There are times when, wrapped up in what I have to do (buying groceries, getting home by 16.10 to watch "Star Trek"), I forget that I've been living in a small town. After ten months, the dozen crossing lights offered by this fair city of mine start looking like the Vegas Strip, which I have never seen, except if you count the Travel Channel. They like to gamble, those chaps over at the Travel Channel. But you know what? The shows still suck. This blog, on the other hand, doesn't suck. It's genius. And yes, I was able to say that with a straight face.
Anyway, what I mean to say is: People watch you here. It's like a friendly little police state with one free refill for your € 1,40 cup of coffee. They've perfected small town surveillance. I can't really blame them, though, because there isn't a whole lot to do here. There is a story behind all this, by the way, in case you're wondering. In fact, here it is:
If I haven't whined about it yet, I'm busy packing things up in my room to come home, which IS as fun as it sounds. I've spent more time with packing tape in the last few days than I'd like to admit, but I keep telling myself it's one of those necessary evils if you want to keep the guy from yelling for help all afternoon.
God, let me tell you, I don't know where I get it from! Stuff just seems to come to me. It's a gift, really, my gift to humanity.
No, you can't exchange it.
Geez.
Apart from reconstituting old cardboard boxes with my innate "two left thumbs" handyman-ness that turns both Saran Wrap and tape into my mortal enemies, a large part of the last week or so has been spent gathering intellegence, which is my way of saying walking down to the post office and asking about shipping procedures. I had gone down before and asked about mailing my big red roller bags, but I was asked to check on it again by way of executive order (mom), so I headed off down the street, this time with the bag in tow as insurance in order to avoid misunderstandings with the person behind the counter as well as another Papal Bull requesting further investigation.
Long and short of it is, I did it: I talked to the lady in the Post Office, got what I needed, talked to some other people I bumped into along the way, and scooted in for a cup of coffee and a baked good. After that, I went home, stowed the bag, and went back out for a bit before Star Trek.
Now, I should say that I have developed what could be called a warm professional relationship with the employees at Jens Markt: they all seem to know what I shop for on a regular basis, and I have taken to asking for advice at the meat counter. As of now, he hasn't steered me wrong. But our relationship goes beyond meat counseling, it seems, and most of the people who work there now go out of their way to say "moin" to me when I walk in, which makes it only natural that I spent about ten minutes talking to the lady stacking drinking, which is another way of saying: I spent ten minutes listening to her bitch about her boss. We connecting. It was special.
Anyway, Saturday afternoon, after cleaning a little more and packing up, I headed out to buy some Tuna (I was feeling a bit cheap). Well, as fate would have it, because it "would have" many things, the lady behind the counter was the one I had that little bitch session with. As I walk up to pay, she asks: "What were you doing with your bag yesterday." Just like that. No introduction, no segway or "oh, by the way." She just said it. I part of me expected her to follow up with: "Do you always go to the bathroom between four and five every night, or is this a new thing in the last few weeks, because I'm starting to worry?"
After finishing all that, I have realized how amazingly boring it all is. Oh well, it happens, and if you've gotten this far, it means you've read it all, which means that the joke's on you! Go watch golf on TV; that will get your blood flowing again. But wait, what's that sound? Hmmm, could it be? No! It can't be! Impossible! Yes, it is! Incredible! There's more! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you have stumbled into a bit of a matinee, a faux entertainment extravaganza, a symphony of thrills, an adventure through fear and the deepest darkness of the depraved and desperate human soul.
Or just a county fair. Whichever comes first.
Those who know me know that I'm a bit of a freak, a nerd or geek, if you will, about things like fairs. There's something about the mixure of totally predictable consumerism and the utterly fun and bizarre that puts me on cloud nine. Plus, I really like the paint jobs on the booths and rides: I'd collect it if I could. And don't even get me started on what happens when an organ grinder shows up.
So it should be of no surprise that I went with Andreas, the kids, and Lydia, their new au pair from Poland (who's really cool, incidentally), at the drop of the hat that I don't own. I'll just save myself the trouble of describing it all in detail by saying that it was FANTASTIC! I knew it was going to be good as soon as my nose caught the sweet, sweet scent of powdered sugar and dough bobbing in twisted baskets of popping fat, and my ears the shrieks of terrified children as their bodies were slung against the thin aluminum sides of brightly painted centrifuges. That is, despite what people might say, what dreams are made of. I think we were there about, oh, I don't know, five seconds, before Svenia grabbed my hand and asked me if I wanted to go into the glass labyrinth. Do I?! Ripley's Believe It Or Not, here I come!
Did I mention that I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag if my life depended on it? No? Well, I can't. I'm screwed pretty much the second you turn me around, and I generally hate the feeling that comes with it, but for some reason, if you duplicate it in a twisted rat's nest of overlapping glass hallways, I'll pay for it, and pretty much love the experience the whole time. That isn't to say, though, that I wasn't a little worried, after ten minutes of walking into panes of glass and plodding in circles, that I wouldn't get a complimentary certificate for dehydration along with my fun: it must have been ninety degrees in there before we found our way out between two spinning, padded pillars. It was the best € 2,00 I've spent in a while. I mean, Andreas seemed to get a big kick out of watching me and his seven year old daughter run into glass over, and over, and over again. Who was it who said that the essence of comedy is someone else's pain was a little more right than I like to admit sometimes. Oh, and there were magic mirrors, real ones. And they ruled. Solidly.
After paying to have my psyche screwed, Andreas, Emilie, Svenia, and I all climbed into Bumper Cars to see who could collect the coolest blunt impact bruise in a totally legal situation. There's generally a lot to be said for the fun you can have while ramming into children and teenagers in minimally padded cars, but it pales in comparison with the glee Andreas showed each time he jacked Svenia and I into the side of the ring. The word "impish" starts to get at it. It took a while to get there, but after getting to know Andreas for ten months and becoming pretty good friends, I can say that he's basically a little kid in a really lanky body who needs minimal excuse to come and out-kid the resident three year old munchkin.
Then again, after watching all the children at the Kindergarten run around completely naked in the playground, I'm happy that's not completely true. Growing up can be a good thing sometimes.
Anyway, what I mean to say is: People watch you here. It's like a friendly little police state with one free refill for your € 1,40 cup of coffee. They've perfected small town surveillance. I can't really blame them, though, because there isn't a whole lot to do here. There is a story behind all this, by the way, in case you're wondering. In fact, here it is:
If I haven't whined about it yet, I'm busy packing things up in my room to come home, which IS as fun as it sounds. I've spent more time with packing tape in the last few days than I'd like to admit, but I keep telling myself it's one of those necessary evils if you want to keep the guy from yelling for help all afternoon.
God, let me tell you, I don't know where I get it from! Stuff just seems to come to me. It's a gift, really, my gift to humanity.
No, you can't exchange it.
Geez.
Apart from reconstituting old cardboard boxes with my innate "two left thumbs" handyman-ness that turns both Saran Wrap and tape into my mortal enemies, a large part of the last week or so has been spent gathering intellegence, which is my way of saying walking down to the post office and asking about shipping procedures. I had gone down before and asked about mailing my big red roller bags, but I was asked to check on it again by way of executive order (mom), so I headed off down the street, this time with the bag in tow as insurance in order to avoid misunderstandings with the person behind the counter as well as another Papal Bull requesting further investigation.
Long and short of it is, I did it: I talked to the lady in the Post Office, got what I needed, talked to some other people I bumped into along the way, and scooted in for a cup of coffee and a baked good. After that, I went home, stowed the bag, and went back out for a bit before Star Trek.
Now, I should say that I have developed what could be called a warm professional relationship with the employees at Jens Markt: they all seem to know what I shop for on a regular basis, and I have taken to asking for advice at the meat counter. As of now, he hasn't steered me wrong. But our relationship goes beyond meat counseling, it seems, and most of the people who work there now go out of their way to say "moin" to me when I walk in, which makes it only natural that I spent about ten minutes talking to the lady stacking drinking, which is another way of saying: I spent ten minutes listening to her bitch about her boss. We connecting. It was special.
Anyway, Saturday afternoon, after cleaning a little more and packing up, I headed out to buy some Tuna (I was feeling a bit cheap). Well, as fate would have it, because it "would have" many things, the lady behind the counter was the one I had that little bitch session with. As I walk up to pay, she asks: "What were you doing with your bag yesterday." Just like that. No introduction, no segway or "oh, by the way." She just said it. I part of me expected her to follow up with: "Do you always go to the bathroom between four and five every night, or is this a new thing in the last few weeks, because I'm starting to worry?"
After finishing all that, I have realized how amazingly boring it all is. Oh well, it happens, and if you've gotten this far, it means you've read it all, which means that the joke's on you! Go watch golf on TV; that will get your blood flowing again. But wait, what's that sound? Hmmm, could it be? No! It can't be! Impossible! Yes, it is! Incredible! There's more! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you have stumbled into a bit of a matinee, a faux entertainment extravaganza, a symphony of thrills, an adventure through fear and the deepest darkness of the depraved and desperate human soul.
Or just a county fair. Whichever comes first.
Those who know me know that I'm a bit of a freak, a nerd or geek, if you will, about things like fairs. There's something about the mixure of totally predictable consumerism and the utterly fun and bizarre that puts me on cloud nine. Plus, I really like the paint jobs on the booths and rides: I'd collect it if I could. And don't even get me started on what happens when an organ grinder shows up.
So it should be of no surprise that I went with Andreas, the kids, and Lydia, their new au pair from Poland (who's really cool, incidentally), at the drop of the hat that I don't own. I'll just save myself the trouble of describing it all in detail by saying that it was FANTASTIC! I knew it was going to be good as soon as my nose caught the sweet, sweet scent of powdered sugar and dough bobbing in twisted baskets of popping fat, and my ears the shrieks of terrified children as their bodies were slung against the thin aluminum sides of brightly painted centrifuges. That is, despite what people might say, what dreams are made of. I think we were there about, oh, I don't know, five seconds, before Svenia grabbed my hand and asked me if I wanted to go into the glass labyrinth. Do I?! Ripley's Believe It Or Not, here I come!
Did I mention that I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag if my life depended on it? No? Well, I can't. I'm screwed pretty much the second you turn me around, and I generally hate the feeling that comes with it, but for some reason, if you duplicate it in a twisted rat's nest of overlapping glass hallways, I'll pay for it, and pretty much love the experience the whole time. That isn't to say, though, that I wasn't a little worried, after ten minutes of walking into panes of glass and plodding in circles, that I wouldn't get a complimentary certificate for dehydration along with my fun: it must have been ninety degrees in there before we found our way out between two spinning, padded pillars. It was the best € 2,00 I've spent in a while. I mean, Andreas seemed to get a big kick out of watching me and his seven year old daughter run into glass over, and over, and over again. Who was it who said that the essence of comedy is someone else's pain was a little more right than I like to admit sometimes. Oh, and there were magic mirrors, real ones. And they ruled. Solidly.
After paying to have my psyche screwed, Andreas, Emilie, Svenia, and I all climbed into Bumper Cars to see who could collect the coolest blunt impact bruise in a totally legal situation. There's generally a lot to be said for the fun you can have while ramming into children and teenagers in minimally padded cars, but it pales in comparison with the glee Andreas showed each time he jacked Svenia and I into the side of the ring. The word "impish" starts to get at it. It took a while to get there, but after getting to know Andreas for ten months and becoming pretty good friends, I can say that he's basically a little kid in a really lanky body who needs minimal excuse to come and out-kid the resident three year old munchkin.
Then again, after watching all the children at the Kindergarten run around completely naked in the playground, I'm happy that's not completely true. Growing up can be a good thing sometimes.
posted by Der verwirrte Ausländer at 3:16 AM
8 Comments:
Ooo, the "deleted comment" trick! Isn't it so much fun when a website decides to whip that one out? There's nothing like losing a long comment or email, because the retyped version is never quite the same. Anyway, write back when you get the energy to try again: there's always a kind of recharging period needed in order to muster caring. "Calamity" sounds interesting.
And I hope your fever gets better soon: that and an erased post combined can make for a frustrating day. Fevers are no fun, even though there can be interesting side effects: the last time I had a fever, I made up my own language in the middle of the night, with grammar, alphabet, and everything, but I've forgotten it all by now.
Laying in bed and doing nothing is always a good cure for those kinds of things. Good call with the new post, by the way, because I was getting a little tired of scrolling, too.
I just got visited by some Jehova's Witnesses this afternoon. That was fun. I'll write about that this afternoon, too. OK, talk to you later.
OK, so that's damn hardcore. I thought I had read the post wrong the first time through, and had to read it again slower. I mean, I like to watch games, but that's taking one for the team, literally. No socks....God. When your feet get cold, everything gets cold, and stays that way. Wow. You don't have brick or stone steps, do you? I don't think I'd be able to do that, so I salute you, first for managing to take your mind off of not having your keys, and for sleeping in the cold. I'm pretty sure I would have obsessed about the key thing, then gotten really pissed when my phone didn't work. Man.
I bet that night sucked ass. But at least you didn't get decapitated. That's always a plus. I mean, it would have made writing posts really difficult. And everything else, I guess. BUT, it was a really good game. You'll never forget it, that's for sure. That aside, good luck with the fever. Again.
I say that again, because I usually do absolutely nothing when I'm sick and spend way too much time thinking about it and whining, so I like to give sympathy, since I always like to get it when I'm laying there. Lying there, I mean. Dammit. Ah, screw it, everybody gets that wrong, anyway.
The language thing still surprises me, too, because I'd never done that before, either. There must have been something about the cold I had that gave me a particularly creative fever. Maybe it's because I caught it in Cologne. I don't know. But I spent hours sweating, staring at the ceiling, and making up really weird grammar....I don't remember too much about how it worked, but it all seemed to make sense at the time. I do remember that it was loosely based on German and the few things my best friend had told me about studying Chinese, something with marker particles and all that. It was ridiculously complex. It's probably good I can't remember it anymore, because I'd most likely try to write stuff in it all the time.
So I guess you're pulling for England in the World Cup, then? I picked that up. Man, I'm really tired. But I'll talk to you later. Have a good dinner.....which is already over. But I hope it was good anyway. Later.
I've started to babble again.
OK, I have a bit of a random question: where do people dig up the singers that always seem to show up at fests? I'm sure you know the kind, the guy with the Casio who sings bad Elvis, The Eagles, and Beach Boys covers. They're amazing. And they're all so similar, which leads me to believe that they're grown secretly somewhere. No one under the age of six-five enjoys them, but they're there nonetheless. Maybe I should pick that for my job. It appears there'd always be work, anyway. OK, talk to you later.
A Festival! Awesome! And Roskilde! Have you been before? Anyway, it sounds like it will be great. I mean, you get camp and hear cool bands. Bob Dylan....fantastic. I have to admit that I haven't really heard much solo Morrissey, so my enthusiasm in sadly uninformed there. Besides that, WOW!
Uh oh....I should get going. I'm moving out today, then I have to catch a train this afternoon. I'd like to write more, but there's not much time now. I have ten days ahead of me with my parents, and they don't speak any German. Wish my luck. And you'll have to let me know how Roskilde is.
Cool. Have fun, and I'll talk to you in the second week in June. Later.
So, I'm finally back in the US, and it is as weird as I thought it would be. Fun, fun. I haven't been up to too much, unless you count moving into a house, which is disqualified since it is absolutely no fun. But I'm getting there. Well, OK, that's not totally true, because I do get to sit around and organize all my CDs and records, something I've been wanting to do for a long time. I just have to wait one more day, and I can get started. I didn't realize I had so many until I looked at them all in one room. Funny how that is.
The trip with my parents was all kind of fun....it was 12 days, but it seemed to go by pretty fast; funny how that can happen.
Oh, how was your festival? Fun? Awesome? Rock solid? Hope it didn't rain on you. What was your favorite concert?
OK, got to run and get a shower. Talk to you later.
I have AOL instant messenger....I think. Do you have that? It would be easier to talk on that, wouldn't it? I'll work on that and let you know. Sorry I haven't checked recently, but I've been kind of, I don't know, mixed up, because I don't have a whole lot of stuff to do around here right now. How are things?
Yeah, I have to say I do. Funny, isn't it? But things are good here. Oh, I added your name to my aim list....mine is captkirkswig, so if I AIM you, don't be confused.
Man! London! I bet that kicked ass! I've never been there! I'll check out your myspace account.
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