The National Single Cougars Convention – Younger Men meet Older Women

Dinah’s Garden Hotel, Palo Alto.

Hercules, Sampson, Achilles, Maximus...none of them ever tore a phone book in half with their bare hands.

Displays of brute strength are pretty useless. That’s the point of them. In our regular, sit-in-a-chair-and-stare-at-a-computer lives, we don’t need brute strength one bit (until someone asks you to help them move and you can’t think of a good excuse quickly enough). Even physical jobs don’t really require brute strength. You know what requires it? Being a gladiator. And that’s why men like to display useless brute strength. (Kinda like how women like to put pics with cleavage up on facebook, only less subtle). It shows the world that, even though we don’t have to fight to the death with lions and evade chariots with spinning blades on the wheels, we could if we wanted to.

Notice the two distinct halves of a big freakin phone book.

Tearing a phone book in half with your bare hands takes the useless scale slider all the way over past drawing an elephant by holding a magic marker in your butt and squatting over a piece of paper (though that would be really impressive and actually is done in some shows in Thailand).  But you know what? I don’t care. It’s a primitive, neanderthal-ic show of bravado and I love showing people and telling them about it because, though the world may slap me silly like a fur coat and feathered fedora wearing ho handler, I can still take my frustrations out on a phone book. And the best you can do is wrinkle it a little and get a paper cut. Pansy.

If you want to learn the tricks, I give lessons. Tearing a phone book will:

• Help you get laid
• Fast track your career
• Earn you the envy and worship of most of the world’s computer programmers

To fast track your career, get drunk and do it at your next business event. Everyone will remember you. It’s important to be drunk so you can ignore the pain in your hands and the fact that you’re sweating all over people at a cocktail party.

Me in my new pad

Besides having a note from my doctor that says I’m certifiably lazy, I just got back from Italy AND I moved. Actually, I’m still moving. 3 weeks and counting. At least twice a day during that time, I’ve asked the obligatory question: how did I get so much freakin shit!? I’ve tossed or given away more than half of what was in my old apartment and like freaky little clowns stuffed in a hippie mobile jabbing each other in the crotch with knees and elbows, I keep pulling out more shit! I’m beginning to think the best way to finish up is to take a flamethrower to what’s left in the old apartment.

Ironically, in a twisted sort of way, my old stuff doesn’t do a very good job of filling up the new, bigger space. I need: bookshelves, trunks, a plant, two throw rugs, a dresser and maybe a recliner. Oh, and an entertainment center and new TV. Unfortunately, none of those things were the things I threw away from my old place.

Other than not having enough stuff, this is the perfect bachelor realm. The back yard has a big patio and is tiered down a hill leaving different levels that are perfect for things like tables, a grill, an outdoor bar, an ice sculpture and maybe a couple of benches for smoking cigars and drinking digestivi on a warm, Indian Summer eve. Oh yeah, and I need patio furniture and benches. And cigars. And a grill. Dammit! It’s expensive having a yard! I’ll have to make the ice sculpture myself.

Class

The best part is that I have the coolest little cubby hole in the wall in my room that is perfect for some old books that make me look smart and a liquor cabinet with all of the booze in decanters like the guys in Mad Men have in their offices. Maybe I’ll even get a smoking jacket.

In the mean time, here are a couple of pics of what the living room actually looks like so far. And one of me trying to walk into my bathroom without turning sideways…

Dad, Kristyan and friends

church was late because it was too big to fit up the tiny little streets to the church, no one knew exactly how we were going to enter or exit the church, when we’d be doing readings or anything else. And no one seemed to care one bit. When you don’t have a plan, it’s impossible for things not to go according to plan.

The proudest father in Italy

We went to Franco’s house for refreshments before the wedding. Because of the previous night’s thunderstorms it was hot and the air stuck to us all like wet kleenex. The women were fanning themselves and the men were sweating through their shirts, and there was really nothing any of us could do about it. Living in the Bay Area we’re rarely faced with just standing around helplessly sweating. I got to peek in at my sister standing upstairs looking absolutely beautiful next to a portable air conditioner to keep her perfect hair and makeup from melting. She looked radiant as the girls revolved around her adjusting and admiring. Yesterday, she was the most beautiful woman in Italy. Snf.

Once the shuttle finally found a way up the hill to the church, Maico handed me a bible in English with the page marked for the reading I was going to do, and we didn’t have more than 30 seconds worth of conversation about how we were all going to walk down the aisle. The flower girls and ring boys were arranged, and we just did it. The priest did his thing and people stood up when they thought they should, said their Amens and it was pretty painless. The kids loved the part after where they got to throw rice at Zio & Zia (uncle and aunt). They liked it so much that when they ran out of rice they started grabbing handfuls from the ground and re-throwing it. Kristyan’s friends, the 35 year old kids, had just as much fun pelting the couple as the little kids did.

Only my mom and my sister know what might have been wrong with the reception. To the rest of us, it was perfect. The tables were candlelit under the tents be the river. The kids were fascinated by the lights floating in the fountain surrounded by cushions. After cocktails, at the American tables, everyone was a little nervous about which courses they were going to like and which ones they were going to skip, but it ended up that everyone had so much fun deciphering what each dish was that only the carne cruda (horse carpaccio) went untouched on a few plates.

There was no real delineation between food and dancing. After the speeches, between courses, it just started organically. Franco, his brother and their wives started out with an impressive tango, and then once Staying Alive played, everybody was up in a mass of moving arms and legs. Once it started, it kept up right to the end. Some people would rotate out to go eat the next course then get back up and get moving again.

Little kids running all over the place, bigger kids sipping grappa and smoking cigars from the

No ties left once the dancing started

cigar table in the back, the crazy energy of three and four generations of people letting loose together on the dance floor…the natural party atmosphere didn’t really need any planning. It just emanated from the people. Italians just do weddings right and if I hadn’t experienced this, I’d never have known just how much better they do it. They have a natural gift for making a party anywhere, anytime.Everything went so imperfectly perfect.

I’m so happy that my little sister got to spend one of the most special days of her life surrounded by such caring and buoyant people and I know all of us who came from the US got to experience something that we’ll never forget.

The Accident

An entire day in the wine country around Asti and Alba as well as the picnic and tour that the Goggiano brothers who own the Goggiano winery gave us on Thursday was overshadowed by a surreal car accident involving the cars driven by Kristyan, his father and two other cars.

Rantal car #1: down

Tailgating is commonly accepted practice in Italy. Cars just hover a few inches from the back bumper of the person in front of them waiting for on coming traffic to slow so they zip around. In this case, three of them in a row anxiously tried to find a way around one station wagon that just wasn’t hauling enough ass. It was a tenuous relationship which fell apart when someone stepped out into a crosswalk in front of all four. The first and second cars (slow driver and Papa) stopped just inches from each other. The guy behind Papa, didn’t stop, and neither did Kristyan. The whole thing happened in a split second and, as the non-tailgating American, I was able to stop in plenty of time as I saw Kristyan’s car fishtail and smack the car in front of him in a cloud of smoke and dust.

My parents and Kelly were in my car, but the rest of the family and friends were in the two cars who’d been in the accident. The sickening crunch was too loud and the cloud of dust was too big. This was more than a fender bender. It’s amazing how efficient you can be when you’re pumped full of adrenaline and time seems to be standing still. We got the hazards on and had everyone out of the two cars. The accident happened right in front of a bar so we could get everyone in and sit them down. My aunt Jeannette took the worst of it, smacking her nose pretty good and ending up

Fiat sandwich

with a sore back, a couple black eyes and some cuts on her leg. Kristyan also tore up his legs and took an airbag to the chin, but other than that, the paramedics just doled out some precautionary neckbraces. My 85 year old grandpa was as calm as could be through the whole thing. When I jumped out of our car and ran to open his door he was sitting there as coolly as if he were waiting for a stoplight.

After a few hours in an Italian hospital waiting for x-rays, we were on our way. On the bright side, we made the front page of the Asti local newspaper.

One rental car: destroyed. So just to be balanced, I scraped all the pain off of the back fender of the other one while pulling it out of the little garage space at the hotel. Kelly says my family is going to be banned from Avis.

Straight from the hospital to the bachelor party with a quick 10 minute stop at the hotel for a shower.

The Bachelor Party

Imagine a bunch of guys belting out songs, hugging and kissing a lot. No, it wasn’t a seedy off broadway show, it was an Italian bachelor party. And, you know, it actually started to make sense. The destination was a surprise, so I’m thinking maybe strip club or fancy restaurant, but as we wound our way up into the hills and parked our array of fiats in every little nook and cranny on the gravel driveway, I realized we were at an agriturismo with an incredible view of the surrounding country side. I didn’t get any pics of the view because all the action was in the open courtyard where they had a long table and an old stone grill full of meats waiting for us. It had a mafiosi feel to it. The jeweler was at one end, the chief of police in Asti, some other guys who were really well dressed but very vague about what they did for a living.

Wine flowed, the grilled sausage, chicken, ribs and steak were full of flavor without anything more than a brushing of olive oil and some herbs. We ate, took cigarette breaks and then came back to eat more. Maico busted out the guitar when we were done eating and started up the singing. i can’t really describe this part. Just look at the pics and you’ll see what that looks like. They must of done 10 or 15 songs and they all knew the words to all of them. My friends would have to practice for 6 months to do that.

We moved on to the only bar open late in Asti. It was a beautiful open stone courtyard with bean bags positioned around square lanterns and low tables. I have no idea what it was called, but I know one thing: they had a nearly limitless supply of rum. And we tried hard to find the limit. As for the details: what happens in Asti, stays in Asti. Enjoy the pics.

Starting to realize we're lost.

into and I have to really suck in the gut to squeeze out the door). The box is just down the street from the hotel  and Kristyan suggested I just wait out in front the parking garage while he picked up my parents in front of the hotel. But Kel and I decided we’d swing around the block and come back to the hotel. It was just around the block, how hard could it be?

We whizzed through tiny cobble stone streets with buildings just a few feet from the side mirrors and got trapped in a web of one way streets. We were totally on the right track to get back to the hotel, but it was the roads that just kept curving the wrong way. By the time I recognized something, I realized we were in a beautiful piazza with one of the thousand old churches in Asti. On the other side of town.

My sister called to find out what the hell was taking us so long. When she found out where we were, she said “wait there. We’ll come to you.” I felt a little better knowing that Kristyan had to call his friend for directions to the Piazza, too. If I had just a couple more minutes, I swear I would have been able to find my way back to the hotel.

When we finally got to Casa D’Angelo, his mom and dad began carting out course after course of delicious food, most of which, you’d be hard pressed to find in the US. And if you did, it wouldn’t be nearly as good. Franco, Kristyan’s dad, took great pleasure in bringing me a second helping of each course whether I agreed to it or not. The headliners of the dinner were braised horse, carne cruda (horse carpaccio), lightly fried squash blossoms, cheese flan, orecchiette with a light tomato sauce that slaps the finest American restaurant silly, peppers stuffed with prosciutto and cheese and a lasagna made with eggplant instead of noodles. We all ate a week’s worth of food in one sitting.

“How do they eat like this?” My mom asked.

“They don’t. Franco only ate about half the courses?” They just liked stuffing the Americans.

Desert was a domed cake with all sorts of goodies, chocolate cream and ladyfingers soaked in liquor. The problem is that even down to the very last course, all of the food is better than anything at home so it’s hard to stop. That recipe is definitely coming home with me. Here are some photos from the evening.

I’d like to tell you all about the rich history of Asti, but I only know what was on the map, so I’ll get back to you after we hit up the tourist center for some info. Until then, here are some shots of what we saw.

I wanted to write more, but it’s hot and my natural Italian laziness is magnified by being in the country of my ancestors.

Historical Pimpin’

Pimpin’ Italian Living

Check out the map down to the right for locations of the hot spots. I’ll be recording images and thoughts of a couple of wineries, three of the most mouthwatering restaurants I’ve ever been to, a local market, the medieval city of Lucca and the beaches of Sestri Levante and Portofino. There will also be pics of all of the great people of Asti that we meet who are becoming both my friends and my family.

Of course, I’ll post plenty of gorgeous, sultry Italian eye candy, too.

I would have been done after the warmup.

They also look genetically enhanced when compared to the Mexican team. We were practically on the field on the Inter side when they team came out to warm up. My first thought was “wow, these guys are big…they’re, like, real athletes”. The only guy on Inter under 6′ was a Colombian defender with legs like fire hydrants and an apparently very vindictive streak. Otherwise, most of them were 6’1″ to 6’5″ – not exactly the skinny little soccer players I had in mind.

The Mexican fans were out in a sea of yellow force. There were 31 thousand fans in a stadium that holds 50 thousand, so it wasn’t anywhere near full but you couldn’t tell from the crowd noise. We were firmly entrenched in the Inter Milan cheering section, but I could see the Mexicans behind the opposite goal firing off a continual spray of yellow smoke bombs. The guy a few seats down said it best when he said: “I’m a die hard Niner fan, but I’d never even consider bringing a red smoke bomb to a game.” There is definite difference between American fanhood and international fanhood.

The Strategy: When in Doubt, Fall Down

Yay Mexico!

After a few minutes of watching little Mexicans wildly attacking and big Italians methodically breaking them down, I started to figure out what was going on. Much of the offense seemed to be a series of give and goes and backdoor cuts like you’d see in basketball. The real fun came when there was contact. Sometimes it was violent contact, sometimes it was barely a finger on a jersey, but either way, both players involved would immediately collapse to the ground writhing in agony until an official was forced to make a call of some kind because the game had stopped. After the call, the player that benefitted would jump up as if nothing had happened and the other player would commence passionately complaining. It happened every single time. If a player was indecisive, he might stay on his feet for a moment before making sure he had the official’s attention and then throw himself to the ground. It was quite fascinating. A Mexican player even got tossed with a red card for kicking the goalie and then falling to the ground and delaying the game by acting like the goalie had injured his leg with his face. There was a makeup call a few minutes later where an Italian was tossed for barely scraping the jersey of a Mexican player. Crappy make up calls don’t only happen in the NBA.

Apparently a soccer god, Ibrahimovich.

The Norse God of Soccer

A huge cheer went up when a tall lanky Swede with long hair came jogging out of the Inter locker room during the second half. Alejandro informed me that it was Slatan Ibrahimovich, Inter’s superstar scorer. This guy definitely had things figured out. Come out to a standing O more than half way through the game, play no D, don’t really run around much, just sort of stand in a glow as your teammates strive to get you the ball in a scoring position. He didn’t score, but in his defense, he was lightning quick and clearly talented when he did get the ball even at probably 6’5″.

Touchy-Feely Fans

Regulation ended in a tie and the players were sort of milling around waiting to see if they would have a shootout since it was an exhibition game. A girl from the crowd rushed out on the field and went around huggin each of the Inter players. They seemed OK with it, and security seemed confused. They didn’t stop her till she was done hugging and heading back to the stands. If it were a naked dude, he’d have been flattened two steps from the sideline.

The shootout is a war of attrition coming down to which side will miss the goal first. The goalie pretty much has not chance. Strangely, it was a tall, black, cagey veteran named Viera who missed for Inter and decided the game. Alejandro had just told me that there was no way this guy would miss cuz he was the brains of the offense and had icewater in his veins. And so, the Little Corona Bottles That Could outlasted the juggernaut Italians to make the stadium erupt in Spanish. I might have to start following Futbol.

And some more pics of peeps at the game: