A Cruel Observation

Following my stint in New Orleans, I visited George and Lauren and we went to have an enjoyable day at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival.

Lauren: There are a lot of lamb-kebab stands here.

George: It seems a little harsh.

Me: Maybe lambs like irony?

Lauren: I wonder if they recognize the smell of... themselves.

Me: They all smell much better while cooking than they do when they're living.

George: That's gross. We should go look at the herding dogs now.

Me: Good idea.

Like Brett Favre, Richard Gin Is Having Fun!

To a point, anyway. Yes! I was in Sweden! Yes! I was only there for forty and one-half (40.5) hours or thereabouts and when you factor in the travel time (about twenty [20]) hours, you begin to figure out how hectic life can be. You understand how painful life can be when you consider that the airplane was showing a mini marathon of late 80's to early 90's TV hits including Wings and Cheers (with Shelly Long, no less).

Now, to be clear, I'd still be in Sweden right now (or perhaps Norway) if it were not for NY Fashion week -- I had to come back on time to pick up my requisite days on the party circuit (seriously) and as much as I need a vacation proper, I'd like to keep the momentum from last month.

Dan's oldest kid said he imagined Sweden to be full of 'dragons and dwarves fighting with axes.' I'm paraphrasing. Some others would have you believe that you can't swing a dead cat in Sweden without braining a six-foot (6') tall amazon with shimmering flaxen tresses and boobs out to here.

(gestures)

Neither of these scenarios are true, sadly. I add "sadly" for obvious reasons.



Another sad thing:

The thrift store clothes in Gothenburg (I will not make assumptions regarding the hipness of the rest of the nation) are all from American institutions, including AYSO, the Y "M's" and "W's" CA and the United States Army. Aside from my disappointment, I don't know what to think of this, though the low quality of the selections suggests that the Swedes dispatch a warm body to Domsey's with one hundred (100) US dollars and a round trip ticket with the order to "bring back what you can."

On the topic of Swedish Monies, the twenty (20) Kroner note has a CHILD RIDING A GOOSE. This is very important and the mere fact that some brilliant person came up with this idea (lifted from Swedish legend or history or not) shows how far our European friends have advanced beyond our simple American understanding.



We had difficulty finding endemic foods at first. It seemed that every restaurant we passed was italian or french or a burger stand of some sort which might have been good eatin', but why bother when the promise of meatballs and herring was so tempting. The concierge at Gothia Towers pointed us in the direction of a swedish soul food joint about one (1) kilometer away, and we ended up pigging out on... meatballs and herring. The fresh ligonberry jam is the hurdle that IKEA can't clear. The warm nordic food sits well in the gut when tromping around ill-paved medieval cobblestone streets stalking locals with a camera in the spirit of adventure and staving off any sort of future jet lag (see paragraph two (2) of this formless essay).



In all, Gothenburg is not a nation of contrasts. It appears to be (in limited experience) to be decidedly Swedish, though the good people speak superb English and are cheerful and willing to help out disabled tourists like ourselves. This has not stopped me from making jokes about their language (see post below) and I will be doing so again once I take formal shots of the hilarious candy bars I packed into the country.

Final Grade: A+, would travel to again.

Retroactive Post to June 24, 2007

Me: "Oh! We can stop at Randy's Donuts on the way to the airport!"

Dan: "Yes... we could do that."

In truth, I'd never been to Randy's, even when I was going to Kings games when they were still at The Forum (which is still, even in religious mothballs, better than the Staples Center). We arrived at Randy's with a good two hours to spare before it could be considered panic time at the airport, but we had to wait in line for a good fifteen minutes before our turn came. The line itself was always about ten people deep (there is one walk up window) and the drive-thru windows were easily backed up onto Manchester Blvd. They seemed understaffed for a Sunday morning, even though it was going on ten AM.


In true (bad) scientific form, I consumed one (1) plain cake donut as a control. The donut base is really pretty good -- better than you'd expect, if you're the type who figures they'd coast on reputation -- cakey not too sweet with a nice crisp exterior that holds up well to dunking, which is the only way to enjoy a fresh donut.

I then had a maple long john, which is a surprisingly obscure commodity here on the east coast and found it to my satisfaction -- the light sweetness of the cake portion didn't make the whole thing sickening or overwhelm the maple flavor which, while as inauthentic and synthetic as anything else, was passably "maple."

In conclusion, Dunkin' can take a leap. Horton's gets a pass for belonging to a culture. Krispy Kreme remains some other-type shit.

The whole detour to Randy's took a good half hour longer than we had figured and by the time we made it to the airport a pipe had burst in the first terminal, forcing passengers out into the street and causing massive congestion that seems to happen in L.A. no matter what. Still, we made it into the waiting area with ten minutes to spare and pacified our producer, M., who got a chocolate-cake donut with a sugary glaze. He declared it "good."

Retroactive Post to June 23, 2007

I've been offered travel jobs in the past that would take me back to California before, and they've all been canceled shortly after informing my parents of the possibility of my arrival in the state of my birth. This has led me to not talk about jobs before they happen, or at least to wait until the very last minute to tell people where I'm going.

In this instance, I got confirmation from Dan in quick order that the job was going to happen, and he had the tickets to prove it. So I called the folks and they drove the hour down to Westlake to see me, and I was happy to see them and we drove another hour south towards Dodger Stadium where it just so happened The Police were playing. This ate up another hours' worth of time and delayed our arrival at Philippe's, purported origin of the French Dip Sandwich (pictured above, with lemonade and pumpkin creme pie). It's a landmark of sorts, and is covered in Dodger memorabilia and artifacts from the nearby Union Station and features $.09 coffee (I like the way nine-cents looks when digitized like that).

The waitresses aren't allowed to handle money, mostly because of disease, though I'm sure at some point someone's pilfered the till -- you put the cash on the tray (left of frame) and they take it to the register (not pictured) and bring the tray back to you. You can see the plastic safety gloves on her hands. The sandwich is turkey (I'd already had a roast beef). The waitress in the picture started crying for some reason after she took my check over to the register. I never found out why. She had an eastern-european accent.

Tomorrow the crew will fly to Denver, weather permitting. So far the actual shooting has gone off without a hitch.