That turd wants to live.

Everyone poops. But not everyone gets to spend extended periods of time with their little brown gifts.

Please let me elaborate.

Like many things in our apartment, our toilet is temperamental. Sometimes it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. So you get used to flushing 2 or 3 times just to eliminate number one. But this morning we achieved an all time record after spending 24 hours with the same floating nugget.

Normal people might not think of this as a major event, but I’ve got plans.

First, I might write a children’s book. I’d call it “The Little Turd that Could” and determination would be the theme. In the end, the turd would prevail and live happily ever after with a house and a yard and a couple of baby turds playing on a turd swing set.

Or maybe I can charge admission? “Step right up and see if YOU can flush the turd.”

Or maybe, if I look real close and use my imagination, I can find the Virgin Mary’s face in it? Then, the little turd that wouldn’t flush would be worth millions, right? It could even make its way into a museum.

Turd, could you make me rich and famous? Turd, if I fish you out of the toilet and bury you in the back yard, will I regret it? So many questions and no clear-cut answers.

Oh—
I think the turd in the bowl is summoning its disciples. I, um, gotta go.

Out of my element.

I’m worthless without my family. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. I can’t wait to walk into my junky apartment, kiss my sweet wife, pet my sweet dog and barbecue some sweet, delicious hamburgers. That reminds me . . . Cristi, could you run to the store and pick up some meat—the really fat stuff—and anything else disgustingly American you can think of. See you soon, USA. See you soon.

Strange dichotomy.

This trip would make one hell of a vacation—if it weren’t so much work. But even after doing laundry in the sink, sleeping two or three hours a night for over a week and trekking endlessly from Parma from Positano, this has been an unforgettable, incredible adventure. Without further unnecessary explanation or elaboration, more pictures:

On location.

These people, known as Italians, don’t use styrofoam cups. They sit down to eat. Many have porches. Often, first thing in the morning, Italian men and women can be spotted looking out over the world, peacefully contemplating whatever their espresso-fueled minds can muster.

I have observed these strange creatures and believe we can learn something from their rich culture. More to come.

Italy.

If ever you’re at a loss for a last wish, just remember Italy is one of the most incredible places on the planet. The birds sing a better song, the food looks better on the plate and figuring out how to flush the toilet is an adventure all its own.

Now as I sit here flipping channels, I consider whether or not I should get some sleep. But the mini fridge is calling my name, the soap commercials are pornographic and the night relatively young (I have not idea what time it is). At a loss for words—and fearful there may not be words to describe it—I would now like to share some pictures I’ve taken to document this experience.

Happy Easter.

Hibernation: Part II

It’s a chilly Saturday morning here on Berwyn Avenue. And while I hesitate to talk about the weather, I find the subject unavoidable as this week’s twenty-degree temperatures have sent the hands on my seasonal clock spinning.

All the signs of spring were here. The rabbits and the squirrels started to frolic and fornicate. The daffodils and tulips came up over night. Bike shops started to advertise again. Mother Nature even came to me in a dream. “Put away the heavy coats and ski masks, pull off the storm windows—it’s safe to leave your cave,” she said with smile.

But it was a cruel joke.

No sooner than I dawned my first pair of shorts, a cold front moved in. And stayed. Now, all I do is sit here and listen to the heat kick on every five minutes. All I think about is buying a box of doughnuts and rushing home to eat them in the corner of our dark kitchen. I have to force myself to shave. I constantly fight the urge to sleep. Our entertainment consists of old, familiar movies on HBO. We dwell in the dim light, heaping piles of food on our laps, “Oh look, Uncle Buck is on. I love this movie,” we say as if it were January again. Outside, frost forms on the windowsill, new flower buds freeze to death and cold, confused critters take refuge in abandoned houses, forgotten sheds and old garages.

Times like this I wonder about Al Gore’s theory on global warming, if I’m destined to spend the rest of my life in the Midwest and whether I’m a hopeless whiner taking cues from the rest of the whiny world. But I can’t sacrifice the energy for thinking—as I need it to gather food to ensure my survival.