So it seems I have nothing to say these days. Until I do, here are my favourite posts from the past 5 months.
Haunted by the souls of a million departed meals
“I’ve seen people gag, spit, cry-out, cough and swear whilst leaving a filthy restroom. But never in my life have I seen people react the way they did last month … traumatized, distant and terminally haunted by what they experienced in that forsaken restroom in that dusty little Ukrainian town.”
Sammy’s Choice: Auschwitz or KFC
“To spend the day educating and improving my understanding of the human condition in the haunting remains of one of this centuries most iconic testaments to the depths of human malice… or… spend the day devising a strategy to eat KFC with both my hands and my feet just so I had more digits for lickin’. What to do?”
Canada: Good, but boring
“Close to a month ago I was interviewed by a friend of mine from the local newspaper here in Lviv, Високий Замок… The [translated] text has some absolutely hilarious mis-translations. For instance, the title of this blog converts to, ‘Downfall in Ukraine,’ I describe myself as an ‘ignoramus,’ and complain about racist remarks from ‘acute groggy Belgians.’
Ukraine is not a brothel
““I TAUGHT ENGLISH IN KOREA. MY BOSS WAS A GODDAMNED FOX. I’M RETIRED NOW. I HAVE NO HOME. I TRAVEL INDEFINITELY. I MADE A LOT OF MONEY BUT I SPENT IT ON SHIT. LIKE FISH TANKS. I HAD A RARE FOSSIL COLLECTION. I JUST SAID FUCK IT. I GAVE IT ALL AWAY. I HAD TWO COBRAS IN A JAR. I’M HERE LOOKING FOR A WIFE. I HAVEN’T HAD ANY LUCK.”
Ukraine… I’m sorry
“Why is your blog so insulting to Ukraine?” she said. Before the comment even registered she then proceeded to tear me a new one, asking me if I thought Ukrainians were just barbaric cave people, why I came here if I thought this place was such a joke, and that I was basically a pampered ass, ignorant of the effect that years of genocide, war and colonial subjugation has had on the people here. …Before I could even defend myself, she said that she still respected me, but that I should, “mix some clean water with the dirty.” She then jumped on a streetcar and left me to marinade in my own shame… as well as a peculiar pride for having taught her proper use of the word mix hours earlier.”
Spring Break Siberia: The frozen T-shirt contest
“For years Ukrainians could move with relative ease between the borders of their former communist comrades. Ukrainians who once took summer vacations in Prague, went skiing in Romania and hit the beaches of Slovenia now find these doors slammed in their faces thanks cost-prohibitive visas and a plethora of other humiliating requirements.”
If every man on earth dropped dead…
“If every man on earth died instantly, we would have new slang like “fatherf#*ker!” Air travel would grind to a halt and the Israeli army would instantly become the most power military force on earth. “This “gendercide” exterminated 48% of the global population, or approximately 29 billion men. 495 of the Fortune 500 CEO’s are now dead, as are 99% of the world’s landowners.
In the U.S. alone, more than 95% of all commercial pilots, truck drivers, and ship captains died… as did 92% of violent felons.
Internationally 99% of all mechanics, electricians, and construction workers are now deceased though 51% of the planets agricultural labor force is still alive.”
The Ukrainian Army — Get Tanked
“Here is a recruitment commercial for the Ukrainian army (an Army of один). It speaks for itself, but the jist is basically this: The Army — get paid, get laid and get tanked (pun intended). Enjoy.”
“When I left my house early that morning I had a feeling I wouldn’t see too much in the way of craziness. What I didn’t know was that I would find myself standing right where the fuse meets the dynamite in the worst riots this city has seen for years. I was hit with glass, shoved by an armored cop, and teargassed. Strangely though, it was my feelings that were hurt the most.”


The coat of arms for the city of Berlin is a bear. But considering Germany’s troubled history with the beast, it may as well be a starfish, a unicorn or a Rabbi.
endangered species reintroduction programs. The press affectionately named the critter Bruno.
Things went from bad to worse for Bruno when Bavarian Prime Minister Edmund Stoiber labeled the once-loveable poster-bear as a Problembär, or (problem bear). You know you’re fucked when a German bureaucrat
In an effort to be humane the German authorities enlisted a cross-species international all-star team of Finnish bear hunters and their Karelian Bear Dogs to capture the hairy menace. Amazingly the Finns and their hounds proved totally useless and were unable to catch the bear over the course of several weeks. Frustrated, and increasingly concerned about the safety of local sheep and bees, the local government sought a final solution.
The story grew even more tragic when details of Bruno’s troubled family history eventually surfaced. As one of several progeny of bear-parents (bearents!) Jurka and Joze, Bruno/JJ1 wasn’t the only problem child in his family. Nearly two years after JJ1 was slain, his brother, JJ3 wandered into Switzerland and was also murdered — without nickname. Though in keeping with German/Swiss historical tradition, Switzerland’s wrong-doing went underreported.
There were few winners in the tragic tale of Bruno. Two bears were killed, their mother tossed in prison and Bavarian environment minister Werner Schappau’s reputation was seriously tarnished after environmentalists called for his resignation. I suppose the only silver lining is that we can all enjoy the irascible Bruno everyday of the week, as he’s been stuffed, mounted, and put in display at the Museum of Man and Nature in Munich. And the world now knows not to trust Finns to catch a bear.
Weddings are kind of how I picture the afterlife. Free food, free drinks, various Gods, grandparents, spiffy wardrobes. On the flip side they can be hell. There is endless planning, terrible music, awkward conversations, pesky in-laws and everything seems to cost a fortune.
The bells would also summon me to get a strong coffee, a pack of cigarettes and take up my perch high above the festivities to ogle bridesmaids and bask in the warmth of the confluence of everything I love about Ukraine.
The reasons for this rush are manifold. Religion, tradition and economics all play a part. Most Ukrainian youth live with their parents until they are married. In their case, getting hitched allows them to pool their money, get their own place and ultimately make sweet love away from the prying eyes of God and grandmamma. Undoubtedly mom and dad are happy to have a little more room at home as well.
Beyond the over-the-top photos, there are a few other wedding customs in Ukraine that are pretty cool. Firstly, when the groom arrives (with his groomsmen as backup) at the brides residence to pick her up for the wedding, he is confronted by a coven of frosty bridesmaids.
Once the union is complete, the bride and groom make their way to a bridge and fasten a padlock engraved with their names to the railing. The symbolism is pretty obvious, but it’s a great tradition none the less. Suddenly any bridge crossing is a great exercise in imagination — just picturing that each lock as a couple, and to think where that couple is now, and that their lock will probably be there longer than they are alive (or married).
Of course, not all weddings are traditional. Behold the following. A Star Wars themed wedding in Lviv. I can just picture the babushkas sitting around with WTF looks on their faces. The best part though… the groom mixing a traditional cossack hairdoo with a wardrobe from a galaxy far, far away.
I probably shouldn’t be joking about this, because it’s not actually true. But I am realizing that my life would be more comfortable here in Berlin if I were gay.
Now the men on the other hand. It’s not easy for me to say, but the dudes here are really attractive. They’re all tall, stubley with floppy hair and blue eyes radiating a calm and ease you just don’t find in North America. In many ways they act a lot more feminine than the women here. So ladies, if you want to experience an equivalent to the buffet of sexual excitement men find in Ukraine, I suggest coming to Berlin. Honestly, I find myself kinda attracted the to guys here. Not in a “I want to french kiss you,” kind of way, but in a, “if we hung out, you might catch me staring at you,” kind of way.

A friend (who I should qualify, is a beautiful women) explained the concept of “the ruined German woman.” These were the women who had to reconstruct German society after the WWII. They were widows, orphans and they had few men in their lives. To put a once male dominated society back together surely took some negotiating of gender roles. These concessions seem to have stuck around. Plus — as someone who will remain nameless rather crassly put it: After the war the only men who survived were cowards and losers. Ouch.
Well, that’s all he thought he had to do. In order to get the test he was subjected to a one-on-one interview with a counselor who had his suspicions as to the direction of D’s sexual orientation. Amazingly, D did not waver, stumble, or break under the interrogation. In perfect German, he crafted the elaborately detailed yarn of one straight man’s 12-hour odyssey of intrigue, coercion and eventually acquiescence to man-on-man oral sex. It seemed to satisfy the interrogator and D got his STD test. But seriously, it’s shocking to think that an organization discriminates against straight people who want nothing more than to stop the spread of AIDS in an environment where orientation, persuasion and predilection is already blurred to an extreme.
There is just something fantastic (or fantastisch!) about German vocabulary. The common perception is that Germans are straight-forward, literal and as a by-product, not funny. I say bully to that! It’s this literal approach to everything — including language — that makes for oodles of funny. At least to me.
Abgefuckt
Vokuhila
what North Americans would call a “tramp stamp.” Over here, they’ve really out-done us on the vocab-creativity front. They call these tattoos, Arschgeweih, or ass-antlers. Bravo Germany, bravo!
recently a 
Pornobalken
Ostalgie
Durchgebumst
Brustwarzen
I love the NBA. I love Ukraine. I love irreverent comedy. Amazingly these three elements somehow conflate in the person of Ukrainian born, 7′1″, 300lbs Utah Jazz centre Kyrylo Fesenko — one of the funniest basketball players alive.
Now Simmons didn’t list Fess in his article, but with the help of Henry Abbott at Truehoop and Ross Siler of the
I have no sense of smell. This doesn’t mean I am disabled — though I once listed myself as such on a job application for the “zoo” in Waterloo Park. I am differently-abled. One such different ability is to tread in places so rank, so vile, so feculent, few would dare enter. I probably even wander through places that reek without even knowing it. My only clue to whether if a bathroom, outhouse, whatever smells bad are the looks and reactions of the people around me.
I went hunting for cigarettes, Peter, Miwa and Lisa went wandering up a hill in search of a bathroom.
Sure enough we were, and as the bus rolled south I told Charlie that we may be stopping at the worst toilet in Ukraine. He seemed interested, but not nearly as excited as me. I can see why, it was sure to be an awful experience for him. But for me it was a chance to witness the acme of evil in smell form. It was my chance to go where few people could tolerate going. It was my chance to be the intrepid hero. Fearlessly treading where no one else could. Freely documenting a horror that others could not, nay, would not, describe.
My brother hadn’t immediately said anything because to do so would be to invite millions of fecal molecules into his mouth. Not just one strain of feces, but a ministrone, a menagerie of expelled potatos, discharged dumplings and exiled rotisserie chicken.
Looking at the photos it’s hard to understand what we experienced in that small town. I mean it’s obvious that the place hadn’t been cleaned, maybe ever, but what’s with the splatters on the walls? And the holes themselves? They are obviously overflowing, but how deep are they???
Maybe four or five years ago I vowed never to write about music. I find, for me anyway, doing so tends to suck the fun out of listening to it. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a huge shout-out, as well as a mini-sorry, to the awesome band
In Toronto I’d hoped to find a young, vibrant and experimental music scene — and I did. Bands like
Again, I have to stop myself from describing the music itself; you can click on any of the hyperlinks above to see, hear and read for yourself. But I can say that on-stage the group is friendly and attitude free.I mean, they have the audacity to smile during photoshoots!
I asked my friend Jurg which word in German he thought was the best. His answer was immediate and totally awesome: Ordnung.
Everyday I see ordnung manifest itself in hilarious ways. For instance I found myself standing at an intersection with maybe eight other people waiting for the light to change. I snapped out of my trance and noticed that the intersection was closed to traffic due to construction. I “boldly” strode across the deserted street. Three of the remaining eight cautiously followed my lead.
Unlike some ex-pats living here, nothing about that scene annoys me. I love order! It’s made Germany the economic powerhouse of Europe and it prevents chaos, corruption, mayhem and genoci…. shoplifting. What’s kind of strange is how automatic this adherence to order is. Robotic, as my friend says. It is clear that Germans have been conditioned from an early age to behave in a way that respects the rules. But how do you condition kids to subscribe to ordnung?
Several parks near my crib have the usual assortment of swings and shit, but a few also have these mini road courses, with mini cars, geared at instilling the rules and virtues of road safety into their little Prussian brains. I just love this. Germans, order, kindergarten, and cars. It’s like (almost) everything Germany is famous for rolled into 50 sq. metres of pavement, paint and traffic cones.


Well, I did cave. I smoked half a hand-rolled cigarette on Wednesday night. I was enjoying my first drink in four days on rooftop patio overlooking Berlin’s iconic TV tower. So, like whatever. I haven’t had a puff since.
Every 45 minutes I wonder if that thing in the back of my mind that I am craving is my parents, or my dog, or my friends (all-a-ya’ll).
Gone. I wonder if I miss sex and other assorted sexy business.