bad it is yet, then, gallop to the city buses across the street. Hundreds follow.

Fucking Germans!

There are no stadium shuttles; we have to cram into local city transport with Aunt Gertrude and other locals doing their daily routine, standing room only. Can’t breathe! Swimming in burning sweat. No AC. Windows bolted. Immediate traffic stadium bound. Burning up! Stop at every corner picking up passengers. Driver doesn’t give a fuck, being crushed to death. 35 minutes of this. Feeling weak, faint. Stadium miles away. Fans on foot moving faster outside along bus. No lane-specific route. Assholes! They’re supposed to be good at this shit! Who dropped the motherfuckin’ ball?

Joey & I look at each other: “FUCK THIS!”

At next stop all the Americans in the bus fall against the doors, a human battering ram, the driver starts screaming, we push harder, and literally fall out, me landing on the sidewalk, flopping onto my considerable beer belly. Joey picks up and starts running. Others follow. I saunter far behind. No strength left. Hobble through woods, across train trestles, over a river, grand boulevards. Not one single fucking official to guide us. Hundreds of Americans, scattered, rudderless, left to fend for themselves, the locals probably hoping we say “fuck it” and turn back, but, true to our stubborn nature, and the only aspect I am proud of that makes me an American, we push forward, don’t give up. No surrender! Hold the line, son! Hold the motherfuckin’ line.

We make the match by kick-off. By minute 5 we’re down 1-0. In football that’s bad. The U.S supporters are immediately deflated. By half time the lead has doubled. The Czechs are just too fucking big, strong, organized and scary. Damn.

To be continued…

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