Good bye, Jon Swift

Blogger Jon Swift died on Feb. 27. His mother left this comment on his blog:

I don’t know how else to tell you all who love this blog. I am Jon Swift’s Mom and I guess I’m going to OUT him. He was Al Weisel, my beloved son. Al was on his way to his father’s funeral in VA when he suffered 2 aortic aneurysms, a leaky aortic valve and an aortic artery dissection from his heart to his pelvis. He had 3 major surgeries within 24 hours and sometime during those surgeries also suffered a severe stroke. We, his 2 sisters, his brother, his partner and his best friend since he was 9 years old were with him as he took his last breath. We have all lost a shining start who warmed our hearts, tormented us and made us laugh as he giggled at our pulling something over on us. He passed away on February 27, 2010. My beloved child will live on in so many hearts. I miss him more than I can say. If you are on Facebook, go to organizations and join “Friends of Al Weisel, Unite!” It will give you just a taste of how special he was. Farewell, Jon (Al)

Jon/Al was the best political satirist on the Internet, bar none. His wit and intelligence made his blog a must-read for so many of us. I was fortunate enough to at least share several e-mails with him, and he was always nothing but friendly, kind and supportive. If I needed a favor from him, he came through. If I needed advice, he came through. That’s what he did. He came through. For me and many, many others, both in life and on the blogosphere.

I’m at a loss. And so is everyone who took in his brilliance. My deepest condolences go out to his family, friends and loved ones. We all grieve with you. We all lost someone incredibly special.

Thank you, Jon Swift.

Thank you, Al Weisel.

–WKW

Samba Bill & the Road to Carnival – the complete series

Last year I was luck enough to perform during Carnival in Brazil at Rio de Janeiro’s famed Sambódromo as part of the Imperatriz Leopoldinense Samba School. Below is the five-part series I wrote about the journey.
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I’m huge in Germany

Thus far in 2010, the German media has been much more interested in me than the U.S. Media. To whit, via Frankenpost:

Naila – Seit einigen Jahren betreibt Hans Wolfrum in seiner Freizeit mit Begeisterung Ahnenforschung. So ist es ihm schon gelungen, zahlreiche Kontakte zwischen ehemaligen Nailaer Bürgern, die in den 20er-Jahren ausgewandert sind und heute in den USA leben, und ihren hier lebenden Angehörigen zu knüpfen.

Auch in diesem Jahr ist es Wolfrum, Studiendirektor am Jean-Paul-Gymnasium in Hof, gelungen, zwei Amerikaner auf die Spuren ihrer Familie zu führen. William Wolfrum Senior und Sohn aus Pittsburgh/ Pennsylvania unterbrachen extra ihren Urlaub in Italien, um einen zweitägigen Abstecher nach Naila zu machen. Sie besuchten ihren Cousin Werner Bischoff von der Nailaer Spedition Geis.

I’m “und sohn.” My Hasselhoffian journey is under way.

–WKW

Billy and the Bat-Dog

Billy was afraid of Bats. “Run away!” he’d shreik when he saw one. “It’s a flying Rat!”

But one day Billy stumbled into a Cave, optimistic like a knave. When his wee little eyes adjusted, his mind nearly busted.

“There are Bats everywhere here! I’ve got to get in the clear!”

But as Billy started to flee, his eyes couldn’t believe what they started to see! Right in the middle of those bats so gruesome, was a puppy dog so handsome!

And so Billy took the dog from it’s scary cave and brought him back to his home enclave. And he met Max and Afonso and Duchess and Jack. And the puppy was so happy he knew he’d never go back.

And Billy was happy and named his new Bat-Dog José Aparecido, just to mess with you. But please meet this little dog from the street – if you’re not sure what to say, just call him Zé.

–WKW

Chronicles: The Kindness of German Strangers

Note: This is the first effort in what I will be calling the “Chronicles” which will be essays that will hopefully create a running theme over time. There is no order for these and I have a lot of different subjects to write about, and will be delving more into myself personally, as well. This series will continue, once or twice per week, here at William K. Wolfrum Chronicles.

Chronicles: The Kindness of German Strangers

1.

My Father and I arrived in Germany 85 years after my grandfather had left. Stuck in a depressed, post-WWI Germany, my great-grandfather had left for the United State three years earlier and brought them over in 1924. After years of dallying with a related amount of dillying, my Father and I finally made the trip to see Naila, Germany, the small town (less than 9,000 residents) where my grandfather played and lived as a child. They call Naila and the surrounding area the “Bavarian Siberia,” and it didn’t disappoint. Snow to your knees, a chill in the air. Sausages lining the streets. Yes, this was Germany. We had made it back to our ancestoral homelands, and we were going to meet some long-lost family members.

Prior to our trip, we had been in contact with Hans Wolfrum, a teacher and amateur genealogist, who confirmed that many in the area were related to us one way or another. This was of particular interest to me, because in my 42 years, I’ve met very few relatives from the Wolfrum side of the family. And now here I was in Naila, the city my wife called the “Wolfrum Mecca.” Just walking down the street in Naila, I’d see Wolfrum Autohaus and Wolfrum Granite. After years of being the only Wolfrum around, I was finally surrounded by them.
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Re-Run: The Desire of the Dog

A lot of production value went into this, so I present once again, the epic short film, `Desire Out of Reach`.

–WKW

Where in the world is William K. Wolfrum’s Ipod?

Naila, Germany.

Which is kind of sad, as I am in Siena, Italy.

But that’s OK. Sometimes we like to vacation separately.

–WKW

Where in the world is William K. Wolfrum?

Zurich.

Because a guy’s gotta be somewhere.

–WKW

This one time, on a cruise ship …

[Author's Note: This was originally posted on this site on Jan. 8, 2008. But with my wife, Emilia, out of town and me deep in the throes of missing her (Don't let her know that, tho) I thought it would be a good time for a re-post]

I try not to mention my wife, Emilia, in my work because, well, I don’t know why. She sure as hell talks about me at her work. She has several bits down pat about the adventures of the silly American in a strange land.

Generally, however, I keep Emilia in the background. But I had mentioned a story in a blog post about her innocently (I’ll testify to that in court) about something we did on a cruise ship. I feel like this might be embarrassing for her, but I thought, “hey, If I just write a really sweet post about her first, I’d probably be ok on this one.” If there’s one thing they don’t teach you about marriage, it’s this – variables. Get to know them, and play them.

So anyway, this one time, on a cruise ship …

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Dear Fellow Traveler: I know the downward journey you’re on because I traveled it

Dear Fellow Traveler,

We’ve never met but I know you. Like you, I am an alcoholic. And with the difficult holiday season almost upon us, I thought I’d write to you. Because in a few months, I’ll celebrate my seventh year of sobriety. I have been on the journey to the bottom, and I am still and always will be on the journey back.

Calling you an alcoholic may be presumptuous and even rude on my part, but having been there, I am very aware that those who knew me were very much aware of my own alcoholism long before I was willing to own up to it. So friend, I say this with complete confidence – I feel your pain. I spent many years as a functional alcoholic, often waking up with that terrible hangover that’s accompanied by the guilt that comes with knowing you’ve done something shameful like making a fool of yourself in public or upsetting a loved one. And I know the feeling of what it’s like when the functional part leaves you, and all you’re left with is the alcoholic part.

I know what it’s like to have weekends disappear in a drunken haze. I know what it’s like to lie about why your work is suffering and why you take more sick days than anyone else. I know the feeling of waking up at 2 a.m. half-drunk and half-hungover and being unable to go back to sleep because every fiber in your body feels tensed and stressed and wrong. I know the downward journey that you are on, because I traveled it.

But I know that journey can be turned around and lead to a good place. Because with the help of a loving wife and family, I was able to stop. That was and continues to be a journey of its own, but more than five years into it, it is a journey of love and happiness. It is a journey that has given me restored confidence and a comfort in my own skin that I never had experienced prior.

Like you I have felt terrible humiliation and shame. But those feelings in me are gone now because I was finally honest with myself. Because I knew the journey I was on would end in tragedy. And because, more than anything, I wanted to be better, I wanted to stop drinking.

Now, I recognize my past but I feel no shame for it. And I cannot be shamed or embarrassed for it. Over the years I have taken full responsibility for my alcoholism. And the shame and fear has been replaced with pride and hope. And no one can take those feelings away from me or make me feel bad for traveling this road.

You are not a laughingstock, no matter how many try to make you one. And you are not alone. There are millions and millions of us on the same journey as you, on various stages of the path. And you have it in you to change direction.

Speaking as someone who turned around, let me tell you that it’s obviously not easy, but it is possible. You just have to honestly recognize which way you are heading and embrace it with every aching and tired fiber of your being. It can be done. And trust me when I tell you this – the road back is truly a journey worth taking. But regardless of where you are on your journey, just know that I’m your friend, and I think of you often.

Your friend and fellow traveler,

Bill

Brazilian baby rocking out to YMCA – enough said

My new friend Camilla simultaneously strengthens the stereotypes that all Brazilians can dance, and that no one can resist the Village People and YMCA.

–WKW

Playing Soccer in Brazil – How Hard Could This Be?

Imagine yourself in a bikini contest in Hawaii. You enter thinking, “Hey, how hard could this be?” You put on the most provocative bikini and strut down the catwalk for several scores of drunken revelers who quickly point out all of your flaws:

“Your stomach is too big!”
“Shave your armpits!”
“Put on a robe!”
“Hey, you’re a dude!!”

Now, take all of this humiliation and add a huge helping of physical pain. Then, I believe you will understand how I feel playing soccer against Brazilians.

I love soccer. It’s been one of my biggest joys since moving to Brazil, as the average Brazilian enjoys soccer as much as my Australian Shepherd enjoys chasing after her favorite toy. It seems to be a mindless, instinctual passion they have for the sport.

Now, I’m fairly typical of the average 38-year-old gringo. I believe the only reason I no longer excel at sports is because I just haven’t put the effort into practicing. So, upon coming to Brazil, I embarked on a practice schedule for soccer (OK, once or twice a week I go out and kick a ball around).

A couple months ago, I went down to a commercial soccer complex and started asking people in my broken Portuguese if I could join in their games. Eventually, a group of guys said yes. Since then, every Thursday night I have been on the pitch, playing soccer with a diverse group of Brazilians.

Ah, the lessons I have learned. The teamwork and camaraderie. The Zen-like physical exertion. Ball-handling, passing and shooting.

Mostly, however, one lesson has stayed with me: I suck. I suck really, really bad at soccer.

Once upon a time, I was an above-average athlete. I was an all-star at baseball and played in high school. I also played on the varsity football team and somehow figured out how to make my 5-foot-9 self into a decent basketball player.

Between the ages of 10 and 11, I also played soccer. I was one of the better players, as I recall.

27 years later, I have learned that memory must be a false one. Every Thursday night I go out and play on a decent-sized field. We play six-on-six. Generally, 30 seconds into a game, I am exhausted.

The Brazilians, however, go on some type of autopilot. Players who have never met each other are combining for impressive give-and-go plays. Usually while I stand somewhere on the pitch catching my breath.

Luckily for me, Brazilians tend to be the nicest people on the face of the Earth. I lose the ball. I make bad passes. My shots go wide, or high, or I whiff on the ball all together. I get in my teammate’s way. I make bad defensive plays. I commit fouls. I fall down a lot. Occasionally I hide on the corner of the field and cry in a fetal position.

But the Brazilians are supportive. They cheer me on, in fact. They have consistently turned down my offers to allow them to punch me in the face for my continued lack of form. They choose to talk about my good traits.

When I play, I run as much as my body will allow. I don’t complain. I don’t get down on myself when I make a stupid play. I never bring a gun onto the pitch, thus shattering their stereotype of Americans in at least one sense.

I try to do things well, at least, and once or twice a game, I’ll actually do something decent. I have figured out how to occasionally dribble past a defender. I get in good position on offense. I’ve made passes that set up goals. Defensively, I get in passing lanes.

So the Brazilians don’t seem to mind me. I think they like having an American playing with them. The players on the bench or resting cheer for me to score a goal and give me advice. Someday, due to the law of averages, I will score a goal, and it will likely be pandemonium. It will be my own personal World Cup triumph.

Thanks to them, my secret fantasies of being a good athlete have remained, even accelerated. Sure, after the games, while I lie on my bed suffering from a full-body cramp, I wonder what the point is.

Maybe I’m just a 38-year-old gringo who likes to fit in. Maybe for 90 minutes a week I get to remember what it was like to be 12, when playing sports was everything to me.

Or maybe I’m just trying to get my body to look good in a bikini some day, when I decide to take my humiliation to the next level.

Regardless, I’m having fun. I’m an American in Brazil and, thanks to my new friends, once a week, I am a jogador. Thanks guys. I’ll keep trying.

–WKW

Originally published at The Shoestring on April 5, 2005.

From the Department of Overkill Department

Submitted with bleeding eyes:

Nothing like a safety ad that will freak you out enough to force you to plow into it.

HT Doubleplusundead

–WKW

The best part of wakin’ up … is an erection in your cup

Apparently in Malaysia, they like their coffee strong. Strong like bull.

Malaysian authorities have confiscated 900 boxes of coffee laced with Viagra, a newspaper report said.

Health ministry officials raided a company in Kuala Lumpur that marketed the coffee as an energy booster, The New Straits Times reported did not say whether the package labelled Viagra as an ingredient.

Sunday’s report said the 900 confiscated boxes containing some 9,000 coffee packets were worth more than £12,160, some of which had been distributed nationwide.

Good to the last drop, indeed.

–WKW

Calif. Regulators: “Smoking marijuana may cause cancer, so have a cigarette and beer and forget about it”

Remember folks, the real reason people are against legalizing marijuana is because it’s not good for you:

SAN FRANCISCO – It might take Californians a puff or two to get their heads around an apparent contradiction recently enshrined in state law.

The same marijuana smoke that doctors can recommend to ease cancer patients’ suffering must soon come with a warning saying it causes the disease.

State environmental regulators last month voted to place marijuana smoke on its list of hundreds of substances known to cause cancer. The decision could lead to warning signs in medical marijuana dispensaries and labels on packaged pot within a year.

A voter-approved measure made medical marijuana legal in California in 1996. Key backers included patients with serious illnesses such as cancer and AIDS who said pot helped them manage pain and nausea.

Medical marijuana advocates sought to downplay the significance of the state’s decision, arguing researchers have long known that the smoke contains cancer-causing compounds.

“This does not mean in any way that those carcinogens that appear in smoked marijuana, smoked cannabis, have any kind of causal relationship to cancer,” said Kris Hermes, spokesman for Americans for Safe Access, a pro-medical marijuana group.

It’s time to have a Lucky Strike, a pull from a whiskey jug and just forget about the demon weed. After all, anything that doesn’t have 5,000 lobbyists fighting for it can’t be good for you.

–WKW

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