Max Turbo Ices Crime

Well fuckers, nobody is commenting on my blog anymore, I'm drunk and in London, UK, so here you go. If this doesn't wake you up, this blog dies..

It was a sad time. It seemed like every Polish person over the age of 30 was out to make my life hell. In the grocery store, in the opticians, and in the streets, I was met with short tempered rudeness.

"What are you doing here"
"The line starts over here"
"A bike? Here on this street? You asshole"

It was the Poland I anticpated, the Poland I had dreaded. Rude, communist style service, anger for no reason, irritabilty to no end. And then, one day, after returning home from the ice cream parlour, a drunken bum in our neighbouhood asked us for money. When I didn't answer his, ignoring his drunken slurring, he insulted us, unbeknowst to Criagio, and then proceeded to harass women in our neighbourhood. Well, Craigio's honour is something that Max Turbo defends, something that Max Turbo cherises...so this ensued. Enjoy it in regular speed, slow motion, and then super slow motion. Listen for the sounds in slow motion, and the expressions of extreme concentration in super slow motion...

Nowa Huta? Nowa Way!?

Well, it seems the joke was on us. Craig came back from Krakow with this flyer for me. Not only did someone have the idea of visiting Nowa Huta before us, but they're already making money off it. And so begins communist-tourism, to the bewilderment of all Polish people, who often are of the short-sighted opinion that any relics and symbols of Poland's communist past should be torn down and destroyed. My favourite bit, in the 'Communism Deluxe' tour, to visit an unchanged 1970s communist era apartment to experience everyday communist life.

So, in light of this new information and inspired by this new off the beaten path, genuine experience tourism, I'm not offering this:

Albert Jebra meets the Nunns

Craig's parents were in town for a week and I was supposed to meet Craig and them at the bar one evening after work. I knew right away that Tomek wouldn't be attending this meeting, a new personna would. But who?
Max Turbo? No, too aloof.
Diesel, his gay german roommate? No, too dangerous to even pretend to be Diesel in Poland.
No, Al Jebra, dungeon master, 13th level elf warrior, and virgin would help welcome the Nunns to Poland.

Well, the fucking joke was on me, because they didn't even bat an eyelash. What a waste, I had half a bottle of hand lotion in my hair...

I did however get a taste of North English views and opinions, courtesy of Mr. Nunn. So everyone, grab your atlases and a red pen, because we've been misinformed about a few things. It turns out that England neither needs Europe, nor is actually a part of 'the continent.' As well, the metric system is gay, so sorry Laurence, start measuring your penis in inches, not centimetres. Well, I'm off to eat some baked beans, be good...

Bboying in the Bloc

Ever since Marco returned from Prague in the summer of 2000, telling me that he saw posters for the Eastern European Breakdancing Championships, it has been my dream to witness such a competition.

While in Warsaw with Craig, we found billboards for the Warsaw Challenge, an open compeition for breakdancer crews from Poland and Eastern Europe. It was time to fulfill yet another dream in Poland.

The dancing was the best I'd ever seen and the atmosphere was bizzare. Hundreds of breakdancers, and not a black person in sight. And of course, there were little bits of Eastern European flavour...


Poodle on Pudl softcore. Oh yeah.



































ATA from ghost crew. My hero.

















The most difficult move in breakdancing, taking 50 years to master and requring a broom: The Babcia Freeze.

Four eyes ÷ 2 = ???

Dumbo had his feather.
Linus had his blanket.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd have my nerd glasses.

Why god? How did it happen?

Was it the punch in the face I got in Krakow? Was it the mosh pit this past weekend where someone knocked them off and stepped on them? Was it that fat retarded kid that sat on them them when I was teaching last year and had to peel them off her ass? Or was it me constantly taking them on and off in front of the mirror and mouthing "Oh yeah."

Whatever it was, today, when I took off my glasses, the frame snapped and shock came over me. The student I was teaching looked at them and said, "No good. Structure damage."

Those glasses were part of my face. Mulan helped me to pick them out, trying on endless pairs until that one was just right, was perfect. They fit my nerd persona perfectly. Without them I feel naked. I don't feel cool. When I don't wear them sometimes, people occasionally don't recognize me and ask me if I've shaved or lost weight. Even me. I keep looking in the mirror now and wondering what Screech is doing in my bathroom naked, brushing his teeth using my toothbrush...my fucking toothbrush, Screech!!

Not once did I want to replace them. Not once did I even look at another pair of glasses. And last year, when I used my benefits to buy another pair, I put them away immediately, only as back up. I hadn't even worn them once in the 10 months I've owned them. Finally, today when I got home clutching my old broken pair, I put the replacement glasses on and looked in the mirror. A minute later I found myself screaming "I HATE YOU! i hate you!' AT THE IMPOSTER IN THE REFLECTION. Had I known what would have happened this day, I would have bought three pairs of them right away 3 years ago and put one pair in my closet, one in a safety deposit box, and one in a time capsule on the moon.

No, these glasses were special. It's not like when you see a nice watch and really need it, and then a month later, see another one you love, and another, and another...These were the last pair and the only pair for me. Only once before did I ever love any personal article this much, my pair of discontinued Nike ninja shoes that I had in high school and wore until they had completely fallen apart and smelled so bad they were in a state of being perpetually aired out. Each time I wore them they brought me joy.

Now what? What the fuck do I do? Does anyone understand this? Has anyone ever owned something that was perfect and they didn't know how to live without? That they never wanted to replace? That became part of their personality? I was going to wear them until they were finally cool in Poland. I was going to give Woody Allen a run for his money for who could wear the same pair of glasses the longest. I was going to have photo albums where everything and everyone got older, but my glasses stayed the same? But not anymore?

What do I do???

Do I do the impossible, which is try to replace them with something identical, which will only result in me trying on 250 pairs of glasses and each time saying, "No, not quite right...". Everyone has felt this before, trying to replace something that was cozy, comfortable, familiar.

Or do I give up and get something completely different? If so, I'm scared. I'm dumbo, and I don't believe I can do it without them...