A Chestful of Weiners

I'll be brief.  This game shouldn't have been played and not just because it sucked but because the umps didn't care about the 30,000 people who bought tickets to see a game, eat dollar dogs, and watch fireworks.  In the end, a few thousand jackasses remained.  Anthony and I were two of those jackasses but not for the same reason.

Thanks to some crappy ill-conceived traffic patterns in downtown Cleveland (you will not turn left ever), we didn't park the car until about 6:55.  The sky which had cleared after the last down pour was now an ominous deep dark blue.  Intelligently we brush off the dude selling rain ponchos as we were almost at East 9th.  As we crossed East 9th the rain began with a few drops.  By the time we crossed the street, it was pouring and by the time we made it to the gate, it was raining sideways.  Soaked in front and relatively dry in back, we decide to head up to our seats.  The only problem with that idea is that the ramps aren't covered.  Our backs are now as wet as our fronts.  We would remain in a constant state of moisture for the next 6 hours!

Laden with beer, we walk the upper level concourse and whereupon I hear the first stupidest comment ever (there would be so many more), "Clearly it's clearing up over there."  Not.  We order a couple of dollar dogs and as expected, they make the small white buns look like they'd fit a foot long.  As we eat, I notice a crowd next to me.  I am not sure at what point he felt like he needed to worry about the "while supplies last" disclaimer but "clearly" he took it seriously.

Get three dogs ready.  My mistake.  Four dogs....

Finally we play and inning and a half but Kluber looks good so the heavens open and we move to a second rain delay.  A very lengthy rain delay.  After about an hour, the majority of fans begin to leave.  I mean with rain like this, what are the chances?  If you'd have guessed 100% because the umpires hate Indians fans, you'd be spot on!  The fans that remained would not forget.

It rains some more.  Dollar dogs become "2 for 1 Dollar Dogs" and that strange ginger ballpark MC dude gets desperate to entertain the fans.  Not that we need entertaining because there are two games on the big screen, one of which is the Tigers at Orioles.  His idea of entertainment is to go interview his fucking brother who created the "2 for 1" graphic.  I am not sure what was more appalling, that he has a brother or that he thought we fucking cared.  A bit later he returned from some cozy warm spot with Brandy the Rigid calendar model (who I noted did not have a piece of hair out of place) to show us the weather.  With the kids gone, I was able to shout a hearty "FU".

As the breeze picks up, the shivers set in and we procure two large garbage bags from the staff which we use as rain ponchos.

I don't think it's nice, you laughin'

That damned garbage bag was a life saver but by now, I am pruned.  After some hours, Tito walks the field with the umps and we figure, this is it.  But no, the dry as a bone ginger freak pops on the screen to tell us the game will begin at 12:10 so we mosey down to the familiar comforts of Section 138, Row L, Seats 3 and 4 as I figured no one in our group would be stupid enough to stay.  They weren't.

I won't discuss the game.  I will just say that if you're wondering who would have been crazy enough to stay and you're thinking that it was probably douchey Rays fans and frat boys, you'd be correct.  There was one bright spot.  A young man with a piercing demented spirit wail kept us laughing despite the idiocy surrounding us.  Patience wearing thin, we leave at 2:30 after sitting through the 7th inning (seriously, fuck the damned stretch!).  Anthony trashes his poncho, then regrets the decision.  I retain my beloved poncho and it's now familiar ecosystem to the last!

Hillbilly Weekend

What is a four game home and home series versus the Cincinnati Reds?  Oh yeah...Battle of Ohio.  Bring it on!

After dropping the first two in the Queen City (really?) on the tail end of a miserable road trip, I didn't know what to expect except that I wouldn't have to see Chris Perez on the mound.  That being a positive, when the "Nut Job" asked me if I wanted to go on Wednesday, I said "Oh hell yeah".  On a sad note, despite numerous citywide sightings, I've yet to see Samuel L.  Nor has he iMessaged me or asked his iPhone to find my iPhone or asked Siri to look me up (I'm Krononymous dude!).  WTF?

Game 1: Bat Masterson on the mound gives up a solo shot home run to the single most annoying man on the planet.  Luckily we arrived a bit late so I didn't have to see it but I was a tad bit blinded by the radioactive afterglow that follows his dingers.  It's not just that he's a grown man and calls himself "Joey", it's his fanboys.  Well, it is the Queen City.

The Most Annoying Man on the Planet

Upon arriving at our seats, I was disappointed to see that Nut Job's biggest adversary was not in attendance.  Instead it was a couple who I considered to be mother and son.  I know only this, husband is a bit high strung and seems to be taking the game a bit too seriously.  To wit Nut Job responds, "You would too if that was your wife."  Bam!

As I gaze at the score board, I notice that one John Joseph "Jack" Hannahan IV is batting 9th and is the Reds Designated Hitter.  I confess that part of me wants to believe that it's a decent gesture but the logical side of me just thinks it's Dusty Baker being the dick that he is.  Jack goes 0-4 and I cheer him along to each and every out.  I love you Jack Hannahan but I have Mike Aviles now.  He doesn't have the dimples or jumble the junk but he does have a hotter bat...I also don't get to see it enough.

Despite TMAMP's homer, the night belongs to Pepaw.  It's a good thing Gramps can crush the ball, because dude runs about as fast as my mother.  We end the 6th with a 4 run lead.

Mecca Lecca Hi, Mecca Hiney Ho!

Cody Allen and Joe Smith relieve Bat to get us to the 9th and then Vinnie trots out to finish the game.  At this point, the dude next to me goes completely rigid (get your mind out of the gutter).  Dude is tense...he starts muttering "Thanks Tito.  Way to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory!  He can't pitch!  He sucks."  Now I am all for meltdowns but don't be ragging on Vinnie.  So I turn to the gent and offer some counseling.  I tell him to relax, Vinnie will be fine.  He just came off the DL and needs to get back into the swing...crack, oh shit!  Solo home run to lead off the inning.  I can tell I am going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks.  Luckily Hanigan whiffs and then Jack is up.  I turn to him and say, "See, Jack's good for the second out" and on queue, he grounds to second.  I turn and make Angry Man clap.  I think he might slug me.  We all stand for the final out.  As Choo pops out to Reynolds I turn to Angry Man and say "Come on, hug" and I give him a hug.  I believe his mother-wife was hoping I'd take his miserable ass home with me.

Game 2: Way more Redsy!  Votto and Phillips shirts are all over the place.  It's hotter than hell (89 degrees at first pitch) so I had to go to the Indians store and buy some merc before the game.  I picked up a new cap for me and Mr. O and got Grace a Swisher shirt.  I told her we had a moment last game (See that last recap was so jam packed I didn't even have a chance to tell you that I was apparently the only person in Sections 136 and 138 paying attention when Swish lobbed a foul ball into the stands, as it dropped he looked at me and I looked at him and we made faces.  Really, it happened.) so it was her goal to have her one Swisher moment.  I will relieve you of anticipation by telling you that that never happened.

Damn but Kazmir pitched a heck of a game and after the bottom of the 4th, Reds Nation was gutted.  With the game solidly in hand, I had time to find some stellar folks in the crowd (I will note here that I was too hot to take snaps so Grace was my photojournalist.  She has yet to develop the knowledge that you really can take your time because Americans are so oblivious to the world around them that they never know you are taking mocking photos of them.).  What follows are my faves:

I'm special, so special.  I've got to have some of your attention, give it to me!

Rattboy: He was actually at Game 1 as well and in the same seats.  The flag waving occurred after the Reds scored their sad single run in the top of the 6th.

Do these jorts make my ass look flat?

80's Mom: I apologize for the fuzziness of the photo.  You can hardly see her perfectly coiffed 80's hair.  Each section was separately sprayed and blow dried.  Her side burns were unparalleled.  Her eyebrows looked like they were applied by Salvador Dali and her make up straight out of Dynasty.  The mom jorts with the 13 inch zipper were a lovely touch and a good look for a hot night.

Seated in front of us, is drunk Uncle Mike with his nephew.  Drunk Uncle Mike and his brother (this kid's dad) were drunk on Lite beer.  They were also obsessed with the color of everyone's eyes.  Drunk Uncle Mike told everyone in the vicinity to give whatever they had to his nephew.  The hat on his head is courtesy of the guys behind us while the guys next to us were asked to give up their batting helmet ice cream cups.  At that point I told drunk Uncle Mike that the kid wanted a batting helmet with ice cream so go up there and get him one.  He did not.  Putz.

I can say that if I were to have had a child, it would have been a boy and he was at the game.  My son is about 10, fair and adorable, and wears a Kronwall 55 t-shirt.  Sniff.  What an exceptional child.

Off to the game with Anferny tonight.  Dollar dogs, fireworks, and upper deck behind home plate.  Herr Kluber is on the mound and I hope there are no chitlins around so I can call Longoria a bitch all night long.  Also stay tuned for KC in June.  I hear Stacey's ex-boyfriend is their new interim batting coach!  Only good things can happen here people.

OMG! It's A Blog Post?! Praise the Lord!

I don't even think I know how to do this anymore!  The Google keeps telling me I've logged off in another location and yet, here I am.  Wish me luck!

If you're wondering what could have possibly drawn me to the computer for an extended bit of typing, I'd have to be honest and tell you that is was Jesus.  Not Debbie's Jesus of course (Debbie being the professionally dressed Jehovah's Witness who haunts my bus stop at 7:00 in the a.m.).  Nor would I argue the "Sweet Jesus" although then you'd be getting a little warmer because you'd be thinking baseball!

Jesus Sucre!

(Wow!  Blogger let's you caption your photos now!)

My Jesus is the Jesus of the Jake (I know, it's the Prog or something now but that doesn't work for me so I am sticking with it.).  Jesus' first and only appearance to date came this past Tuesday.  The Tribe was scheduled to play the Phillies and Halladay was on the mound.  To my surprise, there were many Phillistines in the crowd, many of whom dusted off their Halladay hats, jerseys, and thongs.  One of which was so young it appeared to have left the womb to attend the game (really people, newborns?).

As Joanna and I took our seats, we were pleased to note that unlike Yankees or Red Sox devotees, Phillistines are old school and quite possible Papists!  Or maybe just Mennonite. Who really cares.

A Female Phillistine Donning Traditional Headgear

Our pilgrims were to have a rough night.  By the bottom of the first it was clear that any time the Heathens had a man on base, a home run was soon to follow.  Despair was met by hope (a solo shot home run) that was then met by futility and a call to the bull pen.  Through all of this Jesus stood tall, turning to the crowd to tell them that "he saw this" or "he called this"!  Like a beacon of shining white light, he gathered the meek and some would say "traitorous" masses of Section 138 and made their voices strong!

That's My Jesus

At least until Security came down to speak with him.  It was clear from my vantage point that betrayal was in the air but who was the Judas?  Who ran their sorry little ass up and whined to the crinkled and wizened Ancient One who stands watch over Section 138?  We will never know but I assured Joanna and our neighbors on the aisle that it must have been a Phillistine for who among us, Tribe fans, true believers (aka season ticket holders), heathens, would be so daft as to report this Messiah?

It was at this point that our true believers to the right showed their true colors and referred to Jesus as a "nut job".  And as they assured us, they know their "nut jobs".  For lo, on a night early in April, with the dreaded Yanks in town a "nut job" sat in my seat.  Wondering whether or not this would require a cleansing, I asked for a little more information.  Apparently, the "nut job" stood up and threw beer on to some Yankee fans behind him to wit, I replied "That was my brother!" (see below). 

Apparently the "Nut Job" is on the left.

Some back pedaling ensued.  I continued the assault on Judas Number 1 begging him to tell me why they offered up him up as a sacrifice to some tattooed, hillbilly, Southern Ohi-ah, Yankee trolls.  His response pathetic, I turned the tables and gave him the Judas Kiss:

"You and me.  We're fucking done, professionally man!"

So if you're sitting in our seats this year and you see a couple of middle aged Judases in the aisle seats to our right, smite them with the power of the Word!  Say, Young's Literal Translation of Psalm 140:10:

"They cause to fall on themselves burning coals, Into fire He doth cast them, Into deep pits -- they arise not."

Go ahead and add in a "Verily, I say unto thee" because that always sounds pretty cool.

What A Chaucer!

I never read Canterbury Tales but Hallie did lend me the Cliff Notes.  I didn't read those either other than the character list so that we'd all seem clever and literate drunks.  As I search the interwebs now for some sassy Geoffrey-ism to inspire this post, the most endearing lines I can find are from A Knight's Tale:


"In Greece he spent a year in silence just to better understand the sound of a whisper. And so without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you, the seeker of serenity, the protector of Italian virginity, the enforcer of our Lord God, the one, the only, Sir Ulllrrrich von Lichtenstein!  Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week."

So, out of sorts (it's January and not December) and short on time for costuming, we all do the best we can.  I bought a new wig (for I would be Phillipa of Hainault, Queen of England, Patroness of the Tosser Chaucer), Stacey bought a wimple, and John promised us a wig.  Joanna and Tom, fresh off a marathon babysitting mission, made a last minute run (in costume) for an eye patch and black tooth.  The eye patch flew off within minutes and the black tooth slid off but it's the effort that counts.

Stacey and I arrive early to peruse the crowd.  There are Elizabethans and many heaving bosoms.  We have our picture taken by the evening's photographer although he can't work the iPhone camera too well.  After posing for what seemed like an eternity, he finally gets the shots.

 Check out Stacey!  The Prioress with her three faithful hounds. 

 After about 10 minutes of sassing and iPhoning, we are let into the Great Hall and are first at the spiked cider table.  I note that our Spiked Cider Monger is cute in a very delicate way.  We then go hang out by the minstrel (the same minstrel from last year) singing his French songs.  We take more photos because we are a little bored.

We amuse ourselves in the normal fashion, by picking on other people.  There is a rather large woman who looks like Queen Victoria and we are not amused!  There are some assorted Vikings and Huns perhaps even a Cossack.  The Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms enters the Hall, saunters over to the spiked cider table and falls head over heels in love with the Spiked Cider Monger.  Sadly she doesn't woo him with a "hey nonny nonny" but merely begins her evening of mooning over him like a Devonshire heifer.

Bristling with anticipation and already sick of the sticky cider, we seat ourselves to await John's arrival and what an arrival.  Part John, Paul, George, and Ringo, part Prince Valiant, part Purple Rain!



I love this photo - the flash was too bright so it ended up looking like an early Italian Renaissance portrait by Botticelli.

Joanna and Tom arrive and the group is complete.  Yeah, drink in the crushed velvet baby.

Before we enter the church to eat, Geoffrey Chaucer and his squeeky wife enter.  There is an award given to the largest group and I make an innocent remark to the minstrel that had it been a competition for the prettiest group, we should win.  Alas, the next contest was for the best costumes and the next thing I know, he's chasing me down.  Deftly I divert him to Stacey who is escorted to the stage.  Hands down, Stacey gets the most applause but it's rigged and they give it to some Tudor bitch.  I scream "Wrong century!" to no avail.

We are seated at the same table but are next to some lame group of octogenarians, one of whom is wearing a velour track suit in brown.  I call him Steve Austin.  They bogart the food and we are forced to explain that the different colored table cloths identify groups of eight who are supposed to SHARE the plates of food they are serving.  Eventually they get it but it's too late.  We hate them.  They suck and we're stuck with them all night!

Luckily the wine and ale was plentiful.  To our right we have a couple and a group of ladies including the Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms.  They are okay.  I give them a 5 on a scale of 10.

The festivities are fine but we do end up singing Christmas songs which is kind of silly since it's January.  We could have sung something else.  By the time they bring the pig's head, I pretty much hate everyone at our table.  The Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms shames herself by asking the Spiked Cider Monger is she can kiss him.  He says "okay" and she does.  It's embarrassing.  The look says it all!

Once again, we had fun but once again, it's not Christmas so it's lost something.  We go to La Dolce Vita but it's a ghost town and I can only wink and wave at the bored valets in the street.  Some folks from the Feast join us but they're dull too so we saunter on home.
 

 

Krononymous on Anonymous

SPOILER ALERT: I am going to tell you the deep dark secret so if you think you want to see it, just remember that Bruce Willis was dead the entire time!

Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive


Sir Walter Scott (Marmion, 1808)


No, it's not old Shakey although many people assume that it is.  Many people also assume that old Shakey was in fact William Shakespeare.  I am one of those people.  Other people like to assume that it was someone else.  Someone like Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford.  The film in question does everything in its power to prove this point and in the end, does everything in its power to not only disprove the point, but make the theory fly at "Ludicrous Speed"!

The movie begins with Derek Jacobi on stage for the set up.  If you are thinking, "Gee, this is a bit like Branagh's Henry V" then you'd be thinking along the same lines as me.  Jacobi's prologue posits the first of many persuasive arguments against Shakespeare: his father, his wife, and his daughter were all illiterate!    Now, I am not sure what the literacy rate of the merchant class was in late 16th century England so I googled it and found a quote from John Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth Century:


"Male literacy in England slowly and steadily increased from ten percent in 1500 to forty-five percent in 1714..."


Even with two women who don't belong in the sample group, I am thinking that it is indeed possible that Will attended grammar school and learnt his letters.  This was possible even for the son of a glove maker and that brings us to our second argument: the son of a glove maker could not possibly have written such beautiful prose!  Now that's just a bit 1% me thinks.  I'd like to just dismiss this claim out right as it's just snobby but I did read a book (and I'd look it up if I wasn't too lazy) that spent about 400 pages refuting this argument.  The author's proofs were pulled from the plays wherein the author, whoever he might have been, displayed a curious and intimate knowledge of  leather tanning methods and mercantile trades.  The author's conclusion was that someone of Edward de Vere's status would never have known these intimate details.


Both of these damning statements occur in the first minutes of what is quite a long film and as you, my dear reader, and the viewers are now convinced that Shakespeare was indeed a fraud, what further proofs could possibly be needed?   Well, lots of sex obviously!  Lots and lots of unprotected sex.  


Allow me to offer crib notes for the final damning pieces of "evidence" because I really don't want to bore you with all the details:


Edward de Vere, (a ginger) like Hamlet, heard voices and the only way to tame those voices was to write the plays.  Of course this only proves to his wife, the daughter of William Cecil, that it is all the work of the devil.  de Vere attempts to get Ben Jonson, the first Poet Laureate of England, to put on and take credit for his plays as the are of a seditious nature and seek to affect the succession (de Vere is anti-James).


Ben Jonson (did I mention he is the first Poet Laureate of England?) is too much the artiste to take credit - besides "it is not in his voice" and spills the beans to an unscrupulous actor, Will Shakespeare.


Will Shakespeare likes booze, money, whores, fame and not necessarily in that order.  He is a minor character in the film but I am here to tell you that the great irony is that he is the most likable character and Rafe Spall without a doubt, gives the best performance.


Elizabeth (a ginger) is the Virgin Queen of England and she likes sex.  In fact the fastest way into her pants is through prose.  Utter a few lines and she's all yours.  She also doesn't suffer from the fertility issues of the rest of her clan.


William Cecil, Secretary of State and Master of the Court Wards, was a boring Puritan who wanted James VI of Scotland to be James I of England (because he was the son of Mary Queen of Scots who was the daughter of Margaret Tudor and Henry Stuart, both grandchildren of Henry VII, the Pretender who stole the crown from Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field, who laid claim to the throne via his mother Margaret Beaufort who was the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, the third son of Edward III - got it!) is an evil manipulator of the Queen.  de Vere is placed in his household as a Ward after his *parents* die but he is not allowed to write his beloved words because they are the work of the devil.  Bad things ensue, including the murder of a servant who is caught lurking behind a curtain and stabbed by de Vere (Hamlet!).  Despite all this he is married to William's daughter.  When Hamlet is performed it is clear that Pelonius is William Cecil although that doesn't really work for me because it's really Hamlet's uncle-father Claudius who is the true villain in this play.  Pelonius is just a bumbling old man with a son (Laertes who is not really like Robert except that he does want to kill de Vere) and a daughter (Ophelia who is not really like his daughter at all except that she does die before de Vere but that's not mentioned in the film).  And anyway, was de Vere's fencing coach Rosencrantz or Guildenstern and wouldn't that make Robert Cecil Claudius?  It's baffling.


Robert Cecil, successor to his father is nothing more than a shadow of papa and a hunchback.  This is important.


The Earls of Essex and Southampton are two Prince Hot Ginges.


Now that the players are in place, take a deep breath...


Elizabeth is a poet groupie.  She *meets* de Vere as a young man after he performs a Midsummer Night's Dream.  They later have an affair after he spews a lot of words at her.  Liz gets pregnant and is not allowed to marry Eddy because old Cecil won't let her.  Liz, the headstrong queen, obeys and "goes on a progress" (i.e. has a baby) as is the normal procedure when she is knocked up.  This information gets out after de Vere has an affair with one of her ladies, who he also gets pregnant but we don't hear about that bastard.  He is banished from the Court for this indiscretion.  de Vere has his plays performed and Shakespeare takes credit after Ben is unable to because he is so moved by a performance of Henry V.  de Vere does not want to see James on the throne so he conspires to use his plays to have the Earl of Essex, who he knows to be a bastard of Liz, succeed.  William dies and is replaced by Robert Cecil, the hunchback.  de Vere has Richard III performed to anger the mob as even the unwashed masses can understand that the evil Tricky Dicky is meant to be Robert Cecil, hunchback (and here I had always thought it was Will playing to his Tudor overlords by legitimatizing their seizure of the throne at the aforementioned Battle of Bosworth Field).  In conjunction with this mob action, our Princes Hot Ginge (Essex and Southampton) are going to make an appeal to the Queen (Essex has been labeled a traitor who wishes to seize the throne by Robert Cecil).  It all goes awry because Ben Jonson squealed on them so de Vere (who was waiting to see the Queen - she had recently agreed to forgive him) is left to watch the plan fall apart.  Liz is whisked away for her safety and de Vere is alone with Robert Cecil wherein tangled web is unraveled:


SPOILER ALERT - I AM GIVING AWAY THE GOODS NOW: Robert tells de Vere that Southampton is his son with Liz.  He also tells him that this is not the only ginger bastard roaming England.  In fact Bastardo Numero Uno was conceived when Liz was 16 and was none other than de Vere.  So he had sex with his mother (how Oedipus Rex and yet also Mel Gibson as Hamlet with Glenn Close as Gertrude) who gave birth to Southampton who was her son and her grandson at the same time.  Despite all this inbreeding, the fertility rate is astounding!  William Cecil continued to forgive de Vere his transgressions as he knew he was the first bastard son of the Virgin Queen and was therefore working to make him King and his daughter Queen Consort.  Their child, his grandson, would eventually be King.  I guess James was a Plan B?  In any event, de Vere's plan goes awry and Essex has his head chopped off by his mother, Southampton is saved from execution after de Vere appeals to the Queen, James succeeds Liz, he likes plays so Robert Cecil has to put up with some more of that, de Vere dies but gives all his manuscripts to Ben on his deathbed.  He is caught by de Vere's wife (Robert's sister who at this point is actually dead if you care about history) and she tattles to Robert who has Ben arrested and burns down the theater wherein the manuscripts are all burnt but they're not and they are eventually published.  Ben goes on to be a good playwright and be named the first Poet Laureate of England, blah, blah, blah! Oh, and I hope you now have resolution on those tricky love sonnets dedicated to the Earl of Southampton!  No, the so-called Shakespeare was not gay, he was de Vere and he dedicated erotic love sonnets to his bastard son.  Smashing!

"Veni, Vidi, Vici!": Day 4

I know what you're thinking, "conquered"?  So far it's not sounding like I conquered a damned thing.  Well, I did and I'll get to that but in the meantime, does this really look like the face of a sex symbol?  A roarer, a rogerer, a gorger, and a puker?  He was you know even if I just quoted Prince George.  Maybe not a gorger and a puker although there is some evidence that he was perhaps epileptic but mostly there's a lot of evidence, rumor, and innuendo that he slept with a lot of people.  He just doesn't do it for me.  Certainly not in the way that Harold Godwinson's mustaches do it for me.  Moving on....

Day 4 starts as usual on the roof top with caffeine and much sun.  It is already "scorchio!" out there.  Just click on the link if you've never seen it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuSPdsPWit0

Departing from the Hotel Mercure, we head to Rome's esteemed Metro system.  It's not very extensive but they say that's because of all the Roman ruins underground.  This may very well be the case but after riding it twice, both times packed to the gills, I can say a few more cars would be nice.  This morning's car  has a manual A/C system.  This means that when the train is moving, there is air coming in from the outside.  Air that is generated by the movement of the train through the tunnels so it's not so fresh but it's still better than the no air when the train is not moving.  Luckily we only have to ride it two stops to Pyramide station (there is a strange pyramid nearby that I saw in books and on the cab ride in but that is not visible from the station) where we change to the Lido train.  We have a rather pleasant ride out to the countryside on a spacious train that contains very few seats.  About 5 minutes into the ride, a couple of nonnas board and there is no seat so I give them mine.  They seem a bit shocked and say "grazie".  Standing is much better anyway as I am now window level and can actually enjoy the breeze.

Ostia Antica, the old port of Rome, is about a 5 minute walk from the train station itself.  Along the way we stop at a shop and buy water.  Three bottles cost three Euros out here - not the six or seven in Rome so we make a note to buy more before we leave.  We also pass a cute little restaurant where we plan to have lunch.  We decide to just use Nancy's Rick Steve's guide to get us through the small town and enter.  Although it's hot there is a nice breeze and there is very little traffic noise.  It is such a pleasure to be out of the city and also such a pleasure to walk around the ruins.  Unlike the Forum and other sites in Rome, you can pretty much walk through Ostia unless there are mosaics, frescoes, or a current dig.  Rather than bore you with a detailed account, I'll just post the pictures with some descriptions.

As you walk up to the town proper, you are in the old necropolis.  Romans buried their relatives outside the city walls and as such there are a lot of fragments of sarcophagi.  Upon entering, you pass the warehouses and then the fabulous Baths of Neptune.

From the Baths, we walked to the Theater.  It is in fantastic shape and they still use it for concerts and performances.

The square of the guilds is where business was transacted and each business stall contains mosaics that describe the goods provided or services rendered.  Since we could not read Latin, I have no clue what most of them did but I am pretty sure these guys trafficked in elephants.

In the center of the square, is the remains of a temple.  At the time there was a group of French tourists squatting on the steps.  They were making hissing noises at the most handsome and friendly little cat so John and I walked up, sat down, and called the young man over.  He was a sweetheart.  He allowed us to pet him, scratch his chin, and generally adore him and then he was off to find new non-French blood.  (That's a French person behind him.)

After the square, we wandered through the mill and various side streets and then came upon the fabulous tavern.  The condition is amazing and you can walk all around, even behind the bar.  While John was behind the bar, a couple of German ladies walked by and ordered beer.  The fresco displays some of the goods for sale.

At this point, we needed refreshment so we walked to the cafeteria where we bought water, beer and Italian cheesy poofs (I think they were called Puffi.  They were in a can and they were salty and delicious).  Rehydrated and resalinated (I know, not a word!) we wandered around for a little while longer and then headed to the little restaurant for lunch on the Via de Romagnoli, Allo Sbarco di Enea.

This is a picture of the little flyer they give you with your bill.  It's priceless and I shall save it always.  Sadly, the little sandal wearer was not our waiter (We had a nice female server in tunic, belt, and sandals who, upon looking at my Visa card said, "DeAngelis!  That is an Italian name."  I couldn't tell if she was excited because I was Italian or shocked that I wasn't able to speak Italian very well.)  We sat on the patio that was strewn with faux Roman statuary and covered by grapevines and an awning.  The food was delicious.  Nancy and I had the Melanzane themed special (grilled eggplant, zucchini, peppers, cheese, salami & prosciutto, melon, and then melanzane alla parmigiana) while John had the spaghetti bolognese special.  Sadly for him and happily for me, he was too full to eat his saltimbocca so Nancy and I (read: mostly "I") helped with that.  They also served this with french fries.  I am not sure if this is because we ordered "Tourist Specials" and they think that Americans eat french fries with every meal or what but they were awesome french fries.

After lunch we headed back to the train and rode back with an overworked Italian IT guy who kept falling asleep.  When the train slowed, he'd lurch awake and lurch out of his seat at anyone sitting opposite.  He'd then ask the stop, we'd tell him, and then he'd go back to sleep.  He was still on the train sleeping when we returned.  It was the last stop so we just figured he'd ride it back towards Lido and get off at some point.  If not, at least he was getting some rest.

The Metro was just as crowded going back although the train was newer and had real A/C.  Back at the hotel we rested, wrestled with our imperial elevators, consumed more alcohol on the roof, and went for pizza around the corner.  I actually had foccace with speck (an uncured sort of bacon because I just hadn't had enough pig) and it was juicy and fatty and delicious.

And that's about it.  Early the next morning a surly taxi driver took us to the airport where I waited in a long line to get through passport control, a long line to check in and check my bags, and a long line to get through security.  In the security line I was behind an Italian family who had apparently never flown before as they had to take just about everything off to get through the metal detectors and then walked away and left all their carry on luggage on the belt of the x-ray machine!  I felt like I was in a Roberto Benigni film.  I arrived at the gate as we were boarding.

So I came, I saw, and I actually conquered my fear of being in a city filled with Italians.  I really do wish they'd talk less and a little more slowly and at a lower volume but then it's their nature.  It's kind of like my mom saying she's not screaming when she's screaming.  Italians go to 11 and most of the time they are on 11.  Do I like Rome?  No, not really.  I described it as being like NYC on cocaine.  Unlike London, there is simply no place that is quiet unless you are in a church and then all the pilgrims take the fun out of it.  I wish I could time travel and see it in it's heyday because the Roman parts of Rome are spectacular and it's quite moving to walk among the ruins.  For the most part the architecture is Italian Renaissance and Baroque overload (gods above and demons below but I hate the palazzo style!).  I need more of the medieval to keep me happy.  I will visit again but I think only as a day trip or an overnight from Florence or Sienna or Venice but not for a while.  Amsterdam anyone?

"Motivation is a Lotta Crap.": Day 3

I am inclined to agree with Dean. The man was a funny bloody genius!

Tuesday morning the plan was to get up early and do a tour of the Colosseum that included the lower level so I meet Nancy on the roof for some coffee and pastry. She's not feeling so well so she says she may just stay in and rest up. I say, "Okay, but I have to tell you about this dream I had" because I am nothing if not compassionate. On the one hand I am pleased that I reached deep into REM sleep but on the other hand, I am a tad bit disturbed. I am at my mother's old house on Belvoir and I am heading up the steps with a laundry basket when all of a sudden someone starts to pinch my ass. Hard. Really, really hard. I yelp and turn around to face my attacker only to find that it's Sidney Crosby! I said it was disturbing. He laughs and passes me on the stairs and heads into Larry's old bedroom where he is being really nice to me while at the same time he is changing into a maroon and white polyester tuxedo straight out of the 70s (it does fit the time frame of living at that house). In my dream I am thinking to myself, "I totally hate this guy and he pinched my ass but he is being really nice to me know so I should be nice back..." and that's about it. Dream over. I believe Nancy thinks I am nuts. She decides relaxing at the hotel is for the best and we take either Nero or Agrippina to the lobby to meet John.

John and I depart and are about to cross Via Labicana on our way into the Colosseum when Nancy sneaks up behind us. She decided to do the Colosseum and then go back to the hotel and crash. A wise decision, it is fantastic. As we enter, we head to the ticket counter to ask about the tour of the lower level. Now to me the lower level meant the "lower level". Where the gladiators and animals and filthy Christians were kept. As I enquire about this supposed tour which is only given on Tuesday mornings from 9:00-12:00 (at least that's what it says in one of my tour guides), I get the distinct feeling I've been here before but not as in deja vu, more like a flashback to Pee Wee's Big Adventure when he goes on the tour of the Alamo so he can gain access to the basement to retrieve his stolen bike only the tour guide says, "There's no basement in the Alamo.". Hey, guess what? There is no tour of the "lower level" either and the next tour available is at 12:40 p.m. Motivation is a lot of crap.

Despite this set back, I am in heaven. This may just be one of the most spectacular places on earth and rather than bore you with details, I'll just offer up a few pictures: a mosaic on the way in, the suite seats, and a shot of the gladiators barracks across the street.

We spend a pleasant couple of hours or so at the old barn and then Nancy heads back to the hotel and John and I head for the hop on/hop off bus as that pass is good for 48 hours. On the way we see some American tourist having her picture taken with an Emperor and two Centurions. While this is a not uncommon site around town, we were particularly amused after the photo was taken. Our good Emperor not only has time to rule the known world but make change for the husband and stop for a smoke break! It's all so very classy.

Our first stop is the Ara Pacis, of which I have no photos, but is totally cool and is encased in an air conditioned building. We admire the altar (the size of a small temple), visit il bagno, and head out into the heat in the direction of the Spanish Steps. When we arrive, it's kind of crowded so I take a snap and we keep on moving on.

At this point we are heading toward Santa Maria della Vittoria so I can pop in and see the Cornaro Chapel. The gut is amazing and we find it but of course, it's in the middle of the afternoon when the church is shut and locked up. It kind of figures but as Theresa has been frozen in ecstasy for 350 years, I figure she can wait until my next visit to Rome. Besides, it's lunch time and I need a cold and tasteless beer. As we wander towards the Termini Station area, I see the Baths of Diocletian and think, "What the hay, let's give it a shot" except that you have to enter through Santa Maria degli Angeli (damned Christians). As we walk in we realize there is some talking and some shushing going on. It's a damned mass. We've come in in the middle of a mass. We wander a little and try to find the entrance to the Baths but we both just want out. As I look up the Priest is in the middle of the Transubstantiation phase and I shudder.

Released into the daylight, I see umbrellas along the square. Food! As we near the umbrellas, we see they read "McDonald's". If you're keeping count, it's now a blow out. Rome is up by at least 4 runs. Undeterred we find a nice place and have pizza, calzone, and beer. We then move on down Via Natzionale towards the Vittorio Emmanuel Monument (we did stop briefly at the oldest tower in Rome which does have some Roman roots but they caught us wandering around and wanted money to get in so we quickly lost interest). The VEM is ugly and huge but it does have an elevator (read: clear glass sweatbox) that you can take all the way to the top "if" you have the energy to climb five staircases (it's really ten as each of them are split in two). By the time you get up there, you are hotter than hell and dripping like a pig. The elevator attendant, a 20-something Roman lad who never stops texting, somehow manages not to sweat like the rest of his race (I must have vestigial Norman pores). Once you arrive, the view is priceless and the breeze up there is not too bad either!

You can see the tea cup dome of the St. Peter's to the left and a bit of the Forum down below.

As we head back down, I decide that it's time to do the Palatine Hill. This is technically part of the Forum complex for the paying customer but rather than civic buildings and temples, it contains the houses and palaces of the patrician families, and later, imperial residences. John has done this bit already but I convince him to come along. Typically, a lot of the buildings aren't open (it is afternoon and a Tuesday or whatever) but there is a nice breeze on the hill (it's no wonder it was a choice piece of real estate) and there are some cool things to see.

Some mosaics and if I remember correctly, the remains of Nero's pre-fire residence.

Since it's still mid-afternoon, we decide that maybe we should do the Capitoline Museum on the Campidoglio. If you've been following along you know that this means we have to walk all the back across the Forum. The hot, dusty Forum. It is at this point that all those Lindsey Davis and Steven Saylor books really come to life. In both of their novels, the characters walk back and forth across the Forum to different parts of town and I now have an incredible appreciation for just what a haul this really is. It's not just the heat and dust, it's the hills and steps that get you. Despite all the hard work, John and I have fun reminiscing over the Eastern European bride to be. He dubbing her Katrina while I call her Svetlana. Before we know it, we've climbed the steps and are heading into the museum. As we go through the metal detector, one guard tells John to put his cell phone in his hat and pass it over the machine while the other guard says no, it must go through the machine. Meanwhile I stand there sweating profusely, watching his cell phone fly through the air and break into three pieces.

After clearance, we enter the courtyard where the greatest bastard in all of history awaits my scorn! I heap it upon his foot, his arm, his knee, his hand, and finally, his big stupid head!

Seen above: An ass that's gone to pieces.

After the courtyard, we enter the building and come upon a hallway that is lined on either side with busts of Hadrian wherein I crack the lovely joke, "It's the Wall of Hadrian" and no one laughs but me....because it was funny and historical and topical...oh, never mind.

As I gaze upon one of my favorite pieces, the bust of Commodus as Hercules (now there was an emperor!), John beckons me to another room and it's air conditioned! It's also full of sculpture including the less than proud papa of Commodus, Marcus Aurelius on horseback (Look Hollywood, no stirrups!). Smashing.

As I pan across the room, ignoring yet another huge head of the worst Roman Emperor in history, I spy a member of the gens Balbus! A masterful piece combining the Roman skill of portraiture with their less than adept handling of the idealized male nude (below left). I get a shot off just as a Guard comes along to tell me that I can only take pictures of "the head and the horse"!

The head is of course the colossal head of Constantine and I can only think that it's far too late to shoot that guy in the head! Damage done. So we move past countless Romans, each face unique, past a really bad Caravaggio (as The Cure has Love Song and the Bunnies Lips Like Sugar so Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio had this monstrosity), until we reached the brilliant head of Medusa and then Romulus and Remus in full suckle mode. By this time I was completely confused on the photography rules so I had stowed my camera for the day. Sad because they were amazing.

Pooped and less than enthused, we decided to do the hop on/hop off bus back to the Colosseum even though it meant riding for at least an hour if not more. When we got to Termini Station we were again shuffled onto another bus. John called Nancy to give her our ETA and we learned that she was hungry and ready to go. We made plans to meet on the roof at 6:30. I shower, religiously, and then battle with Nero or Agrippina. Dinner is nearby and includes Gnocchi al Gorgonzola and Scamorza al Miele (grilled sharp cheese drizzled in honey). Tomorrow is Day 4 and Ostia Antica but for now I will leave you with the sun setting over the Colosseum from the rooftop bar. Motivation is a lotta crap.

PS: I apologize for the formatting issues. I beta tested the new Blogger interface. It's way better when it comes to uploading photos but it's got a few issues!