For the sake of expediency, let's just tackle the only issue people are here to read about: Alien Versus Predator was a cinematic tour de force. A theatrical magnum opus so undeniably peerless -- so pure and true -- Tim burst into tears and went fetal for 13 straight hours and I shaved half my hair off and set it on fire. To Paul Anderson, whatever Arby's you're currently working at: Magnific.
Fortunately, we pulled our collective shit together just fast enough this morning to be both decisively late and unshowered for a walking tour of Brussels with Deb, Tom, Gil and Leanne. By deftly taking position near open waste pits and generally staying downwind, we were able to spare the crew our natural aromatics and, as fate would have it, still learn a good deal about the city and its occasionally sordid past.
A highly public urinal, one of several hastily improvised Ruegsegger/Garcia "stank shields", allowing us to maintain the faintest air of hygiene credibility among our friends.
Thereafter, the Garcia/Hubbell quad broke off to visit Waterloo while we took a brief Uber ride over to Cantillon, home of some Lambic legends. Or so I'm told. My self-assigned responsibility is to be quiet and not look like a complete philistine while Tim speaks knowledgeably about the beers. Or the brewing process. Or the bottling style? Is bottling style a thing? This is why I don't speak.
The greater consideration is that, despite not knowing a gueuze from a kriek from a sarlacc, it's fairly self evident that the beers on offer are top notch, varied and spectacular. So spectacular, in fact, that our lengthy tasting could not be meaningfully marred by the tech douche braying into his cell phone in a rather confined seating area.
"No... Did you.... have you talked to Ryan? No, he can't go."
"Because he'll ruin the trip!"
"THIS IS A DOJO SAFARI!"
"I'm in Belgium, this is very expensive."
"No, dude, it's all DOJO!"
I'll give readers a full five minutes to surreptitiously google every old school permutation of "Dojo Safari" they can think of (e.g. dojo safari, dojo+safari, "dojo" and "safari", etc). There's no rush. We'd prefer you slowly come to the realization that "dojo safari" is not, in fact, a thing, which means this particular clown instantiated the phrase just for us. For all of us to have. Forever. You're never going to forget it now.
And while I apologize for forcing that knowledge to replace some important memory, like a child's birthday or the basic process that allows you to put on pants without assistance, allow me to shove it right back out by offering you the magical image -- taped amidst an array of photos intended to entice you to enter a restaurant -- that brought joy back to Tim and myself.
This man did things... non-culinary things... to that basil.
You're welcome.