Before anyone thinks that sounds too good to be true, there are, quite naturally, trade-offs that have to be made in order to accommodate a more pedestrian lifestyle. For one, money. There hasn't been a lot of it over the past 3 years. I think the IRS thinks I'm dead. After all, you won't make much teaching English unless you go to Korea or the Middle East. Now, don't get me wrong: I love the DMZ. I've heard lovely things about the DMZ. But I have no interest in living in Korea. And that has little to do with the fact that my karaoke skills are gnu-like. I watched MASH, I know what it looks like--and I feel like my emotional reservoir for Korea ended the night "Goodbye" was spelled out in rocks for Hawkeye to see as he left on the helicopter. As for the Middle East? Though I hear the United Arab Emirates is lovely in the summertime, I'll have to pass, unless I can teach from an air-conditioned Armored Personnel Carrier. Which, as I understand it, are hard to fit inside language schools. Though I'm still expectant and hopeful that Hollywood will one day discover me and immortalize me on film, I'm as yet emotionally and spiritually unprepared to star in al-Qa'ida's next cinematic thriller, "Death to This Infidel, Allah Akbar."
Here in Australasia, to earn real money, you'll first need to establish networks to access the better jobs, which takes time and, of course, money.
Friendship. I have two good friends from Prague that I would fly halfway around the world to help on a moment's notice, and only one--our favorite French chef--thus far in the "Z." That's simply a byproduct of the nature of travelling--most people you come into contact with are transients themselves and/or already have a clique--usually friends from back home--with which they are travelling and feel most comfortable. Further, most are quite young, in their early 20's, and suffer from the same disease that afflicts the MTV generation: incessant, rampant, uncontrolled, unyielding, single-minded and resolute selfishness. Talking to them reminds me of many a date I've been on where I had to pay for the privilege of listening to the unending droning of yet another woman talk about herself. Lucky me.
Distance from family and friends. The longest time I went between seeing family and friends when I lived anywhere in the States was 6 months. It will likely be upwards of a year here in New Zealand.
In the end, one uses the quadratic equation and mixes in Einstein's Field Equations along with some deductive reasoning to decide if the trade-offs of a life abroad are worth the reward. For me, simple is better at 34 than it would have been at 22 or 24. Ironically, it's more substantive because it's character and the lessons it imparts are vastly more appreciated and understood. This desire for simplicity, moreover, owes part of its explanation to my character. I'm okay by myself. Unattached. I have to be: if I wasn't, I'd be Boy Interrupted by this point. It's not that I seek to have it that way all the time, but I purposely don't get involved in things simply for the sake of being involved in things. I've met so many people who define themselves through the eyes of another that I'm beginning to wonder if self-esteem is as underperforming these days as Jehovah's Witnesses in Baghdad.
Furthermore, I've always had, since I can remember, a "me vs. the world" chip on my shoulder, which undoubtedly was affected by the competitive drive that burned in me from the moment I could tie my own shoelaces. In all honesty, that chip is not a character trait that I dislike. Hell, even I remind myself of that old Whitesnake song. You know, the one song they had. With the hot chick on the car in the video. Here I Go Again. Right. Let's move on. (If you find my self-esteem after that analogy, please dial +64 021 025 96507. Thank you.)
The yearning for minimalism is also born out from the prerogatives of living abroad--one is in a much better emotional situation if you selectively forget every convenience from home and concentrate instead on the bigger picture. If scrutinized through a psychological prism, living abroad is entirely different than having a vacation overseas. The rose-colored glasses that you put on to frame your experience as you get on the plane for your 2 week holiday are long gone before the 2nd month of residence has elapsed in your new home country. But, that's okay, so long as your expectations don't outrun reality, you learn to accept, adapt, and settle in.
It might suprise some people to learn that the really smart people of this world--not the "genuises" who diagram football plays or who sold stock at the right time in today's casual vocabulary--themselves consciously look to chip away at the edifice of complexity in their search for truth. It's no coincidence that simplicity re-emerges historically as an intellectual guiding light especially among the brilliant. And who better to emulate--from an intellectual perspective, that is--than everyone's favorite frizzy-haired physicist, who used his imaginative aptitude to turn the fundamental concepts of space and time on their heads and once famously said, "everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler." As it turns out, this is actually good advice when living outside the boundaries of your comfort zone. Many others have suggested a similar theme. Leonardo da Vinci was one of the smartest human beings to walk this planet and was quoted as saying, "simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Coincidental? The list of believers is nearly endless:
Oscar Wilde: "I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex."
Walt Whitman: "Simplicity is the glory of expression."
Tolstoy: "There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness, and truth."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity."
Shakespeare: "Simply the thing that I am shall make me live."
Chopin: "Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward."
Plato: "Beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity."
I guess I've noticed one thing, other than gray hairs, as I move into my mid-30's. I am extremely conscious of taking delight in the small things that provide mini-moments of joy during the course of a day. That is largely attributable not only to being in an unfamiliar environment but, more importantly, to beginning to see with clarity who I am going to be for the rest of my life. That person is enchanted with and takes pleasure in simplicity. Let me explain.
I'll admit to being a bit confused. I turned 34 in New Zealand this past Friday, which is the day before I turned 34 on Friday in the United States. Somewhere on the 12 hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Auckland, I lost Tuesday, September 25th, or rather, I should more accurately say, I probably lived Tuesday, September 25th, but for a very short time. Or maybe like a time machine, once we flew through the International Date Line, which abuts New Zealand, we lost an entire day. I'm not sure where the truth lies, but like Fox Mulder, I know it's out there. Like the Bermuda Triangle with boats or a Black Hole with light, maybe the IDL catches entire days and swallows them whole. I'll have to google it.
Nevertheless, what I do know is that I left the United States on the 24th, watched Ocean's We Should Have Stopped After 11, Blades of Glory and the last installment of the Nobody Would Know Orlando Bloom Save For the Pirates of the Caribbean series, ate a meal or two, slept an hour or two, and landed in Auckland on the 26th of September (which was really the 25th in the States--which means I really left on the 25th in New Zealand. This conundrum will appear on an LSAT test someday).
Einstein had an equation for just this sort of occurrence in his efforts to prove the malleability of spacetime. That's a lie. But, we'll come back to the world's most famous physicist in a few moments (a quick sidenote of irrelevance: read any biography of Einstein and you'll come away feeling alternatively like, "poor Al, pulled in so many directions, by so many people, a victim of his own brilliance" and "THAT guy was the smartest man in 300 years??")
This is all a rather circuitous way of saying that you should seriously consider moving 18 hours away from home so that you can have two birthdays a year, yet age only one. Just don't move to a town of 800, and don't concelebrate your birthday with the Grand Finale of Movember, New Zealand's fundraising bonanza to help cure, as Zorro would say, "ball cancer." I have photographic proof of Movember's allure here in New Zealand. We'll get to that.
I was particularly nostalgic about this birthday, which may or not make sense when you consider that 34 is a rather anonymous number. Perhaps not coincidentally, I'm a rather anonymous human in the annals of Russell-ian history. I'm 34. I'm unmarried. I've been in love once. I think the nostalgia probably had more to do with the lack of an enertaining social outlet here in town than any particular sense of dread at the thought of ageing. Mind you, when I say 'fun,' I mean anything that doesn't involve a) walking to and from work and counting birds as my friends, b) trying to decipher the incoherent late-night philosophical ramblings of drunk Maoris, or c) having the highlight of my day revolve around a glass of red and a 30 minute conversation about the "slim pickings" of the opposite sex here in Russell with my drunk flatmate between the time he comes home from said drinking and the time he stumbles off to bed--only to rinse and repeat the following night. (Our nightly forays into the murkier truths of Russell has my flatmate thinking that I possess a snobbish desire for "superior pickings," as he would say, an obvious form of masochism here in Russell that will inevitably lead some to make conclusions about my sexuality if not rectified soon. Technically, he's right, I'm still riding the High Standard Bandwagon--the one he fell off many moons ago--at least until the town accessorizes with the summer influx that is expected in the next couple of weeks.)
This lack of diversionary excitement, coupled with my crack cocaine-like behavior in the restaurant (let's put it this way: I don't even recognize myself when I'm working; I'm a white Pookie. I'm so entirely different than I normally am that I'm beginning to think about moving to Hollywood to make a go of it), which depletes my Mojo by the end of the dinner shift, has me in my free time like an antisocial turtle ducking under my protective shell. The moral of the story: I'd basically be responsible for the death of Pitcairn Island had I been marooned there. No, wait, that's not it. Christmas can't get here soon enough. Yep, that's it.
This chapter of my life began when I quit a good job to satisfy an itch to live abroad. I'm now in my second tour of duty doing just that. Even Bonnie, the Taiwanese cook/dishwasher at the restaurant picked up on this theme last night when we were talking. I could have sworn she got an e-mail from my parents to hit certain talking points. In broken English, "You 34. You have plan? How long you do this? What you do when this over?" I'm not kidding, I thought I was talking to either the human who birthed me or one of those career counselors you see after you take that "So, what does the passionless and uncommitted want to do with the rest of your life?" test. It was my birthday for the love of all that is good in this world, and I'm getting dressed down by a Taiwanese girl whose most substantive contribution to my life to that point was letting me eat a couple extra french fries from her bowl of leftovers in the kitchen. And that's not even a metaphor. Happy Birthday to me!
I tried my best to answer her in simple English, but I was so flustered that she didn't understand why, even at 34, somebody would feel the need, no, the compulsion, to do this, that I reduced the explanation to its most basic constituent: I refuse to live a life with regret.
I can't fault Bonnie, though. To a certain extent, it's not even an explanation that my parents seem to express much sympathy for. As much as they're supportive of me and the adult choices I make, I'm not convinved that they're understanding matches their desire to see me happy. On the phone with them on my birthday, I had the following conversation with them:
Me: "I can't believe I'm 34. "
Mom: "I know, it's just flying by, isn't it?"
Me: "Did you know that I share a birthday with Churchill?"
Dad: "Was Churchill ever a waiter?"
Me: "Maybe in India."
Dad: "Before he was Commander of the Navy?"
As the not-so-astute can see, we don't deal with intimations and inference in the Carroll household. We go for the big ones: incredulity and guilt.
Relying on "gut instinct"--simplicity--to make lifestyle and career choices is probably not the advice you'd hear Dr. Phil give to his masochistic clients. Yet it's exactly what I would tell anyone who was contemplating doing something drastic, something unpredictable, something adventurous. Since I was a young boy, I've always been fascinated with geography (political and natural), demography and cosmology. From the time I can first remember, I've had in me a desire to experience new places, to meet new faces, and to determine for myself how to satisfy the natural curiousity that, for whatever reason, has led me to this chapter in my life. It probably sounds corny, but I hope that when I die (at 112...asleep...in my bed...next to Ms. Teen USA), I'm taken on a grand tour of the cosmos and introduced to the answers for its deepest, most tightly guarded secrets. I'm well aware of how bad that sounds, but nevertheless it's how I want it to be. I can't control that, naturally, but I can control the opportunity to experience a tour of a slightly smaller variety.
So, to answer the question that Bonnie (and others) have about this 34 year old, mid-career, postgraduate waiter in a small town halfway around the world: I don't know. If that's my greatest sin, then I'll take my chances. I refuse to live a life of regret. And, while being married, having children, being stuck in traffic on the same roads twice a day, and dealing with the complexities (and annoyances) of suburban life in America works wonders for the overwhelming majority of people who decide to follow that path, I would be decidedly unhappy doing that. At this point in my life. Now.
Make no mistake, I understand the emotional satisfaction of having a family of my own: I increasingly see more and more friends doing it and it doesn't take Newton to see that my current stage in life is usually reserved for those just celebrating their 24th birthday, as opposed to their 34th. But, I was born three weeks late; I'm a late-bloomer. Always have been and always will be. I doubt that will change.
There are trade-offs in every choice you make. I've decided that I'm willing to live with mine.
In a sense, such a simplistic explanation for living a different "life arc" than the norm satisfies the natural order of things. My Mom says that my parents feel blessed that I was "loaned" to them by God to be a part of their family. If you happen to subscribe to that theory, as many Catholics do, it's a wonderful way to express gratitude--the real object of affection in such sentiment is, quite appropriately and obviously, God. It also strikes me as refreshingly and elegantly simple. It strips away the complications and vagaries that encase the life we build for ourselves by replacing the innate desire to please ourselves with a more Copernican, if you will, desire to please God. It makes Him the center of the universe. It's very simple logic indeed.
If the faithful believe that the meaning of life is to serve and honor God, what better way to do that then to recognize the gifts He bestows in the form of love. And birthdays and their essential meanings are opportunities to do precisely that. At the risk of sounding too Vatican, reducing the byzantine labyrinth of life to its most unaffected fundamental ingredient serves as my excuse for being where I am right now, as opposed to 10 years ago or never. I don't apologize for feeling as if The Big Guy pulled me in this direction: after all, isn't that what we all strive to attune ourselves to--the whisperings of our personal God? I'll take it one step further: that reduction to simplistic reasoning may actually mirror the simplicity with which the entire universe--God's magnificent construct--is made. Which begs the question: who am I to fight the tide of cosmological and physical law?
I've got a bottle of De Bortoli (Australian) Merlot (for $10!) and I'm staring up at a night sky that's holding thousands of stars. Night skies in Russell may not mimick the desert skies of the southwestern U.S. or the even more people-starved, rural settings on the planet, but it's difficult not to be impressed with the breadth and stunning beauty of New Zealand's northland nighttime stellar bonanza. Short of living in the Outback, the Sahara, or Siberia, this is about the best one can do, in exchange for the comforts of civilization. You can see for yourself: here is a satellite rendering of Earth's lights at night: http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/image/0011/earthlights2_dmsp_big.jpg) and one for Australia and New Zealand, http://www.darksky.org/images/satelite/australia.gif).
Stay with me for a moment as I peel off on a tangent that even Tolkien couldn't recover from. The last 100 years of progress on developing an understanding of the universe's physical laws have been, even to the millions of laymen who follow the subject without venturing into the higher mathematics involved, staggering. The last 25 years have been as equally compelling, for a variety of reasons and discoveries, not the least of which has been the development of a radical new way of looking at God's cosmic playground--our universe. String Theory is a delightfully simple and evocative way of thinking about the very fabric that composes spacetime and all of its matter and energy, from the galaxies in our telescopes right down to you and me.
Before you read any further, you should remember that I'm alone in a darkened room, drinking wine by myself. At night. Naked. Well, not naked, but I am drinking by myself, which means you can automatically discount 2/3 of anything I have to say. That's actually a law, you can look it up.
Nevertheless, String Theory is the latest mathematical incarnation that seeks for its nerdy proponents what many before could not achieve. No, not a social life. Rather, a remedy, no, the remedy, to bridge the chasm between the equations of general relativity (Al's invention--no, not Gore this time--detailing the math and geometry of space--or gravity) and quantum mechanics (the physical laws--guided by probabilistic math--of the subatomic). Essentially, the gap between the physical laws for predicting the behavior of large objects in our universe and those predicting the behavior of the very small. To make a long story short, those two sets of laws clash. Physicists have long worked around the inconvenience of having two separate ways of analyzing the universe and have been very successful in doing so, i.e. the mathematical incongruities haven't precluded the development of either set of laws in isolation.
However, it would be as big an understatement as saying "Lindsay likes cocaine" or "Katie Holmes was brainwashed by Maverick" or "Ted Kennedy likes to drink and drive" to suggest that it is every theoretical physicists' dream to conjure up a Unified Theory; one set of laws that describe all of the workings of our universe, from Einstein's theory of gravity (how mass and energy affect the geometry of space and how space affects the movement of matter and energy) to the smallest indivisible length of space (a Planck length, or 1.6 meters x 10 to the -35th power). I hope it's not Al Gore in the next year, because not only would it be the greatest scientific achievement of all time, but then he'd have to stand next to George W. again and share National Geographic's Most Awkward Handshake Of All Time Redux.(http://fe14.news.re3.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071126/pl_nm/bush_gore_dc;_ylt=Av3mFH69EJoGdBjD6zwbw_YXr7sF)
Yet, there's an indescribably compelling need for scientists to find the most basic components of the universe and consequently to believe that the universe functions according to an underlying set of laws that demonstrate no conflict between the laws of the large and the small whatesoever (to this end, a new particle accelerator is due to begin test runs early next year. I haven't been this excited since Michael Jackson broke out the "moonwalk" back in '83. The Large Hadron Collider near Geneva will be the world's largest particle accelerator and may be able to test some of the predictions made by String Theory by smashing protons at speeds up to 99.999999% the speed of light to help understand conditions a fraction of a second after the Big Bang. Oh, by the way, the laboratory near Geneva where the collider is being built is largely responsible for the creation of the Internet...sorry Al. http://www.hitmill.com/internet/web_history.html)
Like Einstein, contemporary physicists search for a simpler explanation for the universe's often times complex manifestations of general relativity and probabilistic quantum mechanics. To that extent, a theory that explains the entire workings of the universe, all the way back to time zero, to include gravity on quantum (very small) scales, would be a discovery greater than those of 1915, the year Einstein reshaped our understanding of the universe itself.
Basically, it would be the greatest scientific resume ever written. It would be akin to a 22 year old breaking a backboard after a dunk at the end of Game 7 to win the NBA Championship and then walking off the court and announcing his retirement. Or winning American Idol and then announcing on live T.V. that you've decided to enter porn because it carries more weight. Or fathering a baby with Aishwarya Rai (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/12/29/60minutes/main663862.shtml) and then joining a monastery. It just can't be topped. While it might be fun to try (with the last one, especially), you know and the world knows that you've peaked like Edmund Hillary (a Kiwi, by the way) and it's all downhill from there. Just like Henry Thomas, who played Elliot in E.T. Game over. You can't top "E.T. phone home," and you can't top saying goodbye to the little guy while the spaceship waits in the woods.
I swear, I'm not drunk.
String theory posits that the fundamental particle constituents (protons, electrons, neutrons) of our universe as well as the known messenger particles of the four forces (electromagnetism, the weak nuclear force, the strong nuclear force, and gravity)--photons, bosons, and the theoretical graviton--are nothing more than, well, strings, whose different vibrational patterns evince the properties we associate with both the particles of the Standard model and the four laws enunciated above. For reasons I won't get into here, as you're already asleep, String Theory has the potential to bridge the two sets of laws. Here's the catch, though: the only way the math works in String Theory is if we live in an 11 dimensional universe. That's 7 extra spatial dimensions all around us that are too small for current technology to detect. Maybe too small to ever directly detect.
The point is that the world and the universe may be much grander and simpler than imagined. Grander because the world we experience--and the part of the universe we can see-- may indeed be a tiny fraction of what may really exist, if we can see only 3 of the 10 spatial dimensions purported to exist (on a much larger spatial scale, Leonard Susskind's "The Cosmic Landscape" is a good introduction on the ramifications of a multiverse--the idea that our universe is one of an infinite amount of universes. Just ignore, if you'd like, his robust atheism). Simpler because the whole thing could very well be constructed of incredibly small nonzero-sized strings. In essence, the universe may be a rich tapestry of almost thread-like material playing out a symphony of existence as its observers live oblivious to its majestic grandeur. That, to me, whether String Theory is true or not, is the beauty of quantum mechanics: that we live in, well, a facade of sorts. What we sensually experience (classical physical laws) is decidedly not how the universe has chosen to operate (by probability). In quantum physics, what you see is not what you get.
What does this have anything to do with anything? Well, probably nothing, because String Theory is mostly theoretical at this point and its mathematics are too complicated for even string theorists to deal with directly (so they use approximations). But...what if the universe is governed by laws that are, even to Britney and Paris, simple to visualize. As Hungarian born American nuclear physicist Edward Teller said, "the main purpose of science is simplicity and as we understand more things, everything is becoming simpler." Ask most people what gravity is and they wouldn't be able to describe it; they'd give artful demonstrations of its effects, rather than an understanding of its character. But, ask a Texas blonde about String Theory, and one day they might be able to give a close approximation of its simplicity (neglecting its extraordinarily complex mathematical underpinnings, of course).
The point? The universe does indeed operate in a way we are mostly oblivious to. But, it could also be strikingly simple, too. And wouldn't that be the most refined answer one could give to questions of your (reasoned) choices: simplicity is a universal principle, and I am just following its decree.
I've chosen at the moment to move away from the signposts that most judge their lives by: the complexities of career, love, and acquisitiveness. I've decided to put Chapter 3 where most people would put Chapter 4. I have made an arbiter named simplicity my best friend and most trusted advisor. Don't blame me: I have surrendered to the laws of the universe.
To my mind, we're nothing more than the backwash of a stellar explosion, at least in a physical sense. The gravitational accretion of stellar dust is our ecumenical history. We're not just a part of the universe, observers from a distance; we are the universe, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of the cosmos but nevertheless created from a progenitor of primordial soup and as intimately tied to its cycle of birth and death as any of its other, more violent, inhabitants.
Why shouldn't our reasoning, comprised of neurological processes enabled by universal evolution, complement our cosmological environment?
Henry David Thoreau said it, well, much more simply: "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness."
Had enough? Okay. On to a few pictures. Suffice it to say that life in Russell, over the course of the last 3 weeks, has settled into a routine. It, along with my sojourn into the unknown, is really of simple stock. My medulla oblongata is dominating at this juncture--I'm entirely autonomic at this point. I breathe. I live. I am. I'm also fairly certain that the cabin fever that right now is nothing more than an annoyance will inexorably evolve into a full-blown outbreak of Ebola before the end of the year. Welcome to picturesque Russell!
This is called "getting into character." Mere mortals could never understand the philosophical and emotionally intense process by which one transforms into the person he portrays. It's called method acting, people. And it involves multiple glasses of wine, a shoulder thrust, and some serious attitude. Amateurs need not apply.The neat part about this is that if Mark removed the hat and cape and dropped the sword, he could double as a Benihana chef.
Speaking of Japan, our favorite French chef recently told me that Tokyo was just announced to have collected the most amount of Michelin stars--"the" restaurant rating for gourmet dining--of any city in the world. http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,22790128-5013605,00.html. Granted, with 30 million people, the world's largest city should represent a decent mathematical probability to achieve the label of "Food Capital of the World." Nevertheless, it just goes to show that the Japanese know their culinary stuff. I would congratulate them, you know, for being a peaceful ally with good baseball players and pretty girls, but they're too busy killing Willy and maiming Flipper in the name of "science." I get really upset with them, usually around lunchtime when I'm eating a tuna fish sandwich.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7101829.stm
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-whaling24nov24,0,1247872.storyhttp://www.newscientist.com/article/dn7551.html
This is my flatmate. Move over Antonio Banderas, there's a new superhero in town. This has got to be the creepiest Zorro I've ever seen. I can't decide if he's trying out to be conductor of the London Symphony, or dreaming of his life as a gay porn star. What's going on with the left hand? A fist clenched in rage over the oppression of the good people of Mexican California, no doubt. Zorro even bought women's shoes for the end-of-Movember moustached costume contest on the 30th. With his three inch heels, our rapier-wielding populist graced the height of an overgrown gnome.To be fair, I shouldn't give him grief for looking like an impending arrest for pedophilia. He went all out to raise money for my prostate. Any man that can help my prostate without digitally exploring my nether regions is okay with me.
That's Bonnie, the Taiwanese Guilt Trip in the middle, and Lenka, the Czech girl who should put on her resume under Skills, "giggling." We look happy to be starting another dinner shift, but I'm drunk, Bonnie is listening to a Taiwanese motivational speaker, and Lenka looks like she's being held hostage by a Gimp in a snuff film. Could that body language be any colder? Who took a dump in the punchbowl?
In reality, Bonnie isn't listening to a motivational speaker. Somebody said a three-syllable word in English, because that's usually the response you get from her under such circumstances. No worries, though. It didn't stop me from teaching her about East and West Coast rap in the kitchen today, though. Complete with diagrams and everything. All I got in response was a facial expression unseen since Richard Dreyfuss had a close encounter of the third kind. She may not know what "mustard" is, but she sure as hell knows who Tupac and Biggie were. Represent.
Lenka and Suzanna, the Czech chicks who work the back garden bar at Zee Gables. They hid the umbilical cord that attaches them, so you'll just have to trust me when I say it's always there. I pimp the blue shirt a bit better than these two, if I do say so myself. But what they lack in pizzaz, they make up for with breasts. And that, my friends, is the only thing that matters in customer service. Mammaries. The lesson? It's not what you know, it's how much cleavage you can show.
It's dinnertime at the back bar. I'd suggest a reservation."Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough" --Charles Dudley Warner, American essayist and novelist, 1829-1900.
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