d graham kostic [lives].

"well I don’t know about you but the last weekend I smoked a cigar in the middle of my living room..."

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 14:03:21 -0600

“well I don’t know about you but the last weekend I smoked a cigar in the middle of my living room and this past weekend I had my shirt cut with scissors and went out with my bra fully exposed”

- ah, youth!

click above to see all the pictures from italy. enjoy.

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 12:34:29 -0600

click above to see all the pictures from italy. enjoy.

even gondalas get dents

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 18:42:00 -0600

[please note that the timeline of this might not make sense as i wrote in a few parts on napkins and other things while out and about. so don’t test me on logistics.]

i’m so afraid of italian pick-pockets—thanks to my mother (who i remember distinctly warning my sister sarah about before she left for her italian honeymoon years ago—and we all know how that ended up). my mom bought sarah one of those money pouches. either the one that goes around your neck and under your blouse or the one that’s like a fanny pack under your pants. beware of italian pick pockets, she warns! and sarah most likely wore that little money pouch and put her passport in there, too.

‘hold on, honey,’ she’d have to say as she unvelcro-ed the belted money pouch before slipping under the covers with her new hubby, ‘just want to put this in the safe.’

my mom didn’t buy me a money pouch for this trip, but she did warn me about those italian pick-pockets. those goddamn italian pick-pockets which are much quicker, smarter and more handsome than their american counterparts (or so i imagine). but so far, so good. however, i’m now in venice, where things by virtue of it’s smaller scale and many, many dark alleys make it a bit more scary for a lone traveler. a wonderful kind of scary. but i am afraid that at any moment a masked man might come from the shadows to pick my pocket. he’ll probably look like this.

it’s funny being in a foreign country and seeing faces that look similar to people you know. my tour guide yesterday had the cheekbones of my cousin cheryl—which are the same cheekbones as my mom and my grandma. bright hazel eyes and high, appled cheeks. the ones that rise way up when you smile. and even higher when you laugh. and immediately there is a familiarity about this person that i just met but who i felt the urge to hug and hold tight. i didn’t, but perhaps i did stare for a bit too long? and then turning the corner, and there’s courtney cordova from high school! or alexis gaffano from college! and any number of the taglia’s or the bressano’s. pretty much any surname ending in a vowell, i saw on this trip. and heading across the square directly toward me is john camparo. oh boy is it good to see him again. and i see my grandma on the plane back to zurich. there she is staring at me. and she smiles and i smile at her. i wonder if she recognizes a bit of her family in my face? i’m not all that sure that i’m italian looking, and my mere 50 percent heritage and the inability to communicate in the native tongue save hello, goodbye, please, thank you and my mom is allergic to seafood, is really pitiful. however, it’s fun to be mute—to sit and wait to see what language people speak to you in. on the train to venice from vicenza, the majority thought i was french.

bonjour said the young man next to me. bonjour, i replied, c’est le train a venice? oui. merci. de rien. and then he said i either have beautiful eyes or perhaps inquiring if i were blue? the jig was up: ‘i’m actually from chicago and only studied french for four years in high school. advanced placement. ha!’

silence.

but back to the pick-pocketin’, to curb the chances of being robbed, i’ve ducked into many churchs (and there are 149 in venice) to make small devotions that my valuables will be safe while abroad. however, at one church, i only paid 20 cents which was 20 cents less than the suggested donation and i’m wondering now if half of my valuables will make it.

tonight, i went on a ghost walking tour with an italian tour guide named christina and a cast of characters—sort of like a charlie & the chocolate factory type crew. there was an australian family who was led by a short, stout mother with a sharp tongue and in tow behind her was her husband (bald), a bored teenage daughter and two tween red-headed twins. normally, i think most red heads are pretty intolerable, but these two were cute. bug-eyed. i think it was the accents that made me forgo my aversion to redheads. also, there was a young couple from england (who couldn’t keep their hands off each other!), an old couple from france (who never touched) and a black couple from france who couldn’t speak english (which made it hard for them since the tour was in english). and then there was a fat couple from switzerland. the woman wore a big fur coat and a giant emerald brooch on her big, fur hat. and then our guide christina—the willy wonka who held us all together. the giggling, smiling guide who told ghoulish tales of foggy venetian nights and mysterious beheadings. in a secluded courtyard, she introduced the story of a man named bassiano. he was a sort of italian sweeny todd—killing babies, butchering them and then putting them in his beef stew.

‘now,’ said christina, walking briskly backward as our international troupe trailed close behind, ‘i take you where he did terrible tings to da babies.’ and then she led us to another secluded courtyard where she said loudly ‘THIS iz where he did terrible tings to those poor leettle babies’

and the big fat swiss lady chimed in: ‘boot vare vere za parentz?’

christina giggled, shoke her finger and then told a story about how he got caught. apparently, bassiano had some people over for dinner and served his famous beefstew and a guest started choking on a bone and when he got it unlodged from his throat, there was a tiny piece of baby finger on that bone. si signore e signori! a baby finger on the end of a bone? can you imagine!? one time, our neighbor in st. louis, vatia flach, found a cockroach in her subway sandwich. a live cockroach that scurried away when she was about to take a bite. that’s pretty disgusting, but i couldn’t even imagine a part of a baby finger! a baby finger!

when jackson, sarah and i were getting a mani/pedi in austin once, the receptionist—who hardly spoke any english—showed us a website where they had pictures of chinese people eating babies. his manager came out to see a computer screen with happy chinese people gathered around a limp baby on a countertop.

‘jack, why don’t you go dry your toes for a bit longer,’ sarah said casually.

poor leetle babies!

”oh ‘orrible!’ cried the young english girl, who had her arms wrapped around her boyfriend. who subsequently had managed to wrap his arms around her, too. go figure!

the two twins said quietly and deeply: ‘wicked’

walking to our next location, the french woman trotted alongside christina and asked her ‘so when will this city collapse?’ christina was pissed. totally pissed. in two seconds, our sweet tour guide turned into a fiery italian—and she said ‘collapse? collapse? i doubt this city will collapse.’ she was pissed! just as pissed as when i witness a gondalier who found a dent in his gondola. pissed! christina didn’t make eye contact with the french couple for the rest of the tour. and christina prided herself on her excellent eye contact. and me and christina, we eye contacted for a good portion of that tour.

‘do you understand my english good?’ she’d ask periodically. i nodded enthusiastically, happy to give her such a boost of confidence. she was a giggler. which really doesn’t make for a very convincing ghost storyteller—a giggling ghost storyteller. but it did make for a very intoxicating tour, nonetheless.

before the tour, i stopped in a bar for a salumi sandwich (get your mind out of the gutter!) and they started playing all eagles songs. and singing along. and the waitress sang loudly as she scooped octopus out of a bright pink bowl onto a platter. and i loved that. so i sang, too. because, well, i love the eagles. and now, i’m at this pizza place and i’ve accidentally ordered 1 litter of house red wine (or did i just play stupid when i pointed to the menu?) and american pie comes on and the waiter is singing at the top of his lungs as he cuts pieces of tiramusu for everyone—a silly little voice high, high, high floats over the room and everyone watches this little production. singing american pie as he serves tiramasu. is that irony? i forget. alanis morisette fucked that up for me.

i’m always fascinated when europeans love american music. it’s just as i love their packaging for domestic products (you know, like toliet paper, cleaning products, toothpaste. why can’t we have the same scope of design and use of color and bubble font? it’s discouraging)

i’m trying to soul search here in italy and it’s tough. but as i sit in this warm little pizzeria, drinking from my giant carafe of wine, i finally remember what i’m searching for—another glass of wine! that’s horrible, but so funny. it’s like this joke… actually, it’s not like this joke, it is this joke that i used to use on first dates all of the time. i would say, rather flirtatiously too, ‘i don’t know about you, but you know what this glass of wine makes me want to do?’ and my date would say ‘what?’ and then i’d say loudly and quickly: ‘have another glass of wine!’ and i’d throw my head back and laugh like my sister sarah and basically, they’d never call again. or they went wild for me until they saw the rubber animals in the tub (that always scared ‘em away. damn those rubber animals!).

N E WAYZ… this city is pretty incredible. how it just unfolds in front of you. at one time, you are in a dark corridor and then a few more steps and it opens up to reveal a large piazza. orange woven chairs all set up on the patio of a little snack bar and a giant church staring brightly at you from the end of the square—and fake flowers and little shrines to the virgin mary at every turn. and lots of dogs. and babies. and there you are, walking and walking and thinking you’re completely turned around and then, you turn the corner and you just find something more magnificent than what you just left. and you know you didn’t discover it, but you feel like you did. like you were the first person to round that corner and find this sacred space. i hardly can say i get the same feeling turning onto diversey from clark, so this was a proud moment for me. a great accomplishment. i guess i did more soul searching that i expected. so what did discover about myself? i am a sensitive, sentimental kind of guy. and when stripped from my natural habitat and routine, everything is magnified for me. music, color. my relationships with those thousands of miles away. and with all that time to think and think and think and think, i finally realized that it’s fine to be sentimental. it’s fine to cry a little here and there when you’re at the peggy guggenheim museum, mulling around the garden listening to joanna newsom—and when you come across a plaque about her daughter peegen who she said ‘there was no one in the world who i love more.’ it’s okay to tear up when you go see a vivaldi concert and that one song reminds you of that nice holiday commercial from a few years back. it’s fine to walk behind an old couple who are still holding hands with the same intensity that they did fifty years ago. i want that, i think. so sue me for crying. soul? searched. i also learned that i like mushrooms more than i had previously imagined. soul? searched!

after the ghost tour, left to my own devices in a dark city when fog slowly started to roll off the water onto the cobblestone streets, i ducked in for dinner. and then after dinner, i ducked into another bar. and then i was lost. so i went to another bar. and another bar. i met a girl named cecilia who has lived in venice all her life. we laughed about a good majority of things, although she couldn’t quite understand everything i said and i couldn’t understand anything she said, but somehow we both were very expressive and it’s surprising that we did not knock the people sitting next to us at the bar with our hands. so there i was, in a foreign city and completely lost and on an impromptu solo venetian bar crawl. however, things to note about foreign bars: just because the name is in italian, doesn’t mean it’s charming. i visited a few places that would be comparable to duffy’s or john barleycorn’s—you know, the places that are not too welcoming of a man wearing his boots outside of his jeans. and we’re in europe, for pete’s sake! but after a good two hours, i found my way back to the hotel and i woke up completely hungover—totally proud that i managed a night out on my own and had a great time.

most likely, i will not travel alone again. i think i need an audience that speaks my language, or at least has to listen. but i returned to the states with renewed confidence in myself (also very grateful for my dad who makes all the plans for family vacations).

‘welcome back,’ the passport agent said at o’hare.

‘so happy to be back, sir.’

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tears in heaven

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 16:22:01 -0600

tonight, in italy, i went to see a movie. my friend jessica told me once that when she travels she likes to go see movies in foreign cities. i was intrigued by this.

‘when i travel,’ i said, fully taking on jessica’s story as my own for a small group of italians, ‘i like to go to the movies.’ and remembering that jessica also added something to this effect, i continued: ‘there is something about sitting in a dark movie theater in a foreign country that is really intriguing.’

well, fact of the matter is, she is absolutely right. there i was in a movie theater. with popcorn and coca-cola (no ice, though. ay yi yi.) and the lights dimmed. i chose a serious man and it was dubbed, not italian subtitles.

to make things even more complicated, the beginning of this movie is italian subtitles over a russian language scene. there was a character named dora who was making dinner and her husband named something who had a beard. and this strange man came to the door. and dora was frightened. and the husband was sort of upset, too, but not as upset as dora. because the man had a long, white beard and big, beady eyes and he hobbled in and sat down and dora didn’t say a word and just pursed her lips and the husband looked back and forth from dora, his wife, to the man. and finally, dora stabbed that man in the heart with a kitchen knife. and the man laughed. and walked out into the snow. in russia. with italian subtitles. and that man didn’t die.

it’s exsistential, this suggestion of jessica’s.

and there i was. sitting there. in the dark. and i pictured my eyes traveling up, up, up and away over the theater, past the town square and the statue of giuseppe garibaldi that has graffiti all over it and a little town farther north where romeo and juliet’s castles were and a little farther north where replicas of romeo and juliet’s castles were and then way over the alps and then over all of europe and then over the atlantic and then finally zooming into my little home in chicago that is dark and empty (i hope!) and the movie theater up the street which might be showing the same movie—in english. or perhaps it’s just only got to the opening theater credit which has a bunch of voices saying in their native tongues: ‘the language of cinema is universal’

well, i’d love to believe that the language of cinema is universal, however, i could not understand this movie at all. i was so tired, that i ended up falling asleep in the theater and because my mom warned me of italian pick pockets, i was clutching my coat so tight for fear that they would swindle me right there and then in that velvet seat.

thank god as they did not. but boy, was i prepared.

after the movie, i walked around the town. and the city, with it’s white stone walls and arches all over and cobblestone and large statues of semi-nude men and women reminded me of epcot center italy. with more smokers. and i continued to walk around and made my way to a little cafe bar that played a cover version of ‘tears in heaven’ and ‘unbreak my heart’ in italian. it’s almost familiarity was almost enough for me to not feel quite so lonely, however, it didn’t quite strike enough of a chord (ha! word play!) for me to want to really stay out past my bedtime. which, for italians, is early. i mulled around for a bit more, still thinking i was in epcot and at any moment i’d be in japan or norway (depending on which way you’re walkin’ round the world). but no. i just wound round and round little side streets and past crowds of young men and women smoking outside bars until i made my way back to find a taxi cab which whisked me away—17 euros later!—to my hotel.

i told someone that i was excited to come to italy to be able to think more clearly about my life goals and what i want to be doing with myself. upon arriving, it took me no time at all to realize that what i want to be doing is miles and miles and miles away. practically right where i left it.

it’s exsistential, this traveling alone thing.

this has nothing to do with me being in italy, but it’s my...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:24:00 -0600

this has nothing to do with me being in italy, but it’s my parent’s wedding and i just found it again on my phone. love.

even in italy, my mom is allergic to fish

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 17:04:21 -0600

i realized when i finally buckled my seat belt on the way to italy care of zurich—which is in switzerland, by the way, not germany—that i really know absolutely no italian. know no italian! which is a real shame as my mom’s side of the family is all italian. i took out a pocket italian phrase book to see if i could possibly learn some quick things. but all i could really focus on was: la mia madre e allergica a fruitti de mare.

and even that’s probably wrong: my mom is allergic to fish.

and what about crab, you ask? particolarmente il granchio!

(a personal note that may or may not pertain to you: you’ll find that i might workshop things i write on here from things i’ve already said to you. get over it.)

a mia madre e allergica a fruitti de mare! however, my mother is not with me. she is allergic to fish. anyone who is anyone knows that, but she is not with me. but in case someone else’s mother at a nearby table can’t eat fish, i can try to help.

but that’s about as far as i go with my italian. that seems to be okay as most people speak english or talk with their hands enough that i get the gist. except when i asked the waiter about a certain dish and in his best english he described that it was ‘potatoes with octopussy.’

get your mind out of the gutter!

but i giggled so much that i ended up ordering the octopussy only on account that he called it octopussy. which is funny. or is it just immature? or is it the fact that i have had a glass or two of wine and when i look at my computer’s clock it is really only 1.35pm and i’m a little tipsy. full from all of that italian octopussy i had earlier today.

get your mind out of the gutter! particolarmente il granchio!

my favorite part about this place? the christmas decorations. it’s as if my sister sarah singlehandedly strung all of the lights and hung all of the ornaments for everyone’s yards. basically, it’s really tacky. in a good way. just like her house. but seriously, it’s just home after home or bright santa claus’ hanging from ladders (i guess that’s how he gets in around these parts??) and strings of multi-colored lights flashing as they run up and down and all over. and fake flowers. everywhere. i’m embarrassed to tell the car to stop so many times to take pictures of things i like, thus i will describe the things that i wasn’t able to capture on film:

a store called ‘mister baby’ that had two five foot storks standing outside the door. one blue: a boy. and one pink: a girl. both wrapped in cellophane with, i think, chocolates in the place of the baby hanging from their mouths. outside of a store called ‘mister baby’

a giant plaster ice cream cone in a yard.

posters for the circus. a really cool circus with a man who looks like a lady in mascara and a big mole. laughing. the letters for the circus are big and bubbly and hot pink.

a giant plastic doll in a big hot air balloon that hangs in between a vine of fake roses and an upside down umbrella (painted green and red and purple and orange) which serves as a bird bath. but the giant plastic doll in the big hot air balloon? what a treat.

actually, i lied. i think my favorite part about italy is how passionate everyone is when they speak. today, i heard someone hang up the telephone like this: ‘ciao! ciao! i love you so much, baby! ciao! ciao!’

i got the chills wishing i was the on the other end. can you imagine if someone said, in complete seriousness, ‘ciao! ciao! i love you so much, baby! ciao! ciao!’ as they hung up the phone? i’d die. cia! cia! i love you so much, baby! ciao! ciao!

someday! SOMEDAY!

on saturday i head to venice which i was telling someone at a coffee shop in vicenza and they asked if i have ever been. i told them no. they’re face lit up brightly and quickly, clutching my hands to tell me: ‘venice? ah! venice is like the story of fairys.’ which i thought was funny and cute and charming all at once.

‘oh, like cinderella?’ i asked.

they’re response? ‘oh no! no! no no no no no! much better! molto molto molto bene!’

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"can you google: ‘why do i always get hang nails?’"

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:47:00 -0600

“can you google: ‘why do i always get hang nails?’”

- here lindsay: results.

let's eat pizza and make magic

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:43:00 -0600

i had glitter all over my face for the majority of the weekend. my friend fran kept pointing it out. but little did he know that he, too, had glitter all over his face. pot calling the kettle black, sir. and with over forty glass and glitter ornaments in my possession and a tree-trimming party on the horizon, it’s hard not to be glitter-faced, glitter-handed. which is fine by me, except i was once in a production of the king and i when i was little and one of the chorus members of the ballet (they perform uncle tom’s cabin) had to go to the hospital after a show as glitter from her mask (she played mischief maker topsy. that makes me laugh) got into her eye and scratched her retina. or her eyeball. or iris. whatever it was, she was crying backstage and her eye was red and she was wearing this colorful costume and her mask propped up on her head.

and although i love glitter, mischief maker topsy will always remind me that it might blind me someday.

visiting the christkindlmarket this weekend, we made our way to the glass ornament shoppe (spelled shoppe because it’s more european, right?) and i remarked at how all of the workers had glitter all over their hands and faces and collars of their coats. one employee also wore glittered lip balm which frankly, i thought, was overkill.

i’m going to venice, italy tomorrow. on a little trip. it’s perfectly timed as when i come back it will be so close to december 23 that time will really just fly by. why dec 23? why it’s only the second anniversary of my blog, that’s why. and dec 23 is just a very special day that i’m looking forward to. on italian vacation: my friend heather emailed me some quick translations (care of google translations). for some reason, they really made me laugh:

Il mio nome è Graham. Potete indicarmi la pasta sexy?
(My name is Graham. Can you direct me to the sexy pasta?)

Mi piace giacche, cappelli, musica e statuette in ceramica. Dove posso trovarli, per favore?
(I like jackets, hats, music and ceramic figurines. Where can I find them, please?)

Andiamo a mangiare la pizza e fare la magia.
(Let’s eat pizza and make magic.)

let’s eat pizza and make magic. that’s just great.

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