A Mongoose Does Deutschland

2008-02-22T06:45:00.001-08:00

After about two years of posting, I've discovered perhaps THE major flaw in this blog business: just as soon as you decide on a post topic, something better and more interesting pops up, and the old topic goes out the window and you're left with nothing except the urge to write SOMETHING. It's pretty traumatic, actually, but the funny thing is, it dawns on you later that you would have been better off if you had just turned around and exchanged a couple words with, say, your 44 year old gay Italian room mate. His whimsical, self assured racism is like a breath of fresh air in the luke warm social atmosphere of intolerance that seems to characterize our society that "knows better." After growing used to mousy white men and their passive racism, their glances at the floor and locking car doors when black men walk past, there's something about hearing someone say they hate black people, Jews, gay men and Italians with clear conviction and white hot ignorance that's shocking and strangely refreshing. He's like an artifact, a crystallized specimen of something very old and poisonous, and watching him spit bile at all the peoples in the world he hates fills me with that same cocktail of dread and wonder that would toss around in my stomach watching a lion snap the neck of gazelle on National Geographic. It's the awe that comes with violence and watching something you know you can't stand to look at, but don't exactly know why when you think about it hard enough. The nearest I can come to is: it's just not decent to hate that many people.

Come to think of it, I've never heard him mention a group of people he likes, except maybe Americans. Then again, he never really misses an opportunity to snipe at them, like when he insists that Americans never go anywhere, not even to Arizona, so maybe it's not so much a love of them as it is a tender kind of ambivalence, a live and let live policy simply because he hasn't found a reason to hate them, yet. Though he's never expounded on why he hates black people, other than the fact that he's had a "bad experience," I assume he has some "reason" for it, some concrete and easily explainable series of events that would at least cast some light on the subject. Then again, an undefinable past experience is pretty much the reason he gives for hating all the people he hates: black people have a "bad attitude", Jews are "good with money, very intelligent and nasty", Italians are "horrible" and "loud", and gay men are "pigs" for their wanton sex practices. Aside from those words of love and understanding, I haven't gotten anything more specific out of Marco Polo. That, of course, is assuming I actually try one of these days; despite my best intentions and all the witty and enlightened things I think of saying the next time he slips on his nice fitting brown shirt, I end up sitting dumb-struck at the table, smiling when he's not looking and wondered where and when I am exactly. More than that, though, I try to figure out how this man, himself a gay Italian who has traveled enough to know the things he says about people can't be true, could hate Italians and gay men, or any minority at all, given the fact that he is keenly aware of his own minority status and seems to have nothing but contempt for those who hold it against him. I've come to accept hypocrisy as a part of the human condition, that you can't be 100% consistent 100% of the time, and that moments of weakness or sheer stupidity should be taken as they are and dealt with, but this is a level of hypocrisy that frankly makes me uneasy. It's the kind that makes you want to knock on the inside of his skull and yell right into his inner ear until he gets the point and baptizes himself with cooking oil and washes away his sins with whatever he has lying around the house. It's not just his own private psychological soft shoulder, but the great piece of wood in humanity's left eye, the gleeful and burning desire to chop people up into things you like and don't like, to hate because you can and because it's easy, and to sell ignorance for the truth in the comfort of your own kitchen.

He always has some "evidence" to support his claims, of course, like the fact that Israeli tourist aren't allowed in Malaysia because they're so terrible. That couldn't have anything to do with the fact that there's some prejudice against Jews in general in Malaysia, could it? No, of course not. Because, you see, the Nazis killed the Jews because Germans and Jews are too similar, too much alike for them to get along, and because Jews do everything better than the Germans anyway, the Germans were protecting themselves from getting screwed. Now, I do subscribe to the general theory that people, or groups of people, who are too much like end up hating each other. I can't spend more than fifteen minutes in a room with other people who identify themselves as geeks without wanting to choke them with the certificate of authenticity for their HSN Katanas or limited edition, gold plated World of Warcraft strategy guide, and the French and Americans can't seem to reach an agreement as to whose culture truly is superior and worthy of universal praise, but to imply that the Nazis killed the Jews because they thought the Jews would "out sneak" them, as it were, is insane and sounds less like an astute cultural appraisal of an experienced traveler, and more like a blabbering crazy appendix to the centuries of pseudo-theology and science that built the ghettos in the first place.

The fact that he is well-traveled tends to give the things he says a weight they don't really deserve, a weight he tries to use to break me of attitudes I should "get over," like not wanted to lie on my resume. Now, I would never claim to be the most honest man around, because I've lied about whether I liked a food, a movie, or even a person to make someone else feel better, but I would like to take this time and say quite self-righteously that I have never, and nor would I ever, lie about something on my resume. That doesn't exclude what I like to call the "Julienne Method of Job Application," the obligatory cutting up and stretching of past experience or positions to make it look like you've actually done more, but even then everything is true, just a little, "polished", you might say. He, on the other hand, seems to think I should just write something down that I've never done before, because, as he puts it "they'll never know." First off, that's not true; given the Orwellian potential of the Internet, I don't rule out my future employer's ability to know what I ate for dinner last night, or the names of the women I secretly wrote poems to, then erased at the end of an ill advised, three hour long, Percy Shelley-inspired declaration of doomed and unrequited passions. Besides that, I suffer from an over-active conscience and over-developed since of moral responsibility; I'd rather not get the job than snatch it under false pretenses. It's pretty stupid of me, but that's the way it is. And on the petty side of things, I refuse to take advise about how the world really is from a man who says things like "I hate blacks" and believes it so firmly that he doesn't want to go to the South because it's "all black down there." He actually tried to convince me that there aren't any white people in the South, to me, a white man from the South, after which he asked me what it was like to live around so many black people. Now, maybe it's because I'm not done with my education yet and haven't been taught how to answer such ridiculous questions, but all I could think to say was: "it's OK, I guess. I mean, they're people, so...." Enlightening, I know.

But enlightening is my business. I'll ever forget when I got that Email from Mrs. Turtledove, who told me how, while in her bathtub after a rigorous game of Bridge against those ghastly Cameron sisters, the Spirit descended upon her in the form of great flaming bird and healed her rheumatism. Her new found hobby of Roller Blading, she wrote, has given her a new lease on life. And that's why I do what I do, out of love of mankind and hackneyed metaphors, the salt and pepper of creation.

2007-12-07T08:12:00.000-08:00

I don't know when I decided to systematically try all the different kinds of juices in the supermarket, but I have. It dawned on me the other day as I found myself inspecting half a dozen cartons of multi-vitamine juice to find the best deal and / or fruit juice content. This kind of thing happens to me occasionally: about four years ago, before I drank beer or wine, I decided to try as many kinds of soda in the grocery store and "rate" them. I use the word "rate" very loosely, because my scale had no real order and depended mostly on my mood at the time. In order to give my enterprise a dull shine of scientific legitamacy, and to distract myself from the stupidity of it, I dunked it in a bath of exoticism, tasting only imported Mexican sodas. I persued this experiment with a private mastubatory intensity that only further convinced me of the justice and righteousness of it, but none of it, neither the warm glow of critical opinion or flacid analysis of appraisal, was enough to keep it from dying silently as the stream of my thoughts shifted away from it, leaving the fields barren and dry.

But these things never truly die, do they? No, they live on, deep inside, and flower again at the next rain. I don't know exactly what this "next rain" was: maybe it was that peculiar loneliness what comes with being abroad, or maybe it was the weather, the constant cloud cover, that brought me to it again. Whatever it was, I fell to myself and started in on this newest crusade. My first juice was a carton of Ananassaft (pineapple juice). It wasn't bad, thick and eerily reminiscent of Jolly Ranchers, but not bad. Its cloudy color and viscosity brought to mind the gelatine powder I had to mix into my grandfathers orange juice when he was staying with us over the summer, but I rationalised every thick swallow with glowing and reverent thoughts on my increased vitamine C intake. All in all, it wasn't that bad for 60 cents, but a bit disappointing.

My next go-round was with Apfelsine (orange). It's a standard and needs to be tried at some point, if only to say you've done it. And this is scientific, remember, so you have to have a control group. Always think the Scientific Method. Always. As it turns out, it was sub-par: the juice was sour (there has to be just a bit more sugar in my orange juice if I'm actually going to enjoy it), and there was pulp. I don't like pulp. Actually, I don't like solids in my liquids. I'm a purist in this sense, a believer in the Oneness of liquids . The only solid I allow in my drinks is the occasional ice cube, but I've even come to trying to avoid those, since melted ice can make your drinks taste funny, like the fumes from a Windex bottle. Again, the thoughts of vitamine intake kept me going to the end of the carton, but like the pineapple juice, it fell slightly below the mark.

Which brings us to the multi-vitamine juice. It's good, very good, in fact, but I can't drink. I just can't stand the after taste, those few seconds after you swallow and the distinct taste of the artichoke extracts slide across the back of your toungue. I don't know whose bright idea it was to put extracts of artichoke in the juice, or what purpose it was supposed to serve, but it's disgusting. Like my adversion to solids in my juice, I also, strangely enough, don't enjoy drinking juice that tastes like a cold anti pasta plate at an Italian restaurant. If I want to eat pickles or artichokes, I'll eat pickles or artichoke, but only that: eat. Any other mode of consumption is wrong and should be done away with, like laugh tracks, reality TV and the Electoral College. And I have to admit that the experience shocked me (I very rarely faced with abominaton), but it has not wounded me, it has not stopped me. For though more timid than before, my arbitrary obsession goes on. I have much to learn and a reader(ship) to please! Onward to grape fruit, apple and juices unknown! Forward, in the name of progress!

2007-11-23T13:25:00.000-08:00

I just ate a giant Bockwurst with three small Bratwürste on top. No, I don't think you understand: the Bratwursts were ON TOP of the Bockwurst. Something like that shouldn't exist, but it does. The Germans have done it. Things like that remind me that I really do love this country....I just forget it sometimes.

2007-11-22T04:05:00.000-08:00

Is it wrong that I take out my visa just to look at it? They're a bit anticlimatic, these two squares of stamped paper with a hideous picture of your's truly attached, but I can't help but feeling a profound sense of accomplishment everytime I flip over the page. I look at it the way a bull fighter might look at the ragged dimple in his thigh, or a boxer his cauliflowered ears: it was damn unpleasant getting them, but by God I earned it. I "erkämpft" it, as the Germans would say, and every second spent looking at that nondescript, yet disturbingly official set of cards, I am reminded of the storm of shit and insanity I had to wade through to get it.

I would never claim that German bureacracy is the worst, or even the most annoying, in the world (Southeast Asia possesses, as I understand it, a unique capacity for offical ineptitude), but it does operate in an environment of redundancy and desk chair megalomania that borders on the absurd, frequently tipping over the edge into the abyss of fantasy. You would think, for instance, that in a country in which cash is still king, in which almost all official documents have to be paid for in cash, that they would have an ATM machine either in the building, or in the immediate vicinity. You could think that, but you'd be wrong. No, the international student who has to pay € 50,00 cash for his visa must, if he, say, only has € 46,00 in his pocket, walk all the way back to the U-Bahn station and look for an ATM in the wall of a hospital. Yes, that's right: the closest ATM to the wonderfully named "Ausländerbehörde" and office of "Ordnungsangelegenheiten" ("Foreigner Office" and "Matters of Order") is twenty minutes away and tucked in a niche beside the gate to a hospital. I of course didn't know that it was sqeezed into a gated hole in the side of the hospital, because I didn't know where the hospital was. All I knew was that it was "behind the U-Bahn." Enter two and a half hours of frustration.

I should have known this wasn't going to be easy as soon as I got those directions, I should have seen through them and into that glaring spacial flaw that makes them impossible to follow, but I did not. Instead, I took them at face value and entered a foul place where laughter has no sound and babys' tears flow upward. You see, the problem is mainly this: there is no "behind the U-Bahn," or not at least in any clear sense. An U-Bahn (Untergrundbahn) station is set up much like a potato, with four to fives feelers branching off the central station underground and breaking the surface of the street at regular intervals, giving you, you guessed it, multiple entrances. This all makes enterering the U-Bahn pretty convenient, but it also systematically lays waste to any petty human concepts of space or matter you might have. It's something you never notice normally, this bastard of a building (you even start to think of it as something normal), until someone tells you to look behind it. For then, and only then, do you realize that there is no "behind," no "in front," there is just "is." An U-Bahn station exists like no other building I have ever seen, in its own space and time, where directions and orientation depend almost completely on perspective or line of sight.

But I took it like a man and walked around it aimlessly for twenty minutes, cursing this country and its people, until I decided that I should probably go back and tell the guy in the visa department that I might "be awhile." So, I walk back to the Ausländerbehörde, into the room where a balding little bureacrat sits hunching in front of a computer for hours on end, and tell him, the man who holds my legal residency in this pink little hands, that I can't find the ATM machine. He looks up from his computer, where I suspect he was fighting his way through a particularly difficult level of Mine Sweeper, sighs with that mixture of parental concern and spoiled distain that only Germans seem to be able to summon, and says: "It's behind the U-Bahn, in the hospital." End of conversation. Want to ask a second question? Sorry, not allowed. I had be told where the ATM machine is, and if I can't find it, I'm an idiot.

You see, there is prevailing assumption here, especially when dealing with people entrusted with petty responsibilities and powers, that everyone knows where everything is and how it works. "It's always been there," they seem to say through a wrinkled nose or rolling eyes. "It's THE hospital in Wedding. How don't you know that?" In fact, come to think of it, that's how most matters of order and procedure are handled: with an unshakable belief in your responsibility to know and understand everything. A moment of confusion, of hesitation, or God forbid, transgression reveals your inherit stupidity, earning you a stern talking-to, or at least a dispassionate snort. Having been baptized in the waters of teutonic distain, I walked back to the U-Bahn and, yes, walked around aimlessly looking for the hospital. And I know what you're thinking, so I don't want to hear it: "But Brandon, isn't there a sign on the hospital?" No, because that would be reasonable. More than that, it would mean that you assume that someone doesn't know where they're going, that that's OK, and we've already established that it isn't. Please, keep up.

Well, by this time, I legs were really starting to hurt, having walked several miles and taken two hours to do what should have taken no more that a half an hour, I start asking anyone on the street I can get my claws into where the hospital is. The first guy says it's straight ahead on the right, so I go there. It's a school. Nicely played, my man, nicely played. I walk up to another man, balding, chubby and enthralled by the picture of workmen cutting down a nearby tree, and ask again. "Excuse me," I say, "is this the hospital?" He looks away from his scene of tree carnage, smiles, points across the street, and says only the way a true Berliner can:

"Nee, det is de Krankenhaus."

(I submit the equivalent Standard German sentence for comparison):

"Nein, das ist das Krankenhaus."

I walk across the street to the high white building with elegant cupolas, wide granite arches and wrought iron gates, to what is indeed the hospital, and notice a sign in front of it's left wing, a sign that reads: "hotel."

2007-11-08T04:48:00.001-08:00

I don't usually post headlines from the news here because it's, well, kind of lame. I mean, I assume that most of the people who visit this humble little page can read, and therefore possess the facalties needed to get something out of a newspaper or ticker tape at the bottem of a football game, so posting articles seems kind of redundant, like spoon feeding. If you want that, go to CNN. But, as the world would have it, I saw today the most attractive and irresistable headline I have ever seen.

It reads: "Toys linked to date-rape drug recalled"

Now, I ask you: how could you NOT read that. I certainly couldn't resist. There's just something about the John Watersesque combination of the words "toys" and "date rape" that keeps me turning the page, if only to find out exactly how toys and date rape connect that doesn't involve a 35 mm camera and a smokey basement. Well, appartently the beads from this certain toy, the now defaced toy of the year, contains a chemical that "converts into a powerful 'date rape' drug when ingested." I, like you, was surprised to find that the chemical used by basement-dwelling frat boys to warm their lonely nights with a blanket of drug induced hedonism had multiple uses. Who, I ask, looks at a chemical just a few changes away from a date rape cocktail and says "hey, we could make toys out of that?" A Chinese toy company.

Yes, that's right, the country that has given the mouldering remains of America's Robber Barons something to chortle over has stuck a chord of debauched Capitalism that Upton Sinclair could only dream of. Standing up to your ankles in cows' blood or having your feet burned off in vats of pickling solution? Please, that is so last century. Chemicals are the wave of the future, man. Shit or get off the pot. The trail that began with forcing children into coal mines and indebting factory workers at the company store has surpassed poising rivers with mercury and lead, or even desolving your retirement pension in the time it takes to regret eating all that Chicken Vindaloo. No, now it uses your body's chemical processes against you, changing the toys you buy your children into Chad Q. Peadhead's idea of a bitching mixer party.

I was disinclined to believe it, but this latest news leads me to believe that American has, indeed, lost it's leadership place in the world. It used to be, that when you thought of exploitative economic practices inflicted on a public that had little or no recourse against them, no one could rival Uncle Sam. Now, it seems, those days are gone. The mantel has passed to another, far more skillful student. Soon it will be their rivers that burn with an unnatural chemical brightness, and we, forgotten and bereft of our crown, will look eastward in envy.

Link: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21678196/

2007-10-20T12:49:00.001-07:00

So Dumbledore is gay. Am I stupid for NOT seeing this coming and for thinking it stupid and / or random? Don't get me wrong, I don't really care that JK Rowling revealed during a reading that Dumbledore is gay: it would be a fantastic character developement tool, if it made sense, but it doesn't. There is nothing in the books that even remotely points to that. Yeah, OK, Dumbledore has no close relationships with women and a troubled past, but what does that mean? That describes about 2/3 of all the Dungeons and Dragon players in the United States, not to mention about a good third all Harry Potter characters. It could mean anything: he was a serial killer, suffered from PTSD, or harbored, as was my apparently ignorant assumption, a monkish disinterest in such things. Personally, I would expect a person who had looking into the dark heart of evil on several occasions to be a little emotionally aloof, but then again, maybe that's just me.

And while we're at it, I would like to point out that Sirius was never mentioned as having had a female interest (he doesn't seem to care, as a matter of fact). I personally would argue that his love for James Potter is a bit odd. And McGonagall, the spensterly teacher, was thoroughly sexless as far as I can tell. Is he gay, is she a lesbian? No, they're just partially fleshed out characters in what is increasing becoming a hodge-podge universe. OK, well, more than it already was.

Forgot to write something in the book, some piece of vital information or character trait that fundimentally affects the characters actions or thoughts, like, say, sexual orientation? Don't worry, poor writing and a loss of narrative thread mean nothing when you can just SAY it in an interview and it becomes part of the canon! Hell, if I had known that's how writing works, I would have gotten a lot better grades on my papers in undergrad.

Speaking of which: Heather, remember my senior capstone paper, how it kind of lost itself in the middle with little concrete evidence to back up my central thesis? Well, I didn't actually WRITE IT DOWN, but I obliquely implied it. Or at least that's what I'm saying now, so you should give me a better grade.

Wow. That felt good. Man, thanks, JK Rowling! Without you, I would never have known how make up for my own inability to adequately express my ideas in writing! Now I don't have to worry about whether I efficiently build upon my ideas on the page so that others grap them: I can just say things after the fact and pretend that's what I had in mind all along.

So you should all keep this in mind the next time you read one of my posts and think: "man, that sucked," because there's most likely an entire paragraph that I just didn't bother to write down, but would have made it a lot better, had you know about it at the time.

2007-10-17T13:19:00.001-07:00

It has happened. Walking back from the S-Bahn last night around 10.30, I saw, waddling out from between the bushes along the road, a WILD PIG! And let me tell you, this was no little porker, but a big hairy bastard with a long snout, beady little eyes, and freakishly tiny feet. I was a little freaked out, to be honest, since I had heard so many stories about how aggressive wild pigs can be, and the fear of being gored and the embarrassment of having to explain that to the doctor sent to spin my knee back around kept me at a healthy distance.

That said, I was really excited; it's not every day that you get to see a wild pig walking around a soccer field looking for old potato scraps. And this also means that I have seen, within the last year, whales and a wild pig! I can now happily move out of my dorm, for I have now see all that Eichkamp has to offer.

2007-10-12T05:26:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you can see something coming. This little voice somewhere inside you says: "Oh, this is going to be bad," but both of you know there's nothing you can do about except it keep going. It's the poor man's ESP, the Tiawanese off-brand action figure of prophecy with all its rough edges and bad paint jobs.

And it will hit you in the strangest places. Just last week, I was on the S-Bahn platform at Tiergarten, and I saw a little lady reading the S-Bahn map while holding the leash of a huge dog. A assumed it was a pit bull, because I assume all huge black dogs with brown belly fur are pit bulls, but I don't actually know. But, as far as this story is concerned, it was a huge, evil dog of hell, kept chained by Odin before his throne of skulls, wearing a tight orange spandex shirt. I wish I were making that part up, but I'm not. I'm really not.

I look at the dog, and the dog looks at me. We stare. I blink. He doesn't doesn't. "This," I say, "is going to bad places." I walk on, past the old lady toward my exit, and the dog jumps at me, gurgling. I don't know if he wanted to play or tie knots in my arteries, but it's all pretty much the same to me; having over a hundred pounds of dog jump at you on a stone train stop looks pretty much the same, either way you cut it. But the little lady caught him before he actually made it to me, save for a nice swat on my legs with one of its hell-paws, so I guess I'll never know. I'll never know.

What I do know is that prostitutes on Oranienburger Straße are very....persistent, we'll say. I'll just say here that I don't really have anything against being solicited, really, because it's their job. It's what they do. My job is to turn say "no" and go on with my life. As long as both of our parts are respected, I'm cool. An arm around the shoulder? That's a bit much, but it's not binding, so to speak, and again, as long as I can shrug it off and go on, no problem.

But in no way does grabbing onto my arm with both hands, looping them around the elbow, and pulling as hard as you can fit into the social contract between prostitute and disinterested person who just wants a beer. No, when DPWJWB says "no," and leans forward against your weight and pulls forward, I'm pretty sure that's a sign that this isn't going to go your way. I mean, there were hundreds of people in the street that night; there had to be someone up for her....services.

And here again, I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere good as soon as I saw her. Both of us did, me and the other American on my hall; we both knew that one of us was going to get it, and Lo! and Behold, it was I. I must have a kind of prostitute/hell dog beacon around my neck. Or maybe it's something more fundimental, something innate and unavoidable, like a stomach ache after a bag of gummy bears. Have I met my destiny? If I have, I must embrace it, take up my cross and sell my speeder at Mos Eisley space port. But if this turns out to be some kind of innane evolutionary adaptation that's run its course, like the appendix, me and Darwin are going to have some words.

2007-10-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

The other American in my dorm is a really nice guy, and he drives me crazy. I don't know what it is, I can't explain it, but spending more than three or four hours with the guy is like listening to water drip into a sink all day. I talk a lot, anyone who knows me can tell you that, but he takes it to a new level: he fights against the silence and any prolonged break in the conversation the way some people go to church, or with the kind of excited energy and good naturedness I imagine dairy farmers in Wisconsin harness to get out of bed in January.

I frequently have times when I just don't want to talk, to anybody. Period. I don't know where it comes from, or why I do it, but sometimes I just don't want to talk about anything, to pretend I care about what comes out of someone else's mouth. Well, this doesn't go with this guy. He'll just jabber away with his inexaustible enthusiasm until I give an answer, any answer, which is more often than not a short sentence that usually has as many syllables as I have fingers. It's all very rude, and I feel guilty about it, but the alternative (screaming at him to shut up), just doesn't seem socially appropriate, even under the most viscious social duress.

I think this all just boils down to the fact that I don't do well with people who are ALWAYS completely enthralled by everything, from the bleaching red of a stop sign to the length of a girl's skirt. I mean, can't you just be a little less full of wonder, just for five minutes? I can't keep up. It's a marathon of good will, and he's won. I'm out. I can't take anymore. Every jolly clap on my shoulder is hammer stoke on my chains, and every good-hearted, nervous apology, an arrow in my eye. His desire to get along almost completely runs directly counter to the fact that we have very, very little in common.

He's just so damn wholesome. I'm up against farmer Brown on the back forty, and my tractor's broke.

Case and point: Somehow it came up that I was a Quaker (I think he asked what I was, actually), and we had a rather in depth conversation concerning God, campassion, and non-violence. It's a conversation that I put right up there with buying new jeans and unpacking on my enjoyability scale, since it always ends with everyone disagreeing with me, or at least throwing Hitler in my face, which is a topic for an entire other post. Anyway, he didn't agree with me, and now feels the need to suggest readings on non-violence and peace movements to me (they're usually accompanied by a hearty shoulder slap), and to express his own views on violence, while adding at the end that I have the right idea. It's all very nice of him, because I can see where he's going with it, and why he's doing it, but knock if off already!

I don't care that he doesn't agree with me, because 99.97 % of the human race doesn't agree with me. If I only hung out with people who did, I'd have about 4 1/2 freinds, if that. Yes, I watch violent movies, no I don't mind MENTIONING the Second World War, and no, I don't mind reading novels that have a viewpoint different from my own, because it's art. It's not real. I understand the difference between what I see on TV and how I should act. Ahhhh. OK, breath. OK.

We were both invited to a concert together today, so I should head off and work on my tolerance before I have to sit next to him and have him tell me during the concert how fantastic this is.

Oh, did I mention that he'll just come and sit down to talk just wearing his bathtowel and nothing else? I mean, seriously, what the hell is that all about?

2007-09-27T08:55:00.001-07:00

I live in a shit hole. It's just that simple. I had thought about writing something clever here, something pithy that would display not only my "gift with words," but also my resiliance in the face of adversity. Sadly, they, it, has all fallen away to reveal this one simple sentence: I live in a shit hole. Now, you may be asking yourselves, "how do you live in a shit hole," and you'd be right in doing so, because what do I know about living in holes of shit. The answer to that question is: a lot more than I did yesterday.

First off, there's no internet. I know, I know, what a piece of 21st century bitching, right? I admit it, always expecting to have internet is ridiculous, especially when you don't have direct control over whether and when it gets installed, but I do suscribe to the rather outlandish idea that a building contructed to house COLLEGE STUDENTS should have internet. Telling college students they don't have internet is like telling a hemophile you're against bandages. Before I go any further, I should confess that the dorm does technically have internet connections, they're just broken, but that in no way excuses the fact that I am writing this perched on a stool in the corner of a Pizza Hut in the Hauptbahnhof. That's € 3,00 that place as cost me. Then again, nothing inspires journal writing like a deep dish pepperoni pizza with cheese-stuffed crust and a drink.

Of course, you wouldn't really catch me writing this IN the dorm, either, since I have come to loathe it and all it stands for, which basically translates into college students. I can't live with them anymore. I can't live in a dorm, on a hall, where doors slam and people scream until 2.00 in the morning. I can't live with seven people (five of which are women) with only one bathroom, and I'm tired of having to shut doors to get some private space. Dammit, I'm past this shit! Yes, that's right: I've grown up some. I don't want to live like a student anymore, and the fact that I feel like I've fallen through some foul smelling hellmouth\time portal everytime I unlock the door to the hallway only serves to reinforce that fact.

And while we're on the topic of time travel, let me just say that my little section of Berlin is eerily reminiscent of my little section of island last time around. I could go into every snarky detail of the place's provencial charm, but allow me to sum it up for you in two words: wild boars. That's right, my little corner of western Berlin (and form East Germany), in the only place in this thriving metropolis where you can see wild boars. If I see one on my 15 minute walk to the S-bahn that I have to take to do ANYTHING, I'll let you know. Oh, don't laugh, I'm not joking. I have to take the S-bahn one stop, then a bus, to go grocery shopping. Grocery shopping. Seriously. What the hell is this? Even Burg wasn't that lame. Even in Burg I could walk five minutes to get food and watch a movie, but not in Berlin! Oh, no, that'll take you about 30 to get to the grocery store. And a movie in Alexanderplatz, that's a forty minute odyssey.

Of course, not everything isn't bad here: like all frothing pits of human waste, it's warm, and I have a TV. Oh, wait, no I don't. Five of my other room mates are girls from Spain. Oh, they don't speak any Germany and are freshmen? Hmmmm. The weather's nice. Nice try, jackass, this is Germany. Damn, you're right. OK, so I'll get back to you on the good things about my room. Then again, by then I'll have an apartment further in the city, so it'll be a moot point, God willing. Of course, I could stay. I could. I could also bath my genitals is cow's blood and stand nude in the tiger enclosure at the zoo. I could do both of those things, but why would I?

Stay tuned next week for Adventurs in German Bureaucracy, and remember to take your vitamins!

2007-02-01T10:07:00.000-08:00

I haven't written here in about, oh, I don't know, a month or so, because my life's been what I like to call "boring." That's not to say I haven't enjoyed it: metabolizing oxygen is one of my favorite things to do, so I can't complain too much, but I haven't really done anything. Well, I have read. Lots. My Children's Literature class, as bad ass as it is, has me buried up to my neck in ham-fisted moralizing and straight forward metaphors. Seriously, I have fourteen books to read this semester for this class alone. That's a lot, by my count.

We've read three so far, the first being "I was a Rat," which is absolutely brilliant! Read it. That's not a suggestion, by the way. No, no, that's a freakin' command, and you will obey it if you value your personal libraries. Then, of course, there was Little Women, which I hated. Honestly. I got thirty pages into it and let it drop and rocked the rest of way with Spark Notes. Why, you ask? Because I'm lazy, and the Victorian time period makes me itch in dirty places. I personally don't believe in a God that actively interferes in the world, but I have to thank Him for sparing me a life in those monsterously affected sixty-one years. Sure, industrial and social reforms are nice, but when weighed against five minutes at a period "party," which is to say five hours of quaffing grog, repressing sexual desire, and lamenting the damage your luggage sustained when your Coolie dropping it as he offered his back as a step latter, it all equals out. And a book about four PERFECT women who never do anything wrong? B-O-R-I-N-G.

Next on the list was Little House on the Prairie, which, although it was redundant, racist, and preachy, turned out to be a lot of fun to read. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Your thinking: "But, Brandon, that's a book for seven year old girls." Well not anymore, it isn't! I will have you know that I have never felt more secure in my masculinity than when I was reading Little House in a coffee shop, my forehead furrowed over the large print and wide margains, eyes narrowed while studying the wood cut illustrations, while surrounded my attractive young people writing Emails on their slick, white Apple lap tops. I felt I've grown, become a better person, a bigger person, for it, a person who, as far as the regular clientele at the Quaker Village Star Bucks is concerned, possesses the faculties of a seven year old. I'm a winner!

But then again, it's not about winning, is it?

It is? Oh. Well, then.....

Your not my friend anymore.

2006-12-15T16:58:00.000-08:00

My fellow Americans, the state of the Brain is confused. The markets have flagged in the last week, industrial output has lagged, and an internal audit has revealed several date discrepencies. Is it Thursday, Friday, or Saturday? No one knows. What is certain, however, is that the Brain continues to function. I have received a letter just this afternoon from the Organ-and-Chief, in which it is clear that all is in order. I offer here to set you minds at ease:

After a month ask you all surely, what i done have. To the Beginning have i the Present Progressive Tense eliminated: it isn't necessary, and i need no word for "to walk;" "to go" or "to run" is good enough. Surely has it to you occured, that i only of one Thing speak can, the german Language

In the last Month have i three major Papers in German done, und because of this has my English suddenly difficult become. Normally would i say, that this no Problem is: German makes for me always fun, but in the last several Days has it my Life become, so that i myself not always on the english Word remember can. It is a funny Feeling, without a Doubt. Is it "by the court house," or "at the court house," "you can see," or "one can see?" This know i not. But however hard this be may, try i always, myself to remind, that the german Language a pretty Language is. She has a Friend of mine in the last Years become, and i have always fun, when i her use can, no matter if it by Writing or Speaking is.

And she sounds cool. In Honest. I know, that there People are, who say, that German to them ugly sounds, but to them have i only to say, that they her not really heard have, not outside of a Movie, that with War to do has. According to my Opinion should a Film about Germany with something Tasty to do have, like Bread or Beer, in order to People the Impression to give, that there something outside of the Second World War is, that Germany the World to offer has. Bernd the Bread for instance. This Show is very, very funny. In Honest. If you ever to Germany go, should you her see. I saw only a couple, when I there was, but both Times laughed i myself almost to the Death. Is there anything funnier than a speaking Piece of Bread, that its Life hates? No. Such a thing is there not.

OK maybe is there one Thing, but only one. Before two Days saw i a Car, that Antlers on the Windows and a Nose on the Grill had, so that it like a Reindeer looked like. I know, was you all think: "Brandon" say you, "how can you thing, that that funny is? It's Christmas Crap." That may it so be, but in this Time of Year have i a better Acceptance of such Things. It's easy neccesary. The tackier the better say i. There are People next door, who so many lights on their Houses have, that one the Light a few Streets away see can. THIS is a Holiday. For what said Jesus by this Birth other than "Go and buy Lights, so that my Appearance with a Waste of Energy commemorated be can."

Apparently nothing, and God be thanked.

2006-10-31T20:04:00.000-08:00

I always held to the belief that monsters waited until Halloween to show up, but I was wrong: as it turns out, horror is more of an everyday occurance than I thought. Yes, that's right, I'm applying for graduate school. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate applying for things, mostly because I harbor a deep belief that I should just be accepted based on some innate ability that will become painfully obvious to those assigned to discover how incredible I am, both as a human being and student. Most of that is a lie, all except the belief in immediate acceptance, that is.

Don't get me wrong, I respect the idea of an application process (there has to be some vetting, even if it is theoretical), but after spending four years in college and four days with the Fulbright crowd in Berlin, I have to say that, well.....you've all talked to people at college parties, you know what I mean. But maybe I'm just being unreasonable. I mean, who doesn't like trying to fit 1) My formal and informal experience with the German language, including visitations and time abroad, 2) Reasons for wanting to study said language, 3) How I heard of the program, 4) And my career plans in two hundred words. For you word processor neophytes out there, that's less than a page. Happy hyper-concise writing time! And it wouldn't be all that bad if my word processor HAD A WORD COUNT FEATURE! Good times.

But the pain will all be over soon, and then, hopefully, I'll be in grad school, waiting for my next application opportunity to come around. Ah, the rhythms of an early 21st century nerd. Take that solar calender!

2006-10-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

Writer's block sucks. Seriously. I've been wallowing in a particularly vile cistern of rancid metaphors and aborted paragraphs for about a month now, a workout which you can thank for my month long absence, but I think I just might have put most of it behind me. Someone knock on wood for me, please. No, really, I'm not kidding. Do it.

I finished the first story in my German not-so-much-a-children's-book-anymore children's book about a month ago, and since then I have had a fantastic run of nothing. Believe me, it's a fun feeling, kind of like dispair, only more impotent. I don't want to sound like a pretentious, self-aggrandizing jerk (ie Me), but not being able to write ANYTHING is like having a limb cut off. It's completely disarming. God, I'm good! Christ! Seriously, though: it's like a part of you is cut out, sealed up, and placed just out of arm's reach. It drives you mad, though most of the time you don't know that's what's put you in such a foul mood until it's over. It's really fun. You should try it sometime. Or punch yourself in the kidney. Either one works. Hot damn, it feels good to be able to do this again! (Knock on wood).

2006-09-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

Today is Tuesday, "Girls' Night," which means that Ben, Brock, and I headed out for what has become a kind of unofficial "Guys' Night," a weekly shin-dig that translates basically into playing, watching, or talking about video games until one of us either has to go to bed or do homework. It is a testiment to our acheivements as men and an indictment of our social worth, but like most bitter sweet things, I look forward to it with with a pediatric glee and shameless day dreaming that would make JM Barrie blush. With German class in the morning and Guys' Night at....night, Tuesdays have assumed a slightly narcotic feel, a dreamy confirmation of the glories open to the human race, thanks to the descending of the larynix millions of years old and the birth of language. It's on nights like this that I am thankful to the thousands upon of thousands of my ancient ancestors would died of unimaginable throat ailments as the bones around our touchy throats realigned themselves, finally giving rise to vocal communication, and with it, complex social bonds. It is partially in honor of these bonds that I enter EB Games on the second night of the week to mooch off the free promos and read the backs of game boxes I can neither bring myself to buy, nor give up completely. For to do so would be to dishonor the hard dying and genetic experimentation of a hundred generations before me. They died so that I might hang out with friends as pasty as myself and share bits of my soul over cheap teriyaki chicken and fried rice in a Godless strip-mall in the last days of summer and the sweet breezes that blow through rose bushes and the open windows of ice cream shops. Tuesdays are the peak of evolutionary grace and divine wisdom, the masterwork of biological randomness and that consciousness of boundless love and mercy that gives hot food to frozen hearts and a seat for the ocean at land's end.

You can learn learn a lot on days like this: what it's like to have friends, what it's like to lose them, or, if you're me, what I raging white suburban square you are. I've never denied this last fact, mind you; pretending that my 130 lbs, glasses, swaying limb, and love of folk music add up to anything other than a critically unhip suburban white kid would be like destroying my central nervous system to assert my independence: I could do it, sure, but I'm not going to get too far without it. But as I found out tonight, not denying and knowing are two different things entirely, and finding it out can screw your mind more than your thirteen year old self could ever dare dream. See, it went like this:

After going to Petland and petting the pot-bellied pig and staring at the Puggle mix (Pug + Beagle), Ben, Brock, and I checked out and headed to EB to play games out of our price range, only to find that it was closed. Lesser men might have lost heart at the sight of chubby fingers sliding the store sign from "open" to "closed," but we are no such men, for Barnes and Nobles was still open, and with it, the possiblity to covet those books too expensive to own, but cheap enough to crack open. It's similar to what I imagine the more outgoing men of our generation do on weekends in bars near college campuses, but our version lacks sexual tension and shallow conversations that smell like hot sheets, cold shoulders, and quick Breakfasts. I'm still not sure if it's better this way or not.

The way things were, we ended up, somehow, talking about the Ulster Project, the foreign exchange program designed to promote understanding between Catholics and Protestants during the height of the "Troubles," of which Brock's family had been a part in high school. Apparently, "crack" in Irish slang means "cool," or "fun," so saying "hey, what's crack?" is roughly like asking "what's up?" But because he's so....clever, Ben added: "Crack is a coccaine derivative, and it's cheap and highly addictive." We weren't very quiet about any of this, since, you know, the civil war in Ireland is starting to heal over and urban guerilla warfare hasn't really caught on here as a form of conflict "resolution." It was a cool conversation, and an even better joke, as far as we were concerned, and I have to say that I was pretty damn into it. It was a great little topic of conversation, not one I would ever have thought other people would pay any attention to, but like always, why would my assumptions have anything to do with reality? After a couple seconds of walking across black top, these black guys across the parking lot starting calling over to us. It took a bit to figure out that he was talking to us, because there were still a couple people milling around like we were, mostly young couples out to look at puppies with their hearts in each other's hands. I thought maybe there'd been a mix-up in someone's head somewhere along the way, but he kept calling at us as we walked on. "I want to talk to you," he said.

"OK," Ben said. And we went over and,,,,,talked. At least I think that's what we ended up doing: the language they were using SOUNDED like English, but it seemed to lack those features I had a come to expect from it, the seperation of individual words by breathing, for example, or comprehensible metaphors.

"Where y'all go to school around here?"

Ben: UNCG.

Brock: I don't.

"Shit man, why you hangin' around with them if you ain't in school?

(Shrug)

(Something incomprehensible) "You know what I mean?

Ben: No

(Laughter. Translation: "Funny little white kid doesn't know what we're talking about")

"You smoke weed? I bet you get SO high."

Brock: No.

"Man, they go to school."

"Hey, man, you toot?"

"Toot," what the hell is that supposed to mean? At this point, I felt like I was somewhere on the other side of the looking glass, or in this case, the corner of a broken mirror. I was thoroughly out of my league. I would like to say I was part of the conversation, but I can't really claim to have been there at all. I mean, sure my senses said I was, but they've have told me at various points that I was crossing the Rubicon with Julius Caesar, flying over a canyon with pixilated wings, or eating dinner with no pants on, so what the hell do they know?

Plus, they never addressed me, so I just kept my mouth shut.

Brock: "Huh?"

"You tasted the nose candy?"

Oooooooooooh. Nose candy! Gotcha! I think I read about this somewhere: "nose candy" is a slang term for a drug, right? A drug you snort! I get it now! I'm......down.....Is that right?

Brock: No.

"Oh, I just thought....becuase I heard some words, you know. No big deal. Just keep it under the radar, man.

Ben: Oh, OK. Well, have a good night.

"You too, man. Take it easy."

I like to think of myself as someone who has a reasonably good idea about what's going on in the world, but tonight was perfect proof that I don't. At all. I'm a little white suburban square. Period. Slap a date of sale on me, because I'm ready for the shelf, just behind flannel shirts and Marilyn Manson.

On the upside, those drug dealers were really nice.

2006-09-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

I noticed the other day as I was scrolling through some past entries that my first-ever post was made September 1, 2005, which makes today the one year anniversary of my entry into this whole blogging thing. Neat-o. So, yeah, one year behind, and I have to say, I like it.

2006-08-30T18:52:00.000-07:00

Whenever I watch shows or read books about the exploits and...interesting living conditions of my ancestors in the soggy pastoral landscapes of northern Europe, I'm always struck by the amount of work that went into, well, everything. Want water to wash with? You better start out early, chump, because you've got a long day of schlepping water ahead of you. New socks? Yeah, you might as well forget about that, unless you're jonesing to shear a sheep, clean the fiber, card it, spin it, and stitch until your eyes bleed. Oh, I forgot: everyone just wore wooden shoes stuffed with straw, anyway. Never mind. You see, there was a shitload of stuff to do, pardon my French, and all this work really didn't leave a lot of time for the invention of such trivial things as the number zero and the chimney, until we a) pinched it from the Arabs in about 1200, and b) figured out a speedy 1100 years after Christ that if you funnel smoke in a contained structure through the roof instead of letting it hover in an impetent cloud just above your head, your eyes feel A LOT better. Better late than never, I guess.

But whatever people lacked in convenient technologies, they more than made up for in a freakish ability to be multi-faceted when it came to the daily repairs and a general knowledge required to, well, not die. At least not until all your teeth fell out first, at any rate. Unfortunately, I did not inherite said trait, at least not in it's positive form. For, like the Golden Rule, the Handyman Principle, as I have just named it, comes in two flavors: the positive and negative. OK, if you'll just be patient with me. I've got to geek-out for a second. You see, Jesus' Golden Rule represents its positive form: "Do unto others as you would have them to unto you," while Confusius articulated it in what is generally called "the negative form:" "Do not do to others as you would not have them do to you." Whew. OK, I'm glad I got that out of the way, because I feel a lot better. Oh, and don't worry, this will all come up again later. Maybe. I'm not getting graded on this, so what do I care if there are loose threads sticking out of it.

The positive form of the Handyman Principle means what it sounds like it should mean: you fix crap. Somethings's broken, you play with it, then it's healthy again. The negative form, of which I am a proud owner, works pretty much in the reverse: something is healthy and, before I'm done with it, it's broken. Or, something is broken, I play with it, and a microscopic screw launches under the couch or between the floorboards, never to be seen again, leaving said object worse off than when I found it. So you can understand the glee I experience everytime I look at the brand new, shiny toilet seat in the bathroom, the toilet seat I installed all by my lonesome a couple of days ago. I wish I were kidding, but everytime I gaze upon that white-painted wood, whether it be in passing, or through use, I become giddy and think "damn, I did that! Me, the guy who, three weeks ago, managed to fall OVER the steps leading out of the Continuing Education building, scraping off two inches of skin from my right knee. Me! Hot damn!"

I feel as if I have, in some small way, redeemed my fellow Geeks, those uncoordinated legions who have, throughout history, shouldered generations of people with the burden of faning interest in the speed of a dragon fly's wings in flight, the multiple uses of a sheep's bladder, or the name of Gandolf's sword in "The Hobbit." It's "Glamdring, the Foehammer." Ugh. Christ. Who have I been redeeming, again? Oh, that's right, Geeks. Ahem.....

Rejoice, ye pale basement dwellers, for your star has risen! I have installed a toilet seat! Cast off your coke bottle glasses and follow me into the su.....ummm, air conditioned living room and take your place at the table! The world is your frozen pizza! And the time is come to claim it!

Amen, Brother. Amen.

2006-08-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

To start off, do I have to tell everyone how happy it makes me to see a small reproduction of Blackbeard's flag on the wall next to my computer? I really shouldn't have to, since I have made my love of pirates plain, but just in case you haven't picked up on it yet: Man, oh man, oh man, I have a small Blackbeard flag on my wall! I went to Beaufort to the Maritime Museum and saw the artifacts from the "Queen Ann's Revenge," Blackbeard's flagship that sunk just to the south off the coast. They were mostly the standard relics people pull up from places like that, black and twisted from the sea, the flat metal surfaces deformed, raised as if frozen in mid-boil, but these were from Blackbeard! Man. So you can understand why I went and bought a little copy of his flag. He was a murderous bastard, but God, does he make a good mythological figure!

I spent last weekend at the beach in my beloved Old North State, sequestered on a small island in the Outer Banks. If I were a liar, which I am, I would say I owned the place, but some lies are just ridiculous; I don't think I could believe myself if I said it. The family of a friend of mine has a little beach cottage down there on the Sound side, so a small group of college friends trucked the five hours down East to bask a bit before the Real World starts up again and ruins everything. What did I do there? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, which is, of course, what you're supposed to do. It was glorious.

Before I went to Germany, I had always been a bit prejudiced against flat landscapes, but I have to admit that my time there has given me a greater appreciation for the vertically challenged regions of the globe. I don't think I could tell you what exactly it is I've come to like about it, but it's reassuring somehow. I like the wide flats of grass that bend and their lighter bellies when the wind blows and the tall sea birds that hunt there. I like smelling salt and the deep stink of mud at low tide, or how the fisher's nets reek as they lay on a warm dock to dry. I like walking in the heavy mists that blow in ahead of a storm at night, the low clouds that carry with them the scent of drying sea weed and the dead things that watch up before the rain comes, and how the birds run to the other horizon and hide in low lakes and channels. And I like for the sea to put me to sleep at night. Man, I miss Fehmarn sometimes.

2006-08-05T13:36:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I've sat down with enough motivation to write anything, and I've got to say, I've been busy. Oh, don't worry; I'm not actually going to tell you about any of it, I just wanted you all to know that I've been existing pretty steadily during the last month or so. Speaking of the last month, that's about how long I've been home from Germany, which is just starting to feel something close to normal. Keep in mind that "normal" has always been a suspect word as far as I'm concerned, but I guess that's just because I've never really met anything normal. OK, that was a lie. I've met plenty of normal things, but I just tend to get creeped out by them. You know what I mean, the person who is so totally unobjectionable and likeable in the way they dress, talk, act, pray, laugh, eat, express opinions, and tell jokes, and so on, that there's nothing to dislike. You can't help but like everything about them, and I hate that. It drives me mad. If there's not something about someone that makes me just a little crazy, I can't stand to be around them.

Luckily, things aren't that normal yet, just a bit boring, to be honest. See, I don't have a job yet, and school hasn't started, so I spend a lot of my time purging the Jedi Temple in "The Revenge of Sith" video game, a process that I like to think of as the self-flagellation of geekdom, because....Look, I think we all know how I feel about the new Star Wars movies, so let's just spare ourselves a bit of ineffectual rage and move on, shall we? To put it simply, wearing a horse hair shirt has never been my kind of thing, and neither is sitting on the couch eating grocery store sushi while imagining myself with force powers and, most importantly, a lightsaber, while not-so-silently cursing George Lucus for murdering a long chunk of my childhood, It gets old, believe it or not.

So I've drunk a lot of coffee in the past four weeks, and I do have to confess that I am a huge fan of reading in a coffee shop, not only because it's, well, a good place to read, but because I get to watch all the people who come in and eavesdrop on their conversations. I guess that's why it's taken me this long to finish "20,000 Leagues Under The Sea," but I did it. The squid scene is fantastically cool, by the way. Just thought I'd let you know. Oh, the rest of the book is good too, but the squid! Man! A SQUID! Anyway, I've had a lot of coffee, read a lot, and sat around and had shamelessly geeky conversations/arguments with my room mates, and by room mates, I mean Ben....If Batman counts as a super hero, so does Zorro, but that's all I'm going to say about that. Really. That's all.

That's basically all I've been up to. I'm at home right now taking care of all the animals, and it's kind of nice. I can sit around, read, watch a bit of television, then head out and feed the dogs. It sounds cute, but it really isn't, not with six. One or two, that's kind of charming, but a hot, panting, and eerily moist mass of six hysterically hungry dogs leaping and pressing itself against you crosses the line from pet to some writhing outback abomination that locals tell stories of while huddled in a dim, candle-lit tavern set by a sunken road and surrounded my bleached and rattling dead trees. But my family buys pets according to the Sam's Club school of thought: "why buy one dog, when you can buy six at half price? A gallon of pickles, six dogs, it's all the same." It really wouldn't be that extraordinary if it stopped there, but it doesn't, as tradition would dictate. We have, according to my last count, six dogs, two miniature donkeys, three Llamas (yes, Llamas), six chickens, one mule, about six horses (I can never remember those), and, most recently, 30,000 honey bees. This last one kind of surprised me, and I believe it to be a physical manifestation of a secret, subconsious death wish held by my father. It's kind of like the book "Sphere," only without the alien. And the spaceship. You see, my father has, among other things, the unenviable ability to get stung anywhere, anytime, providing there is at least one stinging insect in the immediate area. So he buys 30,000 bees. That makes sense, right?

The truth is, very few things do make sense, least of all a dog, and we allow, no, INVITE them to live with us, and you know what? I love it. That doesn't say too much for the human race, or at least this one, but whatever....dude. I'm going to take the little French Bulldog outside on a leash later, walk her in circles, and say all kinds of nasty things when she refuses to go to the bathroom. She'll look up with the most calculated pitiful face seen on the American continent since Nixon's "Checkers Speech," and I'll melt, pat her on the head, then swear some more.

Ah, love. It's something else.

2006-06-19T03:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

So there's been a lot going on since I last made the effort to sit down and actually write something. Usually, this would mean that I'd string together a massive post with the readability of a James Joyce novel read backwards through a grimy bar room mirror, but I promise this time that I'll be concise. OK, so I just said that because I could. It feels nice every now and then. Most likely this will be long. Very long. With multiple topics without visible threads or transitions. You have been warned, and I have be absolved of responsibility. See, we do have a good relationship. Either that, or we're both in politics.

Alright. I'll start big and see how far we get:

I went to Weimar last weekend, what will most likely be my last trip out of Schleswig-Holstein before my grant ends, and it was beautiful. Yeah, I know I say that all the time, but I mean it, have meant it, every time I say it. I don't know what it is exactly, whether there really are that many great cities lying around like the crumbs under my very crooked mattress, or if I've just gotten lucky and chosen wisely. The first option seems more likely, but since I like to think of myself doing anything wisely, I'll keep the second half of that sentence for myself. But it was wise. I'm just saying. It was.

It's not a very big town, but Martin Luther, Goethe, Nietzche, Schiller, and Bach all lived there, so what it lacks in quanity it more than makes up for in quality. Just so everyone knows, that last sentence was mostly shameless name dropping, since I have never read any Goethe, Schiller, or Nietzche, and don't really like Bach all that much, but if college taught me one thing, it's to fake knowledge of canonical figures with little remorse to avoid pretentious eye-rolling. Apart from that, at least four of the five changed the world in their respective fields, which entitles them to at least one honorable mention, I think. They can rest easy now: I have mentioned them in this blog. Way to go, guys.

The city itself was very pretty and seems to benefit from its not being destroyed in the war. If you want to know what it looks like, just rip a medieval village out of a childrens' pop up book and place it on the face of the earth, and you'd get a pretty good idea. Go there if you get the chance. It's nice. It reeks of age in a comfortable way. It's very secure with it. It's like the guy who doesn't have to quote Velvet Underground lyrics or wear dirty clothes to prove how cool his is: he just stands there, and you know, deep down within yourself, that he's cooler than you. Plus, the City Park is fantastic! It runs along the Ilm River, and the meadows that stretch out from its banks run for miles. I didn't know that places like that actually existed; I just thought they were in English country stories or Romantic poems. Come to think of it, they are: Goethe had a little garden house there where he did some writing. We went in because it was there, but it was kind of underwhelming, really, just a little two floor 18th century country bungelow. It was pretty, but it didn't knock my socks off or anything. I could live there, though, maybe sleep behind the admissions desk.

We arrived in Weimar on Friday, the first day of the World Cup. Now, I'm not really the sporty kind of guy: years of ducking soccer balls or cutting out of line during kick ball didn't come, as many PE teachers seemed to think, from an unwillingness to "hustle, hustle," but rather a mix of not wanted to humiliate myself by blocking an incoming Frisby with my face, or dragging down the team unlucky enough to have me on their roster. I just suck. A lot. I'm OK with it, and sports and I have generally led seperate lives since High School. But I'm willing to make an exception for the World Cup. It's just plain nuts. The whole country seems to have lost a bit of its mind, and it's downright infectious. Growing up in the United States, soccer was never a part of the national sports consciousness, but I honestly have to say that people are kind of missing out. It's very different than football or basketball, where teams can win or lose by huge margins, and shares a lot in common with baseball: the scores are routinely low, the pace of the game is irregular, and a lot of it seems to be built on complex rituals driven by fans and actually being there, as opposed to a TV sport, which kind of makes me wonder why it's not very big at home. In any case, it almost seems like celebrating the World Cup as an event is just as important as watching the games, which gives unathletic people like me a nice alternative to actually knowing what's going on: breathing the air is enough to feel like part of a massive inside joke that the world north of the Rio Grande just doesn't get.

I spent the first day after Weimar walking around Lübeck on a blistering summer day that soared to 85 degrees, which I'm not used to anymore. I wilt like new spinach when it gets over 75 without a stiff breeze, so I did my share of what I've been told is called "sweating." Apparently, when the weather gets warm enough, your body produces salty water and releases it through your skin to cool you off. It's very uncomfortable, and suggest doing what I can to avoid it. Fortunately, ice cream is a good cure. And no, this isn't Baskin Robbins. German ice cream wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with our thirty-two "flavors" in a mall. It you want to get it, you have to go to an "Eis Cafe," where you can buy everything from the standard scoops to a "Becher" with fruits and all kinds of other things that are bad for you at a comfortable table. I have turned away from my Oreo Cookie Ice Cream Ways, and have been redeemed. It's not too late. It's never too late.

The end of the day saw Stacy and I drinking a bottle of wine at the Lübeck Wine Festival to lounged-up cover versions of Willy Nelson's "On the Road," Elvis Presley's "That's Alright Mama," and some other abomination I've managed to block out of my mind. There wasn't a sausage or glass of beer in the entire place, but they apparently had no problem bringing out the cheese. We were the youngest people there by a good quarter century, and I'm pretty sure they thought we were on a date, but I'm happy to report to the breathless hordes of women camped out on my yard that I am still single. But one at a time, please. Take a number. I've still got number "one," by the way, if anyone's interested.

And you thought it was too late for self deprecation. Honestly.

I got back to Fehmarn Monday evening to find that someone had replaced my upstairs room with a green house, complete with foggy glasses. I slept without sheets with my windows open, and I still managed to sweat. Tuesday was even more impressive. It was so hot, a balmy 90 degrees, that it drove me to the hated activity of buying clothes, shorts in this case. In case you don't know, finding clothes to fit me is as about as fun as untangling balls of Christmas lights, because I am what you would call a "little guy." Apart from towering over a level plain with five feet and six inches, I am also the walking antithesis of a football player's body. I'm personally OK with it, but the clothing industry at home seems to have forgotten that people like me exist outside of "Survial Of The Fittest" dioramas, and Germany doesn't seem to be much better. It took me three hours to find a pair that could fit with my belt on, and I wouldn't have bought those if they hadn't been reduced to € 15,00.

Well, it turns out there was a good reason they were so cheap, because two buttons had managed to wedge themselves shut and tear out of the pants within five minutes of me putting them on, and if that wasn't enough, the button on the fly popped off the next day. By this point, wearing these pieces of crap had become a matter of honor, so I shuffled across the hall into my bedroom holding the waist under my elbows and dug out my little sowing kit. I hadn't seen it since mom gave me a running demo on the train in August, but I am proud to report that the operation was a success. I am wearing them now. I'm ridiculously proud of myself, and take regular breaks to inspect my handywork. That sucker's never coming off again.

2006-06-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

As of now, I have watched "All The President's Men" and AM watching "The Spy Who Loved Me" (that's James Bond for you uncultured types), which makes for a good day. But that's not why I'm here. Hmmm, why am I here? Come to think of it, why is anyone here? Is it enough to live, or are we meant to do something greater, somethi....Sorry, just a bit of freshman year flashback. It's astounding how damn BRILLIANT you can be tanked up on Cheerwine and stained orange by stale Cheetos at five in the morning. But all that's beside the point.

What is the point? Last weekend was a good one. I had visitors. Yes, yes, I know. You're all thinking: "What, hold on, visitors? How did he manage that?" The answer is simply that it really didn't have anything to do with me, or the fifteen goat livers I roasted on hot stones last week under the half moon. It appears, strangely enough, that they just wanted to come, and I wasn't one to argue. So Stacy and Jenny arrived Saturday afternoon under a beautiful northern German sky, an endless, formless, expanse of blinding white driven by persistent wind and pissing rain. Now, in case you, my dear reader, have, I don't know, slept under a rock for the last ten months, there isn't a whole lot to do here if you don't rent a house and mind supping on ice cream and sleeping in a beach basket all summer. If that's your scene, you're set, but if you're one of the 15,000 people who call Fehmarn home for twelve months of the year, you're kind of screwed.

That said, I'm impressed how it all worked out, and not just because I was actually able to find something for us all to do for an entire day; it gave me the chance to see the island through a fresh set of eyes, which helped me appreciate it more. The first part of the day was taken up with eating lunch at a seafood place on Markt and taking a blitz tour of the old church while waiting for the next bus to Puttgarden. Oh, there are taxis, but they were all busy, or so the guy on the phone told me. ALL of them. Every single one. I don't know why I was surprised, because there had to be several thousand tourists here for the Pfingsten (Pentacost) holiday weekend. While I'm on this whole tourist thing, tell me: does it make a bad person that I sometimes want to push the old ladies off the sidewalk who walk about 0.00001 miles per hour side by side, affectively blocking your way as they stare at EVERY postcard on EVERY rack on the street? If your answer that that question is an "affirmative," keep in mind that it was more of a rhetorical question, a critical prompt, if you will. If, on the other hand, your answer is a "negative," feel free to write.

Anyway, the day before, I thought to myself: "Hey, you know, riding the ferry over to Denmark would be fun. I mean, I've never done it." It was one of those ideas that hit me with a mixure of excitement and ripened guilt all at once; I was excited because I've never done it, but that enthusiasm only served to drive home the fact that I SHOULD have by now. Yes, this is how I think. Welcome.

Stacy and Jenny didn't have their passports with them, and neither did I, come to think of it, but we decided to give it a shot anyway and ask someone near the ferry who looked like they might have the scoop on this whole "going to another country" thing. We weren't too worried about it, really. I mean, this is the German-Danish Border, which is kind of like the US-Canadian line after smoking three joints while knitting a loose fitting cap to Bob Marley: Greatest Hits records. "Welcome to Denmark: Whatever, Dude." And can you blame them? All that square paper pushing can, like, totally harsh your mellow.

But not being citizens of the EU, the world's only running Super Nation, we thought it would be better to ask someone if we needed our passes, someone who, in this case, turned out to be an older man standing right by the entrance to the ferry. Convenient. OK, los geht's. "Excuse me," Jenny said, walking up, "but we were wondering: do we need our passes to get on the ferry. Our passports. We don't have them."

"What?" Apparently, the question smelled something like rotten eggs wrapped in wet dog hair, because he managed to bring his eye brows all the way down to the bridge of his nose, pushing them together at the bottom so they assumed the rough outline of a dead caterpiller.

"Do we need our passports to get on the ferry?"

"I don't give a shit, I just take your tickets."

Well, OK then.

As it turns out, no one checked through the whole 45 minute trip, so I was free to stop and watch the gray waves and imagine fleets of trading ships bound for England or Russia, and the small pirate ships that ambushed them. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the ships come with names and histories. It's what I do. But back to the real boat.

A border, with all the duty free perks, is probably the best way to describe it. It was huge, with six decks according to the buttons in the lower deck elevator, and I can believe it. I've watched the ferries dock before while waiting for the train from Copenhagen to roll off, and they look like something out of Star Wars (the original, please, none of this "Special Edition" or Episodes I, II, or III crap. I have standards), and by "something" I mean the Jawa droid trader vehicle in the first one. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I know who you are.

At this point, you might be asking yourselves where the ferry docks in Denmark. Well, the map will tell you Rødby, something approaching a town, but it's really Rødbyhaven, or harbor, an industrial wasteland with just enough houses to provide for the population needed to give the place the desired "Twilight Zone" ambiance. It was a real post-Apocalyptic metropolis, let me tell you. The city plan was unnaturally wide and empty; the streets are more like asphalt and brick boulevards than small town thoroughfares. There was a bar called "The Golden Lady" and an ATM machine. Oh, and a Greasy Spoon joint, complete with washed out, yellowed pictures of the menu outside. That was it. Rødbyhaven isn't dead, it's already buried.

So I don't know why we were so surprized when the bus to Rødby didn't show up. The plan said it was supposed to run on Saturdays, but the shit-eating grins we got from people passing in their cars told us otherwise. Having a bus stop must have been one of those things the city designer read about in a magazine, one of those accessories that takes your end-of-the-earth hamlet and transforms it into a real city.

All that, though, didn't change the fact that we were in Denmark! I couldn't read a damn thing, except the sign for the "Golden Lady," and it was great, if not a bit confusing; I had started to take the fact that I can read signs and books for granted, I think. It might sound lame, but walking around a deteriorating Danish village was one of the coolest things I've done in a while. I mean, I came over the ocean just to get there! This reaction was pretty common in our little group, by the way.

But that doesn't mean we stayed all that long.

Once we got back to Fehmarn, we heading on down to the Südstrand (South Beach) to look at the ocean now that the weather had cleared up, and it didn't disappoint. The Baltic on a good day is actually a light blue color, almost greenish, which I guess has something to do with its very low salt content. The wind was puffing at that "knock you off your feet" strength, but that only added to the authentic northern German experience. There was a fest, too, where we all bought the world famous Danish Hot Dog. And no, I didn't miss the irony there.

The Danish Hot Dog is composed of the following elements:

1) Bright Red Sausage, thin
2) Equal squirts Ketchup, Mustard, and some kind of Romoulade or Sweet Mayonnaise
3) Fried French Onion Bits
4) Sweet Danish Pickle Slices

Think it sounds nasty, don't you? Well, you're wrong: it was delicious.

Denmark, land of contrasts, how good you are.

2006-06-01T03:22:00.000-07:00

It is the first of June, and it's cold.

What the hell?

2006-05-30T04:36:00.000-07:00

It's good to get out sometimes. Opening the windows on a nice summer day is something; letting the world come to you through a hole in the wall can be reassuring and refreshing, but somtimes you have to get out and meet things halfway. It's healthier that way. You and world can be buddies. Incidentally, I've discovered it helps to treat the world like a healthy friendship, you know, not always making some come visit you all the time; it makes all the crazy people look like clowns, and everyone else like the guy who always forgets to laugh.

It just so happens that I'm the craziest person I deal with on a regular basis, so getting out is pretty important to keeping things going, kind of like changing the oil or rotating the tires, two things I have no real clue about, but know are important if you want your car to roll anywhere other than downhill. So I went to Lübeck.

Since last weekend was Himmelfahrt, or "The Ascension" to the observant English-speaking world, I had Thursday and Friday off, which is just peachy for traveling. The plan was to head down to Lübeck, and then Stacy and I would head up to Flensburg on the Danish border look around. We had both heard it was nice, and I had been suffering under a bit of Traveler's Guilt, because I haven't seen that much of Schleswig-Holstein, even though I've been living here for close to a year, so it seemed like a good place to go. Danish hot dogs, by the way, are supposed to be fantastic. It's the preservatives the Danish government allows that gives them their flavor, or so people have told me. Mmmm, Butylated Hydroxytoluene. Yum.

Well, we didn't make it there. Oh, it wasn't for a lack of trying, I'll say that right now. No, it's just that the Schleswig-Hostein train network sucks. A lot. Getting to Flensburg up on the border would have taken anywhere from 2.45 to 3.30, depending on the mule they decided to hitch up that morning. 2.45 isn't really that bad in itself, but it's a nice slice of "Pain-in-the-Ass Pie" when you get the "pleasure" of riding in two trains and a bus, and then have to turn around and make the same trip for a second time in one day. So we decided on Rostock in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern instead, a nice 1.45 minutes away with just one change in Bad Kleinen, which, despite it's position in the middle of nowhere, proved to be a pretty big town.

In general, though, Mecklenburg is, how you say, on the ass end of nowhere. There's nothing there. Nichts. Well, OK, there are hills. And trees. They've definitely got those. It's a spectacularly beautiful place, really, but it's pretty clear that Reunification hasn't really reached the county, aside from the occasional Wind Turbine maintenance. Grass covered hills, fields of bluming Rapes, and thick forests rule the scenery between towns. The word "town" is, for lack of a better English word, used loosely here, by the way. Come to think of it, German, a language that is far more precise when it comes to assigning size to settlements, doesn't have one either. I would use "Kaff," something smaller than a "Dorf," or "village," but it's a word that foolishly assumes the existence of buildings, which immediately disqualifies it when describing Plüschow.

Wikipedia.com tells me it has 541 inhabitants, but I didn't see them. Come to think of it, I didn't see anything to inhabit in the first place; the only thing around to tell you that we were stopped for any reason other than letting a stray sheep cross the tracks was a sign on two steel posts. The town, if it exists at all, was neither hidden behind a hill nearby, nor far in the background behind a cow. And before you ask: no, I didn't see a road leading to it. There was nothing, which I guess explains the short stop.

Rostock, as it turns out, is a pretty big town with its own Straßenbahn system and paved sidewalks. It's an old Hansa City, just like Lübeck, so the old city is beautifully built, consisting mostly of narrow, colorful merchant-style houses that you can only find here in the north. It's funny to think that Rostock 600 years ago was a part of the most powerful political entity in Europe, and now it's stuck in one of the most economically depressed. Funny how things work out, isn't it?

It was, like most towns worth a zip code, flattened in the war, and the old city was nearly completely reconstructed years later, but you wouldn't know to look at it, as usual. The catherdral has a massive astonomical clock; built in 1472, it is the oldest that still runs on parts of its original mechanism, and it was fantastic. I thought about taking pictures, but I generally avoid taking pictures in churches and other religious sites since people actually worship there. It's funny, I know. I personally don't think it's any more sacred than, say, a nice tree, but other people do, so I tend to spare them from my deadly tourist hawk eye. Besides, it has a bell poured in 1290, which is just awesome. Speaking of old things, the Christian book store just around the corner from the church is in a small white-washed building built in the year 1200, but they didn't get around to renovating it until 1731. Can you believe that? Honestly. Slackers.

Rostock is, in short, an absolutely beautiful town, and I'm really happy I made it there. So far, the Hansa City haven't let me down. Go Hansa! It's funny, but Fehmarn was where all the pirates lived who ambushed Hansa convoys as they tried to leave the Baltic on their way to trade with England. I guess that makes my trips kind of ironic.

But before I go, I would just like to take a couple minutes to say that, if you are still drunk from the night before, just stay at home, because no one wants to talk to you. Really. Go home, get some sleep, and watch some Sponge Bob on TV. Really, I don't really care what you do, just don't bother me, especially when I'm trying to cross the street.

See, this guy came up to Stacy and me when we were on our way to the train station in Lübeck and struck up a "conversation," which in this case is more like saying, "diatribe." Here's basically how it went.

GUY (In English): Hey! Hey! Are you from England?

US: Huh?

GUY: Are you from England?

US: No, we're American.

GUY: Did you vote for Bush?

US: No.

GUY: Oh, well you're good people.

If I haven't done anything else of value in my life, it appears not voting for Bush for president was it. Sad thing is, it wasn't really something I had to put a lot of thought into. Anyway, the guy went on to explain that he was an Arab, and therefore hated George Bush. It was, he said, "in his blood." I didn't go into how that expression only reenforces the whole "evil-doer" song and dance, but whatever. Long and short of it is: "We (Arabs) must fight to defend ourselves," blah, blah, blah. I disagree, but that's not the point here.

He then asked us where he were from. I should say here that being from North Carolina is great, because no one has a freaking clue where that is. Stacy, being from California, doesn't have that luxury.

GUY: Oh! California! I want to make a relationship with you so I can come to California.

Yippy.

GUY: Do you live with your parents?

STACY: Yes.

GUY: Shit. Do you smoke weed?

STACY: No.

It's amazing how stupid some people can be. It must take a lot of work. Anyway, after confirming that Stacy and I are, in fact, actually friends and aren't engaged in an elaborate ruse designed to decieve ourselves, he turns to me and asks: "Are you handycapped?" I don't generally think of myself in those terms, since I was born with my limp, so don't know anything else, but it's true, at least technically, so I answer:

ME: Yes.

GUY (Pointing at own head): But your emotions, they're all there? They're normal.

Well, I do tear up at the end of "Lord of the Rings: Return of the King," but what that means, I'll leave to you.

ME: Yes.

GUY: But you're not psychotic?

ME: Ummm, no.

GUY: I worked with psychotic people, and they were......

Insane?

As it turns out, when the blind lead the blind they end up at crossing light, hung over, and way too self confident.

2006-05-21T05:33:00.000-07:00

Pasta boiling away on the stove, tennis on TV, and a new post in the works; truly out of an old Dutch painting. We've had pretty constant rain the last two days, with clear, blue skies in the mornings, so I've decided to stay inside and devout my time to the construction of this pastoral scene. But the weekend's been good so far, kind of homey and laid-back.

Andreas' wife and daughters are away at church camp somewhere in the north of Schleswig-Holstein (yes, there ARE Germans who go to church), so he was left alone at home with Louis, the 1 1/2 year old, and like all fathers and sons across the entire the planet, they spent the weekend going out to dinner and generally just doing, you know, stuff. Together. Anyway, I went out to dinner with them last night and the night before, and it was nice. Suprisingly enough, Louis was really good, mainly because there was food around, and, as was the case last night, an old ship's throttle to pull that made NOISES! I know, it was too much. OK, so as soon as I saw it inside the door, I wanted to play with it too, but that's beside the point. What?! Look, it's a part of a ship, which is close to pirates, and pirates are cool. I've always had a bit of a soft spot for ships and things like that, even though I'm not a sailor at heart and have no real desire to take up the hobby. The idea, though, that's something else, the stuff good stories are made of.

Oh, dinner reminds me: the asparagus harvest is BIG news here in Germany. I'd try to think of something at home that compares with "Spargelzeit," "Asparagus Time," but there just isn't anything. Try to imagine the energy and misplaced nationalism that goes into soccer, apply it to a crop, and then you might come somewhat close. It's official start was about three weeks ago when I was in Dresden; we ended up walking through a little fest with an asparagus raffle and a "Spargelschnapps" tasting. No, I didn't drink any, but I didn't need to; the knowledge that asparagus Schnapps exists was enough. White asparagus is the norm, by the way. Oh, you can buy it green, but if you go out to eat, or eat dinner at someone's house, you'll get the pale stuff. It has a bit of a milder taste than the green variety, and it doesn't have such a strong....after effect. And unlike at home, asparagus is an entire meal. OK, not all the time, but it's pretty common to see just "Spargel" on a menu as a meal option, and get A LOT for your money, too. Andreas had it at a sea food place on Markt, and the small mountain of opaque vegetables, the obligatory potatoes, and clarified butter and Hollandaise Sauce on the side was enough to make my stomach bulge just looking at it. Me, I had fish.

While I'm on this whole dinner thing, I'll just say: have I ever mentioned how much fun it is to be at a table where multiple languages are used to communicate? No? Well, it's awesome. The Gymnasium here on Fehmarn does an exchange program every year with students from the French-speaking area of Switzerland, and the teachers came over to eat dinner with my landlady. They both spoke French as their first language, obviously, but they also knew German, thank God, because otherwise, dinner would have been slightly less than interesting. The little English they knew was pasted around a bit just to warm it up, but it was pretty useless. That said, it made three languages at one dinner, and that's just fun.

Speaking of fun, Germans are OBSESSED with the Wild West, "die Indianer," in particular. Before you start asking me why, I don't know. What I do know is that Winnetou, a noble Apache chief created and put to paper by Karl May, Germany's king of pulp literature, is the Alpha and Omega, THE Indian in this neck of the woods. A century of better writing and improved race relations hasn't succeeded in dulling his presence in the collective German psyche, and as a result, a huge portion of the population carries a dormant twelve year old in them that springs to life whenever it sees a feathered headress and black braids.

So I guess that explains the dancers in the town square this weekend. The Indian dancers. With drums. And flutes. And headresses. They spun themselvees around in the shadow of the Rathaus to the thump of drums and recorded wolf calls. The crowd that gathered around them was charged with an energy I can only imagine I had as an eight year old reading books on pirates and Indian tribes with my dad on the couch. They were rooted to the spot, the spirit of Karl May descended upon them, and it was good.

2006-05-17T02:48:00.000-07:00

After all this recent talk about Dresden and similar fancy-schmancy goings on, you might be asking yourselves: "So, like, what's been happening on Fehmarn?" Well, I sensed your pain across time and space, and I have an answer: It doesn't get dark now until 9.30 at night!

Seriously, that's big news. After five and half months of gray, cloudy weather and no sun after three to four thirty in the afternoon, having natural light for twelve hours a day is big stuff. It's like Christmas from the sky EVERYDAY. It's also produced a kind of primitive response in me that translates into an uncontrollable urge to go outside. I know, it shocks me too. What's even weirder is that I don't even have to DO anything: just being outside seems to be enough. And judging from the reactions of everyone else in town, it seems to be a universal phenomenon, a kind of weather based Pavlovian experiment that draws all the Germans into the open, despite their powerful fear of breezes and any other kind of air circulation.

That doesn't mean, though, that people won't be wearing a heavy winter jacket and a scarf in 75 degree weather. Despite what I like to call "common sense," people, especially children, seem to be uncomfortable going outside if it doesn't mean steaming slowly in their own clothes until their muscles wilt and fall from the bone like a marinated game bird. The phrase "es zieht," literally "it pulls," is a kind of praire dog call designed to warn people against some underhanded and imminent threat to their health. Apparently, any weather that isn't tropical and all around balmy is just a premature death in disguise.

Apart from improving my mood, the weather is great for coffee drinking, something that's become a quasi-daily ritual for me: a nice cup of coffee and a random yet delicious German baked good can go a long way to make any day fantastic. That, and you get the opportunity to watch flies mate. Really. I saw it a couple days ago at the bakery. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, spinning my mug between my fingers, watching the people walk along the street, when I noticed that a fly, no, two flies, were on my tray, and they weren't normal. They were attatched. From behind. Now, I know this doesn't necessarily mean that they were reproducing, but I challenge you to come up with a better explanation. Some might say that they were fighting, but flies are, as everyone knows, a peaceful race that does not know violence. They may be annoying, relentless, or even go so far as chase another insect away from a piece of garbage, but they don't fight. With this in mind, the only plausible conclusion must be that they were, in full view of all those in the bakery, engaged in sexual congress.

Just in case you were wondering, this IS what I do here, that and Star Trek. I drink coffee, go to school, and watch random species reproduce, not necessarily in that order. If I were a tourist, things might be slightly different, but I really don't have the urge to sleep in a camper in the parking lot next to school, so that's pretty much ruled out. I'm not kidding, by the way; people actually pay to come up here and spend their vacation in a parking lot. I'm personally a big fan of campers, but a parking lot? Well, at least the weather is better here than in the rest of county.

Which brings me to a totally unrelated topic: I sat in on the 12th grade today as Andreas did I don't know what, and gave them a little work assignment. They had to read an article on women in the German army, and I told them to write a little something about their opinon for or against it, based on the information in the text. I was supposed to give them a word limit, but I forgot, because I had to explain the assignment several times before they understood it. I'm really not sure what it was about the assignment that they didn't understand, but they kept telling me that there was no question written on the paper for them to answer, so I assume that had something to do with it. See, the German school system, or at least as I've experienced it, trains students to be totally useless if every facet of an assignment or opinion is not literally spelled out for them on a piece of paper. Sure, they "listen" to you while you're telling them what to do, but five seconds later they just look around the room and mumble in German that they don't know what the assignment is. Oh, yeah, that's another thing: they won't tell you if they don't understand something. No, they'll just descend into a kind of intellectual despair that makes Dan Quayle look like Cicero and do absolutely nothing.

When they started "working," they did some work, then went over and looked at pictures on someone's laptop. I'm sure you're asking yourselves why I didn't nip it in the bud before it got to the point of dragging someone across the room in their chair, then pretending to spank them with a giant ruler? Because I REFUSE to tell a room of 18 year olds that walking on the desks and dragging someone across the room is unacceptable; they should know that already, dammit! They're 18! It's just....you know, obvious. Everytime I've been in this class, they've acted like absolute jerks, and teachers keep telling them to "sit down," "be quiet," "don't tear up his paper," and so on, but I decided not to do that. They're not totally guilty in all this: like I said, it's a school system, or at least a school, that doesn't expect the students to be able to think, creating a population of oversized children who have no concept of responsibility, but that doesn't mean they didn't piss me off. Royally. I guess I should say now that I love most of the students at school, really, but this class happens to have the only people at school that I find personally repulsive. I can't stand them. They're 18 and act like they're 6. Sure, they're human, and so I'll give them the respect they're entitled too, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop them from getting a "0" on an assignment if that's what they want. Go ahead, act like asses, it's your grade.

OK, I feel better. Thanks for being there for me.

So, yeah, that's what I've been doing lately.

2006-05-16T02:03:00.000-07:00

Ta Da! As promised, I have returned once again to the side of the Information Super Highway to beg for spare change and dazzle the world with just how interesting my life is, which in this case means the second half of my Dresden entry.

Now, the last time we left our young adventurers, they had just arrived in the fair city, seen some of the sights along the river and eaten dinner, which pretty much wraps up the first day. OK, so we did some other things, sure, but I don't feel like writing about them, because, believe it or not, I'd like to write about something else one of these days.

So, the second day was, as I mentioned before, the long day in the Neustadt. Old and new cities don't always go together in Gemany, the product of about 500 years of advancements in urban development and planning, and a massive six year bombing campaign, but Dresden, again, manages to pull it off. For one thing, the New City is the oldest part of town, since it was nearly untouched by the bombing that destroyed the old center. That, kids, is what we call irony.

Anyway, the Neustadt is great. Keep in mind that that appraisal is based only on the small parts of it I saw, but since my opinions are so well informed and therefore carry the weight they do, I'd just suggest taking it to the bank and maybe buying yourself something nice with the change. When you get wiggled down into the club/old apartment sections of the city, it looks a lot like what I imagine a giant college district would look like if you constructed it out of turn of the century apartments, small clubs and cafes, plastered nearly every available surface with posters, stickers, and graffiti, then lacquered it all with that heavy European decay that makes eastern Germany so damn cool.

Poverty? Where? I just thought it looked nice.

It does look nice, too. The peeling doors, slanted side walks, stained exteriors; it's old, very old, a kind of age western Germany just doesn't seem to have. Don't get me wrong: western Germany has got some really old places that are spectacular, but this just feels different. Sorry, but I can't put THAT in this entry. The city doesn't feel dangerous, though. I guess it got that bit of advice from Berlin: "How to Look Rough, but Still Hold the Door for Old Ladies in Ten Easy to Follow Steps."

But Dresden wasn't always the hip little eastern city it is now. No, once it was one of the most powerful and richest cities in Europe, a center of music, art, theology, and gratuitous displays of absolute power and love of physical wealth. I have often wondered what it would be like to be an absolute monarch capable of manifesting even my most ridiculous fantasies into reality. What kind of buildings would I have built, what jewels mined, and what populations ground into poverty just to fulfill my deepest "needs" to make something bigger and shinier than that "totally annoying" prince two houses down. Well, thanks to the "das Grüne Gewölbe (The Green Vault)," I think I have a pretty good idea.

To sum it up, the vault contains some of the most amazing, yet utterly wasteful, art I have ever seen. Looking at it kind of gives you a strange feeling, a feeling that comes with marveling at an entire ship, sails and all, carved from ivory, yet realizing that everyone else in the kingdom was living in cronic poverty and without political representation. Oh well. It looks nice. "Hans, bring me ten thousand pearls dipped in chocolate and dusted in gold. It's just one of those days."

Some of pieces are as old as the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but a good chunk of it was order by King Augustus der Starke (King August the Strong) to....I don't know what. But I guess when you're the Regent of one of the richest German kingdoms and King of Poland there's not a whole lot else to do. I guess knitting would come across a little too feminine, huh?

Anyway....

Oh, we took a boat ride down the Elbe! Now that was all kinds of fun! It took about an hour and a half all together, and it fantastic! If you want to float lazily down a river and stare at the vineyards terraced up the hills as they slide by your boat and wave at random people bathing, this is for you! Man! It was puuurty. Not to mention relaxing.

We ate dinner at a small Russian Cafe, "Cafe Raskolnikoff." Hehehehe....Sorry, but I have to take a few minutes to let my inner English major giggle at the name. Raskolnikoff. Hehehehe. "Relax and enjoy your dinner on our unique outdoor patio and take in the cool night air while brutally murdering an old lady and her sister with an axe and succumbing to mysterious and violent losses of consciousness. Turn away your only friends and you get a five percent discount on your bill."

I had Beef Stroganoff. YUM!

And the waiters had axes on their aprons. BRILLIANT!

It all seemed really bohemian to mean, then Ted reminded me that we weren't any more that 50 miles from Bohemia itself, which is nothing but cool. Bohemia. I wonder if they all wear black turtle necks and smoke thin cigarettes. Oh, and what's cooler: the cafe was on Böhmischestraße (Bohemian Street)!

That's pretty much it, really. We did have a shorter third day, but there's not a whole lot to talk about there. OK, that's a lie, but it's not something terribly exciting to people who weren't actually there. We did stop into a really old milk bar to, you guessed it, have a glass of milk. Gosh, you all are smart! The entire place, and do mean the ENTIRE place, was covered in painted tiles of, what else, cows, farmers, flowers, and anything else that could suggest a rural setting. They had a pretty awesome cheese counter that smelled like my socks smothered in steaming mulch, but I still wished I could have bought a piece of something to take back with me, but something tells me it wouldn't have been a good idea.

And yes, it was cool, in case you're wondering. I have a huge soft spot for stuff like that, a bit of an obsession, you might say. It's right up there with old folky religious stuff from the American South, old propaganda posters, and really old folk recordings. There's just something about all that, this milk bar included, that's missing from things these days, a kind of childish enthusiasm and excitement that's been swollowed by the uninspired and misinformed, killed off by the likes of Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and Michael Moore in their quest to right all the damn time....Sorry. I went on a little tangent there. I'll have all that for another post. But I will say here that Rush Limbaugh is an aweful person. Oh, he's an idiot too, but mostly he's an example of everything aweful about our race. Other than that, he's alright. OK, I'm done. Really.

2006-05-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the Teachers' Lounge at school, I can't help but be struck by the contrast of the last week, meaning the contrast between Dresden and my beloved Nigh-Scandi Paradise, Fehmarn. Yes, that's right, I was in Dresden over the weekend, and although I've decided to write an actual post about it (joy of joys for my fans out there....you know who you are), I think the word "WOW" in big, fat, capital letters is a pretty good summary of the place and all the experiences that went along with it.

I left early Thursday night for Hamburg and headed out Friday afternoon with a group of Assistants (Hey, guys! You Rule! Seriously. You do.), arriving in Dresden at about six. First off, it was warm there. Really warm. I had heard that the mainland was, for some unknown reason, a lot warmer than Fehmarn this year, but since I hadn't left the island for over a week and had no idea what it was like "auf dem Festland," I stamped the information with a fat "How Much Different Could It Be" label, and filed it away in my head somewhere behind Freshman High School Geometry. So, the weather gets brownie points. Way to go, Weather!

Before I go on, I should make a bit of a personal disclaimer. You all remember those; I made one a while back talking about my own personal concept of time. Those were good times, back in the early days. Anyway, here's another one. And yes, my Psyche is that interesting.

Those who know me should have noticed by now that I like to exaggerate, a fact that my mom (love you) never misses a chance to point out when I say, for instance, that a stack of books must have weighed a thousand pounds, and so, and so on. Now, I am fully aware that no stacks of books I own, no matter how many times I might visit Barnes and Nobles, does, nor could it ever, weigh half a ton, because, well, I'm not a total moron. But to be honest, I like exaggerating. It makes things more interesting, first off; it can make the most boring personal event funny, or at least entertaining, but more importantly, it just sounds better. "A half ton stack of books" sounds a lot better than "a heavy one," and given the right circumstances, it can be really funny. It's not lying, because the stack of books is still heavy; I've just sort of fleshed out a bit more how heavy it is, kind of given it a nice picture.

That in mind, know that I am NOT exaggerating Dresden. Sometimes, it's just good to let reality be and report it. It's generally boring to do, I agree, which is one reason why I could never be a journalist, but I have to admit that there are times when it's the best way forward. This is one of them, because the city really is that amazing.

It's not a very big town, but what space there is feels stuffed to the gills with what I'll call, for lack of a better word, personality. The Altstadt (Old City) next to the Elbe River isn't very big, and not very old, for that matter, since it was almost completely destroyed by the fire bombing in 1945, but you would never know to look at it. It's nearly completely restored to its pre-bombing state, and it is the most beautiful part of any city I have every seen in my life. Granted, I haven't been to say, Paris or Prague, and I'm as not as well-traveled as most people I've met here in Germany, but Dresden beats anything I've ever seen and makes Munich look like a kid's plastic house in a sand box.

The banks of the Elbe opposite the Altstadt is a giant green lawn that slopes gently into the river with a gorgeous view of the newly restored Frauen Kirche and the other, taller, landmarks of the District. I could talk about it for fifteen paragraphs of so, but it's kind of pointless if you can't see it, so I'll just stop right there. Maybe I'll try to put some pictures up online soon. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

The Neustadt (New City) is cool. Really. If you met it in school, it'd know all about the new independent bands before anyone else, know where all the coolest cafes are, and play five different instuments. It's a bit decayed, as all cities in the East tend to be, but not in a bad way, not like New York in a Martin Scorsese film. It looks worn, it's been places. It might have some tatoos here and there, and you suspect it might have experimented with hard drugs in the past, but it's a good town that's learned from it's bumps and scrapes. It's lively, with lots of little cafes and bars tucked away in the streets that seem to ooze "Europe" from between their stones. This is why Dresden is the happiest place in Former East Germany.

But what did I do, you ask?

It was late afternoon by the time we got to Dresden, so we went to the hostel, dropped off our bags in the room, and headed out to the Altstadt. The sun was setting, so we walked around for a bit and took some pictures, then settled down at a little German cafe and ate dinner. Mmmmm, Sauerbraten. Who would have ever thought that a meat dish with "sour" in its name could ever taste good. But it does, and it's even better with beer. OK, most things are, but German food especially, mainly because I suspect it was designed to enable longer periods of drinking.

Anyway, about halfway through dinner, these three guys walked up to our table, one riding a tiny tricycle with what looked like half a bike rim tied to the back with twine and wire, and another in an apron and what I could only hope was a pink shower cap, carrying a busted CD Rom drive and a memory stick. It was slightly odd. After "introducing" himself by kneeling by her seat, the man in the cap proceeded to try to sell his "wares" to Jess across the table. I couldn't hear much of the conversation myself, but apparently, the drive was broken, but you could, he said, plug the stick in and, I assume, save things. Um....no?

As it turns out, he was getting married the next day, and he and his two friends were out raising "Spenden für den Bräutigam (Donations for the Groom)." I assume they were going to be drinking those donations later, but I could be wrong. No, I'm not.

I don't know if they meant to or not, but they quickly became the most happening thing at our little cafe, drawing the attention of the roaming accordian player, who accompanied Athos, Porthos, and Aramis as they belted drinking songs into the heavy night air and across the Elbe.

"What's the occasion?" asked the accordian player to the man in the shower cap.

"Oh, I'm getting married tomorrow."

"Armer Kerl (Poor Bastard)." Ah, love.

The next day was the long day in town, as well as Neustadt day. I could recount everything we did, which would refresh my memory, but I'd like to keep paragraph skimming in this post to a minimum, so I won't. See, I have your best interests at heart. Aren't I nice? This is where you say "yes," by the way. There are rules. And with that in mind, I'm going to end this post here as the first part of what has turned out to be a two parter. Joy! Stay tuned! There's more to come!

2006-05-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

Because I now have sudden wireless access in my little room, I've taken the time to put some pictures up online for everyone to look at. They're not arranged in any particular order, so READ THE CAPTIONS, and you'll be fine.

http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2106844169

Hope you like them. I do.

2006-04-27T22:25:00.000-07:00

Apart from being what Fulbright likes to call "an American Ambassador," I have become a kind of apologist on behalf of German culinary skills, which I generally admire. Despite what, I don't know, the entire world says, German food can be really damn good, kind of like an entire culture based on comfort food, which is to say starches and sauces derived for rendered fat. I have been a defender, an advocate; I have stood against the tide, yelled into the wind, and rebuked the sea, all for this complex people right of the Rhine, but they just make it so damn hard sometimes, dammit, and I'm tired. Why this sudden wavering of commitment, you ask? OK, I'll tell you. Here's the deal:

Yesterday was one of those Spring days that requires several types of clothing, all depending on the time of day: a jacket for the morning, short sleeve shirt in the early afternoon, and a raincoat for later. I left school during this last and wonderful period, leaning forward against the rain, my face held slightly to the side, as I slid down the cobblestone street toward my house. I hadn't eaten yet, but had decided to enjoy a nice ham and cheese sandwich in my room watching Snooker coverage on TV, when, just around the corner from the bakery, I was struck by a lingering craving for Bratkartoffeln. Literlly translated, it means simply "grilled or roasted potatoes," and they are perhaps one of the greatest foods ever invented by the human race. I love them. I could eat a whole plate of them if you were generous enough to give them to me, and I had noticed the day before that "Das Kartoffelhaus (The Potato House)" offers these wonderfully fat-enriched tubers, together with something else (I didn't really care at the time what it might be) for as little as 5,00 €. Score.

Change of plans. Tschüß, ham sandwich, hallo, Bratkartoffeln. Ordering from a German menu can be a risky business, no matter how well you can translate, but I was confident. After all, I've been here for seven months now and I can understand about 90 % of what I read and hear, plus or minus those special situations that come along every now and then, so a five page menu in a tiny restaurant should be as easy as predicting who dies first in a horror movie. From the mouths of babes. From the mouths of stupid babes.

I chose number 50, "Bratkartoffeln mit hausgemachten Bratheringen (Grilled potatoes with the house-made grilled Herrings)" Yeah, that sounded good; a little plate of grilled fish with a side of hot potatoes is a perfect match for such imperfect weather. Yeah. Perfect. The waitress came over, took my order, and I sat, expectantly awaiting my sizzling fish. The sound of oil popping coming from kitchen was encouraging. My coke arrived and I shivered a bit for the last time before settling into my chair....

It was cold. Stone cold. The fish was STONE COLD! The side of potatoes was hot, but the three gutted and headless Herrings on my plate were stiff and icy under my fingers. They certainly LOOKED grilled; the skin was brown and folded into tight creases, the way things do when water pops through the skin in a pan, but there was no....oh, what's the word? Oh, that's right: steam! Anyone who knows anything about middle and high school boys knows that a "cold fish" is a sudden and vicíous punch in the crotch, and ironically enough, it pretty well describes the soul-crushing feeling that comes with having to eat three cold, grilled, Herrings when that was exactly the opposite of what you thought you were going to get. Oh, did I forget to mention that they were pickled? Yes? Well they were. They where PICKLED grilled Herrings.

Now, I assume the misunderstanding here comes from the fact that I was building off of the English concept of "grilled," which is something grilled in the immediate past, preferably just prior to, or immediately following, the placement of the order. German, it seems, favors a more flexible definition, meaning something grilled during the last year or so, and dunked in vinegar until the skin assumes a silky texture that slides away from the meat with gelatinous ease.

And having thought about it, it certainly has the possibility to make life in general much easier. Imagine trying to sell your old rust bucket of a car through an Ad in the paper. It's a piece of crap that barely runs, but you buy the lines anyway and use phrases like "brand new," and "just off the line" to describe something that is clearly past its prime. Naturally, people come by to see it, and when they look at the rusted paint, dented doors, and cracked windshield and accuse you of false advertising, you can simple reply: "It was new....20 years ago. Man, you should have seen it then. It would have been exactly what you wanted."

2006-04-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

So Spring Break is over. "The good times is past and gone." Yes, that's right, it's back to work. To be fair, Spring Break ended over a week ago, but I just wasn't into writing anything down, partly because I was tired, and partly because I didn't think that anything would be served by repeating how gray it likes to stay outside. But it does. A lot.

The weather's nice today, though: the sun is out, the birds are doing their thing, chirping and crapping on every flat surface they can find, and it's a balmy 70 degrees. So I've decided to take advantage of the accompanying good mood and dazzle everyone once again with my writing skills.

Like I said before, there wasn't a lot about last week that needed telling, unless people are interested in my sleeping habits. Yes? No? Well, OK. But you're missing out, let me tell you. Seriously.

OK, enough of that. So, Friday. Ah, Friday. Now THAT was a day! It started out normal enough: after rolling around in bed for about four hours, I managed to fall asleep, only be to be awakened by a dream of a green rabbit creature chewing on my toe. I tried to wake up several times, couldn't, and when I finally did, I was thoroughly freaked out. I guess I should say here that waking up to find an animal chewing on me is one of my more neurotic fears, but one that manages to do it to me every time. Goodbye Sleep, hello Staring At The Ceiling.

Don't worry, I fell back to sleep....for about two hours. My phone rang at about 7.45, but of course I didn't KNOW it was my phone at the time: I was having trouble deciding between some kind explosive device or my alarm clock. I picked it up without my glasses, stared at it, and wondered why this thing was making all that noise and vibrating. Do I disconnect the blue or red wire? Hey, I know, just push a button! That always works!

As it turns out, my teacher, Andreas, had messed up his back the day before getting Louis out of the car, and he wanted to know if I could cover the 2nd and 4th periods for him. Ummmm. If you don't know already, moments like this have a tendency to throw me into a kind of moral crisis that eventually crystalizes into two options: be selfish and screw it, or help someone who generally needs it, which translated in this case to telling him "no" and going back to sleep (preferred selfish option), or saying "sure, no problem," and covering the classes (detestable yet ultimately more helpful option). Usually, I just agree and go, but this time I managed to tell him that I couldn't do the 8.45 class, but that I would gladly do the 10.20 hour with his fifth grade. So much for my day off.

The assignment I gave them was simple enough: they were to make up a worksheet themselves covering all the material from units 1 through 6, then switch with a partner and, you know, do it. Easy. Or at least that's what I thought. I came into class, explained the assignment in English, wrote it on the board for good measure, and waited for the magic of learning to happen.

Glassy stares.

The first fifth grade I had a couple of weeks ago before break could understand pretty much everything I said, or at least they were good at acting like they could; this one, not so much. I tried a few more times, but they kind of sqirmed in their seats, looked at the floor, or if they were really ambitious, opened their workbooks to a random page and stared at it. The dispair in the room was palpable. Hmmmm. I was a little torn now, becuase I've been told to say as much as possible in English, but they weren't really understanding the assignment, which does tend to affect a class, or so I've been told. Enter cute little girl in the first row.

"Könntest Du das auf Deutsch sagen (Could you say that in German)?"

Of course! German! I am in Germany, after all!

In German it is, then: "Ja, ihr solltet ein....Worksheet.... auf Englisch selber von Unit eins bis zum Unit sechs machen, und dann tun es mit Partnern.

(Yeah, you should make a worksheet yourselves in English from unit one to unit six, then do it with partners)

Funny thing is, I had no idea what the word "worksheet" was in German, and they had absolutely no idea either. We were all comrades in ignorance, you could say. I put a couple words together in my head, trying to make a word that might be able to function as "worksheet," but making artifical words can be kind of risky; instead of asking for a worksheet, I could stumble across a rare mega-noun and insult someone's grandparents.

So I just kept repeating the word over and over: "You know, a worksheet....like in your workbook. A worksheet. It's a sheet that you....work with." It was fun, let me tell you. A blast. In fact, I liked it so much, that I was content to let that be the rest of the class, but sadly, a boy in the back piped up and said: "Oh, ein Arbeitsbogen!" Uh, sure. Whatever you say. Do that.

And they did, like little beavers, little hyper rodents just beginning to feel the first stirrings of that wonderful time we call Puberty. During my several laps of walking around the room trying to look like I was checking out what they were writing down, a note changed hands. Yes, one of THOSE notes. Well, after a couple minutes of inspiring muted giggles, it was handed over to me (totally without my request, I should add) in what I can only call a distorted mockery of a court room scene. All eyes were on me as I unfolded the torn bit of paper. The air was electric. Holding my breath, I read:

"Do you want to make sex with M---?"

Ja: Nein:

Make sex! Boy howdy! All I need are two pieces of ply wood, four 3/8 inch washers, a claw hammer, and a plumber's friend! Oh, and ear plugs. Always use protection. Who's with me?!

The fact that the note was written in English was impressive, but I wasn't sure if I should correct the grammer or not, seeing as how he had obviously put some thought both into the note, and the accompanying images. Ultimately, I decided against it; someone else can open Pandora's Box if they want to, but I won't be the one doing it. I settled instead with a simple "that's not nice" and "please don't do that again." He wrote another note thirty seconds later, which I ignored. I like to think we understood each other.

Once again, thanks kids.

2006-03-28T01:41:00.000-08:00

Just a quick little something I heard on TV a couple days ago that has become my new favorite German word: "Eisprung." It's the native German word for a woman's period, and literally translates to "Egg Jump:" "Ei" (egg) + "Sprung" (Jump). It just sounds so....active, doesn't it? What a beautiful language it can be.

But my favorite saying so far has to be: "Jack und Büx," Plattdeutsch for "Jacket and Pants: "Jack" (Jacket) + "Büx" (Pants). It basically means you're worn out, kind of spent from the day.

"Man, you look kind of sluggish. Are you tired?"

"And how. Jacket and pants, man, jacket and pants."

"That IS bad."

2006-03-27T08:44:00.000-08:00

You know, I thought my day couldn't get any better on Friday after my class with the fifth grade, but as usually, I was wrong.

The fifth grade went to Lübeck to see a little play based on a popular children's book, "Tintenherz" (Ink Heart), and since there was a ticket left over, I was invited, and since I'm a sucker for stories involving magic, I went.

We all met outside the school at about 15.10, and as soon as I arrived, all the girls started giggling. That's nothing usual for this age group; over the last seven months, I've noticed that my presence can be a kind of strange social catalyst, a neccesary component to induce the giggling fits that seem to be so vital to the social structure of girls in early puberty. So, I just ignored them, staring at the sea gulls, the bus, pretty much anything except the whispering covey near the bushes. Nice try.

After about a five minute war council, one of the girls walks up to me and says: "Du hast eine Verehrerin (You have an admirer)," then walks off, the giggles of her compatriots providing cover fire. Great. I seem to be a big hit in the 11-14 group, it's just that whole post-puberty crowd that keeps giving me trouble. Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?

After that, the spectacular fall I managed outside the theater that made my left elbow swell up like a marshmellow, and the bizzare collapse of my plans in Lübeck for the weekend, the rest of the day was pretty uneventful. I was pretty disappointed that I got locked in the bus before I could make my plans for the weekend, but if I had stayed in Lübeck I wouldn't have the rest of this post, so it all works out in the end, I guess.

I started Saturday in one of those odd little "I have things to do" moods, so things were just rosey; one of the walls could have fallen away from my room, and as long as it didn't interfere with my laundry, I would have been pretty happy. Anyway, after running to the grocery store, buying food for dinner, and storing it away in the fridge, I decided to run to the bakery to get a cup of coffee and sit and look at Main Street in the company of fellow human beings.

I guess I should start this by saying that this is the same bakery I met the old lady in a couple of months ago, so the possiblity of a repeat is always in the back of mind everytime I go there, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't one of the reasons I go in the first place. I wasn't disappointed.

About half way through my cup of coffee, this young guy sees me through the window, smiles, walks in, shakes my hand, and asks me how I'm doing, in English. I tell him I'm doing OK, that I'm just drinking some coffee, and he goes off to order something. He promply disappeared. I have no idea who he was. I still don't. I assume he's a student at school, which is entirely possible since they all seem to know me somehow, while I can barely keep a hand full of names straight, but I'm just not sure. But that's not the story.

After the guy leaves, this other guy across the rooms starts talking in my direction, babbling names of countries seperated by the words "leider (unfortunately)" and "kaputt." It took me a while, but I figured out he was talking to me, and he was naming English-speaking countries, which he clearly didn't like. Here's basically how it went:

MAN: America, England....England, America, New Zealand, Australia, they're all awful. All the English-speaking countries are awful. Everything there is kaputt. Yeah, that's right. Yeah.

ME: So, only Germany is good?

MAN: Yeah, Germany is the best.

ME: Are you from Germany?

I knew he wasn't: a German would never start such a random conversation, or at least like that, and besides, his accent was odd, (Eastern European). But I thought it was a good question to ask.

MAN: No. Tourist. I'm a tourist. (Babbles incoherently about English-speaking world)

Now, at this point I had gone from being solidly creeped out to just curious, so I moved over to a table next to him so I could hear him better. Again, I wasn't disappointed.

MAN: Were those people from East Germany?

ME: What?

MAN: East Germany.

ME: Huh?

MAN (reaching over and tapping table next to mine): There were to people. Two people. Were they from East Germany?

ME: I don't know.

MAN: I don't like East Germany. It's gray and cold. Cold. Gray. And there are no flowers in the windows. No flowers. Not like Schleswig-Holstein, where everything is green.

ME: Well, it's cold and gray outside today, you know.

MAN: Yes, but it's gray in East Germany. Gray! (He liked to look up at the ceiling and repeat the most recent noun or adjective) Cold. There are no flowers in the windows. And the people too. The people are gray too. The people! They just stand around, you know. They have all these problems, all these problems, and I ask myself: where do they have all these problems from?

Well, I had always assumed they come from the rapid and total fall of an entire socio-economic structure, having to adjust to two differnt currencies and the accompanying inflation rates in fifteen years, and the fact that one in four people in former East Germany are unemployed without any prospects for new jobs after all collective industries were privatized. Boy, was I wrong.

MAN: It's the mentality there, you understand. One guy says "I know," then the next one says "I don't know." It's the whole mentality.

Of course! It all makes sense!

MAN: And Brandenburg and Mecklenburg (two Eastern states) are infiltrating Schleswig-Holstein with propaganda. They're infiltrating. Do you understand me?

Nope, can't say I do.

ME: Oh, yeah.

MAN (Shaking head): And Niedersachsen ("Lower Saxony," a state just below Scleswig-Holstein), you don't want to go there.

ME: OK.

OK, I'll admit: Bremerhaven is a bit ugly, but personally, I thought Bremen itself was beautiful, but to each his own, I guess.

ME: Well, I have to go shopping. Outside. So, have a good day.

MAN: Oh, you too. Have a good afternoon.

Just one thing: is it a bad thing that I'm writing this way about something who is obviously a bit nuts? You know what, don't answer that.

2006-03-24T22:45:00.000-08:00

I've flown solo. That's right, I taught a class all by my lonesome. OK, so I've done it before, but this time, it didn't suck. It was with class 5b, which makes them some of the cutest beings on the planet, (subordinate to a baby Hippo, of course), not to mention very, very, very enthusiastic.

There was one little awkward moment at the beginning of class after they called me Mister Winter and I told them just to call me Brandon. They looked like I had shocked them with a cattle prod and said bad things about thier mothers. It didn't bother me too much, though, since no social situation in German is complete without that generous shot of awkardness that gives life here it's unique tangy flavor. I said it a couple times in English, then brought the point home in German, after which they seemed OK with it. Then again, they don't have a choice: it's either Brandon or nothing, as far as I'm concerned. If I can call them by their first names, they should be able to call me by mine.

I went into class expecting to spend most of the period explaining "this," "that," "these," and "those," the grammar theme of the day, but they had it pretty much wrapped up; they rattled them off sentences like little teutonic machine guns, spitting linguistic gems such as: "this sweater is blue," and "that is a felt tip (pen)" into every corner of the room. So it was pretty clear to me as soon as I started that they already undertstood the subject, but I hammered away at it anyway, a redundant teacher worthy of high schools throughout time. I like to think I helped.

We did work with that for about 15 or twenty minutes until they stopped waving their hands and grunting to get picked, then shifted gears. To Hangman. It was their idea, actually, but one I totally supported, since their intelligence had drastically shortened my lesson plan, and man, were they excited. I didn't have time to ask, but I'm pretty sure this new model of the 10 year old German child comes with an external Endorphin/Andrenalin back-up system in case the power plant goes critical. I think it made their day.

Hangman's done differently here, though. The game itself is the same, but the process of executing the stick man is done with a little more attention to art and mood than in the United States. You all know the drill: draw the gallows frame, maybe a bit of rope, then add body parts for each wrong letter. Landscape rarely, if ever, enters into the picture, and the stick man is executed against a solid black or green background, a kind of artistic purgatory. It's pretty sad when you think about it.

Anyway, Germans always start out with a kind of lump for the first letter, and then build the gallows on top of it, piece by piece. Being a super genius, it took me a while to realize that they were drawing a tall hill and building the gallows on top of that. For some reason, this just seems a little more hardcore than letting the poor thin bastard swing over an undefined landscape "'til dead." Instead, they let him toss in the wind atop a great hill as an example to all the other primative human figures that crime doesn't pay. Or something like that.

The kids loved it. They couldn't wait to have the chance to pick a word, and I even had a girl pout when she was skipped for one turn. Go me, even though it wasn't my idea.

Dunked into this sea of pre-pubescent enthusiasm, my barely-planned lesson not only took up the whole forty-five minutes, but it might even be called "fun." I've never actually had that happen before; it was my first time. And not only that, but I almost didn't have to do anything; if someone got loud, everyone else "shushed" them into oblivion, liberating me from the hated burden of imposing discipline, or in my case, looking like I'm trying to impose discipline. Right on, munchkins, right on.

Thanks, kids. You rock.

2006-03-20T05:29:00.000-08:00

You know how I had said I was going to go to Dresden and Leipzig after Berlin? Yeah, totally didn't happen. After three days at the Meeting, the only part of Berlin I had really succeeded in seeing was the World Clock at Alexanderplatz (one of my favorite places), the Wall at the Southside Gallery (pretty damn cool), and the monuments along Unter den Linden, which basically boils down to the Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate) and the Siegessäule (Column of Victory) with a couple really cool things stuck between. You see, for some reason, I went to Berlin with a friend of mine from Lübeck under the impression that I could "see the city" in three days and then move on to a general tour of former East Germany. Nope. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Why? Because it's huge. Seriously. The city only has about 3.3 million people in it, making it Germany's largest, but there are very few skyscrapers, and most of them are at Potsdamer Platz, the cool, sleek movie/art district of glass and steel. If you ever want to go see a movie in a HUGE theater while feeling like one of the coolest people on earth simply because you're there, Potsdamer Platz has what you need. And behind it all, there's the unsettling knowledge that every building you see is about 30 to 40 years old, 50 at the most. That's pretty much what the whole city feels like actually, an odd yet satisfying place that screams "God, I'm so damn cool" and "War is so freaking stupid" at the same time. And all of it in your face.

Berlin is made mostly of low buildings of about five stories or so, which gives it the feel of several villages and small towns shoved together, while still maintaining the impressive and monolithic "oh, my God" undertone that seems to make it what it is: Cool. It's about 20 times the size of Manhattan, so trying to "see" it ís impossible. Instead, what you need is a kind of Buddhist outlook toward the whole thing, a kind of stoic acceptance of the fact that you haven't, don't, and never will know it, and that's OK. Admitting your problem is the first step to conquering it. It's OK, we're all behind you.

But it's not what you would call a pretty city. Well, unless you like the color gray and the subtle neon hues of graffiti, then you're cool. And I have to say, Berlin graffiti really does stand in a league of its own. Sure, there's the lazy half-assed scribbles on the walls and ceilings of the U Bahn stations, but generally speaking, the graffiti in the capital city is done with a frightening amount of love and devotion. The Wall has the best stuff, of course. I tried to take a few pictures of it, but it was just too huge, so they're a little less than what you could call "good," but let's face it: ambiguous markers of artistic quality is my stamp of production. Lengthy, over-stretched methaphors and tired literary ticks like "so" and "anyway?" That must be a Brandon post. OK, enough of that.

The truth is, Berlin is an amazingly dynamic city, and however poor it might be, you don't sense it: instead you're impressed by how much it's managed to do just in the last 15 years without virtually any outside aid. And despite the fact it's made up of the remains of two countries that were on the verge of war on and off for 40 years, you really get the feeling of being in a city that represents Germany, the good parts and bad. Munich, Cologne, Hamburg, Lübeck, and Bremen, on the other hand, are very much places on their own as far as identity is concerned; they're either nothern, Hasiatic, or Free cities. But Berlin IS Germany, and the whole weight of a place and country that old, that's been through so much, sits heavy on your shoulders when you get there.

I guess if you had to think of a sentence to really capture what the city is like, the Mayor has it right when he calls Berlin "Poor, but Sexy." Yeah, yeah, that's pretty much it.

Oh, and one more thing: A lot of Germans I've met tend to, I don't know, be scared shitless of Berlin because it's teeming with foreigners (gasp). Not that! "Honey, lock the door and but the Kinder in the basement! I think I hear some kind of ETHNIC language outside! I'm not sure, but I think they plan to rob us." Before I left for the city, one of my students told me to watch out for the foreigners, especially the Turks and Russians, because if you insult them, they'll show back up with a gang and beat you up. "And don't underestimate the little ones," he told me, "because they have big brothers." Really?! Dammit! There goes my itinerary of randomly insulting people throughout the city. Fiiiiiine, I guess I'll just have to NOT insult someone just because they aren't German. Later, after I had gotten back, a couple students asked me if I had met any Turks while I was there. Here's how the basic conversation went:

STUDENT I: We didn't see you last week, where were you?

ME: Oh, I was in Berlin.

STUDENT I: Oh, really? What did you think?

ME: It was great. A lot bigger than Fehmarn, so it was a little hard to get used to at first, but it was pretty cool.

STUDENT I (looking over shoulder): Did you meet any Turks while you were there?

ME: Yeah, a couple.

STUDENT I: What did you think of them?

ME: I don't know. They were pretty cool, I guess. I mean, they're people, just like everybody else. They were nice.

STUDENT I: Yeah, but they're pretty stupid.

ME: Ummmmm....Yeah, well everybody can be stupid. Sometimes I can be pretty stupid, you know, so I really don't think that means anything.

STUDENT I: You're not stupid.

STUDENT II: At least they aren't as bad as the Poles.

STUDENT I: Oh, yes they are. They're worse. Believe me, I know.

That's basically it. The conversation ended pretty much there, which is good, because I really didn't have much to say to any of that, or at least nothing that didn't involve calling them stupid. I am new to this whole "professional conduct" thing, but I'm pretty sure that would be bad. And, everyone should be happy to know that I made it through seven days in Berlin without getting beat up by a gang.

Well, OK: there was that incident with the eight year old and the snow ball, but that doesn't really count. Other than being incredibly obnoxious, the moment provided me an opportunity to descend to their level and abandon any maturity I might have managed to collect by accident over the sixteen years that seperated us.

See, it went like this: My friend and I were walking down the street, when I little kid threw a snow ball at her. In one of those moments of divine comedic justice, the snow ball plunged impatently right into the middle of an intersection, its slushy remains disappearing quickly under the wheels of a passing car. We never would have known if we hadn't seen it, but the little gremlins weren't through yet.

They showed up again as we were walking down a dirt path through a park, loosing a projectile that rebounding off a jacket with the force of an asthmatic's spit wad and fell pathetically to the dirt. The main assailant's pig-eyed, chubby companion reached to the ground to reload as my friend pointed and yelled: "Nein! Ich sehe dich! (No! I see you!)," which he answered with an "innocent" "Was (what)?" Thinking they were done, we turned to leave. A snow ball hit me in the ass, followed by the same self-satisfied cackling that had accompanied the first two attacks. Now, at this point, I had two basic choices: 1) Walk Away, and 2) Say/Do Something.

I flipped him off.

I'm not proud of it, and I didn't enjoy it....OK, so I did enjoy it....but the point remains that he was an eight year old kid. A chubby punk, but an eight year old nonetheless. I probably would have been better off giving him a good public "Schimpf (Scolding)," a time-honored and well-wore practice in Germany, but my form isn't as good as die Deutschen, so I wasn't up to it.

Chubby Punk: 1, Brandon: 0.

2006-03-01T02:10:00.000-08:00

The movie theater is open! Hot damn!

2006-02-28T11:58:00.000-08:00

So I have something to talk about anyway. Isn't that awesome? OK, easy there, guys. Right, OK. Yeah, put the chair down. Really, there's no need for....This story really isn't that interesting. Just give me five....Thank you. Anyway.

So after getting out of school today, I went to get my hair cut (oooh, ahhhh), then ran over to school to see the Faschingsfest. Don't ask me to translate "Fasching," because I don't know. But I do know it is part of the Karneval season, or the "Fünfte Jahreszeit (Fifth Season)," as they call it around here. It comes after Rosenmontag (Rose Monday) and before Aschenmittwoch (Ash Wednesday). Other than that, I'm clueless.

Now generally speaking, northern Germans aren't that big on the whole Karneval thing; it's one of those Catholic, and therefore southern, traditions people around here seem to tolerate but not really enjoy. They kind of groan and smile while telling you that Karneval really "ist nicht für mich," or "Karneval ist nicht mein Bier (Karneval isn't my beer)." Participation is generally reserved for times when there's nothing else to do, or when you just happen to turn on the television and see pictures from Cologne. Other than that, Karneval is greeted with the same enthusiasm as a New Year Resolution; it happens every year, but nobody really gives a damn or really notices when it's gone.

Anyway, as far as I can tell, Karneval is one of those publically sanctioned "Get Drunk in the Street" times, and every German from Cologne south seems to take full advantage of it. With its traditional and brightly colored lack of inhabitions, Karneval and a good Faschingsfest is just made for kids to go nuts. Hence today. And being Karneval, all the kids came "verkleidet" as just about anything, Hippies, Cowboys/girls being the most popular. I'll save the German fascination with the Wild West for another post. That's a big one. OK, back on track, back on track.

Most of the other costums were pretty typical (a Space Man, Vampires, Indians), but there were two that really got me. Seriously. I noticed the first one as soon as I sat down. He was dressed in a loose black robe, a large skull cap, and one of those sets of plastic glasses with a mustache and plastic nose. But this nose was huge. It was obscence. That spelled bad news in my book. I couldn't quite figure out what it was supposed to be exactly, but I had one of those uneasy moments of certain knowledge: some ethnic stereotype was coming my way. He really looked like a walking Jewish cartoon from some fascist newspapers from the thirties, but I remembered that that stuff doesn't fly here so well, at least not after 1945. OK, good. Close call. Maybe I was wrong. Nope.

All the kids stood up to introduce their costums. I waited with hope. I waited with confidence. I waited in vain. He was the Prophet Muhammed. WHAT! Christ, kid! Ahhhh! No! If you're having trouble picturing what he looked like, just get one of those spectacularly unclever Danish cartoons, make it ten years old, 80 pounds, and BLISSFULLY CLUELESS! Ahhhh! I cannot stress that enough: Ahhhh! Now, I know there aren't that many Muslims on the island in the winter, but still. You would THINK that after dozens of people had been killed in riots and threatened with decapitation you could find some other costum to wear besides one that looks like the distillation of every racist cartoon about the Middle East for the last hundred years. Or not. I forgot: people aren't racist here. Oh wait, yes they are.

The other one that blew me away was this pretty little girl in this incredible red dress and hat....OK, I know how creepy that sounds, but just give me a second. She was dressed as a "Rococo Woman." She said "eine alte rococo Dame," which sounds better, but you get the point. Rococo woman? Huh? When I was ten I was happy to pull off a faithful Ghost Busters or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles impression, but I guess incapsilating an 18th century French art style is the same thing. I mean, she did I good job; it looked like someone plucked her straight out of a painting for the afternoon for a walk in the park. I have to give her credit. And that dress was nuts.

Once again, kids have given so much to this blog. God bless you, munchkins everywhere.

2006-02-28T05:02:00.000-08:00

So time to write has been pretty scarce lately. I don't know how, but all I've been doing lately is cleaning dishes and enjoying the feeling that my sinuses will soon implode. Paaarty! But, I did see a man on TV the other day named "Herr Mannsmann," which is basically: Mr. Man Man. Yes.

I'm heading to Bremen, Berlin, Dresden, and Leipzig over the next week, and that should supply some entries. If not, that just means my life is sadly boring. I guess we'll just wait and see how that pans out.

2006-02-20T03:52:00.000-08:00

I wrote the outline for this a couple of weeks ago, but the present pissing contest between Europe and the Middle East just makes it seem that much better.

-History's Bond Villains-

1. JOSEPH STALIN

OK, I have to admit: his chief qualification is his name. Joseph Stalin, or "Joe Steel," ("stalin" is Russian for "steel") just SOUNDS like it's made to grind its enemies beneath the hard boot of dictatorship and forge the world anew into a distopia of steel and contrete. Man, that's awesome!

Stalin couldn't become the embodiment of despotic power and creepy police states if no one could pronouce his name. Imagine ordering someone to say: "Comrade Djugashvili sends his regards" before shooting someone from the dark corner of their apartment. It can't be done. Your henchman wouldn't even be halfway through stammering out your name before the meddlesome super spy used his cufflink missile launcher to pin him beneath a fallen beam just long enough to make his escape. Enter, Joe Steel.

A name to a maniacal super villian is almost as important as the chosen method of mass destruction, be it a death ray, controlling earth quakes, or mind control of heads of state. It's how you get yourself out there. You've got to sell it. I mean, would you ever forget that a man named Goldfinger dipped your seductive and short-time lover in gold paint, causing her to sufficate slowly? No. Because it sticks in your head. "Goldfinger." Try it. "Goldfinger."

Then, of course, there is the all-important uniform. Your old Rolling Stones T-shirt may be more comfortable, but let's face it, the hole just over your belly button doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of your enemies and chilling respect into those of your....OK, so all you have are enemies. Friendships are signs of weakness. What you need is a uniform, and good old "Uncle Joe" had it going on. He wore the same Soviet-style coat and hat everyday! Ever had doubts over how lightly Stalin took human life, all you had to do was look at his coat and the medals he never won to know that that man meant business.

Which brings us to the his great villainous accomplishment: the killing of about 35 million of his own people. Killing scores of foreigners and outsiders is to be expected (if you can't do that, what's the point getting out of bed), but it takes a special type of person to grind your own country into Hamburger meat. Have moral qualms about ordering millions of your men to charge an army with brooms and three bullets, or starving the peasant class to the brink of oblivion? Don't worry, it's all for the good of the State, which is another word for "me." And if you can do that while living in luxary so surrounded by fear and secrecy that no one wants to be the first to stop clapping at one of your speeches for fear of being executed, you win. And for all this, you, Joseph Stalin, are history's #1 Bond Villain.

2. CHAIRMAN MAO

Alright, so Stalin and Mao are tied, but someone has to be second. It was a tough one, though, because he fits every criteria set out above. I mean, think about it: his name was CHAIRMAN Mao! That just reeks of a secret and evil board of directors living deep within a hollowed out mountain, uncharted island, or undersea base. True, he didn't have a trap door installed in front of his desk to dispose of "incompetance," but he did have everyone from the ages of 15 to 25 slaughtering intellectuals, teachers, and "enemies of the Revolution" wholesale for a good decade, which is basically the same thing.

But I have to admit: Mao's uniform is better. Much better. It was a nice sleek two-piece gym outfit of doom. Unadorned and gray, it matches the emotional vacancy present at your execution in the basement of a sewing machine factory. If you're lucky, you get a "trial." Whoohoo!

Of course, his poetry is what really sets him apart from his contemporaries, for while Stalin liked the ballet and Hitler was a major Wagner fan boy, they never went so far as to write dreamy poems about blossoms falling from cherry trees or the sensual red ribbon in your lover's hair. But Mao did. AND YOU BETTER LIKE IT! This sort of twisted idea of beauty while, you know, totally disregarding human life has to count for something. There's no white cat on the lap, a creepy worship of Mozart or Beethoven "the key to the human soul," or keeping wolves because they are "the children of the Night," or something equally unsettling, but you can't have everything, I guess

But, much like Stalin with his Five Year Plans, Mao managed to convince this populous that dying from starvation was a good idea. Someone gets a gold star on their chart.

3. ADOLF HITLER:

So you might be asking why good old Adolf is all the way down at place three. It's easy; he was WAY to evil for a Bond Villain. Wanting to destroy the world with a hidden nuclear device: OK. Incenerating the planet with your secret laser satellite as it passes over all the world capitals on the aniversary of the day you were fired from the top secret weapons program: Of course. Starting a massive race war that engulfs almost the entire world and takes the lives of 55 million people: That's just dirty pool.

So sorry there, kleiner Adolf, you're playing third base. BUT, he was a vegitarian. That's got Bond Villain written all over it. Forsaking the duplicitous human race for the civilized and trustworthy company of fish or a chunk of coral is just whimsically insane enough to win you some friends. It's also a Bond Villain staple (See: "The Spy Who Loved Me). You know you're on your way to being a wacked-out super villain with your stuff together when you can look at your sixth grade terrarium and find a ready-made Social Darwinist view of the universe: "The worm snake has no mercy for its prey. It takes what it wants, quietly, with force, from the weak. You, my poor fool, are the worm, and I, I am the worm snake." And if you think I'm making this stuff up, you should watch the old Nazi propaganda films with two dung beetles duking it out on the forest floor. Apparently, the German people are dung beetles. Yeah, it's not very flattering.

True, Hitler's clothes weren't as nice as Stalin's or Mao's, but his total disconnection with what we foolish mortals with a lack of vision like to call "reality" really seems to capture a facet of the super villain that both Mao and Stalin hint at but never quite reach.

Imagine this sceen:

"The Leader" is snuggled deep within a plush red seat in a private screening room, lights low, the dust from the projector belt faintly reflecting in the light from the back of the room. There is no smoke (it is an evil and unhealthy habit), but the crunch of carrots is sharp next to the soft faintness of the film's soundtrack. Outside, the servants are preparing a salad free of meat, for the killing of animals is a barbaric practice he had long learned to rise above. There is a laugh as Charlie Chaplin falls over a bench on screen. In the street, a machine gun chatters.

Now THAT'S crazy. Gut gemacht, Adolfi. Du bist auf der Liste.

4. DICK CHENEY:

OK, I know what you're thinking: "hey, this is about HISTORICAL figures, and Cheney's still Vice President." Nice try. But a historical figure is, at least in the confines of this...."study," someone who's dead. And Cheney is certainly not alive, because he has no heart. SO, good old Dick is on the list because he has managed to triumph over the petty concerns of mortality and empathy by regularly consuming the blood of baby animals and petroleum derivatives.

He also has this annoying habit of chairing secretive and highly dubious meetings between executives to divide up the most vital resource on the planet, effectively controlling our destiny. 1 + 1 = 2, and Cheney + No Heart x Greed = Bond Villain.

5. MAHMOUD AHMADINEJAD:

Again, not dead, but for this guy, I'm willing to make some acceptions. The main one? He's batshit nuts. There's really not a whole lot I can add here apart from the jewels that drip from his mouth about every week, but I will say that he has MAJOR promise. A relative new-comer on the tour, he has succeeded in making a huge impression in just over a year.

I mean, Stalin and Mao both had over twenty years to their names, Hitler a very busy twelve, and Cheney's been sucking the life-blood out of the democratic ideal for the last thirty years in several administrations, but Mahmoud. Man! That guy just needs a vacation. He's ruffled the international community, endorsed the destruction of an entire nation, and even found time to have creepy pictures of himself taken with children. And all within the last four months! Just two words: Pace yourself. You don't want to burn out too fast. But we'll see if he can live up to all the hype. I have a feeling we'll see big things from him in the future.

So that's it. For now. It's incomplete, but I might add little additions here and there when the mood strikes. I know everyone's looking forward to that.

2006-02-02T06:13:00.000-08:00

"Hey, Brandon, how do you say 'Mullet' in German?"

God, if I had a dime for everytime someone asked me that! Well, my dear readers, the answer has arrived. It is:

Vokuhila.

The word is verbal short-hand, actually. It comes from the phrase: "Vorne kurz, hinten lang (Short in front, long in back)". VOrne KUrz, HInten LAng, see? It's brilliant!

In case you really want to use it (who wouldn't want to use such knowlege), it's pronounced: Fokooheela. Enjoy. And no, there's no need to thank me.

2006-01-31T05:59:00.000-08:00

So, what have I been up to lately? Gosh, what a nice and considerate question. Well, since you asked, I guess I could share with the adoring public a few of my most recent adventures. Or you can wait for the book, "Does That Come with Potatoes?: Obvious Questions About Living In Germany And Their Even More Obvious Answers" (Hardcover, 24.95).

It was cold last week. Very cold. With ice. And snow. And a lot of it. By Wednesday, we had gotten snow for three days straight, and although I was enjoying the "Will I Fall On My Ass Today" game, I was really starting to crave some warm sitting down time, so I shuffled into "Mien Bäcker," a small backery and coffee shop, on the way back from school for a bit of hot chocolate and a nice view of the snow on the Main Street. I sat myself at a table looked out across the street toward the Rathaus (Town Hall) and busied myself poking the ice berg of cream that floated in airy bliss over my piping hot glass mug of endorphin-inducing goodness.

Which brings me to a note: People in Northern Germany aren't what you would call talkative. On the scale of everyday conversations, the average person ranks somewhere just below a step ladder, but that isn't to say that they don't WANT to talk to you. It's just that it's a population of people kind of like that kid in class who would always walk up to you while you were having a conversation with someone else, only to stand six inches behind you and never say a word. You knew he wanted to join in, and he knew it too, but neither of you could quite figure out how to make it work. Well, the people on Fehmarn get around that with what I like to call "The Fehmarn Flirt."

It works like this: You're at a table eating or drinking. You're minding your own business, which means people start staring at you. A lot. It's usually cloak and dagger stuff, a look over the shoulder, leaning back in their chairs, staring directly into your eyes without blinking until you avert your eyes and start staring at the table cloth, stuff like that. You hardly even notice. Anyway, if they really want to talk to you, they just repeat the procedure, making it slightly more obvious each time that they think you're just SO interesting.

At this point, your job is to think of some lame reason to start talking to them: "Gee, that sure is a swell sweater you've got there," or "Boy, it sure is nippy outside, isn't it" at which point that might respond with: "And how!" and by the time the conversations over, you know all about that toe nail that's growing the wrong way on their left foot. Congratulations: you've got youself a new conversation partner.

Anyway, this old lady started giving me the eye and smiling, so I started smiling back. Naturally. We did that for about twenty minutes, then she said something about needing sugar in her coffee, which then blossomed into a full-blown conversation.

FRAU: Ugh. We've had too much snow. Awful. Everything is so slick. It's so hard to walk.

ME: Yeah, I know. I got stuck sliding a ramp the other day, and a taxi driver got out of his car to help me down. (That's true, by the way. See, Germans are friendly)

FRAU: It's awful. Too much snow. I say we've had too much snow.

ME: Yeah.

FRAU: When I was young, we'd used to have so much snow, you couldn't open the door to go outside. The weather's awful here. Ugh. And the people are so nosey, always wanting to know what you're up to. I hate it here.

ME: Really? Where are you from?

FRAU: Fehmarn. There's an old saying: Fehmarn is flat as a table and the people are proud of it, but that's not true. I hate it. I used to live in Hamburg, but it's full of thieves now. It's not safe to use the U Bahn (subway); you have to watch your bag.

ME: Uh huh.

FRAU: And these kids! They get so fresh when they get around fifteen and you have to crack them on the shins with your stick every now and then. Isn't that right?

ME: Uh....sure.

FRAU: Do you know that song "Mein Vater war ein Wandersmann (My father was a wanderer)?"

ME: Yeah.

FRAU: I love that song.

ME: Me too.

FRAU (singing): Mein Vater war ein Wandersmann\Es liegt mir auch im Blut (My father was a wanderer and it's in my blood too). We've had way too much snow this year, you know.

That's basically it. It's compressed, of course, and I left out the boring parts that make her sound sane in favor of this shorter, much more interesting, version. Isn't it fun how I can warp someone's personality for narrative purposes! It's so much....POWER. Muahahahahahaha!

Oh, I did have a nice encounter with Plattdeutsch, or should I say, Plattdüütsch, talking with her. If I haven't said already, it's the local dialect. Here's a nice little bit to show you just how different it is.

The old lady said: I have my glasses on, it can't be snowing.

In High German (Standard German): Ich habe meine Brille auf der Nase. Es kann nicht sein, daß es da schneit.

In Plattdüütsch: I' hab' 'ne Brill auf de Nääs. I' kann ni' sään, daß es de schneit.

That's the only sentence in Platt I could understand. Good times.

Hamburg:

I also went to Hamburg over the weekend to walk around and look at stuff. Most of it was unremarkable, as are most of the times I hang out with people, but we did spice it up with a little REDLIGHT DISTRICT ACTION! Whoo! Yeah, OK, so it wasn't anything like that; we just watched everyone else walk into sex clubs while staring at the all the neon lights that advertised things I haven't really discussed since sixth grade biology. OK, that's a lie. But you'd be amazed how much more "open" the world feels bathed in red, green, and pink light and driven by techno remixes of Madonna songs.

There are times in your life, though, when you wish you had your camera with you, and this was one of them. We were looking down a side street that was stuffed with sex shops, sleazy looking gay theaters (would you like burning, itching, or swelling with your popcorn) and other "places," and right in the middle was a sign that said: "Jesus Lives." Damn. Maybe next time.

Anyway, we were walking down the street back to the train station when these two people walked past laughing, and stuck something on my head. Hmmmm. I reached up and pulled down....red and green felt antlers with bells glued on. I was confused and hoping it was dirt that gave the end of the left antler a beautiful gray highlight. The woman who put them on my head looked back over her shoulder when I asked what they were, and shouted: "Ich mag das, ich mag das (I like it, I like it), as she walked off into the buzzing light of the Reeperbahn.

Who was that masked stranger?

2006-01-23T04:52:00.000-08:00

The Mullet has arrived. The girls brought it by my apartment Saturday night, and man, is it awesome! But is it a true Mullet? Does it match the criteria set by the Great Maned-One during his great Sermon from the Back Seat of his Bitchin' Camero in Detroit in 1978? Let's have a look.

1. Mullet: Check. It's a nice one, shoulder-length, slightly wavey, and complete with bangs. None of it is shaved. Instead, it appears he favors the bonsai tree approach to Mullet maintenance; let the hair grow where it will, trimming only those pieces necessary to perfect and release its true Mulletness. The result: a natural do born to par-tay!

2. Gold Medallion Sunken Deep in Chest Hair: Check. It's small, but it's there. Like the temple of Angkor Wat, it shines as a testament of gilded art surrounded by an impenetrable wilderness. And like that same Cambodian wonder, you can't help but stare at it. The shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show-case it and the bristled expanses which it inhabits. Kudos.

3. Denim Jacket: Check. The inclusion of this piece marks him as a true orthodox Believer, for where some of the newer practioners may abandon demin (the fabric of bad-ass dudes everywhere who still know how to rock out) for the subtler tones of leather, or, in some cases, pleather, this man sticks to the Old Path. It is faded blue, loose, and doesn't obscure one's view of either the Mullet or Medallion. Well chosen. The rivets are large and secure the pockets well, ideal for holding a pack of cigarettes or that shard of Tommy Lee's drumbstick you picked up while getting your mind "friggin' blow out" at that Mötley Crüe concert in 1987.

4. Thin Facial Hair: Check. Ok, so I can't say too much here, but what the hell, I'll throw the first stone. He does manage to make it cover his whole face, meaning the cheeks, chin, under the nose, and side burns, which is more than you can say for most. That said, area does not mean quality; it's see-through in some places, patchy in others, and it is this feature that saves his near perfect Mullet Rating. The stubble that refuses to grow into the beard you wish you had is crucial to anyone's Mullet Prowess, and I am proud to say that this man keeps his pride. My hats off to you, my friend.

So, after that thorough and scientific examination of the....facts, I have concluded that this man IS mullet-worthy. And I say to you, whoever you are: Keep on Rockin', man, wherever you are.

I'm sure everyone really cared about this post. I know I did.

2006-01-16T04:58:00.000-08:00

What Burg is like when the Tourists are Gone:

Before I came here, I wrote in my application that I would "immerse myself in the local culture" and see German life as it truly is. The sentence itself is crap, written in that special language reserved for applications where you try to make yourself sound like an earth-shaking figure in the mould of Jesus or Buddha, but the sentiment is basically true; I did, and still do, want to get to know people who aren't Americans, learn their language and culture, and generally make friends.

So you can understand it when I started feeling a little upset that, well, I wasn't really doing it. True, I did go to the Weihnachtsmarkt (see brilliantly written post of December 5 for further details), go to some peoples houses when they invited me, but something always felt lacking, out of place, and tainted by the smell of unfulfilled potential. Most of my weekends were, and are, spent watching TV and reading, which aren't bad, but you really can't replace them with human contact and an activity now and then.

What am I talking about? Sure you can. I have learned finally that what Germans (or these people on Fehmarn) do is, you know, pretty much what I do most of the time. Which is to say: nothing.

The movie theater is closed for what the sign calls a short business vacation, but doesn't say when that will end. And no one in town, including those who have lived here up to 30 years, seems to know either. They just know it isn't open and that this always happens about the same time every year. It's resurrection is something of a mythic concept rather than a physical reality; "Yeah, it closes in January every year....or is it Febuary? It closes every year and stays closed for a about a month until the middle of Febuary. Or is it March?"

This is a movie-going people up here, let me tell you. A lot of shops and restaraunts are closed too, giving the town a nice Spagetti Western set feel. Ennio Morricone plays me to the grocery store everyday. The town is what Germans would call "toten Hosen," or "dead pants."

But it has it's charm; the empty streets after 18.00 (everything is military time) are great for walks, and waving to bent old men in the neighborhood is a lot more fun than it should be. I guess you trade a social life for a kind populous, which is fine by me, at least for this year, but God, I wish they had a good bookstore I could walk around in.

Well, off to buy food for dinner, then watch me some Star Trek. And please, I know the urge to call me "Earth's # 1 Coolest Guy" is both obvious and warranted, but it's making all the other uncool people self-conscious. Be kind.

2006-01-11T02:27:00.000-08:00

So, it's been awhile, and I'm sure you've missed me. I know, I know, the world DOES seem darker and devoid of some deep, fundamental happiness when I'm not around, but it's just something you have to deal with at times. I've heard Camomile Tea helps.

I don't have any earth shattering news for you, just a couple little things I've collected over the last month or so. And no, they aren't in order of awesomeness.

Awesome Experience #1:

I guess I should start by saying that, in the weeks leading up to Winter Break, I had begun to do some work in small discussion groups of about five people. It wasn't anything major, just a short conversation about pretty much anything language is capable of expressing: politics, TV, food, music, things like that. It was fun, I liked it, and I think it was good for the students to have an actual conversation. And it's only a matter of time in these groups before someone asks about hobbies. It's what people do. I can't explain it.

Anyway, I gave them the usual answers I had gotten used to over the last couple months: "I play banjo, like to write," blah, blah, blah, but then I got ahead of myself and started actually answering the question. Oops. I'm not sure what it was, the air, the cereal I had had for breakfast, or the chance for interaction with the students at school apart from read ridiculously slow, but I started getting really excited and talking about other things I enjoyed. Like Mullets.

They're fantastic. I love them. In the Holy Trinity of hair I love, they are Nummer eins, followed closely by a good comb-over, with the rat tail rounding out the set in a distant third place. But that's beside the point. It took a bit of linguistic gymnastics, for they were as yet uncultured in the Ways of the Mullet, but the Spirit descended on them, and before long they were preserved in a goodly spirit of brotherhood and affection toward the Kentucky Waterfall and Tennesse Tophat.

By the time I had gotten this far and explained what the hell I was talking out, I noticed the looks of slight repugnance on their faces. Was it that they did not appreciate business in front, party in back? Could this be true? No. But that still didn't change the fact that they looked as if I had been explaining to them that "cow poo don't smell so bad, once you gits all used to it." I thought I had failed. They had failed to see the Light, smell the Hair Spray if you will. Five souls lost.

Boy was I wrong! A couple days ago, Andreas had the class break up into groups to play a kind of version of Jeopardy he had made up, and before they started, two girls over in the corner said they wanted to talk to me. OK. Thinking they wanted to ask me about some word or grammar they didn't know, I sat in a chair at thier table and warmed up my "split second grammar wizard machine."

But there was no word, no grammar. Instead, they offered me something far greater; a picture they had taken of a German Mullet. Now, I've seen Germanic mullets, and I have to tell you, they are something else, so you can imagine my excitement when I was offered physical documentation of their greatness.

They took the picture, they said, on the ferry from Puttgarden (a village on the northern end of the island) to Denmark while trying to find something to do over the Winter Break. I'm still trying to process the concept of going to Denmark because you're bored. My friend Ben and I drove to Elkin over the summer on a whim, but that doesn't seem to have to same ring to it.

And what REALLY makes the story awesome is that she lied to get the picture; she told the guy that he looked like her stepfather, and she wanted to take his picture! I have no idea why this excuse worked, but it did. God, that's awesome! I haven't actually gotten the picture yet, but I'll let everyone know when I do. I'm sure you really care.

Awesome Experience #2:

Monday was a cold day. OK, everyday is a cold day here, but Monday was especially cold, one of those days that seems to say: "Oh, what's that, you forgot your hat this morning, did you? No gloves? Where are they, on your desk? I'm so sorry. Here, I have a set in the closet, just let me go....SIKE! Sucker! God, you should have seem the look on your face! Man!" That was what Monday was like. Exactly.

Anyway, I was leaving school at around 4.00 in the afternoon, trying not to bust my ass on the patches of ice as I neared the curb. The sky was a deep gray, it's pastural beauty accentuated by the stinging mist that blew at sharp angles off the distant sea and through the trees. The sheen it gave the lingering ice reflected a single black bird as it left the side of the school, the wind tossed the branches of a dead tree. The weather WAS as good as the news said it was going to be! I don't know if Poe ever visited this place, but if he didn't, he was sure missing something. Winter here is so freaking brooding, it's great! But that's not my story.

As I was standing at the edge of the street waiting for the crossing light to turn green, two older ladies started talked across from me, one pointing at me with her cane every now and then as they talked. My first thought was: "What are they talking about? Is my hat really that stupid looking?" It is, by the way. Then, after a couple of seconds, I thought: "Awesome, an old lady is pointing at me with her cane! Neat!"

As I crossed the street, the lady with the cane asked: "Are you coming from the school?"

"Yes"

"So late? Oh Gott, oh Gott."

Need I explain how funny it sounds when someone says "oh Gott, oh Gott" really fast while looking at you with a face that seems to scream: "This cannot be!" No? Good. She then asked me what I was doing, why I was there so long, which I gladly answered. Oops.

I noticed that as the number of words increased, the expressions of both older ladies seemed to become less expressive and more akin to what you expect when someone, say, watches a dog pees on your shoe, or as someone has a sudden mental breakdown in the middle of the street. There was a short of reverse symbiotic relationship between us then: the more I said, the less they appeared to register. It was special. It touched me.

It took awhile, but I finally noticed that they didn't really care what I was talking about, so I told Chatty Mctalkerson to find something else to do, and I went on my way. Then it hit me:

THEY THOUGHT I WAS STUDENT DOING WORK UNTIL 4.00 IN THE AFTERNOON!

Yes! It's good to know that I can still be confused for a sixteen year old High School student. I'd grow a beard to prove them wrong, but it would look just pathetic and patchy, completing the picture.

I've learned so much about myself here; apparently, I'm a sixteen year old Swiss\Schwäbisch High School Student who does way too much work.

2005-12-14T01:37:00.000-08:00

Most people with the faculties of reason, or at least a primative central nervous system, would have to agree, at least occasionally, that the world is a messed up place.

Take the Death Penalty for instance: it's an amazingly depressing topic of conversation, no matter how you cut it, or what your opinions are concerning it. Yet EVEN HERE, there is opportunity to wonder at the apparently maniacal joy the Universe takes in creating situations where several parts coexist in the same Space-Time Continuum, even though everyone from Issac Newton to the speaking brain Steven Hawkens tells us they shouldn't.

I took some time out of remarkably unbusy day yesterday to watch the CNN coverage of Stanley Williams' execution. It was average for the most part, complete with the prerequisite set of characters: the red-faced, rage engourged death penalty advocate who takes a little too much pleasure in death to be taken seriously, the well-meaning and righteous mother of another murder victim radiating equal parts rage and forgiveness like an emotional quasar, and the nun, there to make you feel like a spiritual amoeba.

The Nun and Death Penalty Advocate invariably fight, which is to say, the Death Penalty Advocate spits furiously as the Nun proclaims that she loves both the victim and killer. There are commerical breaks in between, of course, so they can mop of the studio and cut a few eye brows before the next round, and it is here that I realized how wonderful the world is:

Before cutting to commerical, CNN broadcasted a still photo of policemen standing in front of San Quentin's gates, across which hung the banner: "This is a non-smoking area." Well thank God!

That second handsmoke will kill you. And that's just wrong.

I love this world.

2005-12-06T03:37:00.000-08:00

"Children are our future." Ah, how true it is. They have been everything from the embodiment of joy and innocence in popular culture to the representation of spiritual purity in the New Testament. They make us happy; being stupid and making ridiculous noises around a baby is a universal imperative, an unbreakable law alongside "The Law of Discontinued Perfection," whose existence is alive and well.

The jerks stopped carrying my favorite brand of orange juice in the grocery store! What? Why? They didn't even ASK first. Now, I'm forced to consume sub-par, acidic juice for my Vitamin C. Unexceptable. But that's not the point of this post.

Without these laws, the universe would cease to function. It's a fact. No, don't read a book; you won't find it there, just search your feelings, Luke. Let the force flow through you. Yes, good, good. You have come a long way, Young One.

But children are have their own rules, a role to play in the continuity of the universe, which, in this case, is being really, really blunt. Example:

I went over to Andreas' house yesterday to play a game with his daughters Pauline (2 yrs), Emilie (5 yrs), and Svenia (7 yrs) because I had promised to a week earlier at his birthday party, but didn't. I could say it was because I was busy or tired, but to be honest, I just didn't feel like it. Anyway, a fulfilled my promise yesterday.

We played Flohmarkt (Flea Market), Aquarium, and Geistertreppe (Ghost Stairs), pleasant board games that conjoured up memories of Mister Rogers marathons, apple juice, Animal Crackers and fear of Sesame Street's Count. Aside from some flailing and screaming when someone "wasn't ever allowed to go first" it was fun, one of those activities that reminds you of the glories of early childhood, while at the same time makes you thank God you're past it. Yet somewhere in all these games and pediatric gymnastic displays, Svenia found time to comment on my laugh and pronouce with the subtlety of a jackhammer:

"Du hast riesige Zähne. Du siehst wie ein Hase aus. (You have huge teeth. You look like a rabbit.)"

Thanks, Svenia. I almost forgot.

Children are our future.

2005-12-05T02:37:00.000-08:00

I've actually had most of this one written for about a week, but have forgotten to publish with shocking regularity. Enjoy.

Last weekend, I took my "Mini-Norddeutschland Trip" of Lübeck and Hamburg. I wish I could say that it was really to see the sights, but let's be honest here: Hamburg had Harry Potter in English. But I'll get to that later.

The outdoor Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas Market) is one of those German traditions that everyone in the United States seems to know about, the Holy Trinity of popular German cultural references along with Heidelberg and Munich, but it really isn't possible to grasp unless you've been there. First, I should say that EVERYONE goes to the Lübecker Weihnachtsmarkt. Everyone. Or at least the entire population of the Germanic speaking world north of Hannover; the bubbly, backwards, and gutteral sounds of Danish syllables, or lack there of, were just about as common in the crowd as German.

And a person doesn't walk through the Weihnachtsmarkt so much as slides or spins, darting through holes in the crowd and around corners of booths. Normally, this kind of thing is really hard to do in the United States; people are kind of touchy and apologize profusely if you step on them, bump them too hard, or suddenly cut in front in a crowd, but not in Germany. Oh no, Human Pinball isn't only tolerated, it's encouraged.

Being me, I would bump into or step on someone pretty regularly while trying to keep my exit in sight. My over-exercised "American Apology Gland" would start pumping out "Good Will-o-Dorphens," and I'd say I was sorry. I can't help it, it's just one of those cultural things that's seared in my head, like the separation of Church and State, or the right to be protected from illegal search and seizure, but Germans just mutter: "Es macht nichts (It doesn't matter)," and keep going. Cool.

Crowd congestion is at its most impressive around the five billion Glühwein stands that (let's be honest) really MAKE the Weihnachtsmarkt what it is: a big outdoor market filled with neat stuff to buy with some rides, powered by warm mulled wine handed out in really neat commemorative mugs. OK, so the word "commemorative" is used loosely here. Technically, you buy the wine along with a 1,20 € Pfand (return refund) on the mug, but, uh, that never happened. I have two "Lübecker Weihnachtsmarkt" mugs on my desk in front of my computer right now. Yeah, that's right, I took them, and without ASKING first. Take that, System! The Man ain't got nothin'!

Everytime I see something like this in Germany, I'm stuck by a profound sense of jealousy; the United States only has these giant indoor commercial malls, and never a giant outdoor commercial market that is, dare we say it, social. My God, not that! Why don't we, as Americans, or "Amer'cans" if you take your lead from the Commander and....(OK, I just wanted to see if I could call him that without laughing. No dice), have outdoor markets that support themselves with steaming mugs of alchohol? Maybe if we made them Drive Thru McMarkets with 350 horsepower engines that hug the road with chrome-rimmed wheels. But I could be wrong.

Long and short of it is: the Weihnachtsmarkt was awesome. You should go. Right now. Come on. It's only a 4,500 mile trip, stop whining. OK, OK, next year. But I'll be counting.

While I'm on this awesome wave, I'll just say one thing: Harry Potter! Jesus Humphrey Christ, is it good! Ahhhhh! Damn you, Newell for perfectly adapting JK Rowling's annoyingly addictive fantasy series! Not many people know this, but the Harry Potter books are actually derived from the Coca plant, so if you ever finish a Potter novel and suddenly find yourself overpowered by the impulse to clean your house and cut the grass at three in the morning, you're not alone.

Seriously, though, it was a great movie! It never lets up, is appropriately dark, and manages to cut out everything that doesn't need to be there while still keeping the central theme of the book alive and well. Kudos. I could say more, but it would eventually degenerate into me repeating myself until it the post transforms into an overly intellectually discussion of Star Wars, the Lord of the Rings, or Star Trek. I will say no more.

On a seperate note: I said earlier that Germans dub everything on TV, but I was wrong. The dub ALMOST everything, with the exception of Bob Ross' Painting show. You know the guy: "Let's put a happy little tree over there. It doesn't matter, it's your world, you can put him wherever you want." Yeah, that guy. They don't dub him or add subtitles. He just is. He is eternal and peaceful, like the Buddha, only with a Fro and thiry years of oil painting experience that makes painting look deceptively easy.

2005-11-28T14:40:00.000-08:00

Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen to the Special Munich Edition (tm) of A Mongoose Does Deutschland presented by the Why Am I Reading This Media Group, through a partnership with the BBC and Deutschland Funk radio. The program will, due to its size, be presented in multiple parts in no particular order, and the task of placing the events in a linear sequence is left totally to the audience. Don't worry, he's a smart guy.

Part I: Bier

It's a self-sustaining ecosystem so complex that the basic functions and relationships of its many parts and components are still a mystery to modern science. The small amount of research that has been conducted has revealed the existence of complex proteins and antioxidents, that, according to Dr. Udo Maifelderfußheimmacher, professor of Bier Studies at Bayern University, shows promise fighting certain types of cancer. In what researchers call "das Brezelprinzip," test patients reported a remarkable increase in "just not caring" followed by singing and a deep, deep sleep in which the cancerous cells were replaced my what Dr. Maifelderfußheimmacher calls "healthy, gemütliche cells" craving red meat.

Beer in Munich comes in two sizes: 1\2 liter and 1 liter. That's it. If you ask for anything smaller, be prepared to be called "Gudrun" and supplied with a nice calico dress with a tasteful neckline and delicate fringe. Food in a beer hall is fantastic if you don't mind supping on the connective tissues of livestock or fried slabs of meat, which I didn't; it was delicious. It's true function, though, is to wash down your beer, which is literally cheaper than water. God, is it good. I personally didn't drink a liter, because I was kind of attached to the idea of actually walking out of the beer hall (stupid, I know). Still, that doesn't change the fact that there is something cool about a glass of beer so heavy that you have to wrap your hand around the glass through the handle just to pick it up comfortably.

There are several different native species of Bier found in Bayern; the Helles (light), Dunkeles (dark), Weizen (wheat), and several others, but they're frankly lower on the food chain, so who cares. Did you see how I just covered for not remembering the other names? Sometimes I'm so awesome, I just have to announce it.

And at this point, one runs into the paradox of Bier: it's taken VERY seriously, but there aren't very many types to choose from. America seems addicted to KINDS of beer, like Pilsner, Stout, Lager, things like that, while Germany prefers to stick to about four basics recipes, outlines if you will, then make all the rest of the beer in the world taste like pee in comparison.

Well, OK, Cologne has its own kind of Bier (Kölsch) that's really good, but for the sake of simplicity, it's not part of this discussion.

The natural place of consumption for Bier is anyplace dark and made of thick dark wood, even better if it smells like cigarette smoke. OK, that last part is a gimme, since nearly every surface in Germany with porous qualities comes with a built-in tobacco smell. Seriously, it's disgusting. It's one of those things about this country I don't think I will ever really get used to. I mean, if I really enjoyed the the stench of cheap carcinogens, I'd just wedge myself up in a chimney somewhere and read a book. At least then I'd have bragging rights and could say things like: "Oh yeah, well have you ever read a book wedged up in a chimney? I didn't think so." In my world, that would make the other person slink off dejected, but we all know what would really happen.

Though I visited several beer halls while in Munich, the coolest place both in terms of its Bier friendly atmosphere and sheer "who the hell built this place" factor, was an absolutely miniscule bar painted completely black on the inside and packed to the gills with people. I just kind of stood in the center of the room with my friends and drank a beer while watching everyone else.

Just a quick note: Germany is a great place for people watching, because EVERYONE stares! So if you find someone with a bad ass comb-over that looks like a spiral galaxy lacquered onto a cue ball, just stare away, my friends, stare away. It's normal here.

Right, so that's about the end of the Bier Post. Hope you enjoyed it. I might remember so stuff later and add to it, but I might not. I don't know. It depends. Before I go, another great German word: A "Wisk" is "Schneebesen (snow broom)." God, I love this language.

2005-11-23T14:30:00.000-08:00

I had dessert today in the school cafeteria, a bowl of Jello with a vanilla sauce over it, and as I was taking it off the counter, the lady said: "Und das ist Wackelpudding."

For those who haven't experienced it, learning a foreign language is, I would say about 70 % of the time, understanding something, then wondering if it's actually what you heard. And, like most activities here, these moments are accompanied by a glassy stare.

So I asked her to repeat herself: "Wie heißt man das nochmal (What do you call that again)?

"Wackelpudding." Yes, I was right: Jello is literally "Wagging Pudding" in German. God, I love this language. Sometimes I forget, but then things like this happen and I remember.

And for now on, Jello is to be Wagging Pudding.

And stay tuned for the Munich Special (tm)!

2005-11-17T14:25:00.000-08:00

Homicidal thoughts are tricky things, because not only are they morally wrong and go against everything I believe in, but they're also damn appealing at times. Let me explain:

Today in class 11a\b, I was supposed to do a little lesson about the American Dream. Fine. Can do. As a suggestion, Andreas said it might be a good idea to use a song if I had one, which of course I do, because my Ipod is packed full of stuff. Truth be told, I was excited about this whole thing, the idea of using a song, talking about it, taking it apart, and applying it to a concept or situation. Hell, it what I do for FUN when I'm hanging out with my friends.

And here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is where I introduce Exibit A in the trial of "Majority of Brandon's Life From 13 to 21 v. Female Attention." As you will see thoughout the proceedings, this, and the evidence to follow, makes the Defendant a "winner." Mmm, I love the smell of Self-Deprecation in the morning. Anyway, back to the class:

I decided to use "Used Cars" from Bruce Springsteen's album "Nebraska (1982)." I love that album; it's one of my favorites, and possesses that most rare of qualites called "self-life." I could listen to it over and over again, and the writing is just so damn good. AND, it just so happened to fit the topic of cars in American Society perfectly. If you don't get it, just read the title of the song really slow. If you still don't get it, don't have children, please, I might have to try to teach them. Sorry, I'm still a bit bitter. You'll see.

The basic idea of the lesson was this: they would listen to the song once all the way through to understand it, then I would hand out a stanza to each group in class for them to discuss it's meaning and basic point, then we would come back together and discuss ideas as a class. Simple, no? No. Apparently not. Now, I will admit that the sound quality on my laptop sucked in the class room, that the song was hard to hear, but it wasn't THAT important; the song was only there to get started on an idea, really, so if they couldn't understand the whole thing, they could at least get the basic idea, or at least go from their stanzas. Nope, afraid not.

First off, they did everything in German, which is just damn stupid. The name of the class is ENGLISH, so logic would dictate that one would speak English in class. If this idea is dense, please tell me to slow down. I've tried to get them to speak in English before about a hundred times, but there's just no point; as soon as you turn your back, the verbs run to the end of sentences and there's no present progressive tense. So, whatever; I let that slide just to preserve my sanity. I'd need it later so they could rob me of it.

They talked in groups for about six to seven minutes, after which I asked the class if they were done. They ignored me. Fine. I asked again. They ignored me again. I went around the room to ask if they were done; they acknowledged my existence this time by staring blankly at me before ignoring me. I was, at this point, getting tired of this shit. I didn't want to kíll them, just make them cry. But I didn't. I was good.

I just went to the front of the room and started talking, which made them turn around and actually pay attention. Good, time for the discussion. Here's how it went:

ME: So, just to start, what was the song about?

Student: No idea.

No idea? The song is called USED CARS! Use context! So, I explained what it was about. At this point, I could tell things were going south really quick, so I went for the old "how would that make you feel" thing, just to get them talking about something. I did get a: "He's proud of his car" after that. YAY! In my enthusiasm, I pushed ahead, fueled by the propect of students speaking English. I continued:

ME: So, imagine what it's like buying a used car. It's kind of like, you know, not being able to afford a new cell phone and having to settle for an old one that's beat up, one everyone knows isn't new. How would that make you feel?

CLASS: (Silence and Blank Stares)

ME: What about the Salesman, what do you think his role is?

CLASS: (Silence and Blank Stares)

It was like talking with cows, fat, moping, barely sentient livestock.

ME: What did you think of the song?

CLASS: Moo.

ME: How does that make you feel? How would you feel if you had nothing while the world on the TV was wealthy, attractive, and full of opportunities, and you weren't?

CLASS: Moo. (Swats flies away from mud encrusted ass with tail)

SAY SOMETHING! I admit, the lesson wasn't the best ever; I had dumped the idea of having the class place the stanzas on the board in the right order (that was my orignal idea), because Andreas said it was really easy, and I could leave it out, in favor of this. But they wouldn't speak. At all. Toward the end, I just wanted them to say SOMETHING. Hell, if they had told me that my lesson sucked and they wished they were dead, I would have been happy to discuss it. In English.

They wouldn't even talk to me while my computer was starting up when I asked them how they were doing, what they were doing this weekend, stuff like that. AHHHH! After class, I wanted to burn down their cities, sell the population into bondage, and sow thier fields with salt so nothing would ever grow there again, but that's just redundant: there wasn't much there to start with.

I keep forgetting that Germans schools don't really discuss things: what you think isn't important, just write something and conjugate the verbs correctly. Munich will be nice this weekend.

2005-11-11T14:50:00.000-08:00

Today is Armistice Day. Or Veteran's Day in the United States. Really, you can choose to call it anything you want. I'm personally an Armistice Day guy myself; the point of the day seems to be a little more positive: you know, celebrating the end of a war, Peace, and hope for the future instead of talking about sacrifice all the time. That seems to be rather fashionable at the moment. "Und das ist Quatsch," as the Germans would say.

And yes, a Quaker talking about a holiday is an oxymoron, but I just think it's interesting how the emphasis of the day was subtly shifted during the Cold War from peace to sacrifice. Just a disclaimer really quick: this kind of response is involuntary now; I was an English major, after all. And if you'll notice, the use of the semi-colon in this post is WELL above the national average. God, I can be pretentious.

As a rule, I am sceptical of days like this anyway, since men in dark suites and big shoulder pads tend to use them to further their own dreams of martial glory from behind a desk, and I'm pretty sure some as-yet-unnamed President of the United States will talk about how important it is to sacrifice on the Alter of Freedom (Quatsch noch mal), and I think the point is missed in there somewhere.

When the guns stopped pounding after four constant years, the soldiers in the trenches said they could hear the Voice of God in the sudden silence that followed, and the world, however flawed, resolved, at least for a short time, to put away the sword forever.

That is a much better present for a veteran than any flag, I think. So I do not believe in this day, but I do try to remember what it tried to say. That reminds me: I need to call my Grandfather tonight.

OK, I'm done. Really. I am. There's just something about German that makes both World Wars seem a lot more real. I guess the whole "3 million dead soldiers and cities almost totally destroyed" thing gets into the air sometimes. By the way, Lübeck has a war memorial that is now right up there with the Vietnam Memorial, as far as I'm concerned: the four hundred year old bells of the Marienkirche lay broken as they fell after the bombing in 1942 that almost destroyed the whole church, with the words: "Den Toten, die fern von der Heimat ruhen (To the Dead who rest far from home)" Are you cheered up yet?

On a lighter note, I'm going to go to a bakery today and eat a Berliner. His name is Klaas, and he owes me money. God, I'm funny! No, actually, it's a jelly filled doughnut thing. Normally, I'm not huge on things like that, but the history geek in me has to eat one. After all, President Kennedy was one.

Brief note: during is famous speech in Berlin in 1962, Kennedy said: "Ich bin ein Berliner." "Ein Berliner" is this doughnut thing. If you want to say "I am from Berlin," you just say "Ich bin Berliner." When I say "I am an American," I just say "Ich bin Amerikaner (Amerikanerin for the ladies out there)." Got it? It kind of sounds like Tarzan, doesn't it? "I am man, Jane: woman. Woman good." So, instead of saying "I am from Berlin," he said: "I am a jelly doughnut." Therefore, I MUST eat one.

2005-11-08T15:39:00.000-08:00

It is common knowledge that I have a superpower. Don't pretend that you don't know. It's common knowledge. Everybody knows. Everyone. But along with my long-standing and well-developed power to incorrectly cite bibliographical information in any notation style at any given time regardless of prior preparation or instruction, I have discovered that I have yet another, a Secondary Power, if you will. It breaks down like this:

Superpowers as a general rule can be divided into Main and Secondary catagories. For example: Galactus, Destoyer of Worlds can, as his Main power, well, devour entire worlds along with thier inhabitants' while belching fumes of pure evil and unmitigated self-infatuation, but he's also GREAT with kids, and can do a bad-ass Donald Duck impression when the situation requires. It never fails to lighten the mood of any inter-galactic refugee camp. He's a hit at parties. He doesn't normally let this out, you know, for obvious reasons, but we're cool, so it's OK. True be told, we're nigh Homies. But that's beside the point.

The point is, that besides my powerful ability to incorrectly cite things, I also attract random events. This is my secondary power. Since arriving in Germany, I have had a man open the phone booth while I was talking with my brother to lean in and make the sound like a telephone ringing, after which he walked away laughing, and have had a Polish man offer to sell me his cell phone out of his pocket while asking about minimum wage and working condition in the United States. Weird. When I said I didn't want his phone, he just disappeared.

I should say that this post is ommiting certain events in the United States, but since some of them are frankly disgusting, I won't mention it. OK, so only one is disgusting, but you get the point. The rest are just annoying.

TO THE POINT, MAN!

OK, sorry. Yesterday while walking to Jens Markt (a moment of silence, please, for the Palace of Pork), a man yelled "Wohin gehst du (Where are you going)" across the town square at me. My "Who The Hell Are You Sense" was going off, so I just pretended not to hear him, but he walked up to me anyway. So much for that. Apparently, he had noticed my limp and was intrigued by it. Let me just say before I go on that my limp is rather pronounced right, because I pulled some muscle sometime, somewhere, somehow, and it really hurts to walk pretty much any considerable distance at the moment.

His little brother, he said, limps just the same way. OK, that's nice. At this point, I was torn: my brain was about to explode trying to understand what this whole conversation meant, but he was a nice guy at the same time. "Where is your brother from," I ask.

"Afghanistan."

"Where are you from?"

"Iraq."

Huh? My German's not great, but it's not that bad. Then he goes on to talk about his brother's limp, whether it's my foot that's bothering me or something else, about hospitals and care for orthopedic problem, etc, at which point I tell him I think I hurt myself somehow. That confused the hell out of him. He just stared. "How do you like Germany," he asked, "is it better than America (I had already told him I wasn't German)? Is the work good in America?" And so on, and so on. Then we shook hands, said "Tschüß," and walked our seperate ways. That was it. Yeah, I don't know. I don't know, and I'm not going to try to figure it out. This stuff just seems to happen to me.

It's my superpower.

2005-11-01T15:24:00.000-08:00

So I'm Swiss. I know, who knew? Let me explain:

I was in a store yesterday buying a Swiss Army Knife (they were out there on the street and I couldn't help myself), and when talking to the lady in the store, she asked me if I was Swiss. Nope. Dutch? Nein. So far, I have been Schwäbisch, Danish, Dutch, and Swiss. No Austria, but give it time. Something about my German accent must sound like something out of the southern end of the German-speaking World, I don't know. I listen to the Swiss, Austrians, and the Schwäbisch on TV and always think how I could never sound like that, but I guess I do.

I was disappointed at first, but at least I'm not an American right away....I come from the right continent at least. Whoohoo! Truth is, oral comprehension has sky-rocketed, speaking still needs some work. Maybe I should go to Zürich; I have family there.

2005-10-31T14:16:00.000-08:00

In the Being there was only Void and Darkness without Form, yet out of this Chaos came a Voice, and it said: "I AM," and so It was. It ordered the Chaos and gave Light to the Darkness, yet it was not finished. So It made TV, and looking down on it, It said: "I have made this, and it pleases me. It is good. I shall call it TV, and it shall bring Order and Light to the small apartments of socially isolated Fulbright Teaching Assistants stationed on small German islands adrift in the Baltic Sea, specifically those one and a half hours north of Lübeck." And so it was.

I now have a TV! That's right, after 20 days I have fancy "moving pictures" in my apartment! Let me just say that it is all kinds of nice; sound with PICTURES! I was so enthralled that I didn't feed my mules all weekend. I live on the edge.

Of adventures in German television, I can say that if you're looking for Sumo Wrestling, Pub Darts, Snooker, or Show Jumping in primetime spots, look no further. And not only has Germany filled my sport-watching dreams by replacing the over-blown salaries and culturally misplaced affection and adoration of the NBA with the over-blown salaries and culturally misplaced affection and adoration of Sumo Wrestling, it has also broken new ground in home entertainment. Yes, here tucked between France and Poland where everything exists to be improved upon, the blissful hours of mindless and thouroughly engrossing distraction offered by the television have been merged with a desire to earn money without ever having to sweep the potato chip crumbs from the crack of your pants.

Turn on a game show, you can call in and make money. Stumble into the industrial wasteland around channel 15 and you can have the pleasure of watching a young attractive woman sporting so much lip gloss that you wonder how many Sperm Whales died for that other-worldly sheen stare into the camera and all but dare the audience to spot the mistake in the second picture. If you get it right you win € 80,000. If you don't don't, she insults your manhood.

Last night I watched a cheesy show about the differences between Men and Women (it was so damn zany, fun-loving, and downright life affirming that I had to check my blood sugar), and if you guessed who would talk the most during the coarse of the show (a man or woman), you won € 10,000. € 10,000! The Germans, aside from discovering X-Ray, the lost city of Troy, and inventing the modern concept of interstate travel, have stumbled upon the obvious truth that anyone will sit through anything if, in the end, there is the smalled whiff of €10,000. Part II is next week. I am so there.

But that's not the point. Saturday night, the day I got my TV, I stayed up until about midnight watching just about every documentary I could find. Good times. Really. Anyway, somewhere in my Gummy Bear powered geek-out I stumbled onto the 20 second sex hotline ad. I had been warned before I came here, but let me tell you: nothing can prepare you. Nothing. For those of your who don't know, they are basically 10 to 20 second spots advertising various sex talk lines complete with pictures of the "goods" (shutter) and a voice chanting the number with the subtlety of a machine gun. Then they run it over and over again. And over. And over.

And they pretty well covered the gamut from the straight "meet nice guys and girls on your cell phone" to "Hot Students" (pretty standard) to "Gays online," also pretty standard. Aside from being tremendously annoying, there wasn't anything wrong with them. I emphasis "wasn't."

"Ripe Women." That's what they called it, "Ripe Women." What is that, you ask? I don't know, and I saw it. As far as I can tell, an Orka missed its intended prey, landing in the middle a teeming Sea Lion colony while a crew filmed it.

But if you're into over-weight German women in short plaid skirts with coke bottle lenses rubbing themselves "erotically" on a bed over and over again, let me know: I have the number for you. Christ. Ugh. I guess that's what I get for asked God to please make manifest the utterly sexually unattractive.

Oh yeah, I also watched a cool show on the resanctification of the Dresdener Frauenkirche, but you don't want to read about that. No, I didn't think so. If was pretty cool, though. AND, I could understand it all. Whoohoo!

And:

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! (I hope there are some good movies on TV tonight)

And I apologize for this post. Really, I do.

2005-10-24T12:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend was a big one. What did I do? Well, how nice of you to ask. I went to Hamburg, Germany's second largest city three hours south of where I am, otherwise known as the End of the World. Coming from a small place like Burg, it is difficult to express my first impressions in prose form, so I have prepared a dramatic dialogue.

A brief note before we begin: Hamburg is abbreviated as "HH," or "Hanse Stadt Hamburg," it's official name. I could talk about what that means, but that's a history lesson, and I don't feel like going into that. OK, on with the show.

Places people! You?! What are you doing? Put that down and get the lights ready. And remember, your motivation is: you're a small rabbit, scared, away from home. You're singled out as a sexual ambiguous character on a highschool Texas football team, but you know you're just a late bloomer. That's where your stength comes from.

And, ACTION!

ME: Well goooooooolly, Wilbur! There sure a lot of people here.

HH: Who, who's Wilbur?

ME: Where you reckon they keep all the horses at for all them people?

HH: What are you talking about? I, I can't understand....horses?

ME: And it's so bright! How they do that, make it bright when the sun's not out and all?

HH: Those are called street lamps. Listen, maybe you should just stand over here in the corner for a while and....

ME: Shit, man, did you just see that? Right there! Look! It was like, I don't know, like a train in the street. Man, that's crazy. Man.

HH: That's the Staßenbahn, the....

ME: The "Straß-a-what?"

HH: The Staßenbahn. Street cars. You know, public transportation.

ME: Public....Man, you guys think of everything! Next thing, you'll be telling me you got, like, stores and restaurants that sell all kinds of funny foreign foods like fish and chicken.

HH: Actually....

ME: NO WAY! Honey, cancel that trip to Myrtle Beach, we're staying here! Hot Damn!

So, yeah, that was me. Seriously. I was blown away. I just stood in the corner of the Hauptbahnhof for about twenty minutes watching while I got adjusted. Of the city itself, I can say this: It's gorgeous. The Hamburg Theater is just across the street with its greened copper dome and horse statues on either corner. I must have stared at that for about fifteen minutes.

The group of Teaching Assistants arrived about a hour after my train got in, at which time we all decided to go get some food and something to drink. To do so, we had to pass Das Alster, the long lake that sits in the middle of the city. Wow. It was all lit up, naturally, and the Rathaus looked like a castle instead of a town hall. It was a lot different from the little red brick building with painted wooden relief carving I pass everyday going to the store.

But there aren't any really tall buildings in Hamburg, no glass monstrosities housing corporate fat cats with bad toupees. Oh no, the Hamburger corporate fat cats with bad toupess work in beautifullly restored low buildings that look like somthing you'd see Bond frequent in the early films. Connery, people, let's be serious. I don't want to here any George Lasenby talk around here, either. And, yeah, I spelled his name wrong, but you know what, I didn't look it up because I don't care. Because he sucks. George Lasenby.

Anyway, we all ended up eating at a small French themed bar somewhere. I had fish. Yum. AND, we got stared at something hardcore when we walked it, which is always fun. After food, a couple people wanted to go Salsa dancing....I was not one of those people, but since we all didn't feel like splitting up, we went along anyway. We couldn't find it. I know what you're thinking: You counldn't find a latin themed club in a city of 1.5 million Germans? No.

Actually, we did....much later, but we went to a bar instead anyway. The point really is that I got to see a lot of people in Hamburg and talk, fluently, which is something I had missed. I will most definitely go back. But it also reaffirmed my affection for small places too, funny enough, but that's another post. Long and short: Hamburg rocks. Hardcore. I will visit it again. Later

2005-10-19T11:35:00.000-07:00

So I guess it's time to talk about Fall Break. Yes, I know, what is more interesting than the fact that Hagrid is from Schleswig-Holstein in the German translation of the Harry Potter books? Not much.

Anyway, I'll start with the train ride. The train system in Germany is a mixture between a highly developed public transportation system with a Kindergarten class when the teacher's not in the room. If you know where you're going, meaning what track you have to be at, and at what time, you're good. Just go there and wait for your train. If you don't, you're screwed. In that case, my suggestion is to sit in a tight fetal position and murmur some kind of liturgy or sentimental piece of poetry until the room stops spinning or you beleive in God again.

So the day I headed down to Cologne (October 3) was The Day of German Unity, celebrating the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989 and the following reunification of the country. Everyone has that day off, so naturally, they all decide to travel. I didn't have any reservations for the train ride to Cologne, so I just hopped on and hoped that I could find a seat. From Hamburg to Hannover, no problem, but from Hannover to Cologne, no dice.

I got stuck in the small hall in the train car for about 15 minutes while this massive group of Bavarian (the train continued to Munich) tourists tried to sort out where their seats were. How did I know they were Bavarian? Because it sounded like they were gargling marbles at high-speed. Really, you haven't lived until some German guy you've never met trys to squeeze by you so tightly that you wonder if you should be doing that if you're not married. At least take me out for dinner first. Anyway, after about 15 minutes of that, I turned around the other way and ended up sitting between cars on the floor next to the door.

As a general rule, Germans do not communicate while "unterwegs." They just stare out the window, read a book, or, in the most extreme cases, stare blankly at the seat in front of them, or, if you're sitting in a four facing-seat area, they stare at you. That's not awkward at all. BUT, when you find yourself sitting between cars, they can be downright chatty. I think there exists a sense of solidarity when everyone's hanging on to the wall so they don't get pelled across the train when it puts on the breaks around a curve. While sitting there between cars, an older lady was flung against her standing suitecase as the train went around a curve at 150 kilometers an hour and nearly went backwards over her head. Ice officially broken.

We started talking, in German, and she asked where I was from. There was a small delay. "Are you Swäbisch?" she asks. This question confused the hell out of me. I just kind of stared at her blankly for a few seconds. I had been asked if I was a lot of things, but mostly it ended with a quick "you're American, aren't you?" Now for those who don't know, Schwäbisch is a dialect in southern Germany that has a reputation slightly better than Bayrisch (Bavarian) on the Unterstandability Scale. It's really sing-songy with one of those fantastic rolled R's southern Germany seems to like so much, but most Germans who aren't Schwäbisch have no clue what Schwäbish means.

Anyway, when I didn't answer after a couple seconds, she said "you're American, then?" I said yes. We talked a little more and we decided the rhythm of my southern American accent makes my German sound a little Schwäbisch. I still haven't decided if that's good or not. She then gave me a quick lesson on the German R sound in words like "Kraft." Long and short of it is that people in southern German like to play with their R's (listen to some of Hitler's speeches; he has a pretty righteous Austrian R going on), while the people in northern Germany pronouce it like they're clearing the back of their throat. I think I'll go for option two, sense the first one is impossible for me to do.

At least I passed for a German for about 30 seconds. That's my record so far. Progress!

So that's the train ride down. Coming up, I have a castle, Beethoven's birthplace, and the Bonn Market. Stay tuned!

2005-10-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

I've been reading Harry Potter for the last week or so, in German, and I just thought I would share something that made me a lot happier than it should have....HAGRID IS FROM SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN! Yes, that's right, the translator of the Harry Potter books makes Hagrid speak in Northern German slang. As far as why, the only thing I can think of is that Hagrid has a Southwestern English accent in the original books, kind the English equivalent to an American Southern accent, so the German translator gave Hagrid the German accent that best conjures up pictures of quaint farmers....Schleswig-Holstein.

And Hagrid says "moin" with the best of them, not to mention every negative with an enthusiastic "nee," the stock "no" answer around here. God, I'm sad. But that doesn't change for fact that it makes me excited. I'm cool in spite of myself, so there.

2005-10-13T21:37:00.000-07:00

So as of today I have eaten Herring. Actually, it was Herring in a can, but it still counts. It DOES sound disgusting, doesn't it? I wasn't really planning on trying it a month ago, but the desire to eat something other than pork drove me too it. It was kind of a culinary satori, actually.

I was walking through my beloved Jens Markt hungry as hell, but finding myself swallowing hard everytime I looked over at the meat counter. I for one believe in listening to what my body tells me, especially when it comes to eating, so I went around the corner and found myself staring at the absurdly large variety of canned fish. Long and short of it is, I walked out with one can of Herring in a pepper cream sauce and one can of smoked Mackeral. I haven't eaten the Mackeral yet, but of the Herring I can say: YUM.

That's right, the Herring was good. And not only was it good, it wasn't fishy. I know that the United States has an interesting opinion of the olfactory qualities of Northern Europe's favorite Shad (I know, I was among that number until this morning), but I can tell you that it isn't true. It's actually less fishy than Sardines. True, a dirty warf bubbling under a Ugandian heatwave isn't as fishy as Sardines, but it's true.

It's actually quite nice. I think the difference is that Sardines are manufactured for college students too cheap to pay for a real snack (me), or people so secure in their own qualities as a human being that they don't need to be bothered with human contact, and Herring is made for Breakfast, and therefore actually tastes good. The pepper cream is was packed in was really good. With some Schwarzbrot it makes a good meal.

On another note: Jesus Herbert Christ, is "Twelve Angry Men" a good movie! If you haven't seen it, you should, and you can take that to the bank, because my opinion is just that informed. I bought it yesterday at the deparment store. In German it's called "Die Zwölf Geschwonenen," or "The Twelve Sworen." Cool, no?

So, what have we leaned today? 1. Herring is actually a very tasty and under-rated fish, and 2. "Twelve Angry Men" is one of the greatest movies ever made. And I hope you brought your decoder rings, because today's code is: XYASB CD BWSAX

Have fun!

2005-10-11T21:48:00.000-07:00

So as of today, I am a legal alien in the Federal Republic of Germany. I payed 50 € for my Aufenthaltserlaubnis and have a really cool looking addition to my passport to go along with the luxary of not getting deported in 60 days. It's got holograms, stamps, and a monstrously official looking eagle over on the right of the page. Badass.

As for what I've done lately, not too much, just drunk two liters of orange juice mostly and saying rather inpolite things about my nose and this stupid cold. Today I did pick some apples in the backyard, which was, despite what it sounds like, unspeakably cool. There are apple trees everywhere, and on top of that, they're really good. Badass.

Just a general observation: old ladies here are awesome. Let me explain. While I was in Cologne last week I went to a birthday party for Inge, who was turning 85. You're all asking "who's Inge," and to that I say "tough, I'm not going to tell you." That's a lie, actually. She's the mother of the person I was staying with in Cologne.

Anyway, while there I feasted on smoked salmon, eel, and trout. I know what you're thinking. It's OK, be that way, I don't care. No, really, I don't. But it was really good. How do you know if you've never tried it, huh? That's what I thought. Smoked salmon is actually really good. It's kind of fishy tasting at first, but once you get past that, it really starts to grow on you. It has the texture of good sushi but isn't raw. And I'm a sucker for salmon anyway.

Smoked eel, just so everyone knows, is MUCH better than fried eel. The fried eel was good, but it was, you know, kind of on the "Christ, that's greasy!" side. The smoked eel was also a little firmer and the texture was really nice. And eel tastes yum yum yummy. Now, aren't you glad you know that?

I also tried Alster Wasser the other day (2 weeks ago), a 50\50 mixture of beer and limonade. Also sounds disgusting, no? Well, it's actually really good. The bottle was too big, so I got tired of drinking it after a while, but if it were smaller, it would be nearly perfect, especially when you want something cold and kind of refreshing.

A note on my method of keeping time. I say "the other day" all the time, but in reality, it has nothing to do with the recent past. In fact, it could, in extreme circumstances, refer to an event several years ago, but that's kind of rare. When that happens, you can just blame that on my inability to have a broad concept of time in general. Most of the time it refers to something between now and 6 months before. So just keep that in mind if I use that in the future and don't bother to explain further.

This post, as I'm sure you've noticed, has nothing to do with old ladies. It happens. Next time. Maybe. I have a lot to put up here, but since school's out, and I have to pay for my internet access, I keep things at shorter intervals. So until next time. And don't forget your decoder rings!

2005-10-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

To all you worried readers out there, because I know there are hundreds of you, I'm OK, just a little tired and with a cold. So tonight won't be the night for updates, but stay tuned! So EXCITING!

2005-09-27T20:55:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that a lot of blogs offer some inspiration or a quote about something profound to give readers something big to chew on, so in that tradition, I offer my own:

Jack Burton: Oh, boy. Look, we're here to see David Lo Pan, alright.

Lo Pan: Huh?

Jack Burton: David Lo Pan!

Lo Pan: And you have succeeded, Mr Burton.

Jack Burton: What, you? I don't get this at all. I thought Lo Pan...

Lo Pan: Shut up, Mr Burton! You are not brought upon this world to 'get it.'

Jack Burton: Come on, Lo Pan is like...

Lo Pan: Nothing you can understand. There are many mysteries, many unanswerable questions, even in a life as short as yours.

Jack Burton: Yeah, well, the way I see it, it doesn't mean you shouldn't ask. Like: where's my truck?

Amen.

2005-09-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

I've got about 10 minutes here, so I'll make this brief. Earlier today I was with a teacher in fifth grade, and being fifth grade it was a little, you know, excitable and loud. So, natually, the teacher, Astrid, has a sign to let the class know when they should quite down. And what is it, you ask? To that I answer, "AC freakin' DC, man" and throw up the horns.

What was that? Did I see Sammy Hagar being swamped by fans? No sorry, those were just fifth graders. Yes, that's right, when the class gets too loud, the teacher throws up the horns, at which point twenty little German children follow suit. "Rockin' Freakin' Roll, man! Dude, where's the Meister and throw on some of that White Snake."

Once again, thank you, Germany.

2005-09-24T22:10:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of tired, so I'll make this brief. Imagine a man in a purple suit with bleached blonde hair. OK, good. Now a nun. And no, this post in NOT going there, it's just you. OK, now have the nun tap a barrel of beer, spin around, only to be over-shadowed by men with accordians and guitars badly lip-syncing. Now make this last for two hours. Welcome to German television.

Eat it, Lawrence Welk, because you just got served.

2005-09-23T22:02:00.000-07:00

So I was walking back from the grocery store today, I was struck by a couple of things. First was the heavy smell of fried Eel coming from a cafe, and the second was the general character of this place, which is different to say the least, one that definitely makes an impression. So here are a couple of markers for the traveler that might just stumble over the River Elbe into good old Holstein (Schleswig is a district that covers the northern half of the Land, and ends at the Danish border. I live in Ostholstein, or East Holstein)

1. Moin. It's "hello," "good morning," "how's it going," all that stuff here, kind of the northern German equivalent of "aloha." It's a great word. Apart from having all of those different meanings, it just sounds friendly as hell. I guy could be rocking a chair on your sternum in golf shoes and you'd forgive him if he bracketed the experience with a nice "Moin."

Oh, a quick word on the German language in general. Don't worry, this will be brief. Have you ever had anyone tell you that English is the only language with a thesaurus because it's the only language that needs one? No? Well I have, and now I can tell you that it's a load of horse shit, pardon my French. German might not have ENOUGH words to warrent a thesaurus, but it makes up for that deficiency by giving every word about fifty different meanings. Only here could a word have the meaning "to apply" while having the metaphorical meaning "to count." Good times. Sorry, but it had to be said at some point.

2. On the same general topic, the "G" on the end of a word gets neglected sometimes around here....Kind of like home, actually. Example: I live in Burg auf Fehmarn, but if you here a nice solid local say it, it comes out as "Boorsh." Nice. Actually, it does sound rather pleasant. Simlarly, Hamburg is "Hamboorsh." Then there's Plattdeutsch, but that's another post altogether.

3. Weather. That's a big thing around here. If you didn't believe in a fickle god that controls the weather before you came, you will before you leave. You wake up in the morning and it looks like it will rain all day; it's gray, there's no sun, the wind is absolutely howling outside you're window, and it's cold as hell in your room. Around noon it's totally different. The sun is out, there are NO clouds, the wind is gone, and its actually kind of warm. Then other days it just kind of pisses rain, kind of non-commital like. Seriously, I don't know who Jehova has working in the Schleswig-Holstein Weather Department, but He's got to find a more ambitious character, someone with some "go get 'em" attitude. I don't know if I can stand this: "I'll make it rain today. No, wait. No, I better not. Well, I don't know, my girlfriend was kind of hoping I would. But it is late, and I was up all last night. I don't know. Should I?" attitude. Just make it rain already, or not! Oh, whoever is reading this, remember these words and make me eat them in November. Thank you.

4. When it does get cold here, it means it. It doesn't let a silly thing like human ingenuity get in its way either. No, it does not know the meaning of a wall, or any other kind of barrier, for that matter. If it's cold outside, it's cold inside. It's just the way it is. It's a rule. Best get used to it.

5. Red bricks and tile roofs. Everything's made of them here. Even baby carriages. It's true. You haven't lived until you've seen a good German girl bust a vain pushing her little munchkin over cobblestones in a brick carriage with blue trimmed windows. And there are some thatched roofs on the mainland, but I haven't seen them here.

So that's about it for now, but the list will be continued later, I'm sure. On another note, as I was walking back from the store (I do a lot of that here) I walk past this advertisement for a photo lab that features totally nude pictures of women in various poses, all of which are kind of creepy, if you must know. Anyway, I've gotten used to it by now, but there was this older couple in front of me today, and as they walked past, the old man peeled off silently in good form and stopped in front of the billboard. And stared. He was definitely interested. His wife noticed he was gone and called "Hans" over her shoulder. She was answered by a nice distracted "huh" and some kind of mumble I think meant "I'm coming." God, that made my day.

2005-09-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

Just a note: for some reason this site doesn't like umlauts. I don't know why: it's kind of dumb if you ask me. Anyway, the word that starts with "L" and has the A fraction thing next to it is Luebeck. Sorry, but I didn't know it would do that....I'm just so excited that I actually have umlauts on the keyboard that I want to you use them all the time. So from now on I'll do the whole "ue" "ae" "oe" thing instead of umlauts, even though they don't look nearly as cool.

2005-09-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

You know you're a huge freaking dork when you feel absolutely fulfilled simply by joining a library. That's right; as of yesterday afternoon, I am a card-carrying member of the Burg auf Fehmarn Stadt Buecherei! Not only do they have books there, but also (joy of joys) CDs to copy! And most of them are really, really good. There is an oddly large collection of Phil Collins albums, which is unfortunate, but it's not enough to temper the fact that I now have access to a CD collection and German Childrens' books, and all for just 18,00 Euro! Whoohoo!

On the other hand, the Metric System sucks. Yes, that's right, sucks! Damn it for being so damned efficient and easy to calculate. Base 10, who ever heard of such a stupid idea? Excuse me, but I'll keep my Base 16 antiquated Anglo-Saxon system of weights and measures, thank you very much. I tried to make rice last night using the instructions on the side of the box, and instead of producing tasty, fluffy long-grain rice, I came up with some kind of half-assed rice pudding. Again I say: damn yoNapoleonan for demanding standardizeded system of measurement to unify your empire! My misunderstanding of course has nothing to do with the failure of my educational system to familiarize me with the basics of the system. Oh no, it's just a stupid system. Although, I did find out the other day while registering my address that I am 1,72 meters tall. Man, that's cool.

Today I go find the bus schedule so I can get to the train station to get off this island for a bit, not that I'm saying it isn't nice. Maybe I'll go to Luebeck. I don't know.

I also went to the old Lutheran Church down the street to take some pictures, which was awesome. The church was built in 1230, so I knew there would be some neat-o Medieval stuff in there, but I had no idea how much! First of all, there's the cool mosiac over the door that says in German: 'Go through his gate with thanks,' just under a picture of a saint with a halo in front of a windmill, a ship, and something else I can't quite indentify. Did I mention that Fehmarn was full of pirates and brigands when the church was built? No? Well, it was! And what's better is that not everyone on the island was Christian when the church was built, which raises the very real possibility of Pagan Viking Pirates! The five year old in me is gourged on endorphins (pretty sure I spelled that wrong) right now.

Anyway, right inside the door is a HUGE wooden crucifix, complete with blood painted on his chest. But the coolest thing has to be the knights in armored helmets painted on pillars, right next to jesters. Of course there were other things, but it would take forever to talk about them all, so I'll just leave it like that. OH, the pipes to the organ...wow. It's not as big as the cathedral in Cologne (Köln if you want to impress), but not much is. Though I have to say, it felt a lot more Medieval in Burg.

2005-09-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

This actually isn't interesting, but I thought I'd mention that I'm actually reading "A Brave New World" for class. What, I ask, is up with that? True, I offered to read it so I could help a teacher do her Leistungskurs (grade 13) unit on it, but someone tell where I got on the time machine back to High School.

On a more mature topic, toilets here are interesting. The flush pressure is great first of all. Hell, if you had a cat you didn't like, just drop them down a Teutonic Toilet, flush and forget; that cat would be on its way to Die Scheißanlage before you could count to drei....OK, so I made that word up, but it still works. It means "shit complex" by the way. What I don't fancy is the ledge. That's right, there's a ledge, a shelf if you will, on which your....well, you know, will rest. If you're lucky, it will leave when you flush. IF YOU'RE LUCKY! Christ, it's disgusting. It wouldn't bother me if I could find some reason for it, like if it helped with pressure, but like I've said, there's no problem with that. It must be some kind of punishment. Someone I met in Altenberg thought maybe it had something to do with self diagnosis of medical problems, and given the absolute disgustingness of the design, I'll take anything as long as it explains it away. UGH. What I wouldn't give for a deep, dark hole.

I guess I should say here that I really do like my time here in Germany, but I save the odd things I laugh at to share with everyone else, which, in this case, is poo. But if I were anywhere else, I'd still find stuff like this to laugh at, because it's what I do. Awesome. Later.

2005-09-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

So, if anyone says to you; "(Name here), what kind of meat do people eat in Germany?* OK, I don't know why anyone would ask you this, but just stay with me here; tell them PORK. It's all that seems to have in the grocery store....there's a little chicken, but it seems to be there just for diversity's sake, and the beef is in HUGE pieces, so that's out of the picture. On the other hand, I have discovered beef in jelly, Herring in creme, oil, tomatoes, and what looks like water, as well as some other as yet unnamed silvery slab of fish swimming in oil that's sold over by the "anti pasti" section of the store. Something tells me that's not an Italian invention. And you can buy oxtail soup in a can....I've come so close just for shits and giggles. But maybe my favorite so far is Hamburger Aalsuppe (Hamburg Eel Soup). Don't worry, I won't actually eat it.

This Post is obviously omitting the good things to eat in the interest of, well, interest, so just keep that in mind. On the back of this webpage you will notice that is says to "take with pinch of salt."

2005-09-17T17:25:00.000-07:00

I hung out with some people last night, Meg, Andreas' au pair from Australia, her boyfriend Florian, and all the other people who wandered into the local hangout spot "Dreamtime." It's not a bad place, but all my clothes from yesterday smell like smoke now. The number of smokers here is pretty impressive, which is to say: everyone. The long and short of it all is that it was nice to actually be around people again: watching "Big Trouble in Little China" everyday, as good a movie as it is, is getting a little old.

Of course, I couldn't understand 98% of the conversations, but it didn't matter; I learned some new words and actually got to speak German in a context that was an actual conversation. Florian turned out to be a really cool guy. I already knew Meg.

As fun as it was, though, I was struck by the strange absence of anyone above the age of 18 who isn't 65 or a teacher. It was cool to hang out with everyone: I had missed real human contact, but the six years between us seems to make a pretty big difference. I am lead to consider if I am in fact a boring ass person, which seems likely, or if the age gap really is as big as it feels. Highschool was odd enough once, watching other people plod through it in another language just maginfies it about a hundred times. And I should say, sitting on a couch while the people on either side of you make out furiously is just as awkward in german as it is in english. I almost gave them the key to me room as long as they'd do the laundry afterwards.

This is not to say that it wasn't nice to actually talk to people, I just miss my own age group. On the bright side, I was invited to have beer with all the teachers the night Fall Break starts the 29th, which will be fun.

OH, and it's cold as hell here now. It's amazing.

2005-09-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

OK, so it's been a long time since I last updated this thing. Why, you ask? The short answer is that I've been really, really busy. I was in Cologne for a week with no email access, then when I got back I had a lot of stuff to organize, a fact that hasn't changed all that much, but it's a little less now, which is good. So, what's happened that's worth mentioning here:

Well, the day I arrived back here in Burg (Monday) there was no cab at the train station first of all. OK, that's not entirely true, there was one, there just wasn't any room in it. So I took the bus. It was a nice bus, I liked it. Anyway, when it made its stop to drop me off, I realized I had no idea where I was in town, which was an awesome feeling after nine hours on trains, some of which looked like what I imagine the interior of a really big 1973 EL Camino would look like. Apparently, the color of spoiled orange juice is a big one on regional trains. Anyway, I got off the bus and walked around in circles for about 30 minutes until I figured out where I was. In all, I made it back to my apartment in one hour, which after considering that I had to discover where I was before I could go anywhere isn't half bad. I'm still proud of that.

On my way back to the apartment, a kid on the soccer field up the street called me an "Ausländer," which was nice of him. I don't know what tipped him off, but I assume it was my elegantly bulging backpack and labtop case. Anyway, that was arrival day.

The next couple of days were spent buying groceries and cleaning the room up, not much special there. That was Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday, I went to school.

OK, before I go on, let me clear some things up; no, I do not personally know 50 Cent or Eminem. All Americans know them evidentally, so I must be in the minority there. And for those of you who don't know who 50 Cent or Eminem are, don't worry about it, they suck.

The first grade I sat in on was grade 8, which makes them about 12-13 years old. I'm still not used to being the exotic one, so the gasps and looks of suprise when they found out I was American are still odd. Anyway, I sat in the back of the room while Andreas was working with the VCR, at which point all the girls in the class started giggling. There was one guy, Jan, I introduced myself to: I'm Herr Winter (pronouced Herr Vinter) in school, but I saw nothing wrong with using my first name. Anyway, I introduced myself as Brandon, he said he was Jan. Nice guy. The girls in class must have been looking for just such an opening, because they mobbed the desk and all wanted to say hi and introduce themselves. I should say now that I was really suprised by this response. I don't know why, they are 12, and the 500,000 ccs of estrogen coursing through their veins at any given moment make them do strange things, it's just that the senerio had never occoured to me. Yet another example of how clueless I can be. Anyway, they all turned out to be really cool and easy to talk to. Their english is frightenly good.

The next grade was grade 5, the beginning english students. It was there that I was asked if I know 50 Cent or Eminem. There was a question and answer period, which was fun. Again, their english is better than my german. OH, and Andreas told them I speak no german, which will be a hard lie to keep up all year, but I'll give it my best shot. But everyone who knows me knows I'm a terrible liar. Next grade was grade 11.

The class was centered on the differences between the Democratic and Republican parties. Have I mentioned how hard it was to stay impartial? No? Well it was, real damn hard, but I'm proud to say that the words "Bush is an idiot" did not come out of my mouth once. Excuse me while I pat myself on the back. Apart from that, there is just one thing I can say about that class: they think they are cool as shit. It was somewhat sad to see. OK, so that was school.

2005-09-02T22:13:00.000-07:00

In the light of the sheer suckiness of the first post, I'll try to make this one, you know, not suck.

As far as my adventures to this point, I can only say that they would be as piss poor on the reading quality as they were stressful to do; I bought a whole lot of stuff for my apartment, bought stuff for my apartment, and oh, yeah, bought stuff for my apartment. Let the good times roll.

Although, there are a some pleasures to be found in German department stores besides the almost frightening cleanliness of the store itself, and quiet attitude of the customers: it's a real Tim Burton-Stepford Wives kind of atmosphere. German advertising seems to have this irresistable need to make something sound either incredibly Prussian, or just plan stupid. For example, there was a stack of something in the corner of the store, I can't remember what, that sat under a sign that, I must assume, was meant to convey its popularity, a popularity that causes the items to "Fly off like chickens." Stupid. It made me laugh, but I didn't feel a need to buy the product. Another example from today, but from the other end.

Mister Clean. Given his propencity for cleanliness, one would assume he'd be popular here, yes? And you'd be right, he is popular, but for reasons that I cannot explain, they changed his name. Yes, Mr. CLEAN wasn't good enough. They abandoned the easy literal translation route, in which "Mr Clean" would be "Herr Sauber." Instead, he is "Meister Proper." What? Why? That makes no sense. Mr. Clean has no manners. No man with manners would just APPEAR in the middle of your kitchen without so much as a "hello" or "can I come in." "Mr" yes, "proper" no. Oh, but I forgot, it's "Meister." Of what, I do not know, but it is clean that he is the master of something. Perhaps it's of all he surveys. Either way, the assumption behind this marketing change is that this switch from "Mr" to "Master" would make Clean more appealing to Germans. I am new here, but that fact scares me.

And the TV is "unique." I have not been able to confirm this yet, but I believe that "Home Improvement" dubbed in German violates at least half a dozen UN resolutions. On top of that, the dubbing is really good. The time spent on it, the time you'd need to sinc up German's multi-syllabic vowel free verbs and English had to have been extreme. And the sound of the voices even match. Where, I ask, did they find a German who sounds like Richard Karn? I don't know, but they did it. Deutschland: 1, rest of the international dubbing community: 0.

But they love nature shows. They love them. One was about undersea life, in which they paid a little too much attention to the hunt aspect of the natural life to really set me at ease. I half expected David Attenbourgh to float past the corner of the screen followed by lions and hyenas. The other one I spent time watching was about the animals native to Munich's "Englischer Garten," the squirrels in particular. That was good programming. I could watch that for hours. And they were red squirrels, so therefore a little exotic. Very nice.

But I would have to say that behind old American sit-coms, the great love of this country is the infomerical. They're everywhere, and they advertise such practical things as "The Miracle Knife III," and my personal favorite, the "Dampfreiniger," or steam purifier. The first thing I saw on German TV was a man in vacuum sealed jeans steaming the inside of his toilet with steam. Yeah, I know. They sold over 500 units in less than 5 minutes. Think about that for a minute. God, I love arbitrary sterotypes. It's OK if you hate me for it, I certainly do.

And I say "ja" to everything now, regardless of what language I happen to be speaking in. It kind of creeps me out. And no one stops for pedestrians. Ever. It just isn't done. Maybe it wastes gas, I don't know.

But things are good, the people are different, but not all that different than any other group of people I've talked to. They have their "quirks," but it's nothing insurmountable. It will be hard to get to know people, though. My natural "I don't want to bother you" reflex combined with the outer German social shell is going to suck like no one's business, but oh well. I have a year. OK, that's about it for now. Will be more later.

2005-09-01T18:53:00.000-07:00

Finally, a post. Actually, I wrote one a couple of days ago, but I couldn't post it, so here I am in a little internet cafe in Burg, writing it, and all the others, all over again. Joy. And I should say, the keyboards here are a pain....my habit-ridden mind has a hard time with elemental changes like these. The language, confusing, but nothing I can't handle, but don't mess with my keyboards, dammit! OK, so I'll try to sum up the last few days:

We landed at Frankfurt International Airport at about 6.45, and made through customs with no trouble; just a stamp from a statue wearing a German police uniform, and we're through. We make it outside the airport with no problems, but have no clue where our hotel is, so we do one of those elegant spins that says "Help" is big letters. Enter the taxi driver. His "Ausländer Sense" was well-honed. Impressive, very impressive. He was a short little guy and....enthusiastic. He wouldn't let mom or me touch any of the luggage, and after watching him load it all in the car, we headed off.

At about this time, I started noticing his accent, which definitely wasn't German. Turns out he was Greek, and he's lived in Germany for 35 years. Ironic. I did OK, even though I had to reboot once I realized I'd have to remember numbers. The ride was 20 Euro. Whatever. We got to the hotel, pretty much end of first day, and first post....Sorry, but I'm trying to catch up.