I don’t know why Americans bother speaking English, when the British are clearly much more the masters of its nuances. I mean, just listen to the extraordinary elocution here:

niall.wav

No, I’ve not been ignoring that most central Baudelaireian imperative. See below. They’re thumbnails for once, so click ‘em for a better look.

Leah and I enjoy some strawberry margaritas. And by “some,” I mean “three liters.”

Post-margarita malfeasance on the Ku’damm.

Niall, me, and a sliver of JT at a club somewhere– who knows, really.

One of those rare photos in which I actually appear to be the most normal person.

Niall and I understand that when having a height contest, it’s important to wear a white shirt and assume a look of gleeful superiority. JT, on the other hand….

We do have our classy moments, like when we go to the opera. Of course, as you can see, we still have our classy moments with a side order of booze.

Yes, yes, I made lots of promises to lots of people, in re actually maintaining my blog. The three of you who read it have no doubt noticed I’ve failed to make good on my promise of food porn, or on my vow to post more often in general. What can I say? Too many nights out on the town, hitting the Veuve, then hitting the floor. ‘Tis a crazy life in Berlin, I tell you.

PAM HEIRATET PARIS’ PORNOFILMER

Pornofilmer. I love German.

The one downside of waiting in the lounge next to the jet-setting execs pre-flight is guys like the douche next to me who’s on his cell phone screaming, “Which one core dumped, Bob? I have to know which one dumped, or I can’t goddam help you. Go look at it and tell me which one goddam core dumped.”

Yeah, get on that, Bob, so this tool will lower his voice.