I'm a bit cranky from working way too much lately, blindly serving the Classics profession. It's supposed to be about humanism, civilization, and democracy, but at times like this when we have a big conference, all I see is blind ambition, passive aggression, academic posturing, and inflated egos. It's just like any other rat race, only these people think they know more than the average peon. When I get cranky and tired, I often get very huffy about academics.

I'm reading the book How to Lose Friends and Alienate People by Toby Young for my book club. The madcap adventures of a cheeky British journalist in Manhattan's high society! Most of the book is spent recounting his screw-ups while trying to make it at Vanity Fair magazine, with a bit of philosophizing about the fundamental differences between the British and American upperclasses. He also spends a lot of time lamenting the loss of the ideal great American journalist, those rugged, principled hacks who built journalism from the ground up in the Great US of A. Such people have been replaced by the journalists of today who are beholden to the celebrity machine and the publicists and managers who control it. Unfortunately, in the course of my reading so far, Young hasn't done much to inject journalistic integrity into his work at Vanity Fair. He proposes a story featuring him trying to annoy as many people as possible in one day, he asks Nathan Lane point blank if he's gay, and he writes blurbs on minor celebrities. I'm enjoying the book, but the "what will this crazy Brit do next factor" is a little annoying. Bottom line, this guy is a mixer. Like Paul's grandfather in the Beatles' movie Hard Day's Night , he wants to mix things up, piss people off, and then go home. This book would make a neat entertaining read if I were at the beach or on vacation, which I'm not. Maybe that's why I'm cranky.

Finally, my Dad alerted me to the Greek Blog , a blog mostly dedicated to charting the latest in Greek politics and society. Love his realistic and cynical take on Pasok ("the Simitis troupe") and the Athens Olympics ("the Athens Folly"), dislike his de rigeur Greek nationalism ("Long live the great patriots of Hellas, protectors of the people, defenders of the faith."), but that comes with the territory, so to speak.

First things first: obligitory link of the day (this IS a blog, right? We're supposed to link to random things all the time, it's part of the deal): Check out Julius Sharpe's joke blog . The man is damn funny. I discovered him on Blogger, but that doesn't mean I can't link to him, too.

So, we've been a bit slow in posting to this blog. BDA has yet to find its voice...and with that, I think we should avoid referring to our blog in the third person. The "its" is a little clunky. Why not come right out and speak our minds about patio furniture and the mundane details of our lives in the first person? I'm boring and I'm proud!

I'm also proud to present the first installment of Blog Day Afternoon's serial, title *still* to be announced, but _Sweaty and Homeless in Greece_ does capture it well. I'm a bit pressed for time at the moment (waiting for stuffy Classicists to descend on me at any moment), so I'll keep it short today.

Athens, Greece. June 1999

The old Venizelos airport in Athens was like a kitty litter box left on the asphalt: one big stinky box that was always steaming hot and never comfortable. There were only about three seats in the entire terminal, and at any given moment they were continuously occupied by some grandmother weighed down with eight sacks of potatoes and tins of cheese. Then there were those dirty European tourists sleeping on the floor everywhere, perpetually, who never seemed to leave and get to their destination. The only good thing about that airport was the view from the airplane as you landed. Suddenly Athens rose from the turquoise sea and made my heart flutter, looking out at its sprawling beauty, the Parthenon crowning its green middle, like the ornamental top of wedding cake.

Of course, this time my heart was fluttering even more that usual. I was wrecked with doubt about whether my "hostess" would be at the airport to pick me up. As I waited in line to pick up my luggage, I wondered whether anyone would be on the other side of the gate waiting for me. I had endured a tiring journey, made unbearable by a twelve hour layover in Amsterdam. I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to ÒseeÓ some of Amsterdam, but instead I wandered like a zombie through the national museum where, instead of the Old Masters, I saw a young Dutch couple high on ecstasy try to make love on a museum bench surrounded by Vermeers and gawking tourists. Now, hours later, I nursed a desperate exhaustion and tried to face the prospect that no one would be waiting on the other side when I finally left the baggage claim.

Yet there they were: Marilena, whom I had met that Christmas when she visited me with another friend, and her mother. Marilena greeted me warmly, while her mother only shook my hand politely. We got in the car and wended our way through the southern suburbs of Athens until we came to their quiet street in the back end of the Nea Smyrni neighborhood. They showed me to my room as it was quite late at night and promised weÕd talk in the morning. Although I was exhausted, I was also over-stimulated and unable to sleep. I obsessed about whether I would really have a job in the morning and wondered how IÕd managed find such a great place to stay for the summer. Just as Marilena had promised, I had a whole floor of their brand new house to myself, an apartment with a kitchen, living room and furnished bedroom. It was unbelievable: a real apartment after two summers of living in squalid student apartments in downtown Athens with no protection from the smog, bugs, and street noise.