A Beautiful Day
So lets just take it back a little. Things have changed. I am in Amsterdam at the moment – in VondelPark to be perfect.
Yes I know what you are thinking, but it is not that; or maybe it is. Things just happen on the road.
One day you are in Essaouria (Morocco) watching the earth and the seagulls play, about to set off to spend time meditating in the Sahara desert, as close to God as you can be and the next second you find yourself in VondelPark in Amsterdam – having spent a weekend in Dublin – U2 at Croke Park in Dublin is as close to God as anything.
I stayed in Essaouria about a month. I moved to a stylish residence: a two bed apartment on the front corner of the Medina with a roof terrace overlooking back over the Medina, and forward over the Atlantic ocean. I would like to explain to you what the view was like but I can’t. It was an amazing place and one where I spent a lot of time, watching the sunset, drinking Rose, doing yoga, meditating, reading, and talking to friends. It sounds gay – but it wasn’t – but it still sounds gay. The apartment cost about USD30 per day. I say dollars although who knows with that thing: it is as bouncy as I am. The cool thing about staying for longer anywhere is that you don’t end up in the boutique hotel. The boutique hotel works, if you are a tourist intent on ticking boxes in your guidebook of ‘must see’ places, and are still into Elton John. I paid for a month in Essaouria what I would pay for about 3 nights in any 3 star in any large city in Europe.
I can’t take all the credit for finding the apartment, Hamid who I mentioned last time (telephone number 0614887066) found it for me.
So what did I do? It depends how you look at it.
I spent time with Gudu, who looked half Indian, half Maori, maybe some bushman (but larger). Gudu’s a Berber – one of the desert people (the original Moroccans). You forget sometimes in Africa about the first great colonisations: Romans, Greeks, and Persians. The Persians stayed in Morocco pushing Islam like good Christians. Gudu thinks I should spend some time without money in his town in the Sahara desert. We spent a whole day on the edge of the beach listening to the sea. “It speaks,” Gudu said. It sounds cheesy if you are with a ‘self help’ guru; but it is different when you are with a 27 year old Berber who seems to be able to hear something.
I watched the old men dressed in klu klux clan like robes, but not white – the men nor the robes. They live with nothing but the cloth on their back and that which they can scrape together on the streets that day. They are beggars, or kings. They were hunched over, gravity dragging them back. Their eyes showed wizardry: eyeballs shrunken back from seemingly knife-wounded faces. I watched one of the tourists; with a big red face and a big expensive camera wave her hand at one of these men sending him away. “There are so many of them. I won’t give anything because they are encouraged not to get a real job.” You probably should you colonialist pig, I wanted to tell her – but what right do I have.
I met local surfers who took me to a bar – a local bar. The bar was ill decorated – people there took drinking seriously. I had been to the tourist bar, which was next door, the day before. The décor in the tourist bar was far more pleasing. The service and price in the local bar was better.
I played drums with Zachary, who taught me a thing or two about drumming. We smoked kif before playing. I play better that way. Zachary also thinks so. Zachary rents a little shop in the streets of Essaouria he has called the Happy Shop, where he cooks sardines on a braai on the floor, and drinks a little bit too much with his friends. I was with Zachary one hungover morning when his landlord came to the door demanding money. Zachary gave him what was left in his pocket – probably the only money he had for the day. “These rich people,” he said, “that guy has so much money, but he takes whatever he can from me.” I am sure Zachary is not the world’s greatest tenant, but maybe sometimes a man who owns a number of shops could look favourably on another who is bringing music to the world.
Everyone in Essaouira plays an instrument of some kind (some good and some not). On the beach there are guitars and drums and people dancing. In the restaurant, and internet cafes there is always someone drumming. There is something in the music, which makes them calm. It might have a little to do with hash; the calmness, but who am I to judge – the world needs a little bit more calm.
I ate omelette every morning. The breakfast menu is a little bit sparse. Sometimes you get mushrooms on the omelette – but not always. Everything else you eat is excellent. The tagine (famous) is served steaming in those little clay dishes with hot flat bread used for dipping and scraping. Food is not so important to me though; since I became a fish and omelette-eating vegetarian (with the occasional burger king). I watched a movie called Earthlings. Watch it and you probably will not eat that much meat again either.
I gave cigarettes to everyone who walked past. It seemed to be the local tax. In the end there was one old man who pushed a cart around all day, waiting for me, and a cigarette – every morning.
I spent one day learning to walk again. Too many days trying to look busy in the corporate world have given me a hunched over path viewing fast walk. With a little help from a friend – I am now the kind of person who walks as if his purpose is watching the horizon rather than just looking busy.
I sat and watched a young man in a wheel chair in the surprisingly untouristy tourist area as he painted postcards, with a paintbrush in his mouth – his only able movement. It is a weird thing destiny. Not so sure I agree with the common thought that destiny is in our own hands.
“You can’t always do what you want to,” I said to Margaret from Belgium. “But there’s always a way,” she replied, with a laugh that was half devil. She thought it was strange that I would sell everything and travel the world. “I am a writer.” I was not hesitant to remind her.
I noticed how tanned my hands and feet had become.
Trust was something that I learnt. My initial reaction to the world is a lawyer’s tinged scepticism along with an in built insecurity that everyone is out to get me. It changed in Essaouria I drank more mint tea with various shop owners than anything. Each of them wanted to tell me a story about this or that. I was a friend of theirs you see: I was not just in and out I had stayed.
I sat indoors sometimes and wondered how loose my grip on reality had gotten. Hanging around in life, doing something: working on yourself is the ultimate in selfish acts. We are supposed to contribute. “Was I supposed to work in a bank? Would that be adding something to society?” I suppose no one else is really asking me this – it is I asking myself.
I listened to a friend of mine playing guitar in her white tank top and short blue shorts: the first couple of strains to ‘more than words’ over and over again. She, like me, thinks that playing the guitar is as grand a purpose as any.
It’s as good a place to be if you don’t know where you’re going – Essaouria – Morocco – and call Hamid for a place to stay. He is an honest man – you can trust me on that. I still need to spend some time in the desert. That was the point previously – but points change.
I realised that a friend of mine from South Africa had booked me tickets to see U2 live at Croke Park in Dublin: Rockstars at a hometown gig. Like most metrosexuals I have always loved U2. I did not know where I was going to be in the world when my friend asked, I always prefer to say ‘I’m in,’ rather than ‘no’. I was happy in Morocco and did not really feel like moving, so I was trying to get rid of the tickets until I had a moment of inspiration which saw me booking tickets to Holland picking up a friend of mine in Amsterdam and flying to Dublin to watch U2. I went to U2 because I thought it would be a cool way to spend a day. You know when U2 is playing Dublin because Dublin is playing U2 – in its bars, and in its hearts. I was not a fan of their new album – I say was because I probably did not understand it, so I was wondering what the concert would be like. The crowd was 80 000 strong. We arrived about a half an hour before U2 arrived, after spending time on the streets, and jagged our way through the crowd to find the friends from South Africa who were there already. There were a few beady eyes as some of those had been waiting. Our friends had been waiting about an hour and a half so had quite a good spot on the field about 30 metres from the massive claw, that is part of the stage for the 360 tour. It is called the 360-degree tour because usually the stage is in the middle of the audience but in Croke Park it was at the front. At about 9:00 PM Larry Mullin started banging away, Edge moved slyly on, Adam Clayton appeared out of nowhere, Bono came forward to greet the crowd – they just started playing, maybe a little shyly – but that existed for a moment. U2 sold out 3 nights in a matter of minutes. Well they sold out all around the Europe in a couple of minutes. They started with some of their new songs, unpretentiously, not trying to push the music – it had received some bad reviews.The sun started setting as they kicked back into their old stuff. Magnificent – was the last of a set off the new album that went like this – Breathe, No Line On The Horizon, Get On Your Boots, and ended with Magnificent – I knew I liked the new album after this set. They then went on with Beautiful Day, Blackbird, Elevation, Desire, Stuck In A Moment, Until the End of the World, The Unforgettable Fire, City of Blinding Lights, Vertigo, Crazy Tonight – The crowd did not understand it at the beginning but at the end it was pandemonium – have a watch on YouTube – it is worth it – takes a while to heat up but I loved it from the start. It is going to become a big club anthem.
Stuck in a Moment, With or Without You, Sunday Bloody Sunday, Pride, MLK, Walk On, You’ll Never Walk Alone, Where the Streets Have No Name, Bad ended it. I have never seen awesome like that before. They moved in and out of songs with the rhythm of perfect s*x. I felt a euphoria that I have not experienced without aid, just 4 guys on a stage (admittedly the most expensive stage that has ever been built – and a mind f*ck all on its own), but I hardly noticed it. I just listened to the music, jumped, danced a little, and sang with everything I had. At times I felt like one of 80 000 or so people at the concert backed by the 4 million or so people in Dublin when Bono spoke about Hill 16. Ireland is a land that has fought for its freedom and values its people. There is nothing like a hometown hero come home in Ireland. My friend turned to me midway through, and said, “It’s great to be alive.” It is a bit foolish to talk about God and a rock band but musicians might be the voices of God. It felt like that to me on a Friday night in Dublin.
I know I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy
I watched the rugby South Africa vs. New Zealand first tri-nations test in an Irish pub and was surprised to hear some of the South African’s around me tell me that it is not such a great team This is the same team that won the World Cup, it has won (well most of it) two super 14’s, it beat the lions badly in the first test, and had one of the greatest comebacks I have seen to win the second test and the series and it will be a real surprise if we don’t win this tri-nations – not because we ought to but because we deserve to. Let me say something for those of you South African’s who are still a little bit in doubt – this team is the best team in the world – they might be rivalling for one of the best teams of all time. The bench might be a little soft, but there is not one player in the starting line up that I would trade with any other player in the world. You might want O’Driscoll or a fit Daniel Carter; but that’s about it. I think sometimes the results of sport and stuff like that is made up of the energy that comes from those who support in your own hometown – your own tribe. When watching U2 with a Dublin crowd you realise this.
And then it was to Amsterdam – Amsterdam is Amsterdam. It shows you what you need to know. I have only one warning about Amsterdam – get out after five days. After that if you are a narcissist of any form you will never leave. Set yourself a limit on time and leave or you will be destined to remain – there are worse places to remain by the way.
I am on day 3 in Amsterdam and I find myself in Vondel Park – doing what you think I am – but probably not
Keep it real out there.
Guitarist and instrument innovator Les Paul
He died of complications from pneumonia at a New York hospital, his lawyer Michael Braunstein said.
Paul had been a dominant force in the music business since the Second World War.
He and wife Mary Ford enjoyed a string of hits in the 1940s and 1950s that included Mockin’ Bird Hill and How High the Moon.
A passionate tinkerer, he created one of the first solid-body electric guitars in 1941, and went on to pioneer multi-track recording.
Paul played a key role in the birth of rock and roll in the early 1950s when he teamed up with Gibson.
The groundbreaking design became the template for the manufacturer’s best-selling electric – the Les Paul model.
Introduced in 1952, the instrument continues to be held in the highest esteem.
Fans include the likes of Slash, Pete Townshend and Jimmy Page.
Slash is famous for playing Gibson’s best-selling guitar
Paying tribute, Stoke-on-Trent-born Slash said: “Les Paul was a shining example of how full one’s life can be.
“He was so vibrant and full of positive energy. I’m honoured and humbled to have known and played with him over the years, he was an exceptionally brilliant man.”
Jazz guitarist Pat Metheny added: “It is hard to over-estimate the impact that Les Paul has had on our culture.”
Although he started out as a jazz guitarist, Paul’s experiments with multi-track recording revolutionised music.
After leaving school at 17, he found work in radio bands under the stage name of Rhubarb Red and by 1934 he was in Chicago doing both jazz and hillbilly acts.
His achievements came in spite of injuries sustained in a car accident in Oklahoma in 1948.
His right arm and elbow were shattered but he convinced doctors to set his broken arm in the guitar-strumming and cradling position.
Paul had also survived an earlier near-death experience when he almost electrocuted himself during an experimental session in the cellar of his Queens apartment in 1940.
The Usual Suspects
The bad guy: The infamous Keyser Soze is one of the baddest men on the planet, and the mere mention of his name strikes fear into the hearts of men, especially those in the criminal world.
How he wins: By pretending to be a dim, crippled man named Verbal Kint, Soze is able to simply walk out of the police station despite the fact that he’s murdered many people, including children. As Verbal tells Special Agent Kujan, “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn’t exist.”
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
The bad guy: Well, it’s a bad girl in this case – Nurse Ratched, who runs a mental institution and rules over her patients with an iron fist. Even though the patients clearly have mental problems, Nurse Ratched treats them all like crap, never once showing an ounce of sympathy.
How she wins: McMurphy made significant progress in galvanizing the patients to stand up to Nurse Ratched, but it just wasn’t enough. Sure, Chief Bromdem escapes, but not before McMurphy is labotomized and Ratched presumably regains control over the institution.
If knitting graffiti is not exactly your vibe, then perhaps long-exposure photography and a spraycan-shaped tagging tool is.
Halo Light looks like an aerosol can, but instead of getting you quality time with Boytjie and a free night’s stay in Caledon Square – you’ll be creating legal art thanks to a pressure sensitive LED light at the business end of the rechargable cylinder.
Add the darkness of night, a Nikon D70 on a Manfrotto tripod, a spark of creativity and a good bottle of Tamboerskloof Syrah into the mix – and you’re the master of all you survey.
Does a product get better than this – it takes something that normally is a bit of a pain in the ass and makes it very easy! Its so simple yet so brilliant – well done!
Looking to grow your own vegetable garden but afraid you don’t have a green thumb? Chris Chapman’s Roll-Out Veg Mat could be just the solution you’re searching for. The corrugated cardboard mat is sowed with four types of vegetable seeds and organic fertilizer all ready to be rolled out – all you need to do is add water and soil. Chapman plans to create different mats for different seasons, keeping in step with changing growing cycles. Complete with fun graphics and instructions, Chapman’s design makes gardening much more approachable to budding green thumbs.
(As editor i need to keep you all in check – so if you have missed the first two parts – GO BLOODY CATCH UP!!! – ok now you can go on reading!)
Around the park are a couple of dusty cafes, with Moroccans huddled together. It is very basic – this part of the Medina. There is no visible wealth. The fact that I am from South Africa was greeted with interest, but nothing else. From the roof top balcony of the Hotel De Centrale you can see why this people does not feel a bond with the rest of Africa – the city is Middle Eastern, burnt out, plaster not paint, age and sun.
This people once ruled the world.
There is a mosque called the Hassam II Mosque commissioned by the king in Casablanca, which is worth seeing. It has the majesty of old, and makes you think that maybe religion does have something to do with God (and a chequebook). Casablanca is not anything, by the way, like the movie, which was filmed by American studios on a set built by migrant labour. Rick’s Bar is all that survives from the movie or some kind of replica of it. It is a poor attempt at a replica. You can’t wear Haviana’s there. The doormen, with a flip folder of cartoon pictures of incorrect dress, explained this to me in the most supercilious manner. It struck me as curious that the French might have left their sweaty mark in this manner.
We all need to be or live in a city with great coffee. The coffee is great on the square just outside the hotel, or in any other little street, of any part of Morocco (by the way) – a café noir being the espresso equivalent served in a glass – a muchi muchi (or something like that) is an espresso with milk that arrives unmixed – it is for those needing something a little longer. In the morning they serve you toasted flat dough bread, singed at the edges, with butter and strawberry jam. It felt good to be back on the road in the first few days discovering mint tea, eating tagines, reading, sleeping, and coming to terms with my new life.
It felt good. The freedom.
I read Alexander, the first part of the trilogy by Valerio Massimo Manfredi. It ended when Alexander (about 17 by myth) takes over the Kingdom of Macedon after the murder of his father, at the start of his journey ‘to conquer the world’. It was a journey that would leave him dead, and have his name spoken about for eternity. It is a strange twist of fate that when the name lives, the human often doesn’t. I looked out over the port of Casablanca after finishing the book. I am Alexander I thought – maybe a little older and less prone to killing, but Alexander just the same. My road is open you see – there is nothing set in front of me – nothing but life and today.
The fourth night, after watching a magnificent South African soccer team lose against those f*cking Brazilians (I watched the game in a local Moroccan coffee shop drinking mint tea), I was pissed off. I can’t be critical of South Africa – they were almost flawless, but the point is it was a bad omen. The first. I then held a discussion with a Moroccan who said he was a cab driver from California. His accent was as phony as his attempt to look interested in my conversation.
“Hey I want to continue talking to you – should we go for a walk in the Medina?”
After I saw the concierge or doorman of our hotel with a finger pointed at his head, pistol like, I started to feel a little bit uncomfortable. I imagined those things that happened here or is it in Brazil where kids lose a lung, or a heart (the unlucky ones). It was after I saw the large cockroach (I am not really afraid of cockroaches but I know people who are) that I booked into the Hyatt. A quick travel hint when hitting your first Hyatt, don’t show up with bags all over your shoulders sweating from the 5 minute walk from the cabs door into the reception of the hotel. I slept badly after watching the death of Michael Jackson on TV. I had not thought about TV once before I saw the big flat screen LG. The Hotel De Centrale did have a small TV in the top left hand corner of the room, but somehow it would have seemed wrong if it actually worked. A vodka and red bull in the Hyatt mini bar, which automatically adds to your bill (weight sensor) costs about what I had spent on all the coffees and mint teas around the Medina the 4 previous days. The Hyatt costs about the same as 10 days in a joint not so corporate. Well why not – I do have a little money – I did slave for about 10 years in the corporate world – so I am allowed a little indulgence in the general sense but the Hyatt was a bit of a hollow indulgence. It seemed a little plastic. The next day when I was driven by the hotel car to the bus station, at exactly the right time, after the concierge informed me of the bus schedule and location of the bus, I realised that sometimes a little hollow indulgence works.
I picked Essaouria as my next destination because it was south and it was on the coast. I read a book written by a mentor of mine on the bus. He does not know he is a mentor. I don’t I ever told him. ‘Ways of Staying’ is a South African story about the tragedies that exist in a third world country (or any country for that matter) trying to come to terms with a destructive past. I finished the book and put it down with a deep breath. The world feels like a tragic place after reading a book like that. When I put it down a girl who was the Moroccan twin of Ugly Betty asked if she could read it. I gave the book to her.
“Where are you staying?” Ugly Betty asked as we got off the bus.
“Not sure.” I said.
“But there is a musical festival?”
I knew nothing about it. This was a town that was a little South of Casablanca on the coast. I don’t really research where I am going next. Time is on my side.
“You don’t know there is a music festival?” She was amazed.
No was inevitable.
At that moment Hamid appeared at the bottom of the stairs with a card of a hotel to stay, and I knew when I saw him that he would reveal all. He had the look of an honest man, even if he was just a boy. That night the air in the apartment Hamid had found me was painted with the smell of kif, smoke, incense and spilled white wine. The view was of the sky. The spilled white wine was because my mate sent me off with a Swiss army knife holding a memory stick (or removable disk), and no wine opener – this new world is often not so practical. Trying to find a wine opener in Morocco is a little like trying to find perfect balance. The only thing to do was break the top. If you should do this, a travel tip is to try and do this over the sink. It might work better. You should not really spill liquor in a Muslim’s house the Americans would have you believe.
That leads me to yesterday – my second day in Essaouria and a day at the beach – the sun on my back for the first time in a couple of months. The sun is strong, in that African way, but it does not burn, like the sun in Europe – maybe Africa looked after its side of the ozone a little bit more. Oh I did run into Ugly Betty at the music festival. At that stage I was in the VIP area and she was standing there behind the balustrade at the back. The world must have seemed very unfair to Ugly Betty at that moment, what with unknowing me in the VIP area and her behind the balustrade, but she didn’t appear fazed.
That was the concert last night and now it is today. It might be a little mixed up and hard to follow but it is a diary on the road and I am tired at the moment. I am working on a couple of other very important works of literature too.
I am a writer you see.
Peace, goodwill and aluta continua
Imagine just for a second – you wake up in the morning – you take your elevator onto the roof of your beach side mansion – stretch – have a single shot espresso and climb onto your chopper. Where are you going to create billions during the day – just a few short minutes away hidden in the beautiful forest is your working kingdom – your entrepreneurial domain – the place where you manufacture GENIUS!
Welcome to your office!
One look at this office nestled amid the treetops and you might contemplate how to change your life in order to have a workspace with such an incredible view. Peter Frazier, a customer experience consultant, decided after years of working at an office and gaining over 50 pounds that he needed to make a change in his life – so he built this incredible office in the woods. Set amongst the trees above Chuckanut Bay in Bellingham, Washington, his lofted cube serves as a workspace and guest room, and it has a green roof on top too.
So today I am standing looking in my eyes in the mirror outside the stained glass windows of the combined toilet and shower of the little apartment, the day after the concert and realise that there is something in them that makes me different now. It is that glow that you see in your eye that can only mean your soul feels the same way – alive – interested – alert – and ready. One week on the road and life in South Africa is a long way away – a parallel alien dimension. Your home is always there with you – you carry it with you in your backpack, giving you relevance, but that’s all it is when you go out on the road – something to prevent you from being unbearably light.
So lets get back to how I found myself looking in my own eyes, a brilliant version of blue (if I say so myself), on a Sunday morning in Essaouria in an apartment round the corner from the bus station.
Desert and history – A destination board and a thought – destination anywhere?
I arrived in Casablanca a week ago. It was as randomly chosen as Morocco.
The customs guard asked me where I was staying when I arrived. He did not want to arrest me and throw me in a Moroccan jail. I was not sure whether I was pleased. I opened my guidebook as if I had looked at it – the edges still neat, white and unread. Hotel De Central was what struck me first. It was cheap, but not the cheapest. I am travelling on a budget, but I used to be an investment banker – so it is not such a budget.
Death, taxes, and scam artist airport taxi drivers – it’s the same thing all over the world.
The Hotel De Centrale is a 3 star youth hostel, maybe even 4 stars, because of location – in the old Medina of Casablanca overlooking the port. Those who have never been in a backpacker’s youth hostel – don’t worry about the star reference – in your world it is a 1 star at best. If you are lucky and Abdul is on duty you will get one of the rooms with the balcony overlooking the port. If you get the other dude, whose name I cannot remember, you will get one of the rooms in the back – dark, but cool in a grimy kind of a way. You take what you get. Maybe after a day or two they will move you if they decide you are worthy. It is usually Abdul who decides this. I was moved the next morning. It could have been my moaning but I thought of it as my worth.
A quick travel hint when hitting your first youth hostel: negotiate upfront the price of the room (never his first price – never) and then ask to see the room that is linked to that price. Don’t show up with bags all over your shoulders sweating from the 5-minute walk from the cabs door into the reception of the hotel. If you should show up like this – like I did – expect that you will get fleeced or the price will be his first; but USD50 is not so bad. There is no fan or aircon. Maybe that’s how they keep the red ones out – or maybe it’s the fact that there’s no alcohol. Sometimes it is worth being hot and sober.
The walls of the rooms are coloured – orange and bright – the decorations authentic and clean. It overlooks a little park – in which I spent a lot of time, reading, chatting to the local kids in broken English and shattered French, and thinking about non-biodegradable litter. A Moroccan park is a 12 by 4 metre hole in the pavement where poorly considered plant and non-biodegradable litter grows. A bunch of white butterflies fly around it as if it was Eden.
Butterflies are a good omen for me.
I was happy to see them.
Beer. A sweet nectar from the gods themselves. A 8,000 year old process of refinement culminated into 12 oz of sublime libation. More than milk, coffee, or even bottle water, beer is the drink of choice!
Only China is has a greater thirst than the YANKS, but they also have an extra billion people’s thirst to quench so with only one fourth of the population, they certainly hold their own.
Of course the US beer industry is a juggernaught. Ranking around 35th on the global GDP list, their beer sales rival nations.
War is expensive, and so is free beer. Although it’s though unlikely to ever see a politician campaign with a “Make beer, not war” slogan, it is good to know that the economics are there to make it happen.
While we are day dreaming about free beer, have you ever wanted a swimming pool full of the stuff? I sure hope not. The logistics of keeping a beer pool fresh and cold, not to mention making sure your drunk buddies don’t pee in it, are mind boggling. But for 4% of the pool owners out there, this dream could be made a reality.
With moon-landing levels of public support, cooperation and diligence, we could get this lasting testament to the wonders of Beer created, and filled too. OK, still day dreaming here, but if you just wanted to visualize 30 teragrams of liquid, here you go. What’s a teragram? It’s a scientific way of saying “that’s fucking heavy!”
Speaking of the moon, where would a visualization attempt be without some reference to the distance to the moon? If its too big for “around the earth x times”‘ then its “to the moon and back x times”. Well this one was quite short of making it to our nearest neighbor, Mars, but this stack of cans tops out at a respectable 4.8 million miles of space. And just for you terrestrial types, that’s around the earth 185 times. But really, what a waste of beer.
Here we go, socialism I can support. Seriously though, here is our yearly consumption as it relates to you. You don’t drink, well that’s two beers a day for your neighbor. Your wife doesn’t drink? Three beers a day for your neighbor. Grandma never touches the stuff? Well then you get the idea. You might want to check in on your neighbor though, he may have a problem.
And finally, here is our yearly consumption and how it related those less fortunate. It’s all about resources, though I doubt even the starving could choke down malted meals five nights a week. Yes the United States is wealthy and enjoys the good life, but just imagine the destruction and carnage that would occur with a nation full of sober and serious people. The hungry masses just might agree.
I really do wish adverts would say what they really should – i mean enough nonsense if you use this you will look ten years younger, or your smell will make the other sex fall down stairs etc etc – CONSUMERS are DUMB we know that but atleast give them a break from being morons every once in a while! Here are a couple with the CORRECT pay off lines!
Who said Oz was boring? I mean surely it must be tremendously stimulating if you resort to making the Mona Lisa out of COFFEE – yes yes there are different amounts of milk and probably sugar which is really really interesting – never the less very creative work and makes for interesting blogging! So well done to the arb ozzie who has enough time to create such art – can i get mine black no sugar please – and preferably on the corner at VIDA on a fridaya – Thanks!