Vote Days

30 10 04 and 1-2 11 04 — Moleskine notebook.

30 10 04

Listen to the voices before they come. They will tell you things you’ve never heard before. Like the whisper of children (that is always on) to be had. Or the cries of another woman who hasn’t deserved my mistake. How then should one go through the day if the voices actually speak to the soul? Yes, the counter is that normally the voices only speak to the ear(s). We know that they are only a machine.

01 11 04
Another year less than two months before ending. And I hear the soft currents of the Gulf of Mexico slap the white shelled beach just in front of my villa.

02 11 04
Wrote nothing. Why? Vote.


Sunshine Darkness Illusion

27 10 04 – Moleskine. Pages slightly burnt, scratched, tilted. (What does that last one mean?)

Even among the most fluid demons that inevitably find me, this far away from reality, I think and dream simultaneously of time. It befronts me most here at the so-called “Almost southern point” as a lollying figure. It could be due to the remnants of something that has left me here or brought me here or it could be something recently awakened by the very recent happenings. No matter. As I will deal with this dilemma as I have all others. Run away from it or delegate it to someone else. Although this time I am finding it hard to take the easy way out. And so I deliberate time. It is just what I need. Not time in the sense we all know though. I recently read of a tribal people who had the same word. The way they would indicate past, present, future was by pointing in a specific direction. My question is, or, my avoiding point is, what if I were to do the same and not point? Yes, your assumption is I live in such a tribal store world. That world or place or community is now.

I said to some woman who is just ahead of me. “Where are you running to?” She didn’t respond. The hot sun was beating down on the back of my neck, the hurl of old timer airplanes roared in the sky and the sour smell of drainage being cleared overwhelmed my senses and I curtailed even further my hope of ever finding a paradise. I know, it’s very naive of me to think I could ever find a paradise on such lost shores but in the midst of my daily reality checks sometimes the pessimism subsides. It is obviously overcome though by and even easier misnomer. I like to call them the runners. In articles or notes I have called them the wounded or the dead (see failed novel Chad). But here, in the sunshine of darkness and illusion, they are the runners. But where do they run? Some have said to win the race. Others know the metaphor. What do you win? They usually illuminate some physical prize and I walk away laughing. For I know it is the run the keeps them alive. Run from here, run from there. Run too. Run hither. If you run forever excepting tokens along the way and never search for wisdom, what is the point? Should there be a point to everything? I want so badly to say yes.


On Key West

26 10 04 – Moleskine notebook.

Days Pass again. But I have seen another end to pieces I’ve created as though Keylime were the motivating factor. Still, between the tourists like myself I feel no force that joins us unless content is a new force of nature. Can you believe, faithful black book, that I’m in KW. A sudden arrival it has been and when I sat next to another foreigner with a T-shirt saying: I can see dead people, I was propelled to make sure he knew he could see me. But the gist quickly subsided as a catamaran wished by blowing it’s horn and when I looked to it felt sorry for the tourist who paid for the sightseeing and had to raise its mainsail. The first hours in the confused American Caribbean left me with yet another bitter taste. It is the aftermath of a life of consumption that has been forced upon me. Completely stuffed, like a Thanksgiving dinner, the waiting sunset my digestive, I can think of nothing but compulsion as I watch the stingy street artists in their over zealous and lost fixations to be something they are not. I suppose it is all part of the bitterness I feel when I place myself in the holds of America. It is the other, the my, compulsion I cannot avoid. Yet the smarts of Hemingway’s bar or beaches or boats is not enough to fight back what I feel. And feelings are amass in this time and space between Disney reality and American Tom – Tom foolery. So here IM. Lost in the arms of another magnificent love and I can’t figure for the life of me what to do with it.


Survive vs Live

Just bringing old notebook notations online. This will take a while.

Entry from 20.10.04. Notebook: Moleskine

Yes, it is the wake of the deeds from dark places that I am in and tremble with fear. And I always end the fuck with Y and the big :-)? It is the flight of all flights that I know believe is coming to an end. The flight to be me or someone else. I only regret at the end this war is that I didn’t take more stupidity out with me. I honestly don’t know what happened there. Something obviously did. I suppose there is so much stupidity, thick ominous, made by someone or something to be sweet and juicy. Oh, if there only were a bit more devilish whim. But even he has left us alone. And so. Here I stand or sit, the ground moving below my feet in order to give the muses an impression they are mobilized, and wonder at the body count I’ve left behind. There is also the issue of dark places. A very significant issue sense, ultimately, it is the origin of all human existence. I mean, if there is any attainable perspective here, then it must be obvious why so many of us are afraid of the dark. It is the place we’ve been picked at, one by one, and thrown down a long too. Misnomer of light at the end of the tunnel can be muted here if only everyone were better equipped mentally and not so fixated on mobility. And so, logically, it is no wonder that so many people go through life as though it were meant to be survived and not live. This is part of the war I am ending. Attrition the main course of my joyous ending. If I continue to fight survival will eventually get the upper hand and I’ll join some ranks or level of homeowner, who knows, maybe I’ll even own car. Or all acquiesce. Living with nothing has been a wonderful outlet during war. It is an obvious choice. So I suppose the issue is, is it my choice? I wish there were a precedents I could look too. A case of law maybe where I could find perspective. I’m sure somewhere in the dungeons of libraries there are the writings about a woman’s choice. I mean how has she made them? History has been turned, kneaded and wriggled, with the welcome devilish influence of woman. Yet credit must be given where it’s due. She, woman, has made many more choices than men. There is a resilience there we must not leave to collect dust. But how can the male psyche harness (the same) power? Yes, again, woman is free because of the choices she has made in (our) history. And yet all men do is wage war between survival and living. Oh, how cumbersome the cosmos must see us. I wonder if I’ll miss the trembling. There are some things in life which are free. Fear is certainly one of them. And it is everywhere, like air. But the price paid compared to the commodity received… Oh, the limits of economic formulation.



Yes, it is in the wake of deeds from dark places that I waddle. And it’s wet. That’s because it’s (something like) a lake. I think. I look not unlike some drunken and/or sober Won-The-Westerner. I know you know the kind. The only difference being there’s a tremble accompanying this motivating (to write something down) fear. Perhaps that’s why almost all my thoughts begin and end with ellipsis and more than often begin with question marks (plural intended) in front of the ellipsis. And so, It is the fight of all fights that I now believe is coming to an end. The fight to be me or someone else. My only regret at the end of all this will be that I was unable to get hold of the stupidity. Rid myself of it. Begone. Honestly, no one could have known the outcome of this battle – were it to only become a war (inside me) that is readily reported or chronicled (outside of me) while the sun still shines.

I suppose the/my problem is the volume of stupidity, thick and ominous, that has so easily in recent generations overtaken human ingenuity. Seriously. There are empirical studies out there somewhere from (mostly) men who spend their afternoons riding mile upon mile on their bicycles, calling it sport, that have proven this fact. It’s almost as though the future is intended by someone or something to be sweet and juicy, indeed – but stupid. I digress. If only such action w/could be like a short theatrical pause where the masses could gather a thought or two. And who knows what sh/could happen when the right pause arrives.
Even if The Great He has left us alone there is still much to be done. Yet I linger on with the question: How come he left me alone, mommy? And she strokes my youth albeit sweaty palm and forehead and says: Oh our may; Oh our tag: it’s our  Maytag, boy!

Why does no one ever refer to Lucifer as brother? The last of the humanitarian angels, spread-eagled on a mountain of sand having what’s left of s/he’s degenerative scrotum washed by cherubs, giggles at my question. Even though the scrotum is practically gone, his member is so large that even nature cringes at the thought. And that’s probably because Angel members don’t really differ like human members. You know. Our hands and feet look different than…
And so, here I stand or sit, the ground moving below my feet in order to give the muses an impression that they are mobilized as opposed to being dumbfounded at the wonder of the body counting going on as dead humanity is matched to the amount of discharged shell casings produced by the slaves of The Great He’s cherubs. (The ones that are not cleaning remnants of what’s left of Angel scrotum dust.) Digress.

I must get back to the issue of dark places and potentially waddling wakes. Or was it lakes? Nomatter. Yet. A very significant issue since, ultimately, it is the origin of all human – no – my existence. I mean, if there is any attainable perspective here then it must be obvious and, hence, not worth searching out or researching. Why so many of us are afraid of the dark will always astonish me. For it is darkness from which we come and darkness (of the mind) where we live. If that sounds a bit dramatic and even more lame, well, enter the mind of a (worst) movie. It is a place where choices are made. For there is nothing else to do (/be done). Unless.

In comes the feminine. Choices of life, death, favorite color, etc. Yet life has been dished out there, too. One by one, and thrown down a long aluminum tube where rare substances are forced to separate into their most fundamental particles leaving behind a combination of mix and doodoo that enough energy could be derived from it to make us all sick for a zillion half-lives, plus one or two.

The misnomer of light, btw, at the end of the tunnel (or, in this case, tube) can be muted here if only everyone were better equipped mentally for non-intercrural sex, specifically, since you ask: mammary intercourse. Fun. Indeed. But someone how missing the point. Especially when she asks you (the male, that is), either before or after, what she is supposed to get out of the whole thing… I digress.

That this leaves most of us pondering each day the deeds of others e.g. how much money there is to be made and how they make more than (the proverbial) me. We cannot forget the issue of mental capacity and mobility, touch upon at the beginning with use of the metaphorical wake and waddle Won-The-Westerner. For this is the only (metaphorical) example we’ll be able to send out to the aliens once all else has failed (including digression). Sounds easy, enough, eh? It’s all just a small token, stuffed in a box, representing the/a fixation of thumbed animals and their will (or want) of moving around and ridding the males of hair from, at least, their backs.

Logically it is no wonder that so many people go through life as though it were meant to be survived and not lived. The difference between survival and living is equal to ability-mobility. (I just made that word up.) Either that or we’re all fixated on the/a fool-proof methodology of quieting of the feminine to the point of saving all world economies. Which leads me (and who’s with me?) to the question: Where do we go from here? Digress.

And so I. This is part of the war I am ending. Attrition is the main course of any joyous ending. If I continue to fight, survival will eventually get the upper hand and I’ll join some ranks of well-to-do and easily satisfiable, believe the fiction, home-owner. And so II. Who knows, maybe I’ll be privileged enough to rent an automobile. (Accentuation on not using the word “own” in previous sentence. Here it must be noted that, while there are too many who are preoccupied with questioning the Angels, The Great He and their (in)ability to live, there are too few that understand the ramifications of living on credit. But we’ll have to leave that for another post.)

Where was I? Ah, yes. The renting of automated mobility in order that we might all get some relief from chicks. Mechanics and tools and oil to propel metal against itself without annihilating to the point of atomic breakdown, once again leaving behind a particle with a zillion half-lives of poison, is just the right mix for extending the chemical imbalance of puberty well into adulthood. There is, though, the issue of (psychological) acquiescence. Living with even nothing (even-nothing) has been a wonderful outlet for my soul. I only wish there were a precedence that would help guide me with further non-choices to be made.
What about, for example, a case of law where I could find perspective and drink it at the same time. Now there you go. A new brand name for male consumer beverage of choice(s). A case of law. I’m sure somewhere in the dungeons of libraries there are writings about a woman’s choice(s) and some previous civilizations beverage consumption. This is (has to be) the founding principle The Great Maker intended as part of the perpetuate and prosper deal. Again. Digress.

Obviously there is little much to learn here because the choices mentioned really aren’t about what they seem to be about – or the way they are being portrayed. You simply have to decide what that something else is. You know. Break through to the other side. (Who said that?) Take for example, privacy. How have women, compared to the day when we (humanity?) had no doors? You see. They say that the wheel was some great invention. Hogwash, mate! The great invention was the door hinge, followed by the door, followed by the first female of which ever species that walked through it coinciding with a slam.

The point being? They (species) were not warring. Yet she had to seek refuge. So did she design the hinge first? Or the door. We want to think in obvious terms and yet hope that the hinge had to be first. For a door ain’t all that complex. Can you see it with me as the waves overwhelm of the/our lake we/I’m waddling in with our common friend Won-The-Westerner? The equations can go on but the results are the same. She had to find privicy (spelling intended) behind that/a door. After that the wheel was probably invented.

Now we all simply drive around or allow ourselves to be driven around and we never see the connect between washing the scrotum of angels, waddling in lakes with war-mongers and the invention of the wheel being a complete fallacy. History has been turned and kneaded and wriggled, all the while accompanied by a warm welcome of devilish influence. How then can it be that manipulating a woman’s choice, I mean, privacy, can be as abundant as mobility? Again. Digress. And there are so few remaining.

Credit must be given where it’s due. She, woman, has made many more choices then we, men, will ever make. Argue the requirement of such an issue. But do not battle it on the fields already left tarnished and stained. There is a resilience we must not allow to collect dust. It would be such a shame because even after She passes her womb on a shinny plate and her beauty has finally transcribed time, she will always be worth more than a second glance or four. The male psyche must harness this requirement? It must do to it what it has long since done to the horse. Or the frogs that all turn to princes. It is not a wielding power. It is choice(s) upon the blade of a sword that is part of a virtual TV commercial. Together the two are unstoppable. If you wish.

And so III, it must be obvious, if oblivious, that we are just that much more lacking in our choices simply because we don’t practice as much as women should. In turn, this means that it is not up to us to fight Her battles. Let her do that – as she’s always done it anyways. We should just continue building the cars that She wants to ride in. The hinges that she designed to hide her(self). And the angels that she need to preoccupy us. Doesn’t sound like much fun but at the end of the tube full of atomic waste there still has to be some optimistic light?

Come on guys; let’s stop waging war between survival and living, let’s rid our kind (male) of the Won-The-Westerner. Our automations are good enough the way they are unless it’s about her. There’s no shame in recognizing that. Our cosmos is not cumbersome; it’s just a bit overly compacted at the moment. Take it out of our aluminum tube, our hard water lake, and breathe in deep. Doesn’t that feel good? If you’re wondering if you’ll miss the trembling of the wars. Remember, there are some things, very few but at the least there are some things in life that are free. It’s all just behind the labia majora. Don’t worry about the price you’ll pay after that. There is proportional commodity in all things given or taken as long as there’s a receipt. And, if you must, If you like, it is at this point that your war may begin again. But heed this: the lake has been drained; Won-The-Westerner is dead; and digression has become political. For now, once you have given Her back Her privacy (instead of choice) the bond of economic slavery can begin anew.

I digress.



Grappa & Godot

Note. This story took place in the early 90s. The notebook I transcribed this from isn’t exact with the date. I reckon that’s my bad. But I recall the play mentioned and the rest very well. Good luck.

April 5, 1990

A postcard arrived exactly three days after waking up alone on the living room floor, butt naked, of a chick named Heidrun. But before I get to her and how much of a blast that experience was – even though I still have a few carpet burns as I write this – some background. First. What  people fail to realize today is that there is a lot to a name. If you have smart parents they can play some neat tricks while naming you. This is mostly done with girls and has something to do with the history of fathers trying to protect and/or gain fortunes. But most modern pseudo democratic law has rid us of that nonsense. Thank goodness! If you have dumb parents even they can play some tricks with their naming of dumb offspring – but usually their tricks only spite themselves. It’s a kind of natural law. I think. Anywho.

The name Heidrun is long for Heidi. The name comes from  nordic mythology and originally was the name of a goddess-goat that had the special power of delivering mead from one of its teats. For those that don’t know – in ancient days (whatever that means), mead was the drink of choice for those trying to relax after a day of slaughtering nature – it was their beer.

Heidrun wasn’t always a goat. As the myth goes, the goat was some goddess that pissed off some god and to tame her he turned her into a goat and to humiliate her even further he made her so that she would supply him with god beer – or mead. Obviously that level of servitude would never suit a goddess – even if she was just a goat. So she found a way to split and started roaming various nordic plains and forests in search of… grass, I guess.

One day a run-of-the-mill goat herder discovered this special goat, became its owner and eventually became a king. He quickly discovered the intoxicating effects of the goat’s milk, I mean mead. After sharing his new treasure with some friends and then many more strangers the goat herder was able to acquire subjects and eventually a kingdom. (Yes. That’s exactly how it works even today.) When other kings eventually realized how this goat herder became a king – they managed to cut his head off, piss down his throat and while hundreds of years passed, various kings created a special part of human history buy slaughtering each other in the name of the almighty Heidrun – a goat with a teat of magic.

Long story short. The last king to have Heidrun was named Langlerloch (or something like that). The thing that makes Langlerloch special isn’t that he was just the last owner of Heidrun, but that he introduced the concept of legitimately sanctioned kinghood. (Yes. The nordic people had such a word.) He proclaimed and, as usual, his willing subjects believed, that he was nothing more than a curator of a higher power. This power enabled him to turn Heidrun’s byproduct into a profit center. The nordic people, all being a little bit thick because of the cold weather they had to live in and the boredom of the northern hemisphere, went along with it. Yet any fan of history should try to appreciate this myth because, in a way, it pretty-much describes the birth of modern political-economics. Anywho.

As we all know, the nordics eventually became extinct. The reason for that is they lost Heidrun because the god that made her returned and took her back. So. We can conclude that the nordic people are extinct today because they ran out of beer. I mean mead. They are also extinct because of a goat named Heidrun.
The consummation took place with Heidrun after an outdoor production of Waiting for Godot. Of course, I called her Heidi. But when I think of her, when I dream of her, she is and will always be Heidrun. It was a perfect match (almost) to be with her at one of my favorite plays. Although I knew Godot from reading it, it was the first time I’d ever seen it performed. So this was actually the beginning of two wonderful and/or questionable relationships. One was short (Heidrun) the other long (Eurowasteland). FYI, I will probably remain in Eurowasteland and die as an expatriate. Hopefully someone will have some mercy with my lost soul when I die and fulfill my last wish: to be cremated and my ashes thrown in the Rhine. But that’s not allowed in Eurowasteland. In fact, the bitch is, you can’t even take the ashes home. So maybe someone will have the balls to steal my ashes and as a consolation (for my having gotten locked into the golden piss hole of Eurowasteland), flush them down any toilet. You know what they say about toilets, don’t you? It all goes to the ocean anyway.

Digress I.

Culture, as enigmatic as the word is, is was one of the reasons I left American’t. The death of opportunity is another. Of course, as far as opportunity goes in bureaucratic, civil-servent Eurowasteland, things are even worse here. But. And here’s another consolation to being born in the dried-up old lady that is the western world and shitty life, you can actually drive to any town in Eurowasteland, almost any day of the week – except in July and August – and see a play. For an American’t interested in it – that’s nothing short of (short pause) spectacular. Not only that but without special ordering you can actually get books and plays in their original languages. Many of those same books and plays are not on corporate bookstore counters that marginalize literature based on radio-like top 40 statistics. Culture – even if it can be just about shit – is everywhere. Granted. Eurowasteland’s culture is old, outdated and often appears as though it could use a major revamp or renovation, but at least it’s there. And since, culturally, there’s nothing new coming out of the old dried-up lady western world, what the hell! Try to find culture in the drug-sick wasteland of American’t suburbia. Like the name says: it’s not whether you can but the fact that you can’t. American’t – fuck yeah! Anywho.

What a play production and Heidrun was eying me the whole time. Which was foreseeable. It was kind of a romantic evening. The weather was mild. The atmosphere, with the content of the play, vibrant. A good mix for all things foreplay. As far as the play production goes. For Godot they put up a small stadium in the parking lot of the state funded theater with bleachers and protection for rain. There were loudspeakers and the actors had microphones. How modern, eh. Is this Eurowasteland’s answer to revamping culture? It was very wow. And. You’d think that all the money Eurowasteland theatre gets from the state that they could have the performance somewhere other than the parking lot. But hey. I’m not complaining. Even though I could start-on about how much money could be spent on culture if it all weren’t gobbled up by pensioners from the Wirtschaftswunder and paying for weapons that Eurowasteland placation doesn’t even need.

Digress II.

Heidrun was actually Austrian born but, like most other Austrians with half a brain, she had to go elsewhere to find a job other than driving a bus or milking cows for a living. Ironically, she was from the same town as Arnold – you know, the Austrian governor of Cali-shitty-ya that slaughter poor people by injecting them with chemicals. But hey, we can’t be too hard on the man with the biceps cause, as far as Austria goes, at least he was able to get out of those inbred, pervert mountains and make a million or two.

Digress III.

When it comes to meeting Eurowastelanders and subsequently getting some sexual relief, I met Heidrun at work. She worked on a different floor as a junior consultant slash accountant slash mathematician. I mean, enough can’t be said about this career chick or about how well educmacated some Eurowastelanders are. Boy, she was really good with numbers. In fact, before our first date and long before I even started contemplating being able to do the math of a commercial transaction AND the constant disarray of watching my currency (American’t $) against the currency of Eurowasteland (DM), I used to call her up while standing in line at some retailer begging her to give me a quick add and substract lesson. She usually offered me a deal to do it. I appeased.

This might sound corny but, the tickets to the play were hard to get. I wanted to see the play as much as I needed some sexual relief. I was taking a chance here. You know, getting that kind of relief from a co-worker. I had to pull a Napoleon to get tickets. Unfortunately we couldn’t sit together. I tried to be strategic with our locations. She sat two rows below me and five seats to the right. I put her below because I didn’t want to have to turn around to see if I wanted to look at her while the play was on. I burdened her with that. The cool thing is, that allowed me to see whether I she was scoping me. Good move, I have to admit.

After the play was over I rushed to the bar for my obligatory beer and smoke and Heidrun made the first move by gently pinching a piece of fuzz from my shoulder. I offered her a cig and she took it and I quickly realized that that was probably the third or fourth cigarette she had ever had. While puffing away we conversed about Gogo and Didi and I let her babble about the common ultimate question of the play. She concluded that there was a Godot and I concluded that there wasn’t. With that we moved on to a jazz bar and got drunk on a bottle of red wine that she bought. A trumpeter and his band were trying to play Miles Davis’ Pharoh’s Dance and their ill-fated effort drew me closer to Heidrun. At around midnight she invited me to her place to have grappa and cheese.

When we got to her apartment I asked if she had any jazz and she pointed to a tall CD rack full of discs. I searched through it and noticed that many of the CDs were still in their original packaging. I found a 1963 Ella & Basie CD. It was a really cheap clone recording, AAD disc, but I unpacked it and put it on. She had a nice amplifier but a cheap TEAC CD player. I didn’t bother looking at the speakers but they seemed adequate. Her living room had all the basic furniture but the couch seemed out of place. It was new and everything else was old. But it matched, I guess. Then I noticed the rug atop the old and polished wooden floor. She later informed me that it was given to her by her late father who got it from his father who fought against the Turks. I knelt down to feel (test?) the rug. It was extremely rough and course and it looked older than the hills. It must be worth a fortune.

Heidrun brought out a glass of Proseco and put it in my hand. I didn’t question where the grappa was. She said “prost, welcome, nice to finally get you here,” and we drank and then she went off to her little kitchen again saying that she’d be right back. I took the time to orient myself. Her place, like every other single place, was small but neatly furnished. Battered but still functional Ikea shelves, small tube TV, tables with candles, flowers, and pictures in frames and one unused ashtray.

“Can I smoke,” I asked.

“Sure. Wait. I’ll bring you an ashtray,” she said from the small and well packed kitchen.

“I found it,” I said.

I lit up, took two deep puffs, laid the fag on the rim of the ashtray and peaked into the open door of her bedroom, it was opposite the kitchen. The bed was made and a blouse, the color I couldn’t make out because of the low lighting, lay sloppily on top of it. At that moment, somehow, I knew that her bed would go unused for this encounter. I turned and peaked into the bathroom, went in and laughed to myself at the sign above the toilet telling men to sit when they pee. I opened the lid, unzipped and pissed. I wiped the rim with a sheet of toilet paper and washed my hands. The only towel available was on the wall above the tub and shower, behind a white see-thru plastic curtain. I reached over the tub used the towel and smelled it. I pushed the curtain out of the way and the tub was clean. I noticed, on the edge of the tub, near the drain, a large purple dildo, a woman’s razor for those intimate places and an industrial sized, quart (or more) bottle of baby-oil. While I was staring at the intimate utensil, almost in a trance, Heidrun stood behind me with my cigarette in her lips, holding a plate of perfect room temperature cheese and a bottle of golden colored grappa.
Nothing more needs to be said. Really. In fact, I’ve already said too much. Allow me just this short pause. Ok. I’m ok now. I only need to say two more things.

Thanks for the memory, Heidrun.

Rant on.


Dating German Chicks

Billy BobThornton ArticleOne of my first Interwebnet posts. Indeed. An absolute must share. My (German born) mother put this in my face one morn when I was visiting her so many years ago. She cut it out of a small newspaper in God-knows-where USA promoting Billy Bob Thornton’s then new film. I love this so much, this hits home, right in the middle of my chest, so deep, I could bust…

”You can love it, but it don’t always love you back – kinda like dating a German chick.”

– Billy Bob Thornton

Yeah, that about sums it up perfectly. Especially for this expat.

Rant on, baby.