The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

Diego is the newest member of my inanimate family, joining the ranks of such items as a rubber chicken, an invisible friend named Li’l Rambo and a stuffed black and white bird that squawks when squeezed just so.

Let's rock out, bitches!

Diego accompanies me wherever I go wreaking havoc, making friends and generally becoming the proverbial mayor of wherever he happens to be at the time. He’s a rebel with a unibrow and follows only his own rules, one of which is that he only dates women who shave.

If you’d like to follow Diego, you can do so at the following:

• www.doitdiego.com.
• Twitter: DoItDiego
• Facebook: Diego VonTrickster

Diego loves you.

View from Lipari—Aeolian Islands, Sicily

Since subscribing to Escape From America Magazine (EFMA), I’ve started receiving other similar newsletters about how to not only buy land, but retire, move, etc., to a foreign country. It stands to reason that my name was either on a list that was sold, distributed or otherwise pimped out to other publications; or I’ve been given a sign from the Relocation Gods of Foreign Lands (which is what I prefer to believe).

But even though all the signs exist, the question still remains: Where should I live? Contrary to the beliefs of those who’ve never advanced beyond the confines of their resident state lines, there is a vast, great world that exists beyond the United States, and dare I say it? Yes, even beyond the whole of North America.

One of the reasons I sojourned in Europe last summer was because I was convinced that I belonged somewhere on that diverse and overpriced (for the dollar, anyway) continent. And yes, there were a few cities that sang to me—they said, “Hi there, will you come live on my lovely soil and be one with my people?” And I responded, “In good time, my foreign friend. You shan’t be going anywhere, unless of course you elect George W. as your president and consequently, have your country completely dismantled from the inside, out, and thereby run into the ground.” My EU friend laughed…nay, guffawed at the thought of such an imbecile at the helm.

Anyway, my cities of choice have been whittled to Paris and Marseille, which is interesting given that I wanted to avoid France at all costs during my walkabout. (I’m infinitely grateful to my gays for convincing me otherwise. Thanks, gays. )

Historical fishing harbor in Marseille, France

I stumbled across an article in EFAM about a seasoned traveler and author who has endeavored to travel  to six countries over the course of 180 days to research what foreign lands are best for real estate purchases and retirement. He’ll be assessing everything from cost of living and lifestyle to health care and investment opportunities.

Here’s the link if you want to take a gander.

www.escapefromamerica.com/2010/01/travel-expert-searches-world-for-best-place-to-live-and-retire

There is a fee to join the Web site sponsoring him. Plane tickets don’t buy themselves, ya know. Although in my fantasy land where I have mastered teleportation, I don’t need no stinking plane tickets.

And, can I just say that I’m insanely jealous of this guy. Guy, if on the off chance you happen to read this blog about your awesome adventure wrapped in bacon, I must know…however did you get this gig? And more importantly, do you need a sidekick? I wash my parts regularly, can fit into carry-on luggage, will give you piggy-back rides when your dogs start barking and play juvenile drinking games when you are bored. Think about it…

Man of the iron buttocks

It’s taken a few months since my European walkabout and my following move to Los Angeles to regain some sense of normalcy and balance—well, as much normalcy as can be expected in my oft nutty life. But Mama’s on the mental mend—I’m back and rarin’ to go. Yesterday was my first official, unchaperoned field trip where I left the general vicinity of Hollywood and all of its lampshade-wearing denizens far behind. And I did it on a bus. (I just realized that I sound like an escaped mental patient…)

I’m not sure if you know this or not, but I’m car-less. Yes, car-less in LA—a statement that is mostly met with disdain, fear and incredulity. But alas, I have proven that it is possible to exist in this city without four wheels and a crank shaft. Sure, it takes 10 times as long to get anywhere because the public transportation system is shit, but the only other option is a Vespa, which is not an option for moi. I don’t relish the idea of getting mowed over by a famous driver hopped up on Dom Perignon and Xanax or by one of those trucks that drive around with bikini-clad hooters on display.

Anyway, I visited the Getty Villa, which is positioned on a picturesque portion of the Pacific Coast HIghway in the Pacific Palisades. For those of you unfamiliar with the name, J. Paul Getty founded the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. He loved Roman, Greek and Etruscan history so much, that he built the formerly named Villa dei Papiri to display his ever-increasing art collection.

I timed my arrival perfectly as the last of the screaming school children boarded their bus. Yee-haw. I wandered about the property looking at Roman jewelry (which was a highlight for me), dead guys wrapped in linen, wonderfully ornate greek gods and goddesses and busts of the high-brow. But why is it that the tip of the nose on said busts are always missing? And not just at the Getty, it seems that noses are missing in every Greek and Roman art display I’ve ever seen. I wonder if the nose fairy has a surplus baggy with marble contraband…

It's amazing how smog really makes a sunset sing...

I concluded my day with a chocolate chip cookie, a walk on the beach and an interminably long bus ride home with a woman behind me babbling about a yawning black hole in her basement filled with martianesque critters.

It was soooooo worth it.

I didn’t think any pairings existed that could surpass the exquisite perfection of chocolate and peanut butter, but alas, I have found a couple—jazz in the Caribbean, blues in the Caribbean, or just generally, live music in the Caribbean. What better place to hang out and listen to some crazy musically inclined cats (that’s stage talk, by the way) than a tropical island (sans major weather event).

I happened upon the events below whilst planning and dreaming of my annual happy-birthday-to-me tropical sabbatical that I won’t be taking at the end of January this year. Oh well, there is always next year. MOPE. Okay, I’ll stop digressing and whining…

Whether this list is exhaustive, I don’t know, but it seems fairly extensive. And I do hope that someone who reads this can go in my stead because I yearn for the swaying palm trees of Antigua and St. Lucia and Grenada and Bonaire…

(oh, and by the by, several of the Web sites haven’t been updated with the respective event’s 2010 info, but I included the link anyway just because…I’m assuming the info will be updated eventually.)

Barbados Jazz Festival, January 11-17 (yeah, I know, the info is a tad late to plan a getaway unless you are the spontaneous sort with a private jet, but if you happen to be venturing to Barbados already, check it out.)

Air Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival, Ocho Rios, January 24-30

Mustique Blues Festival, Mustique, Grenadines, January 27-February 10.

Bequia Music Fest, Bequia, Grenadines, January 28-31

Plymouth Jazz Festival, Tobago, April—I couldn’t find specific dates because I believe they have yet to be confirmed.

St. Lucia Jazz Festival, May 1-9

Heineken Jazz Fest, San Juan, Puerto Rico, May.

Bonaire Heineken Jazz and Salsa Festival, June 4-7

Ocho Rios Jazz Festival, Jamaica, June 13-20

St. Maarten/St. Martin Summer Fest, two weeks in July..now which two, I have no idea and couldn’t find much current info on the 2010 event.

Curacao Jazz Fest, Punda, Willemsted, October

Bermuda Music Festival, October. Also, I’m not sure how jazzy or bluesy the lineup is, but really, even if you had to endure listening to Yoko Ono, wouldn’t the beaches in Bermuda make up for it?

Dominican Republic Jazz Festival, Playa Cabarete, November.

Tranquility Jazz Festival, Anguilla, November

Riviera Maya Jazz Festival, November

Martinique Jazz Festival, Fort-de-France, December

Havana Jazz Festival, Cuba, December 12-21 (I trust by then, Americans won’t have to sneak into Cuba via Canada, Mexico or other islands in the Caribbean…not that I would ever condone such illegal goings on.)

Pointe-a-Pitre Jazz Festival, Guadeloupe, December

I’m not sure if I’m in the midst of a mid-life crisis or a career change or both. Though my Mom fears the worst and has already found a job for me at the Dodge City Casino either slinging drinks to drunken rednecks or serving fried chicken and ’slaw to men fresh from work at the meat packing plant. (Completely pointless factoid: Dodge City, KS, is known as the meat-packing capital of the United States. A lofty title to be sure, but one to which I’d rather not be associated.)

As tempting as either of those occupations sound, I’ve opted to stay in LA. Call me crazy.

Nature's fertilizer...Praise to the bovine!

My foray into the world of the free has given me insight into other financial opportunities besides sitting at a desk listening to the rants of an inept, probably impotent boss with a goiter. That’s not to say I plan on robbing a Gas N’ Sip or mugging a Girl Scout; though if I could unleash my potential as an alchemist, life would be stellar. Some way, somehow, I will make millions this year and when I do, I’m heading to either Hawaii, Cote de Azure or the Caribbean to buy my first seaside villa. I imagine it will look something like this little gem.

If I like you, you are welcome to use the guest bedroom, my tequila chair and snorkel equipment

Of course I could always buy out the Dodge City, KS, casino—as one of the few sources of entertainment in an idyllic town, it might just be a cash cow.

Ha! I kill me…

My New Year’s Day hangover has affected me from the cranium, down. But, ’twas nothing a bit of Smart Water, grease and Advil couldn’t handle…

And as for resolutions, well, I find those pointless because they typically last about one week. Instead, I have a few goals I will achieve within the next year: find a job that I like sans asshole boss; eat more waffles slathered in peanut butter; learn to surf without wearing arm floaties; star alongside Jason Stathum in a smut movie; learn to speak French (aside from the epithets I already know, of course…e.g., merde); and invent the first airline seat with a shock mechanism to control kicking, screaming bratty children and adults with no travel etiquette.

Here is to a glorious new year!

Four months ago, I could think of nothing else but leaving Los Angeles—a God forsaken city innundated with weird guys on the street randomly dressed in bedazzled costumes, bad air quality and lopsided boob jobs everywhere, even on store mannequins. But after being subjected to the -20 degree windchill and the Arctic tundra in Kansas, I pined for the asymmetrical and cracked-out denizens of LA because with them comes 65 degrees, all the Vitamin D I can absorb and palm trees. I love a good palm tree.

But Southwestern Kansas was bedazzled in its own way—all sparkly and shiny and slippery, kind of like a stripper.

High Plains Frosted Wheaties

I shan’t bitch too much because I had a grand time having met the newest members of the Burke household. Might I introduce (Guinness) Stout and Gus(toline Octavia), my parents’ 3-month-old Great Pyrenees puppies.

Sleeping off a wild night at the cock fights

Junkyard Dog

In all, Christmas was fine. I ate my weight in sugar and almost every possible avenue for protein, i.e., ham, beef, deer jerky (yes, I ate Bambi, but I didn’t shoot it) and some other mystery meat that was a little gamey—it could have been a jack-o-lope for all I know.

Beware: They carry tazers

Now I must prepare for my first New Year’s Eve in LA LA. If it’s anything like Halloween, the crazies will be out en masse, even more so because it’s a full moon. If I owned brass knuckles, I would take them. I guess I could take my ninja umbrella. It’s just terrifying enough to make me look as though I’m a bad ass with a ghinsu, or that’s what the front-desk guy at the gym said. Speaking of which….

People who have been both awed and terrified of my ninja umbrella that looks like a sword especially when people are drunk even though those mentioned below seemed lucid save for one who might have been taking prescription drugs because her eyes were strangely darty but she didn’t scare me because she was more scared of my sword (hee, I said sword):

• The security guard at Ralph’s (for you non-Californians, that’s a grocery store)
• Front-desk guy at the gym
• Random geriatric lady at the gym who also told me the umbrella was bad ass, which was strange hearing a blue-haired lady speak Street

Happy New Year, kids!!

I’m off to Kansas tomorrow. And given that the most technologically advanced gadget my parents possess is an automated coffee maker, I won’t be blogging while I’m there. I will however, be making a stop at the local bar in Hanston, Kansas, for $5 beer night (that’s a flat rate for the night, not per beer). So, here is an early Merry Christmas greeting and I’ll chat with you in about a weekish. For now, this whirling dirvish must pack for a 5:45 a.m. flight. Eek. So, over the river and through the woods I go…

Off to greener pastures...for the time being

Palm Frond Dweller

I used to watch Saturday Night Live religiously as a child. In the era of the Frightened Family, I created my own prop that entailed a flap of faux hair that would stand on end when I pulled a hidden string. I even sent Lorne Michaels a letter requesting a spot on his show. Scratch that. I sent him 10+ letters until finally one day his secretary…sorry, administrative assistant… called to tell me there was no room for me on the show and that I needed to cease my correspondence. (This took place before stalking was illegal, of course.) I was crushed. But the prop construction continued. For awhile, anyway.

I’ve since moved on, probably because Saturday Night Live began to suck—quite a lot, actually. It’s been years since I watched it, which explains why I had no idea the skit “Dick in a Box” existed. But, the Happy Couple brought it to my attention and now, I can’t stop giggling. Also, I was ambivalent about Justin Timberlake, thinking him to be more of a tool than not. However, that changed in a 180 kind of way post “Dick in a Box” viewing.

So, this is my Christmas gift to you, my five readers (excluding my Mom and Dad because they don’t own a computer). And as it happens, it’s a topical video as well that happens to touch on Christmas, Kwanzaa and Hannukah. The bonus video at the bottom is from the Lonely Island album as well and is as equally as funny and raunchy.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg

www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pXfHLUlZf4

Fa lalalalalalalalala jingle jingle ho

How is it that Christmas is a week-and-a-half away? It’s as though someone shoved me through a time warp while showering in my old Chicago apartment. Though I’m not blogging naked—that would be weird and a little uncomfortable because there is a slight chill in the air. My kingdom for a Snuggy.

So, I’m traveling home for the holidays via plane and like many of you, not looking forward to the throngs of people that will descend on the airports. Of course, my presence will add to that number and therefore, I will probably be annoying someone else; but at least I can offer my seat-mate hygiene and an ass that needs only one seat.

My destination is Wichita, Kansas, via Dallas—home of Wranglers and the male camel toe. For two hours I’m stuck in the mundane world of ya’ll and fixin’ and have nowhere to go but the bar. It’s not my druthers, for the majority of my time at home is going to be spent drinking, eating and smoking cigars with Pappy Burke. So starting the process early isn’t in my best interest, physically speaking, that is.

If only I had a cubby hole in which to hang out away from the crowds, maybe take a nap, read without the incessant surround-sound whining of children who’ve had too much sugar and too little parenting. Enter the day room. This concept is found in airports around the world and now has been introduced in the States. Atlanta Airport is the first to introduce Minute Suites—rooms that can be rented by the hour. Sure it sounds sleazy, but each new renter gets cleans sheets, so try not to think about the creepy guy with the comb-over in the polyester suit who just walked out of your room zipping up his pants.

These rooms are equipped with daybeds, wi-fi, satellite TV and rent for $30 an hour. Nappers can use the in-room alarm clock or call for a wake-up call. Fascinating. I don’t know if Jeeves comes with the package, but wouldn’t it be a bonus if he did and had the accent to boot?

I’ve traveled enough to covet solitude in an airport, so I would definitely pay the $30. I would probably spend that much or more at the bar; and if I could catch an old episode of The A-Team, then it would be doubly enticing.

On an aside…

Who deems them classics?

I want to know who has the power to grant certain books Classic Status. I ask because I just finished reading Lolita. It was fine and I learned several new words (kudos to Vladmir for having such an amazing grasp on the English language), but I’ve read far better. Maybe there were intricate details that I somehow missed while being privy to the innermost thoughts of a pervert. Or not. And don’t even get me started on Anna Karenina.

Here’s a couple factoids, by the by (compliments of Deutsch): Hitler only had one nut (which explains a few things.) And it is National Cupcake Day. I want to know if there is national holiday set aside for the nuclear cream inside Twinkies. Is there? Huh?