Here to Learn
It's extremely hard to focus on an update when the biggest football game in Seattle history is only eight hours away and I am nowhere near it (I do, however, possess and am wearing the only 12th man jersey on the continent). I will try and keep a one-track mind.
Suitcase the second is in the door and safe. I can only imagine the atrocities it has seen.
Monday night: two gentlemen set out from an Irish pub in search of destiny. They were myself and Tim, a politically savvy (so called because 1) he is well-read and 2) I agree with his views) red-headed poet who just left UW behind for good. Somewhere out there, for the both of us, were two fedoras - one grey and one green. Mike Holmgren. I have wanted a fedora since my days at the high school newspaper - one with a ticket in the band that says "press" just so I can crowd the steps of city hall, hold up my pencil and shout things in that voice they invented in the 20's.
I digress. Tim (the Enchanter) leads me on a mildly wild goose-chase for a hat store that is not moving, unlike an actual goose would be. It's right near Piazza del Campo (Italy's Red Square) and it is a delight - three and a half walls of floor to ceiling fedoras and newsboy-style hats. There were even Peter Pan hats with a long front of the brim and a long feather - not the brittle felt hats you find at Disneyland. These are the real deal. Lofa Tatupu. We checked out the discount rack right in the front to gage our size and then engaged the old man with the newspaper. He quickly called over his wife and hat-runner boy employee to deal with our pointing and attempts to say "fifty-nine" in Italian. The first two they laid out for us were perfect as soon as the tissue was removed. Walter Jones. We were strictly instructed to bend the front of the brim down before placing the hat on our head. We did as we were told.
Monday was also the first day of Italian class. La professoressa di italiano cominica solomente en italiano. Sei chiama Silvia Ceasarini. Ã italiano di Siena (la contrada Istrice). Parla italiano piano, e capisco. [end fractured attempt at italian] Since then we've done the basics - your name, from whence you came, talking to those more respectable than you, etc. Spanish is a buddy in my head for this. Matt Hasselbeck. The class is overwhelmingly American (Pac NWers, Massachusettsians) with one Brit, one Australian and one Cyprusese . . . Cyprisian? The island of Cyprus off the coast of Greece. She's Greek.
Travel writing will be great. Professor McNamara is well-thought of back at UW and he is verypleasantt here. Our first assignment is to walk one of four assigned routes and write what we see. Jordan Babineaux. That's the kind of homework I can get behind.
The art history teacher is Italian and very passionate about his work. The three hour classes will entail 10 minutes in the classroom followed by a sprint to a museum or place of interest. ThisItaliann? He moves very fast. Shaun Alexander. He told us to bring small backs and running shoes to class as we are expected to get anywhere in Tuscany within seven minutes. He's a slightly portly mid-30's man with stubble on his scalp and face. Steve Hutchinson. We stand before the art as he unleashes his multitudes of information quickly and passionately - might I add that from now on, anyone who tries to teach me art history will have to speak with an accent . . . any one works.
Cross cultural class had the potential of being cheesier than America's Mexican food (did you see that? - one trip abroad and I act like I know the world) but it turns out to be an insider's look at the city and culture. We're going to visit both a contrada headquarters and a secret underground fountain that you need a special appointment months in advance to see. Joe Jurevicious. On the first day, we watched a German short video in black and white called "Schwarzfahrer" in which a slew of people of different walks of life board the same trolley. A black man sits next to an old woman who begins a long string of racist andjudgmentall remarks about everyone she sees. No-one says a word. When the ticket taker approaches, the calm young black man snatches her ticket and eats it in the blink of an eye. Her excuse to the conductor translates loosely into "the African ate my ticket" to which the black man, cool as ice, flashes his frequent rider card. Marcus Tubbs. The woman is escorted out. I think we learned that Germans are racist.
Quite a few girls from the UC system have moved in and 1) cooked 2) broken the glass stove cover and 3) left piles of plates and pots around. They have also beendrinkingn wine religiously, if religion means starting your "prayer" at noon every day and concluding when you go to bed. They have, however, cooked for me once. All is well. Grant Winstrom. D.J. Hackett. Mack Strong.
A guy named Chris just came to visit us with his courier-delivered packagecontainingg six tickets to various Olympic events, the official spectator guide to the games, and invisible heaping piles of jealousy. Oh my God I have work to do.
I will be in Paris next weekend.
Take care, 12th men and women.
Suitcase the second is in the door and safe. I can only imagine the atrocities it has seen.
Monday night: two gentlemen set out from an Irish pub in search of destiny. They were myself and Tim, a politically savvy (so called because 1) he is well-read and 2) I agree with his views) red-headed poet who just left UW behind for good. Somewhere out there, for the both of us, were two fedoras - one grey and one green. Mike Holmgren. I have wanted a fedora since my days at the high school newspaper - one with a ticket in the band that says "press" just so I can crowd the steps of city hall, hold up my pencil and shout things in that voice they invented in the 20's.
I digress. Tim (the Enchanter) leads me on a mildly wild goose-chase for a hat store that is not moving, unlike an actual goose would be. It's right near Piazza del Campo (Italy's Red Square) and it is a delight - three and a half walls of floor to ceiling fedoras and newsboy-style hats. There were even Peter Pan hats with a long front of the brim and a long feather - not the brittle felt hats you find at Disneyland. These are the real deal. Lofa Tatupu. We checked out the discount rack right in the front to gage our size and then engaged the old man with the newspaper. He quickly called over his wife and hat-runner boy employee to deal with our pointing and attempts to say "fifty-nine" in Italian. The first two they laid out for us were perfect as soon as the tissue was removed. Walter Jones. We were strictly instructed to bend the front of the brim down before placing the hat on our head. We did as we were told.
Monday was also the first day of Italian class. La professoressa di italiano cominica solomente en italiano. Sei chiama Silvia Ceasarini. Ã italiano di Siena (la contrada Istrice). Parla italiano piano, e capisco. [end fractured attempt at italian] Since then we've done the basics - your name, from whence you came, talking to those more respectable than you, etc. Spanish is a buddy in my head for this. Matt Hasselbeck. The class is overwhelmingly American (Pac NWers, Massachusettsians) with one Brit, one Australian and one Cyprusese . . . Cyprisian? The island of Cyprus off the coast of Greece. She's Greek.
Travel writing will be great. Professor McNamara is well-thought of back at UW and he is verypleasantt here. Our first assignment is to walk one of four assigned routes and write what we see. Jordan Babineaux. That's the kind of homework I can get behind.
The art history teacher is Italian and very passionate about his work. The three hour classes will entail 10 minutes in the classroom followed by a sprint to a museum or place of interest. ThisItaliann? He moves very fast. Shaun Alexander. He told us to bring small backs and running shoes to class as we are expected to get anywhere in Tuscany within seven minutes. He's a slightly portly mid-30's man with stubble on his scalp and face. Steve Hutchinson. We stand before the art as he unleashes his multitudes of information quickly and passionately - might I add that from now on, anyone who tries to teach me art history will have to speak with an accent . . . any one works.
Cross cultural class had the potential of being cheesier than America's Mexican food (did you see that? - one trip abroad and I act like I know the world) but it turns out to be an insider's look at the city and culture. We're going to visit both a contrada headquarters and a secret underground fountain that you need a special appointment months in advance to see. Joe Jurevicious. On the first day, we watched a German short video in black and white called "Schwarzfahrer" in which a slew of people of different walks of life board the same trolley. A black man sits next to an old woman who begins a long string of racist andjudgmentall remarks about everyone she sees. No-one says a word. When the ticket taker approaches, the calm young black man snatches her ticket and eats it in the blink of an eye. Her excuse to the conductor translates loosely into "the African ate my ticket" to which the black man, cool as ice, flashes his frequent rider card. Marcus Tubbs. The woman is escorted out. I think we learned that Germans are racist.
Quite a few girls from the UC system have moved in and 1) cooked 2) broken the glass stove cover and 3) left piles of plates and pots around. They have also beendrinkingn wine religiously, if religion means starting your "prayer" at noon every day and concluding when you go to bed. They have, however, cooked for me once. All is well. Grant Winstrom. D.J. Hackett. Mack Strong.
A guy named Chris just came to visit us with his courier-delivered packagecontainingg six tickets to various Olympic events, the official spectator guide to the games, and invisible heaping piles of jealousy. Oh my God I have work to do.
I will be in Paris next weekend.
Take care, 12th men and women.
posted by Jon at 1:58 PM
2 Comments:
Damn....it's about time you put up a new post. The 4 day hiatus felt like a 2-2 year drought. FUCK THE PATRIOTS. Enjoy your weekend in Paris. Let me tell you what I've gone through today. I wore my "12th Fan" jersey to brunch today....and I received some weird stares and a few giggles and chuckles here and there. Then I had to watch the game alone with a few Skins fan. Talk about the East Coast bias on the West Coast. FUCK THAT! You know, Just like the PATRIOTS. Thankfully, a semi-Hawks fan who happens to be Nick Garcia's (Newport '05) cousin was there to accompany the lonely Hawk. And then the game spoke for itself. I didn't need to talk shit to the others. I said, bring on the Bears, bring on the Panthers. We are SEATTLE SEAHAWKS and we are ready for any team! Who needs Alexander the Great when you have Matt Hasselbeck? That's about the only good thing outta Massachusetts besides Tatapu. FUCK THE PATRIOTS. I just lost my voice yelling in front of the TV. Alright....that's all for now. NFC CHAMPIONSHIP WEEKEND!
That's some course language there, Mr. Loh. Your hate for the Patriots irks me.
Good story! I think this blog may transform into a bit of a Seahawk machine in the coming days.
As you will read in the next entry, being a Seahawk here was no bubble bath either.
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