The Lemon presents: A European Travel Guide

Fine Cuisine

Go. Read.

Ah, Leni Riefenstahl died.

That's too bad. I hear Arafat's looking for a publicist.

Glamour and festiveness have, indeed, been missing lateley from the lethargic european political scene. But our buddies Black Jaques Chirac and Gerhard "Piano Man" Schrder are party kind of guys.

German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder, left, and French President Jaques Chirac, right, enjoy a beer on their way to a bilateral summit in Dresden

Ok, so drinking a beer on the way to a meeting is certainly acceptable. What went on the rest of the day? Let's see!

French President Jacques Chirac and German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder (R) exchange a handshake in front of the famous Dresden castle Zwinger

Hmm. Ok, more photo-ops. Nothing unusual. But that sure is a funny salute that guard's giving in the background, isn't it?

French President Jacques Chirac (front L) and French Foreign Minister Dominique de Villepin (front R) meet with German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder (rear L) and German Foreign Minister Joschka Fischer

Ok, now we're getting down to business. A meeting in which they accomplished nothing, except agreeing to block a UN resolution or two. Now, notice that Chirac is looking for the waitress, and Schrder is lustfully eyeing Dominique de Villepin (who is a man).

...and after the meeting?

French president Jacques Chirac and German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder (L) enjoy a beer in a street bar in the eastern town of Dresden, after their for informal talks about the situation in Iraq and in the middle-East, and the future European constitution

Whew! It's Miller Time! Look at the EYES, kids. These ol' boys are hammered. Blotto. 'Faced. And so, the evening winds down, and what's the normal ending for a night out drinking with europeans?

French president Jaques Chirac and German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder (L) argue venomously over the tip they should leave the waitress. The next day, Chancellor Schroeder formally apologized for calling Chirac an 'Effeminate lowlife tightwad frog-eating surrender-monkey'

Well, politics as usual here at the be EU!

UPDATE: Fixed links and various misspellings of 'Jaques Chirac' and 'Gerhard'

It's all true. If you're look for hot, naughty Nazi-on-Nazi action, look no further than The Pink Swastika.

Excerpt:

At the door of the Bratwurstgloeckl, a tavern frequented by homosexual roughnecks and bully-boys, Roehm turned in and joined the handful of sexual deviants and occultists who were celebrating the success of a new campaign of terror. Their organization, once known as the German Workers Party, was now called the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, The National Socialist German Workers Party the Nazis.

Frightening. Startling. Strangely, damningly arousing.

(Found via jimgoad.com)

From the mentally challenged Sariah:

What do you get from spreading hate? You are no better than any murderer, killer, rapist or whatever under ANY religion. Because they all had HATE in their hearts and chose to spread it.

Are you insane? Sorry, but murdering and raping is still worse than mocking religious fundamentalists and theocrats. Your rhetoric is childish, and your ideas under-developed. You probably watch too much television. You are a religious nut-case.

There. Is that as bad as raping and killing someone? Let go of your black-and-white worldview. That is actually much more dangerous than spreading nasty, wicked, negative thoughts over a blog that nobody reads anyway.

When an american sees something on the ground, he picks it up and throws it.

A european kicks it.

When an american has a stick in his hand, he hits something with it.

A european throws it for his dog.

There is a special skill set that belongs to americans. I know this, because I was at baseball practice in Germany tonight. It's not genetically specific, it's just a matter of habit.

I've heard, and to a lesser extent experienced, that when you catch a fly ball, you solve over 50 differential equations. You must place your glove in the exact spot that a ball, spinning 1000 times per minute and travelling at 90 feet per second, will land that starts its journey 250 feet away from you at, often enough, a random azimuth.

You do all of this with fuzzy logic.

Here's fuzzy logic: Ball (with bat): Ping

You: Shit, I'm not even close to where that thing is going to land. I shall run in the rough direction that ball is headed.

Ball: Whoosh.

You: Correction; I shall veer a little to the left in order to intercept that ball's course in relation to my own.

Ball: Falling...

You: Shit, I'm about 3.1 meters away from the ball, which shall hit the ground and make me look like an ass.

Ball: Ha! I shall win this contest between object reality and man!

You: The hell you will! I shall dive and catch the ball, proving once and for all that man is superior to inert horsehair and cowhide, and thereby receive the affirmation of my peers!

You dive. Perhaps you catch the ball, and if so, good on ya, mate.

The point is, you tried to catch the ball. It was important to you. It was a brief juxtaposition of wills, yours against the batters against the pitchers. There's nothing more rewarding than catching a fly ball that should've been a hit off a pitch that should'Ve been a strikeout. It's the human drama, cubed.

I love baseball. But there's an assumption that goes along with baseball that escapes some people. It's like the assumption among ice hockey players that everyone can skate. Catching a ball isn't easy. But, with enough practice, it's the most trivial thing in the world, like ice skating. Hitting a ball is just as hard, and also just as easy: Just leave the bat on your shoulder, wait for the pitch, and then just...hate the ball. The ball comes at you, threatening you and your family. The ball is your enemy at this moment, and you need it as far away as possible. Don't think about leaving your hands back, or rotating your hips at the right moment. These things will fall into place as soon as you accept that you have an aluminum club in your hands and there's a baseball in front of you that's bent on world domination. This ball is a terrorist, and needs to be taught a lesson or two. Stay relaxed, confident. Let the bat sit on your shoulder, level and potent. Keep your eye on the ball as it comes toward you, tighten your grip, and then with speed, speed, speed, let the ball meet Mr. Bat. Swing through the ball as if it wasn't even your target.

When you hit a ball on the 'sweet spot' of the bat, you don't even feel that you've hit it. You just get the satisfaction of the sound (ping!), and the second or two to watch the ball fly, repentant, to the outfielders who will outsmart it just as I've outlined it before. It's the genius of the game, as complex as science in its simplicity. It's the minimalistic beauty that turns the smearing of filth on a piece of cloth into The Last Supper, or the Mona Lisa.

It is truth, and beauty, and it is as much an american value as the Garden of Earthly Delight is a Dutch Masterpiece. It is the culmination, the satisfaction of a million thoughts that you've performed so often they become as language. A laugh, a joke, an exclamation. These are human things, and the best of things.

God, I love baseball.