By: Scott Davie      

5/30/03

     The place: Cafe di Commercio. The time: May 29th of 2003, night. The mission: Operation "Talk to Cute Italian Girls."

     The subjects are in sight: two Cagliese girls, ages unknown, standing near the bar. They appear to be going out later that night, judging by the lack of proper attire. Both are smoking cigarettes, their faces silhouetted by the blue smoke. That annoying damn "Chihuaua" song is blasting through the speakers. Wait--they seem to like it. Scratch annoying, replace with "an eclectic, yet oddly satisfying diddy." I spot Meghan, one of the student assistants, chatting with them. I've found my opening; I'm going in.

     The eagle has landed. Strategically placed next to Meghan, I ask in awful Italian what they are all drinking. Oh, you smooth bastard. A giggle comes out of the girls. Meghan explains it's some sort of fruity Italian cocktail with a name I can't pronounce. Ok, so far, so good. But where to from here? Dead end already. S**t! They are already going back to conversation! Mayday! MAYDAY!

     Hold on. Wait a minute. The song "Americano" starts playing on the speakers. I know this song! I start futilely belting out the verses. Desperate times indeed.
     "You know song?!" The brunette speaks enthusiatically.
     "Si, Si!" I reply about as calmly as a cocker spaniel on speed.
     "Keep go!" The blonde says with a giggle.
     Mission accomplished. Sort of. Eh, I'll take it.
         
         
       

6/1/03

Drag Your Mouse Over the Image for the Effects of White Russians

     "Buon Cumpleano a te! Buon Cumpleano a te! Buon Cumpleano a Caroline, Buon Cumpleano a te!"

      And so began the second birthday celebration, the second tequila shot, and the second straight night the wine bar would knock me on my ass faster than a pissed off Mike Tyson. The night started innocently enough; a biera here, a glass of vino there. I believe the night started to go downhill when I figured out how to order a White Russian in Italian. Why is it I always seem to practice my Italian in a bar setting?

     This was no ordinary White Russian, oh no indeed. It was alive, a force, a Cold War Russian army unit whose sole purpose was to destroy my liver. Marching down my throat, singing Russian folk songs on the way, it finally finds my stomach. "Let us in if you want to live!" It threatens in thick Russian accents. Taking its cue from France, my stomach surrenders.

     Fighting its way through, it interrogates the different enzymes. "Take us to your liver!" My stomach bravely fights back; a stalemate ensues, only to be crushed by reinforcements of German beer and Italian hard liquor. I guess old alliances die hard. And so, my valiant stomach lay vanquished as the forces continued strong onto their intended target. They emerged victorious the next morning, in the form of a bass drum in my head. Damn Commies.
         
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