So, for this blog I will be infringing on the territory of my good friend Rich, sorry buddy. I'm all for finding new music to enjoy and sometimes I need to go outside the United States. Luckily for all you music fans there is the Eurovision Song Contest, a competition that finds the best original song written by an undiscovered artist throughout Europe.
It was thanks to this competition that I was introduced to the music of one Alexander Rybak. He's Norweign, he plays the fiddle, and he's awesome. Most of his music is derived from the music of Norway, very folk driven beats and pieces. The best part is that most of his music is typical pop in English, so it is relatable to any audience. Here's his track "Europe's Skies", don't ask me why he's on that mountain, just go with it.
Now, in seriousness this is the reason I really wanted to write this blog. I know that most people had a very strong reaction to the previous post. So what I ask is this, would you guys like me to continue on in that vein, and if so, do you think that is could involved and have a solid theme. If you read this blog for enjoyment or because you are forced to, leave a comment below with your thoughts and we'll see what happens this weekend.
~Ryan
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
A Slice of Truth
So, while I was in France I spent some nights writing (spare me the boos I know you are throwing from behind your monitor). I was trying to come up with something decent that summed up my trip for you guys, and I think I got close, but also got really introspective into a side of me I don't like to bring out often. That being said, here's my little non-fiction essay about my time spent in France.
The Americans in Paris
As you read this, you should know I am writing on Thursday, 17/3/11. It is Saint Patrick's Day and I am sitting on my twin bed at the FIAP Jean Monnet in Paris France. I stare at a white sheet of paper and white stucco walls as I begin to write this piece with my favorite red pen. It is just past midnight, Thursday has just begun and for the majority of us, the night is young.
My roommate for the week Barry has stepped out with Diana and Amy to hit up the clubs and bars of Paris, while I have chosen to stay in as I always do. Tomorrow I will visit the cemetery where Oscar Wilde, Chopin, and Jim Morrison are buried before embarking on an adventure to a European football match.
The night is as young as an infant to most, this is my 4th day here, but I feel as if I have only just arrived. As the rest of the group descends on Paris, the night glows bright like Times Square on New Years, it is a night of celebration, a night to party. The flags have been raised and Paris has been put on notice, the Americans have arrived.
However, it is not just us who have arrived, world travelers from all corners of the globe has descended on Paris. Outside my window I hear the shouts of an Argentinean rugby team and outside my door I hear the conversation of some Canadians. If America is a melting pot, Paris is a petri dish of culture, all forms and different people thrown together in one large social experiment, all existing as different strains of the same DNA, the DNA of humanity.
I reflect on the week to that point. I have seen things so majestic and moving that some people may only see once in a lifetime. It is in this moment that the true paradox of Paris becomes clear. It is a city tied to the past with such reverence for the days of European strength, trying to exist in the world of an ever changing and complex future. Parisians and tourists then are prisoners of the present, caught in a place where moments last for eternity as time continually moves forward.
It is in this cruel constraint that we must exist, I have gone without any type of electronic technology for 4 days, and I am perfectly ok in saying that. Others through wait for the moment in which they can return stateside to cradle their effective cell phones again.
It is in small moments where time freezes where I hope to remember this vacation. I fear however that for most of us, the stories and moments they remember will be nights of wild parties and sweet wine. Instead of being left breathless by viewing the Eiffel Tower at night, they may remember the flashing lights of a nightclub. Instead of marveling at the Mona Lisa, they will marvel as they made it back to the hostel at 5:15 in the morning.
It is not that I hate people who drink, far from it. It is that after seeing how alcoholism makes people act and having it be in my family, I have never had a drink of alcohol. I know plenty of people who do, but the idea of a night I can't remember is much less pleasant to think about than a night I'll never forget. Plus, I'm fun enough without drinking anyway.
It is in this moment that I realize that I am not having as much fun on this trip as I should. That is not to say I'm having a terrible time, but the truth of the matter is that I have nothing in common at all with any of the people I am traveling with. Once this trip is over, I will probably never talk to any of them again, while they have formed some connection. I feel ostracized from the group, a lonely traveler through France.
The other question I needed to understand the answer to was why was I here. What had I come to Paris to find? Pictures fade over time, memories fade as we age, but it is the stories that we have to hold onto. For most it'll be the crazy nightlife, but what is it for me?
It won't be of the food, although Steak Tartar and Creme Brulee were surprising good. It won't be of the spiritual experiences, even though Notre Dame is enough to bring any man to their knees. It will not be of the history, enough though seeing all the tourist spots makes everything seems so small over time.
It is then that I think of a few hours earlier. I got on the metro on my way back to the hostel after a group dinner. On the train with me were two attractive American girls, one blond, one brunette with southern drawls. A few stops before I saw supposed to get off, the brunette stood to leave. I knew that I could keep going on, but I also knew that I could transfer back to this line. I needed to find her, for that moment where ever she was was where I wanted to be.
I dashed off the train and followed her through the largest metro station in Paris, getting short of breath and slightly irritated that she has always just out of reach. She got in front of a group of tourists on a moving walkway and with one more turn she was gone, another shadow in the City of Lights.
As I think back to that moment, I thought why did I do it? In asking this question I found not only the answer, but also the answer to what I came to Paris to find. I came to rekindle the magic of life. I had been swept up for a moment in a opportunity that never arose. I learned that magic is where fortune and luck meet at the intersection of life.
As I sit here, I here the Frenchmen outside my door say Merci to someone and I want to take this moment to say Merci Vocu to Paris. Thank you for letting this American be swept up in the magic of your city if only for a little while.
The Americans in Paris
As you read this, you should know I am writing on Thursday, 17/3/11. It is Saint Patrick's Day and I am sitting on my twin bed at the FIAP Jean Monnet in Paris France. I stare at a white sheet of paper and white stucco walls as I begin to write this piece with my favorite red pen. It is just past midnight, Thursday has just begun and for the majority of us, the night is young.
My roommate for the week Barry has stepped out with Diana and Amy to hit up the clubs and bars of Paris, while I have chosen to stay in as I always do. Tomorrow I will visit the cemetery where Oscar Wilde, Chopin, and Jim Morrison are buried before embarking on an adventure to a European football match.
The night is as young as an infant to most, this is my 4th day here, but I feel as if I have only just arrived. As the rest of the group descends on Paris, the night glows bright like Times Square on New Years, it is a night of celebration, a night to party. The flags have been raised and Paris has been put on notice, the Americans have arrived.
However, it is not just us who have arrived, world travelers from all corners of the globe has descended on Paris. Outside my window I hear the shouts of an Argentinean rugby team and outside my door I hear the conversation of some Canadians. If America is a melting pot, Paris is a petri dish of culture, all forms and different people thrown together in one large social experiment, all existing as different strains of the same DNA, the DNA of humanity.
I reflect on the week to that point. I have seen things so majestic and moving that some people may only see once in a lifetime. It is in this moment that the true paradox of Paris becomes clear. It is a city tied to the past with such reverence for the days of European strength, trying to exist in the world of an ever changing and complex future. Parisians and tourists then are prisoners of the present, caught in a place where moments last for eternity as time continually moves forward.
It is in this cruel constraint that we must exist, I have gone without any type of electronic technology for 4 days, and I am perfectly ok in saying that. Others through wait for the moment in which they can return stateside to cradle their effective cell phones again.
It is in small moments where time freezes where I hope to remember this vacation. I fear however that for most of us, the stories and moments they remember will be nights of wild parties and sweet wine. Instead of being left breathless by viewing the Eiffel Tower at night, they may remember the flashing lights of a nightclub. Instead of marveling at the Mona Lisa, they will marvel as they made it back to the hostel at 5:15 in the morning.
It is not that I hate people who drink, far from it. It is that after seeing how alcoholism makes people act and having it be in my family, I have never had a drink of alcohol. I know plenty of people who do, but the idea of a night I can't remember is much less pleasant to think about than a night I'll never forget. Plus, I'm fun enough without drinking anyway.
It is in this moment that I realize that I am not having as much fun on this trip as I should. That is not to say I'm having a terrible time, but the truth of the matter is that I have nothing in common at all with any of the people I am traveling with. Once this trip is over, I will probably never talk to any of them again, while they have formed some connection. I feel ostracized from the group, a lonely traveler through France.
The other question I needed to understand the answer to was why was I here. What had I come to Paris to find? Pictures fade over time, memories fade as we age, but it is the stories that we have to hold onto. For most it'll be the crazy nightlife, but what is it for me?
It won't be of the food, although Steak Tartar and Creme Brulee were surprising good. It won't be of the spiritual experiences, even though Notre Dame is enough to bring any man to their knees. It will not be of the history, enough though seeing all the tourist spots makes everything seems so small over time.
It is then that I think of a few hours earlier. I got on the metro on my way back to the hostel after a group dinner. On the train with me were two attractive American girls, one blond, one brunette with southern drawls. A few stops before I saw supposed to get off, the brunette stood to leave. I knew that I could keep going on, but I also knew that I could transfer back to this line. I needed to find her, for that moment where ever she was was where I wanted to be.
I dashed off the train and followed her through the largest metro station in Paris, getting short of breath and slightly irritated that she has always just out of reach. She got in front of a group of tourists on a moving walkway and with one more turn she was gone, another shadow in the City of Lights.
As I think back to that moment, I thought why did I do it? In asking this question I found not only the answer, but also the answer to what I came to Paris to find. I came to rekindle the magic of life. I had been swept up for a moment in a opportunity that never arose. I learned that magic is where fortune and luck meet at the intersection of life.
As I sit here, I here the Frenchmen outside my door say Merci to someone and I want to take this moment to say Merci Vocu to Paris. Thank you for letting this American be swept up in the magic of your city if only for a little while.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Slice of Soul Flavored Awesome
Welcome back, I can tell you that I enjoyed France, and I will have a blog up about it tomorrow when I get some time to put the piece I hand wrote ( yeah, writing still exists) into word formatting.
But for now it's time to bring the awesome as only we do here, and I will putting on my flashy sequins suit and cutting a rug because we are going back to the 70's, kinda.
You see, one of the big film movements in the 70's was a genre called Blaxploitation. For the most part these films followed a set pattern, ghetto neighborhood and black hero/heroine got set to take on "The Man" who had someone brought an evil upon the community.
Some of these films like "Shaft", "Super Fly" and "Foxy Brown" are classics regarded for the viewing of any serious film fan, but aren't about the awesome here, we are all about the guilty pleasures at the Pizzeria, and luckily recent spoofs of the genre have given us our choices for a guilty pleasure.
Perhaps you are set with "Undercover Brother" with Eddie Griffin. It did a decent job of mocking all the hallmarks of the genre, but really is not as funny as the film I much prefer to it, the hilarious send-up known as "Black Dynamite"
"Dynamite" trapezes the spoof line expertly, balancing actual moments of awesome with tongue in cheek references to the genre it loving mocks. The child of Michael Jai White, the titular character is a cross between Bruce Lee and Shaft, a bad mofo with and afro, a black belt and a black militant who according to himself is "blacker than the ace of spades".
Although it clocks in at only 84 minutes, "Dynamite" was the most fun I had watching a movie l2 years ago, and that includes seeing Inglorious Basterds and all the other great films of 2009-2010. It should be required viewing for almost any film fan. I see you guys tomorrow with my France centered blog, warning, it's heavy stuff.
But for now it's time to bring the awesome as only we do here, and I will putting on my flashy sequins suit and cutting a rug because we are going back to the 70's, kinda.
You see, one of the big film movements in the 70's was a genre called Blaxploitation. For the most part these films followed a set pattern, ghetto neighborhood and black hero/heroine got set to take on "The Man" who had someone brought an evil upon the community.
Some of these films like "Shaft", "Super Fly" and "Foxy Brown" are classics regarded for the viewing of any serious film fan, but aren't about the awesome here, we are all about the guilty pleasures at the Pizzeria, and luckily recent spoofs of the genre have given us our choices for a guilty pleasure.
Perhaps you are set with "Undercover Brother" with Eddie Griffin. It did a decent job of mocking all the hallmarks of the genre, but really is not as funny as the film I much prefer to it, the hilarious send-up known as "Black Dynamite"
"Dynamite" trapezes the spoof line expertly, balancing actual moments of awesome with tongue in cheek references to the genre it loving mocks. The child of Michael Jai White, the titular character is a cross between Bruce Lee and Shaft, a bad mofo with and afro, a black belt and a black militant who according to himself is "blacker than the ace of spades".
Although it clocks in at only 84 minutes, "Dynamite" was the most fun I had watching a movie l2 years ago, and that includes seeing Inglorious Basterds and all the other great films of 2009-2010. It should be required viewing for almost any film fan. I see you guys tomorrow with my France centered blog, warning, it's heavy stuff.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Pizzeria Comes Back With A Slice of Tucked Sausage
So, we are back here at the Pizzeria after the week that was a week of Charlie Sheen and him winning at everything, but I know you don't want to hear about him anymore, since we have reached saturation with the poor man. So instead I'm going to talk about one of the great guilty pleasures on TV right now, RuPaul's Drag Race.
Before we get going with this, I would like to state this out front. I'm fine with people living their life's however they want. All jesting in this blog is to expose the cheesiness of the show, not to mock the drag environment or the LGBT community. Just wanted to get this out of the way to make sure RuPaul doesn't read this and shuts me down
Now, for those of you who don't know and if that's you I'm sorry for singling you out, RuPaul is one of, if not the greatest Drag Queen of all-time. Her hit song "Supermodel", which you can check out at the link was a top 50 hit during the grunge era of American Music. But we aren't here to talk about her past, we are here to talk about her present and future and that is her show "Drag Race"
Now, if you have ever seen a show like America's Next Top Model or Project Runway you kinda will find the show familiar. Most episodes open with the contestant receiving "Shemail" (can't buy subtlety like that anymore) that point them in the direction of the challenge they will have for the week. Then the lady of the hour steps in as a man, and aids our would be queens on their way to the challenge.
One challenge always good to draw a good laugh or two is the 'reading' challenge introduced in Season 2. Reading or Throwing Shade is the drag queen equivalent of a roast joke, or so I believe. Here's the footage from last season's reading.
Once a challenge is completed, the prospective drag superstars meet on the runway as Ru makes her decision on which queens are safe and the two queens that are now in danger of elimination. They will have but one chance to stay in the competition, and it is to Lip Sync for their Life!
So take that Top Model, you have pretty ladies just standing around and they get to win. Kudos Project Runway, you had someone make a skirt. The contestants on RuPaul's show not only have created their own looks, made them, but now they even have to lip sync for their life!
Oh and it is a moment of the highest drama. The tension is so think you can cut it with a spork. Below is one of the great moments of television, in my opinion, of the last 3 years. At the end of it you may laugh, you may cry, you make shake your head in amazement and wonder why I did this, but there is also something else you will do, you will think that when nothing is left, the human spirit will find a way to carry on above all other things. Ladies, Gentlemen, LadyBoys, and GirlyMen, I present to you, the triumph of Shannel's victorious Lip Sync.
And with then, the Pizzeria is closing it's doors for this week.I hope you all enjoy your Spring Break, as I know I will as I am off to France with a class. Perhaps the next slice you get might be something a little international for you. So until we see each other again I leave you with this RuPaul-ism.
"If you don't love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?"
Later!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Pizzeria Gets Serious for a second
First, sorry for not coming through on my promise for a multipost week last week. That one is on me, and hopefully I can get you guys back on my side with a serious blog about the Charlie Sheen situation.
You see, my friend Andrew and I were having a discussion about one Mr. Sheen and we got to talking about his current predicament when I said that I felt sorry for the man. Andrew scoffed and told me that I had nothing to feel sorry about, that he had done it all to himself.
So why did I, a voyeur into the world of celebrity, feel sorry for Sheen? Is it based in the fact that many of us believe that celebrities are the most perfect representation of the self, reflected the what have been of the individual's full potential? Is it the fact that human beings always want to see someone fall, with the hope that they will pull through on the other end? Is it a natural thing that when we see someone in trouble we want to help them?
I'm not sure what I feel sorry for Mr. Sheen, but I do. You don't have to though, to each person their own.
But here's a post I found interesting from "Sprouting Daisies" about celebrity in this country and I think it works well as a companion piece. Check it out right here
Make sure you stop by later this week, maybe this weekend as I get back on the humor trail of things!
You see, my friend Andrew and I were having a discussion about one Mr. Sheen and we got to talking about his current predicament when I said that I felt sorry for the man. Andrew scoffed and told me that I had nothing to feel sorry about, that he had done it all to himself.
So why did I, a voyeur into the world of celebrity, feel sorry for Sheen? Is it based in the fact that many of us believe that celebrities are the most perfect representation of the self, reflected the what have been of the individual's full potential? Is it the fact that human beings always want to see someone fall, with the hope that they will pull through on the other end? Is it a natural thing that when we see someone in trouble we want to help them?
I'm not sure what I feel sorry for Mr. Sheen, but I do. You don't have to though, to each person their own.
But here's a post I found interesting from "Sprouting Daisies" about celebrity in this country and I think it works well as a companion piece. Check it out right here
Make sure you stop by later this week, maybe this weekend as I get back on the humor trail of things!
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