Minor incident(s)

Von der gegenüberliegenden Seite des großen Saals schweifte sein Blick über die versammelten Menschen gleiches Geschlechts, ihm wurde das erste, etwas schüchterne Mädchen zugeteilt. Vorschriftsgemäß drang sein Blick auf sie ein, annehmende nickte sie, hob die Augenbrauen, nicht mehr schüchtern auf ihn zu tretend, legte ihm sanft den Arm auf seine Schulter, an den Nacken entlang. Mit gekonnten Bewegungen gleitete er sie rückwärts, Schritt für Schritt für Schritt für Schritt, bis den sanften Druck vom um ihrer Taille umschlungen Arm sie zum stehen kommen ließ. Angespannt hingen sie einen Augenblick so in der Luft, in einem Moment suspendiert. Sie spürte wie er einatmete, um plötzlich wieder rückwärts, die Bewegungen vom Takt bestimmt, vom Takt gefüllt, zwei Schritte zu gehen, anzuhalten, wieder vier Schritte loszuziehen, im Kreis. Die Füße bewegten sich fast eigenwillig, ohne Einwand, Nachdenken oder Wunsch, als ob die Musik sie tanzen ließ, als wären sie nur Musik und nichts anderes.

J'veux pas y'aller à ce dîner, j'ai pas l'moral, j'suis fatigué, ils nous en voudront pas, allez on n'y va pas. En plus faut que je fasse un régime ma chemise me boudine, j'ai l'air d'une chipolata, je peux pas sortir comme ça. Ça n'a rien à voir je les aime bien tes amis, mais je veux pas les voir parce que j'ai pas envie.

On s'en fout, on n'y va pas, on n'a qu'à se cacher sous les draps, on commandera des pizzas, toi la télé et moi, on appelle, on s'excuse, on improvise, on trouve quelque chose, on n'a qu'à dire à tes amis qu'on les aime pas et puis tant pis.
-- Bénabar, "le Diner"

Being in the presence of genius is quite humbling. I crouched in a padded chair (not in a padded room) in a small theatre in an old building on a dark night in January. Before me were arrayed six people, implements of destruction scattered about them, recognizable instruments almost overshadowed by a vertible heap of percussion implements which included several kitchen utensils and a bucket. Besides the flute-, tambourine-, bucket-, chimes-, and miscellaneous percussion-playing woman with a blues singer's lungs there was the eccentric frontman--his guitar lovingly strangled by a wifebeater--a drummer looking like a runaway Beatles wannabe, an additional percussionist, a saxophonist complete with beard, and an exceptionally awkward fiddler. This was not the genius of which I spoke, but rather the opening act, an eccentric jam band from Denver with a Moldy Peaches-meets-Devotchk kind of sound, campy but amusing lyrics, a propensity for electronic effects and shredding and strange, stretching jam riffs which threatened to devolve into utter chaos but somehow managed to transform itself into a different song.

No, genius was Tom Hagerman of Devotchka, who started his "solo" set with a piece he made up a few days ago, obscenely complex. With the aid of two violinists, a violist, a cellist-cum-pianist and an accordian-bassist, Tom Hagerman played a series of inricate, fascinating pieces reminiscient of the Amelie soundtrack, beautiful accordion pieces that almost transported you to Paris or somewhere else. Accordion, intricate, complex melodies with classical and folk roots. It's not Devotchka, but they seem related, and I think the string section is the same that plays with Devotchka, or played with them at the concert I saw a year or so back. The truth is, Tom Hagerman is probably someone who can play any instrument if you leave him alone with it for five minutes. He just oozes musicality as other people ooze awkwardness--or pus. He's just.... wow.

No Youtube videos to post, but go listen to his stuff HERE

Mir wurde gesagt, sei stumm, es ist besser, nichts preiszugeben. Es preiszugeben oder eben nicht, das Prärogativ steht mir durchaus zu. Mich kennst du vielleicht nicht so gut, wie du es dir denkst, denn eine solch verschlossene Person zeigt immer nur die halbe Wahrheit, wird immer nur halbwegs enthüllt. Es ist auch besser so, der Welt die eigene Person zu zeigen ist nur Verschwendung. Der Wind trägt meine Geheimnisse, vergessene in den Sturm hinein gerufene Beichten. Nur eine Person rennt mir hinterher, sie holt mich ein, behält den hart umkämpften Vorsprung, um die Ecke. Manchmal ist sie vor mir, nicht zu fangen. Manchmal ist sie weit hinter mir, schnell ist sie und schlagfertig, sie ist nicht so leicht kleinzukriegen, die Zeit. Mir rennt sonst keiner hinterher--er würde mich nicht fangen können, ich löse mich einfach ab--und mir gefällt es auch besser so. Die Träume will ich nicht aufgeben, in einer Käfig will ich niemals sein, auch nicht in einer der eigenen Schaffung. So einfach ist es, und gleichzeitig so kompliziert. Verschlossene Menschen verpassen viel, doch will ich nicht den Wildtieren ausgesetzt sein. Und du? Es kann sein, dass du mich langweilst, dass du dich selbst langweilst, und von der in die Ewigkeit hinfließenden Langeweile nichts ahnst. Es möge sein. Meine Aufgabe ist es nicht, dich wie ein Hundchen zu erziehen; deine Aufgabe war es, mich vor der Flut zu und der Furcht zu schützen. Deine Ansprüche sind zu niedrig, meine sind zu hoch, und dadurch rennen wir aneinander vorbei (wir winken uns aber zu, wie es sich ja gehört). Mich kannst auch du nicht fangen, auch wenn du rennst.

Und dennoch bleibt etwas, haftet an mich fest und streckt die kleinen Finger Glaubensrichtung, zupft am Ärmel und will auf den Schoss. Straff und mickrig, zierlich zärtlich und obendrein zerbrechlich passt es, dieses Etwas, auf der Handfläche und auch in den kleinsten Ecken, deren Konstellation meine Welt bestimmt. Die Modalverben sind die wahre Wahrheit, nur sie beschrieben die Unbestimmtheit des Könnens-Mögens-Dürfens-Wollens-Müssens-Sollens--- der Ausrede, die wir uns selbst sagen, um nicht gegen Tatsachen ringen zu müssen.

There's nothing I could say
To make you try to feel ok
And nothing you could do
To stop me feeling the way I do
And if the chance should happen
That I never see you again
Just remember that I'll always love you

I'd be a better person
On the other side I'm sure
You'd find a way to help yourself
And find another door
To shrug off minor incidents
And make us both feel proud
I just wish I could be there
To see you through

You always were the one
To make us stand out in a crowd
Though every once upon a while
Your head was in the cloud
There's nothing you could never do
To ever let me down
And remember that I'll always love you

--Badly Drawn Boy, "A Minor Incident"

In other news, "it's official: mail is slow as snails". This must be related to the guy who set out to prove whether Kansas was really as flat as a pancake, and belongs under the heading "Too Much Spare Time".

And I thought I had homework to do....

Heimweg

So war es eigentlich nicht gedacht, nicht geplant. Es wusste nur nicht, dass es anders zu verlaufen hatte. Ich war auf dem Heimweg, den mir Schutz bietenden Café schon längst hinter mir gelassen. Mein Rücken der Straßenseite hin gewandt, verkroch ich mich in meine Jacke, den Kragen hochgestellt, die Schulter hochgezogen gegen die Kälte und den Wind. Gegen den Wind, der die Straße hochfährt wie mein nicht erscheinender Bus und mir die Tränen in die Augen laufen lies. Der Wind, der pfeift und peitscht, kleine Papierstücke und Sandkörner tragend um mich herum und an mir vorbei.

Die Straße entlang liefen kleinere Grüppchen Jugendlichen, glänzende Mädels in hochhackigen Schuhen, begleitet von Jungs, die gleichzeitig sich lässig zu verhalten und die erwähnten Mädels zu beäugen oder beeindrucken versuchten. Es wurde viel gelacht. Sie waren auf dem Weg zu oder von einer Party, einer Bar, die Kälte spürten sie nicht trotz Rock, trotz bloßer Beinen.

Mit jedem auf mich zu kommenden Auto stieg und wieder fiel meine Hoffnung--das ist nicht mein Bus. Je kälter mir wurde, desto mehr ich mir meinen nachgesehnten Bus in jedem Scheinwerferlicht zu sehen erhoffte, nur jedesmal enttäuscht zu werden. Besonders schwer waren die erlebten Niederlagen, als die endlich ankommenden Lichter eines Buses mich wieder versagten, sich als die einer anderen Buslinie erwiesen. Nein, ich will nicht nach Denver, ich will nicht Broadway.

Ich stand aufm ,,Hill", Mitte im Studentenbezirk, wo die Brüder- und Schwesterschaften ihre Häuser haben, es einige Theater und Bühnen und Bars gibt und allerlei studentischer Betrieb herrscht. Dementsprechend fuhren mir entgegen und an mir vorbei die Streifenwagen, markiert und unmarkiert, die halbwegs für Ruhe hatten sorgen wollen. Es ist relativ üblich, sich selbst von der Bar nach Hause zu fahren, an jeder Kreuzung ein Polizeiauto, um Betrunkene aufzufangen. Wie Feuerwerk schienen mir die plötzlich aufflammenden Lichter rotblaurotblaurotblau, mit oder ohne Sirene, die einem zum Anhalten drangen. Die Zeit konnte man nicht in Minuten messen, sondern in Polizei.

Hinter mir stand einer, der auf einen anderen Bus wartete. Als eine nachts alleine wartende Frau ist mir ein hinter mir stehender Mensch ziemlich unheimlich. Ich drehte mich, um ihn im Augenwinkel zu behalten und gleichzeitig der Straße entlang jenes Scheinwerferlicht mit vom Wind tränenden Augen zu suchen. Er schien--meines böse werdenden Erachtens--doch jedesmal sich wieder hinter mich stellen zu wollen. Irgendwann stand ich, die Straße dem Rücken zeigend, aber das passte auch nicht. Ich musste ständig drehen, gucken wo er war, er bewegte sich wie ein unruhiges Tier.

Endlich ist sein Bus gekommen, endlich auch meins, endlich, als ich mir zu überlegen anfing, ob mein fast leeres Guthaben ausreichen würde, um mir eine Freundin zur Rettung einberufen zu können. Mich fest in die Ecke des Sitzes verkriechend, dem vor mir Sitzenden, der mich anquatschen wollte, den Gesprächsversuch verderbend, klammerte ich mich an meinem Buch und versuchte, mich wieder aufzutauen. Endlich auf dem Heimweg.

Des isch jo arg schee!!

For those of you just learning German:

,,Am Zieschdig hat se die Bolle blotze losse" (Am Dienstag hat sie den Eiskugel fallen lassen) und ,,ebbe ist fudsch" (etwas ist kaputt) und ,,wolle sie ne Gutsele schlozze? (wollen sie ein Bonbon lutschen), ,,Pfiefedeggel" (pech gehabt)

Dialects are alive and well in Germany, and this one's called Badisch, spoken in the bottom left corner of Germany--the bit they always fought over with the French. I imagine it's orthographically written the same as high german, with different pronounciations. ':, -le' is added frequently to nouns, such that Apfel - Äpfle, Laden - Lädle, Schloss - Schlössle. The final -n on verbs also left out, such that gehen - gehe, lernen - lerne. Lern Badisch!

UPDATE: I stand corrected.... it's not the Badner, it's the Swabians who are the only ones apparently capable of making Spätzle. I mis-remembered what my roommate said (she was from Karlsruhe, which would make her Badnerin [?]). As for the translation for Bolle, I hold no responsibity and instead would refer you to the link above, where I got that from. As I am neither a) Badisch-sprecherin nor b) German at all, I have no compunctions in ein linguistisches Fettnäpfchen zu treten. Bonne soiree!

Apparently only the Badner can make Spätzle (noodles--you may know them; the word is a Badische variant of Spatzen, sparrow: Spatzen - Spätzle). It involves scraping strips of dough into boiling water, but only one 'ethnic' group is apparently capable of it. With extreme apologies to my former roommate, who was Badnerin.

I met someone who grew up in a Kaff around Freiburg, and for him it was easier to speak English than High German. In general, people who speak Dialekt tend to be regarded as less educated, as the universities teach in High German and the newscasts as well. I had a professor who spoke in a moderated version of Dialect, more of an Akzent than a Dialekt. I suppose if it were English I would consider it Texan or Cockney, so I was surprised to hear him speak super-posh Oxford English once.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

In other news, this is what I do if I am tired of working on my thesis:







.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

I've been here for almost six months. CrAzY! And I'll be gone in another four. Insane. In a non-sociopath kind of way. It's strange to think of how many people I know here whom I will never see again. Then again, with the internet nowadays it's easier to hang on to people than it is to hang onto ten bucks, particularly if you're hungry. At the moment, I have as good as no idea where I will end up next year. Somewhere on the other side of the pond. One dreary semester and one honors thesis to go (enter self-pity here).

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

As usual, I have fallen in love with a perfect stranger, whose name I don't know and whom I am unlikely to ever see again (je parle francais...). And who probably has a girlfriend, to compound my impeccible good fortune, grr. Pech gehabt. Ah well, it's probably a bad idea to get attached to anyone anyways, seeing as how I'm leaving soon. Let's see how well reason prevails :)

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

My desk has become a curious collection of rubber bands, small note papers, gum wrappers, plastic forks, and ziplock baggies. Cleaning my desk is probably the most satisfying thing I've done all weekend. Definitely not the most fun, but the most satisfying. And I have no idea where the zipock baggies came from.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

It's possible to bake an apple pie in a bowl. I did, and it was yummy, and already gone even though I just made it on saturday.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Get cape. Wear cape. Fly is really cool. And I need to go to more concerts, before I move somewhere where they don't really have 'em.

Wahrheitsbeweis

Die Erinnerung ist nicht gleich die Wahrheit. Das, was ich aus den tiefsten Ecken meiner Erinnerung hervorrufe--das ist nicht die Wahrheit, nur deren Schatten. So war es nicht--aber doch geschah es genauso, weil ich es so sage--meine Vergangenheit ist keine Glaubenssache, es gab sie und gibt sie wirklich, und nur ich und wenige, verstreute andere stehen als deren Zeugen da.

Es war eine gute Kindheit, die ich hatte. Natürlich kenne ich keine andere, natürlich ist mein Blickwinkel von den Tatsachen, soweit sie auch der Wahrheit entsprechen, verdunkelt. Ich könnte euch erzählen, wie es war. Und ich könnte erzählen, wie es gewesen wäre.

Ein junges Wesen wie ich damals war versteht nicht die Welt (als ob die älteren sie besser verstehen?). Für mich--wie schwierig es ist, das alles so schön auszudrucken!--bestand Krieg daraus, sich mit aus Plastik gemachten mit Luft gefüllten Baseballschläger gegenseitig zu verprügeln, am Besten wie Ritter verkleidet. Dies Überbleibsel meiner Erinnerung ist mir heute noch sehr deutlich, was ich in meiner Naivität wirklich geglaubt hatte. So war es.

Als ich kleiner war, konnte ich ausschlafen. Um mittag noch im Bett zu liegen, das war das Schönste, was es nur an Wochenenden geben konnte. Ich würde mir etwas träumen, ich habe mir Geschichten im Kopf ausgedacht, die ich nun mir selbst vorspielen würde. Es waren wie Bücher für mich--und Bücher habe ich auch haufenweise gelesen, mal einen Roman am Tag. Der Held oder--öfters, so wie ich Mädchen war--die Heldin musste jemanden retten, ein Problem lösen, etwas finden. Eine Geschichte würde mir einige Tage ausreichen, Nahrung für meine Fantasie. Meine Welt bestand aus Fantasie, mir war nicht klar, wo die eine anfing und die andere auslief. Hinter den Augenlidern waren immer Geschichten. So war es.

Als ich älter wurde, vergingen mir die Geschichten, oder ich habe sie vergessen, oder ich habe sie verpackt und per Post in die Ferne geschickt. Ich sehnte mich, aber wonach? Ich wollte alles und jeden und immer und überall. Entdecken wollte ich, erleben wollte ich. Warum wollte? Will ich also nicht mehr? Ich bin noch nicht gefangen, ich bin weggelaufen oder ich bin hin gelaufen. Hinter mir versuchte ich die Kindheit zu lassen, wie ich Kisten meiner Sachen hinterlassen habe, ob man es einfach so machen könnte. Ich interessierte mich für die Realität, zumal nicht meine Realität. Mein Problem wurde die Welt, meine Grenzen wurde das Meer, und ich wollte Berge sehen. Keiner hat mich wirklich einfangen können, aber kleine Ecken habe ich überall hinterlassen. Nicht ganz hängengeblieben bin ich, keine Spinne hat mich in ihr Netz einfangen können, und das was ich will erobert das was ich bin und das was ich mache. Vorsicht mit mir--du kennst mich nicht, du glaubst mich nur zu kennen. Ich lasse es nicht zu, dass man mich kennt. So ist es. Oder doch nicht?

Searching?

I'm not sure what I'm looking for. But it's clear I'm not finding it.

Fake plastic trees

A lot of Radiohead is too random for me, to electronic, too....something. But I find this song very poetic, very beautiful, and quite melencholy.

Her green plastic watering can
For her fake chinese rubber plant
In fake plastic earth.
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plants
Just to get rid of itself.
And it wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.

She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery
For girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out, it wears him out
It wears him out, it wears him out.

She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love.
But I cant help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run
And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out.

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted,
All the time, all the time, ohhh... ohh...

It reminds me a bit of Joni Mitchell, both, in an obscure way, in voice as well as lyric. This song seems to lack Mitchell's optimism, her connection to nature. This is what happens when they paved paradise to put up a parking lot. Fake plastic trees in a tree museum, fake plastic people.

I wish I had been around back then. Those are the days when society was up in the air, where you had the feeling that change was necessary and immanent. Our society seems so...stagnant. We have an endless list of horrors and we see most of it on TV and in movies, and it doesn't mean much to us any more. Students put activism on their resume, measuring success not in results but in personal character building. We know too much, and somehow far too little, and we seem to care even less.

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see em
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away that d.d.t. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Reunion

This weekend, practically everyone I've ever been good friends with since middle school descended on Boulder. It just so happened that everyone had nothing to do on a Saturday morning, so by noon there were six of us munching sandwiches on the terrace and trying to pretend it was warm enough to sit outside in January. Which it almost was.



I haven't seen some of these people in years and years and years. Fate and ambition scattered us acros the country and the globe. Architechture in Virginia. Germany. Physics in LA. Denmark. Sociology in Boston. Barcelona. Musical Theatre in London. Peru. Russian studies. We sat over sandwiches, we camped out at one girl's place, we hiked for coffee. We hung out some more. It was astounding how well we all got on with the unfamiliarity borne of not having seen one another in years, but of having had a very close past and a similar temperament. We had stories to tell, funny stories, sad stories. By the way, my little sister's engaged, by the way, my brother joined the army. We took a poll of who had a boyfriend and who didn't, who had one and lost 'im, funny hook-ups and douchebags, high school crushes, unlikely romances and one-night stands, friends who were married or pregnant. We do judo and rock climbing, opera and video games, music, parties, boys. Many things were different when we were younger. I've apparently gotten nicer over the years--I was kind of a mean person for awhile, it's a wonder I had friends. Some of us have come out of our respective shells, have grown in stature and in confidence and in experience. We've changed quite a bit, but maybe in many ways we're still the same.

Many of us are graduating in May, or in December. Some of us will go on to grad school, with or without a year of work or being crazy or living in a cave, some of us will go on to work and earn an actual living and eat something besides ramen noodles. None of us are engaged, and it doesn't look like we're about to be, though that seems to be the trend. Where will we be in 5 years, in 10 years?

In other words, this might just be the cutest song ever...from the movie Juno.

Anyone Else But You - Moldy Peaches

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on you're back is the latest trend
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't, you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I will find my nitch in your car
With my mp3 DVD rumple-packed guitar
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du

Up up down down left right left right B A start
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Don Quixote was a steel driving man
My name is Adam I'm your biggest fan
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Squinched up your face and did a dance
You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you

201: I'm a stranger here myself

I was going to write a celebratory post about how this is number 201. As you and I, and anyone else who has passed kindergarten knows, the number of posts listed on the right side of this here screen don't add up to 201. But that's the number of posts and drafts I've saved. That amounts to about 40-odd posts I've never published. Some of them are quite personal, and will never be published: it's so I don't spill everyone's secrets--or my own--to the wide world. Some things are just posts I was working on and never got around to publishing. Here's one of them:

I'm a stranger here myself

I'm pretty sure I'm going to end my days as the crazy lady in the big old house with lots of cats, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. One of these days I will be labelled an eccentric. I'm starting to be known for a few peculiar personal habits which, while not particularly shocking, tend to be a bit unusual or unique. For instance, I can't really sleep in (I interrupt this post to point out the absolutely brilliant sunrise over the snowy rooftops, which all you lazybones are missing out on). I just can't sleep in the morning, and eventually I get bored and just get up. Most people find this strange. Boyfriends and housemates cope.


(Crazy cat lady action figure)

sad panda : The Definition (from urbandictionary.com )
1. sad panda - An unhappy, disappointed person. The phrase can be traced back to an episode of the cartoon South Park, in which the "Sexual Harassment Panda" teaches the children what is and isn't sexual harassment.

For extra sadness, the "a" in sad is drawn out.

I'm a saaaad panda, because my favorite band just broke up.

The fact that I am inept at slang I blame on living abroad. I just don't know any of the words the cool kids use, though I am slowly learning:

- awkward turtle
- lame sauce
- TMI turkey
- sad panda (apparently a South Park reference, but I wouldn't know)

Lame Sauce: The Definition (from urbandictionary.com )
1. Lame Sauce - Adj. Unpopular, unfavorable ( American Mall Kid Talk )

Yo! Halo 2 was delayed again homes! That is LAME SAUCE!

2. lame sauce - Something or someone that is extremely stupid, lame, or not fun.

Ethan is lame sauce because he doesn't like paintball.

3. Lame Sauce - Lame sauce is lame sauce.

Losing a bet to your co-worker that "lame sauce" is an actual phrase, is totally LAME SAUCE!

4. Lame sauce - Noun. Someone that has mastered the art of boredom and lazziness [sic]

Person1: yo nikko what chu doin?
Nikko: nottin
Person1:lets go blaze it and then play ball
nikko: nah man ima go home and sleep
Person1: Nigga ur lame sauce

5. Lame Sauce - Lame Sauce is something thta is more then lame, yet less then anything else

"That nice was lame sauce"

Some people also detect a slight foreign accent in my english, which is funny, as I am, I guess, as American as you can get without being Midwestern, and occasionally demonstrate this in an obvious and embarrassing fashin while abroad. My english is a mix of super-proper academic speech (exacerbate, ameliorate, protracted, etc.), four-year-old slang (apparently 'sick' is no longer the proper synonym for 'cool'), and (improper) expletives. Apparently having a 'fuck-off desk' is not the proper use of this word either. My writing (on essays) is decent, but apparently confusing, as the last paper I turned in had about fifteen versions of "write more clearly" "I don't understand your writing/sentence/point" and "what does this mean???" on it.

A friend of mine is German and has lived here for three or four years, speaks flawless English, and when we have a conversation in English she has to supply me with words. When we speak German, she's the one who forgets the German words and I have to remind her.

Sometimes I feel like a social oddity, or at least an exchange student. I haven't watched TV since 2004. I've watched perhaps 10 episodes of South Park, about two of Seinfeld, five (tops) of King of the Hill, Family Guy, and Simpsons. I've never seen a reality show of any kind except something on Discovery about training Navy SEALs a long time ago. I've never seen Lost, Gray's Anatomy, Scrubs, or anything else that's come out in the last four years or so. I simply have no idea what these things are about, and apparently lack the attention span to find out. So hanging out with me requires some measure of patience with my ineptitude with pop culture, and me not understanding about half the normal references. La vie inconnu...

And here I got distracted, I was talking about eccentricity, and not in references to planetary orbits (die, Kepler, die). I enjoy being just a little bit different from average, and apparently have friends so I'm not that strange. You should consider me a challenge, or at least a discovery. I may not be the coolest person you've ever met, but that doesn't concern me much: at least I'm interesting. And I'm not boring, apparently, as I say odd things frequently enough that I can be counted on to provide reliable entertainment.



As I was working on finding "supporting" material, I became fascinated by the awkward turtle and other hand gestures.

Paradise forgotten

Life's different up in the mountains. The air is completely, utterly different--as if you could smell things growing. The rocks under your feet extend perhaps for miles underneath--the mountains are as old as time and still growing, and all you have to come to terms with is an obstacle. The mountains can be exquisitely beautiful and extremely dangerous; ask anyone about lightning, and you'll see a dark look or a wild eye, a sudden shake of the head as if one could fend off the weather. The hillsides are rough and rarely verdant, not even in spring and never in summer, except when the wildflowers bloom. Everything turns to gold and eventually to white. The first snows are often in september, and they remain until May. Many places have three or four meters of snow, many roads are closed, many places inaccessible.



If you venture out, it's paradise. I could never have thought a world of one color could be so beautiful. The snow hides the roughness, the imperfections, leaving only the blurry outlines, the frozen hint of a lake that was and will be again, but itsn't now. A path could be a stream leading anywhere, the laden boughs comforting in their monotony, yet somehow disconcerting. You don't want to get lost, you don't want to sleep on the mountain.

Most of us only visit. We come, we wander, we take pictures, we leave. We remember, for those days when the world is far away and outside a window, what life is really like.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
--Robert Frost

Without music, life would be a mistake

You can feel the strings under your fingers, pressing into the tips, pressing against you as you bend them to your will. Your hand is already molded around the neck, poised to change gracefully from shape to shape in line with almost un-thought desires. It turns out you don't need to see to play, your fingers know what they are doing, they will find their place on the strings, they will know how far to move. Your body moves of its own accord in rhythm with your soul, and the less you focus on what happens next, the better you can let go and let your fingers go about the business of playing. You hear the music in your head and you know exactly what has to come next and what could come next, shadows of possibilities refracting as if from a mirror, and you must choose one this time around. You could sink deeply into the bass, fishing out the warm notes which give the melody its depth; or, you spin off into the melody, carrying the weight of the tune--step lively!; or you could sing harmony, dancing around the melody, high or low, faster or slower, pausing on the third or the seventh or the sixth, counterpoint. The music spirals out of your fingers as if alive, spinning and twisting and rushing in a waterfall. And you bide your time, waiting for it to come around again, another path to be taken...

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Aldous Huxley (1894 - 1963), "Music at Night", 1931

Well...

I had to run for the bus this morning. Twice. I made it almost to the bus stop before I realized my phone was still sitting on top of the coffee table, so I bolted back, managing to fill both my shoes with snow. I made it inside and back outside in time to see the bus rounding the far corner. Normally, if I've cleared the fence I can make it if I run, but today was a toss up, and the last thing I needed was to eat shit on the ice and f*ck up my knee like I did a year or so ago. It's incredibly hard not to be awkward while running and carrying baggage, but I was more concerned with being late than with being awkward. First day of work this year.



The new year started without a huge bang, but was fun nontheless. The previous year I celebrated in Berlin, which is probably one of the more insane experiences of my life. So. Many. People. And firecrackersanddrunksandlightsandnoiseandandand... My resolution last year was to be on time, to be seriously, really on time--and I pretty much made it, at least through the time I was in Germany. In the US you can be five or perhaps ten minutes late and still qualify as on time. It'd probably be a good idea to work on that again this year, though that will only really be important in May.



Much of last winter and spring were a blur. It seemed to be a delicate mix of workaholism, sleep deprivation, and a crazy social schedule. Most people described me as the crazy american, and wondered as to the secret of my success (in case you're wondering, it's called "not sleeping"). It helps that I was out jogging at 8 AM. Even my valiant (then) boyfriend, runner as he is, gave up on that one.



I met some really fantastic people. I didn't hang out with Americans, only meeting one about a month before I peaced out of there. My roommates, my friends, everyone was German...or so I thought. Everyone spoke flawless German, but one was born in Macedonia, one in Indonesia, one was half Iranian, or from Luxembourg, or Indian, or or or. Dinner conversations were always interesting, and if I brought a work colleague home it would be in English and Spanish or French as well as German. I miss that and them more than I can adequately express.



I had to leave all of that behind and return to the country of my birth. Despite my fears, I actually had friends and have made several more. Between work (15 - 20 hrs a week) and school (20 hrs a week) and activities (5 hrs a week), I was a) never home and b) didn't sleep much (see above). As far as a) is concerned, for those of you who have followed my roommate woes, this was perhaps not unintentional.
I've had a lot of fun this semester, and did well at school, so I suppose it works out well. Then again, I did end up with a stress-induced skin disorder after finals, so perhaps this wasn't the best strategy ever.

Enter 2008. I thought about resolutions, and I came up with a couple, rather pathetic ones:
(1) be on time. This was my resolution last year, but it bears repeating, as my punctuality has been slipping. Me being punctual is about equivalent to a souffle: difficult to arrange and contingent on many factors.
(2) learn to tango. Classes on Fridays, hell yeah. Bonus points for attractive argentinians.
(3) learn a new language. Looks like it's going to be spanish, though I would jump at the chance to learn russian or arabic.



I'm not bothering with any of the typical ones like going to the gym every day or stopping smoking, as neither of them are particularly relevant for me. Perhaps I should take up smoking so I will have something to quit.

I wonder where I'll be next year. After May I am done with CO and the US for awhile, and depending on my school and work situation for the coming months, will probably be getting the hell out of dodge faster than you can say "nonstopflightfromdenvertofrankfurt" while hopping on one leg. If I am lucky, someone will pay me to go to school. If I am not lucky.... well, I have no plan B, just three versions of plan A. I always have friends whose couches I can crash on should worse come to worse. And I can always get a job, though that may be easier said than done, particularly with restrictions for foreigners...

So best of luck for you all in 2008, in life, in love, in whatever else you do. Make some resolutions, try something crazy (skydiving, anyone?), expand your horizons. It'll be worthwhile, I assure you...

The Quiz

from the Swedish band Hello Saferide: The Quiz (comment: if only it were this simple...)

You look nice alright
and I like the way you nod after everything I say
like it actually means something
to you

And I like your record collection
Townes and Jens with a hint of Rickie Lee
And you’ve cleaned up the bathroom, made a really nice soup
but a bit too much sci-fi in your shelf with DVDs

But there’s some things you need to know about me:
I’m weak right now, real weak right now
I need proof before I dare to open this heart
so I prepared a quiz for you:

Would you freak out if I said I liked you?
Do you walk the line?
Is your IQ higher than your neighbour’s?
And is it very much higher than mine?

Can you sleep when I grind my teeth?
Do you look away if I slob when I eat?
Will you let me be myself?
Can you at all times wear socks?
because I’m still scared of feet

Do you talk in the middle of Seinfeld?
Do you read more than two books a month?
Do you get racist or sexist when you’ve had a few?
Is it fine if I make more money than you?

Have you slept with any people I work with?
Is there anyone you’d rather wish I’d be?
Do you still keep pictures of old girlfriends?
Are they prettier than me?

And if I’d fall, would you pick me up?
If I fall, will you pick me up?

Blackbird

I'll tell you a secret: I only pretend to play the guitar. I grew up playing classical violin, and eventually turned that into Irish and bluegrass fiddle (and eventually that died off, but I hope to revive it). Guitar? Well, I can do a few chords but nothing too complicated, and I only know one or two actual good songs that are more than G-C-D and strumming.

Still, I can do a pretty mean rendition of Blackbird, and it's a good thing to start off with as long as I am confident I won't then be asked to play a full set. It's worked well so far.



A few years back, my mum and I were waiting outside our hostel in one of the most forlorn corners of Ireland for it to open. It was on the far western edge of the Dingle peninsula, in sight of the Blasket Islands (abandoned 1957 because it was just too difficult to live out there) and about an hour or two from anywhere. As we were waiting two strangers approached, two young guys, Americans. They had just walked from Ventry, about 15 km away, and were shaggy, rugged looking, carrying packs--and a small travel guitar.

The one of them offered me his guitar. "Blackbird singing in the dead of night...."

We ended up, me mum and I, taking these two strangers to the grocery store because we had a car and they didn't. And we took them to the beach, and we walked for hours and hours along one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. In the evening we sat, and I debated American cultural imperialism and Noam Chomsky. I won't say that we made friends because of that guitar, but it helped.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,oh
You were only waiting for this moment to arise, oh
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Wir schaffen das schon

Ach was. Ihr habt euch also wieder verlaufen? Wie schafft man das eigentlich, zum vierten Mal sich im Wald zu verirren? Die Straße geht doch nur geradeaus, abbiegen muss man nur zweimal, einmal hinter der alten Mühle, einmal nach dem alten Baum. Ist es solange her, seitdem ihr hier gewesen seid?

Ist ja auch egal, ihr seid endlich da. Nein, Mutter kommt heute nicht, sie schafft es nicht, runter zu kommen. Du weißt ja, wie es ihr geht. Sie glaubt, es würde ihr gut gehen, sie hört nicht zu wie ich es ihr sage, dass sie im Bett bleiben muss. Heute bleibt sie also im Bett, wie ich sagte.

Macht's euch bequem. Soll ich nen Tee kochen, oder nen Kaffee? Kaffee? Es fällt mir jetzt ein, ich hab nur Schwarzentee und Kindertee, keinen Kaffee. Ist auch gesunder so. Ich mach das Abendbrot. Etwas Schinken und Käse habe ich noch, einige Essgurken lassen sich auch auftreiben. Nein, bleibt doch ruhig sitzen, ihr seid doch zu Gast. Ich mach's schon. Ich habe gesagt ich mache es, lass mich doch.

Nein, von Sabine habe ich nichts gehört, die lässt sich seit Monaten nicht mehr hier blicken, seitdem.... nunja, sie hat viel zu tun. Unsere Tochter ist sie schon, perfekt ist sie nicht. Du brauchst sie ja nicht zu verteidigen, sie ist zu nichts fähig, das sieht doch jeder. Wie sie mit dem Jürgen herumtreibt, da habe ich gleich gesagt, hier läuft was schief.

Wie es mir geht? Es geht, mehr nichts. Jeden Tag fällt mir das Aufstehen schwerer und ich hab ja Mutter, um die ich mich kümmere. Nimmt ja so viel Zeit in Anspruch, ich habe kaum etwas für mich übrig. Es geht so, ich brauce doch keine Hilfe! Schließlich will ich nicht hier weg. Wir haben doch 40 Jahren in diesem Haus gewohnt, es würde eure Mutter umbringen, wenn wir in die Stadt ziehen sollten.

Wir kommen schon zurecht. Ihr macht euch unnötigerweise Sorge, wir haben immer alleine aufm Land gewohnt, wieso soll es jetzt anders sein? Hier hat man seine Ruhe. Hier sitzt man auf der alten Bankt und träumt von den alten Zeiten. Hier sind so viele Erinnerungen hängengeblieben. Kennt ihr noch den Baum, von dem die kleine Martina mal gestürzt ist? So sehr hat sie den Baum geliebt, den Schaukel, so sehr hat sie noch nie in ihrem Leben geheult. So viele Wände, so viele Menschen verstörten mich. Nein, du brauchst nicht jemanden zu schicken. Wir schaffen das schon, esst doch eure Brote wie gute Kinder und lasst einem alten Mann seine Ruhe. Man hat's schließlich verdient.

Memory lane

Today's weather: snow up to my knees.

Turns out I was all kinds of strange as a kid. When I was really little they made me wear a patch over one eye, "like a pirate", with a picture of a butterfly or a rainbow as an attempt to make the purple monstrosity that was my eyepatch "cuter". I also had something against brushing my hair or wearing coordinated clothing. I was probably cute in an ugly sort of way. They eventually released me, thankfully before I reached the age when caring what others think about you becomes seemingly more important than what you think of yourself.

When I was ten I had hair down to my waist and big glasses. I was a scrawny kid with skinny legs and a bit too much enthusiasm. I could sing the fifty states song and would, with little prompting, break out into a rendition or a choreographed can-can. As far as I can recall I spent a lot of my summers and as much of my winters as possible outside on the road in front of our house. I could tell by the sound if a car was coming, but hardly anyone ever came up there as we lived towards the end of the road. We'd play soccer in the street, or careen down the hill in our little red wagon. I think I even ran over my friend's foot that way. At birthday parties we'd even play Calvinball, sort of the sports version of Mao from Bill Waterson's Calvin and Hobbes comics, which basically consisted of a make-it-up-as-you-go version of soccer meets golf with balls, sticks, and various sundry props. It eventually degenerates into absolute chaos but is absolutely hilarious.

Christmas this year gave us a chance to review some of our Christmas pasts, in the form of recently digitized videos. 1996 seems like a very long time ago. I almost didn't recognize myself on the tape, and my brother's (then) squeaky voice could have been mistaken for my own. We stood on the road and demonstrated soccer moves for the camera, a particularly poorly placed pass on my part precipitating the partial impact with the camera. We chopped down trees and tried to convince the dog to drag them. We decorated the fourteen foot monstrosity.

The best moment, and the one which had us practically rolling on the floor with laughter (aside from my brother's very sexy dance, a cross between a victory dance and a wet monkey), was our little "concert": Arm in arm, my brother and I stood in our old hallway and sang in chorus, "It's Christmas at ground zero / Now the missiles are on their way / What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked / On this jolly holiday!"

To each their own, I suppose. Merry Christmas / Chanukah / Kwanza / Solstice / winter break / whatever the hell you celebrate.

It's Christmas at ground zero
There's music in the air
The sleigh bells are ringing and the carolers are singing
While the air raid sirens blare

It's Christmas at ground zero
The button has been pressed
The radio just let us know
That this is not a test

Everywhere the atom bombs are dropping
It's the end of all humanity
No more time for last-minute shopping
It's time to face your final destiny

It's Christmas at ground zero
There's panic in the crowd
We can dodge debris while we trim the tree
Underneath the mushroom cloud

You might hear some reindeer on your rooftop
Or Jack Frost on your windowsill
But if someone's climbing down your chimney
You better load your gun and shoot to kill

It's Christmas at ground zero
And if the radiation level's okay
I'll go out with you and see all the new
Mutations on New Year's Day

It's Christmas at ground zero
Just seconds left to go
I'll duck and cover with my Yuletide lover
Underneath the mistletoe

It's Christmas at ground zero
Now the missiles are on their way
What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked
On this jolly holiday

What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked
On this jolly holiday!

Welcome, ye weary web-crawlers

IN THE BEGINNING there was nothing, and then She said "Let there be blog," and there was blog, and it was good. She looked at said blog and christened it "Wayfaring Frog," and there was much rejoycing. After many moons She installed a hit counter, and it was good. Recently, it has been better, and no one knows why. .:.

Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind.

--E. B. White (1899 - 1985), Some Remarks on Humor, introduction

I'm not sure when it was this was, but perhaps a month or so ago I installed a hitcounter at the bottom of this blog. Back in those days, a long, long time ago (web-years) there were about six hits a day. And I could have named all of you.

About a week or two ago lil ol WFF was hosting up to 30 visitors a day, from all over the world. Readers came from all over the world, from as close as Canada, as far away as Tunisia and Malaysia.

Though boys throw stones at frogs in sport, the frogs do not die in sport, but in earnest.

--Bion (~100 BC), from Plutarch, Water and Land Animals

114 people were here today, and today ain't over yet. Where do you people come from? My handy little stats counter tells me you come from google, sadly misdirected to the ravings of a capricious college student rather than anything of any value. You have strayed onto one of the many twisty paths in the Web. I just hope you weren't disappointed.

The idea of an incarnation of God is absurd: why should the human race think itself so superior to bees, ants, and elephants as to be put in this unique relation to its maker? . . Christians are like a council of frogs in a marsh or a synod of worms on a dung-hill croaking and squeaking "for our sakes was the world created."

--Julian the Apostate

Forgive me if I take the liberty of revealing some of your Google secrets: the keywords which mistakenly led you to my thought-kingdom:

- hitler youth winter jacket
- english word for weather reflecting on mood
- look like a soldier who's lost his composure
- Freedom engl.Historiker
- GEHTS LOS
- e.e cummings frog
- song:519 de matt wertz
- deja ecoute
- jenny don't be hasty you said you'd marry me if I was twenty th
ree

We are born princes and the civilizing process makes us frogs.

--Eric Berne (1910 - 1970)

Many of these involve some of the songs or individuals I have quoted or referenced. I can't imagine all of these people even came close to finding what they were looking for, unless it was the title of the song quoted in the third entry above (Gomez, in case you care). What particularly mystifies me is "frog boxes". This perplexes me from top to bottom. First, what does "frox boxes" mean in any logical context? What could the seeker have hoped to find? Second, what arcane calculations deep with in the vaunted technologies of Google made that poor misguided program think that this blog would be the answer to their four-cornered anurian query? Trying the search "frog boxes" myself, I don't come up with this blog on any of the first ten or so pages. I do, however, come up with some of the following interesting tidbets:

- "Porcelain Hinged Boxes Humpty Dumpty Frog Prince Pirate Wizard of ..."
. "Frog Four-Piece Hat Box Bath Time Gift Set" (this sounds quite cute, actually)
- "Wireframes: Unpacking the Boxes / frogblog / frog design"
- "Across the Andes by Frog@Everything2.com" (this sounds cool)
- "Frog Environmental Unit (FEU)" (acronyms result in instant credibility)
- "Frog Gifts.Com, Call 1-800-FROG-FUN (1-800-376-4386), FROGS! FROGS ..." (I feel myself reaching for the phone)

I like less the story that a frog if put in cold water will not bestir itself if that water is heated up slowly and gradually and will in the end let itself be boiled alive, too comfortable with continuity to realize that continuous change at some point may become intolerable and demand a change in behavior.

--Charles Handy - The Age of Unreason

I can't imagine that any of these individuals found what they were looking for here. So I encourage you, dear reader, whomever you are, to leave a note as to how you got here and what you think. I'm curious.

Sushi

If you have any kind of accusations to level against your significant other, any problems you need to discuss in hair-curling detail and shrill volume, there are two possible venues: Jerry Springer and over sushi.

Sushi is fabulous food, even for someone who doesn't eat fish. It comes in delectable little bites which are just sufficiently large enough to jam your jaws for the time it takes you to chew and swallow, allowing the other person to get several shots in before you can respond.

As an added bonus, sushi is often consumed accompanied by wasabi. If you say something particularly outrageous, such as letting slip that you are sleeping with your girlfriend's sister AND her best friend (preferably repeatedly), the normal spluttering fury turns into choking fury as the wasabi assaults.

So, next time you have a bombshell of this magnitude, let it fly over sushi.



UPDATE: turns out I already posted on the subject of sushi. Go figure.

Sea Fever

Once upon a time I went to Denmark. I used to live kinda nearby, about twenty minutes from the last port-of-call for the Scandanavian ferries travelling to Germany from Sweden and Denmark. To get to Denmark from where I was living without taking a boat, you'd have had to drive all the way up the Jutland peninsula and cross several bridges before reaching Copenhagen. Taking the ferry is much quicker, just load on your car and sit upstairs in the lounge and enjoy. Going to Sweden takes two ferries, and a stop-over in Helsingor/Helsingborg, which is Hamlet's castle. It seemed like our local grocery store was filled to the brim every weekend with the car-ferry tourists loading up on sweets and alcohol, both of which are extensively taxed up north. It was frustrating to want to buy some yoghurts and a loaf of bread and have to wait behind someone with two entire shopping carts full of vodka and wine.

The family I was staying with was friends with one of the ferry captains, so on one trip we got a tour of the cockpit and control room, got to see the radar and GPS displays, the weather monitors, everything. The crewmen are usually trilingual (German, English, and Danish or Swedish) and work long shifts three or four days a week before having a similar stretch off. It's fascinating to be up on the deck and see the water stretching out in all directions, seeing the other boats moving about as tiny dots on the Baltic, dwarfed by our immensity.

We vacationed in Sweden quite a bit and therefore always took the ferry. But if we were going to Denmark, we took a boat. A ship, a sailing ship. A 13-meter yacht, to be more specific. On this particular trip my dad was over visiting from the US, and we planned to head for Copenhagen but poor weather left us stranded in a couple of ports a couple of times. It was a steel-hulled boat but narrow, wouldn't make much over 7 knots even in force 7 or so winds, with gusts up to 9. The only day I was ever seasick was the 9-hour stint from Gedser to Rodby, nine hours in a quartering sea. We had to be strapped into the cockpit with lifelines, and clipped to the railing every time we went up on the foredeck.




Sailing on the Baltic is not like the mediterranean or the carribbean. It can be quite cold, and you wear foul-weather gear most days under most conditions, as the wind and weather really aren't all that warm. If you look at Dutch paintings from the 16th and 17th century onwards, the landscape and fishing scenes, you will see a faint golden glow to the sky. That became the fashion after some pioneering painter went to Italy, but doesn't represent the North sea or the Baltic particularly well, which are grey and eisen, and unforgiving.

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967)

I remember this trip as a series of almost discreet memories: sailing by white chalk cliffs and trying to repair the motor, sitting and playing guitar on the piers in the evening, playing with the dinghy in the harbor and walking for an hour and a half in search of a store. Not having a hot shower for three weeks because I could never figure out how to work the faucets, didn't have the correct change, or was simply too late.

We spent four days alone in Copenhagen, my father and I. Though he and I get on and got on really well, and spent plenty of quality time together, this was perhaps the most intensive time we had spent together in a long time, and it was wonderful. We stayed on the ship, docket at Langlinie by the Little Mermaid, and had four days to cruise town, visit the sights, hang out in the dingy but touristy little pubs in Nyhaven, spend an evening talking over a bottle of Romanian wine.

Evenings faded into night, rocked to sleep by the wind and the waves, uneasy of the coming storm but peaceful.

Whenever I'm in a public place, on campus or elsewhere, I always wonder about the other people I see. Who are they? Where are they from? Why are they here, what do they want to be? Most of the time we each go around in our own little bubble, ipods and cellphones making the limits of personal space almost tangible, Mr-I-talk-on-my-cellphone-every-waking-second. We don't necessarily want small talk on the bus, we don't want the person in front of us in line to talk to us (how could anyone not like awkward small talk?).



One of my favorite pastimes is looking at other patrons in restaurants and stores and trying to discern their stories, or make up histories for them. (This woman, she has two kids, lives in the suburbs, is an accountant.) (That man has two cats and hasn't been laid in four years.) (This emo kid pretends he likes skating but prefers physics.) That sort of thing. Of course, it's hard to "win" at "Instant History", as we generally don't go ask complete strangers intrusive personal questions to support our hypothesis. The more outrageous, the better. Thus, the woman shopping at the grocery store for cheerios and apples has a secret identity as a pole dancer; the middle-aged guy over there buying a loaf of bread and some coffee is actually a music producer; the two kids furtively stealing candy bars are just two kids who are about to get in trouble, but one of 'em has never met his mother and the other one is a straight-A student.



When I'm abroad I usually waylay any other Americans I see, just for the occasional chance to speak English and because I have nothing else to do. Despite the intense amusement this causes my local companions, seeing me grill strangers in English, in the end it's invariably tourists, and the conversation ends up not being that interesting, just a recitation of their trip so far, and that they absolutely love (insert name of current town or type of local food).



I have another good strategy for meeting interesting people, guaranteed fail-safe: rent out a room. I am not entirely sure where these people come from, but craigslist seems to be the natural habitat of society's strangest, and they all, apparently, want to live with me. I've had some bad experiences with roommates before (one case involved police and replacing the carpet, the other involved eviction of someone who was literally living in my living room for two years). The people looking for housing may be divided into a few categories, easily recognizable:

1. The would-be immigrant (probably related to a Nigerian official looking to store some extra cash for awhile, and would you be willing to help for a mere §500,000?). There is a form letter they send, "I will be moving to Your Town next year and would like to secure a room. Please tell me how much rent is and I will send you a check for six times this number, and you can return the difference in cash" or something similar. I can't quite figure out how the scam works in some cases, but it's pretty obvious they send this letter to everyone and their goldfish.

Hello
Good day to you,I'm XXXXXX,32 from manila,Philippines.I am a pre-school teacher here but I have been chosen among Ten teachers that are going to work as high school teachers in the States.The programme was organized by an Organization to encourage Philippines teachers and it is supported by the United States Government.I will be moving over to the states in January and I want to secure a place to stay while in the States.I will like to know much about the room and I would really want to secure the room before my arrival,I will like to know if it would be possible for me to make the payment for the room before my arrival,I also want to know the total amount of the room per month with the utilities included. All these vital information are very important for me to know before submission of my proposal to the Organization .The Organization will be paying all the fees. The following information will be needed to get the payment to you if you will rent the room to me..
(1) Your full name as it will appear on the payment.
(2) Address.
(3) phone number.
Hope to hear from you asap.
Thanks.

2. Hard-time family: Someone in their forties or fifties who want to move into my basement room with their two kids and half their extended relations, it seems. Nein, danke. I have some sympathy for people making their ends meet, but my house was intended for three or four people, not eight.

3. Slightly creepy guy: He's anywhere from 35 to 50, has no real job and no desire to get one, may or may not own furniture. One guy told me once, and my mother twice, that he wants to settle down and start a family, though he has no girlfriend. There has to be a reason these people want to live with college students, financial or otherwise. Purely objectively and scientifically speaking, a large number of these people could be termed "creepers".

4. "Special cases": this includes people with criminal records, stints in mental institutions, or pet pot-bellied pigs.

HELP! we are in need of a place to move into around the 1st of december. have to be located in boulder county prior to christmas day. middle aged couple, two kids, relocating to the area. both adults have great jobs, here's the problem. my fiance' is currently in a half-way house and therefore has a past criminal record. the past is the past and this new family needs a fresh start. it is
imperative that we find something prior to my fiance's release. thank you.

Even better:

must allow pets. by pets i mean a very well mannered, house bound, litter trained, pot bellied pig. happy to leave extra big deposit because i know he will not leave a mark. if anyone knows anyone that might let a pig live in their home for a few months, please get in touch. i really can't stand the thought of leaving him in connecticut. thanks in advance. rent et al. is negotiable. first floor best.

I envy people with single apartments..

Sixed

I've been published....sorta. On Six Sentences. Go check it out, it's my post "Stranger in a Strange Land" in edited format.

Snippets

:: Finals week = hell week. Everyone and their grandmother basically decides they want something from you. Every cafe is packed to the proverbial gills, the library is a madhouse, and every bit of dry floorspace on campus seems to contain someone and their books as everyone desperately tries to do the work they procrastinated on all semester, review lots of useless things, and write the perfect ten page paper in 12 hours.

Practical wisdom is only to be learned in the school of experience. Precepts and instruction are useful so far as they go, but, without the discipline of real life, they remain of the nature of theory only.
Samuel Smiles

:: Busses don't run on time in the winter. Not only is it cold and snowy, you're stuck outside for forty five minutes waiting. Maybe that's just me.

There is one piece of advice, in a life of study, which I think no one will object to; and that is, every now and then to be completely idle - to do nothing at all.
Sydney Smith (1771 - 1845)

:: Facebook is the biggest time-waster ever. Following the minute details of the lives of many almost strangers takes a suprising amount of time that I should be using for something more productive.

Wisdom is not finally tested in the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

:: I feel that the world can be best served by distributing free coffee and pumpkin bread to everyone on campus, every day. I am pretty positive that this will generate world peace.

A learned man is an idler who kills time with study. Beware of his false knowledge: it is more dangerous than ignorance.
George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950)

:: I have not yet fallen down the stairs. That means I'm still due. Fuck. Those of you who attended my much-publicized speech on stairs know what I'm talking about. For the rest of you: I'm clumsy, and tend to fall down the stairs with upsetting frequency. Yay for being uncoordinated.

In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.
Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

:: I do not want to see a book for another month. What I really don't want to see is another bin of books, so all ye bastards just writing your term papers now and turning your books in all at once, I hope you are doomed to a hell of repetitive scanning for the rest of eternity, 'cause I certainly am and some company would be nice.

:: Snowball fighting should be my final exam. It's more fun than astronomy anyways.

Monty Python's usual schoolboy humour is here let loose on a period of history appropriately familiar to every schoolboy in the West, and a faith which could be shaken by such good-humoured ribaldry would be a very precarious faith indeed.
The British Board Of Film Censors, in their report on _Life of Brian_

:: The library is sending me hate mail. I guess I should bring my books back.

My schoolmates would make love to anything that moved, but I never saw any reason to limit myself.
Emo Philips

:: Did you know that pumpkin + oatmeal = yummy? Most people don't. Sshhh, don't tell, it's a secret.

:: The phrase "your mother" (or "your fax machine" if you're a certain someone) can be applied to any phrase for instant hilarity. "It's cold outside," becomes "your mother's cold outside". It's even funnier when it makes no conceivable sense. For a sexual reference, "your mother" may be replaced with "in your pants". I feel like I'm in middle school again.

:: "I should've went" is not English. Just so you know.

Anybody who accepts mediocrity - in school, on the job, in life - is a person who compromises, and when the leader compromises, the whole organization compromises.
Charles Knight

:: Soymilk should become mandatory.

:: You know what's funny? Seeing how many people get stuck in the revolving doors. It really isn't big enough for two, so if you are unfortunate enough to be exiting à deux, one person ends up hopping awkwardly along, smashed up against their companion, and if you don't both move at the exact same speed, you get stuck and have to sort it out with whomever is in the other sections of the door to get the thing moving again. Reminds me of when I was in London a few years back, visiting my cousin and was too lazy to carry my suitcase up one flight of stairs, so I took the lift (that's an elevator, for those of you unfamiliar with british). It was one of those old lifts where you have a gate to slide closed, and I opened the gate as it arrived at my floor--just a fraction of a second too soon, and the lift stopped. The outside door wouldn't open because I wasn't *exactly* at my floor, and the lift wouldn't proceed the last centimeter to my floor. We tried to get the super, or neighbours (that's neighbors, for those of you unfamiliar with british), or anyone who could unstick the lift.... and ended up calling the fire department, who kept shouting "don't panic" and "we'll get you out! Stay calm!"--despite the fact that I was perfectly calm and was having a small nap on top of said suitcase--in at me while one of them climbed up to the attic and winched the lift up another half inch. Yay for rescue.

:: I like quotes. Have you noticed?

Walkin' in a winter wonderland...

I tell most people I hate winter. I guess I have a hard time being happy about replacing running with shoveling, and it would be nice if my feet were dry more than half an hour at a time. Still, winter is beautiful, and I spend so much time hiding from it I probably miss its more beautiful aspects. They say there's no such thing as bad weather, just insufficient clothing. If I'm properly dressed, I don't mind the cold and actually enjoy it. Standing on the bridge watching the stream gently carve out the snow and ice, finding its way despite being mostly frozen over reminded me just how beautiful winter can be.

I associate winter with inconvenience, hiking everywhere in drifts or in slush, wearing eight shirts to go outside, just to peel them all off again each time I enter an overheated bus or building. After a minor car wreck a few years back, where my overambitious attempt to pass a semi with a tractor in the winter ten under the limit and apparently too fast left me sitting on top of a street sign in the oncoming lanes--I tend to hate driving in winter. I drive like a pot-smoking eighty-year-old, probably causing more danger by the ice by being a moving road block. I dislike slush intensely, as I see no benefit to a viscous, icy mass that seems to cling to everything, soak my boots instantly, and basically look like if you mixed mud and whipped cream. I resent not being able to go running at 7 am, but still, there are other things I could be doing, like being a ski bum or building snowmen.


There are many positive sides to winter, unrelated to skiing or snowboarding, which I often under appreciate. The humor in counting the number of people who slip and fall down the stairs at the library, for instance, should not be underestimated. Nor should the value of the random conversations you have with all the other poor unfortunates who have to take the bus like you do. Ogling car wrecks is also fun and entertaining (hint: the best stretch is 285 by South Park), and pelting people with snowballs can be very amusing. If you're detecting a hint of Schadenfreude, you're right--I think they call it "misery loves company".

...and for everything else there's the US Govmt

Variations on a theme à la ee cummings

White tastes like metal: sharp, earthy, slow. White is easy, white is simple, white is always. White looks like lonliness, a lone coyote on a deserted road. White feels like a blanket, white sounds like a shroud, acts like a wall, white seems like a darkness. White is two thin tracks, fading into the near distance. White hisses like a snake, disappearing in ribbons on the black. White is empty, pure, devoid of. White is someone's last day, upside-down in a smashed-in car. White is final.



White tastes. Like metal, sharp, earthy, slow White is easy. White is simple, white is always, White looks. Like lonliness a lone coyote, on a deserted road White feels like a blanket. White sounds, like a shroud acts like a wall, white seems like a darkness. White is. Two thin tracks fading. Into the near distance White hisses like a snake disappearing. In ribbons on the black, White is empty. Pure, devoid of White is someone's. Last day upside-down in a smashed-in car, White is final.



white tastes like metal sharp earthy slow white is easy white is simple white is always white looks like lonliness a lone coyote on a deserted road white feels like a blanket white sounds like a shroud acts like a wall white seems like a darkness white is two thin tracks fading into the near distance white hisses like a snake disappearing in ribbons on the black white is empty pure devoid of white is someones last day upside-down in a smashed-in car white is final

Ohje

It's been awhile since I have sent keystrokes in this direction. I feel a nagging sense of guilt plaguing me (or else it's a hangnail). Perhaps the winter has made me completely apathetic, who knows. I somehow like imaginging I'm cold blooded, that the weather is to blaim for being sluggish. I should try sleeping.

ich weiß der Anfang Anzufangen ist hart,
denn manchmal kommt man nicht an Start.
Beziehungsweise einfach nicht in fahrt,
aber wenn nicht jetzt wann denn dann?
Beweg dein Arsch!
Jedem Menschen fällt das Anfangen schwer.
Jeder schiebt die Scheiße vor sich her.
Ich hab ein ganzen Semester zum Lernen Zeit,
doch fühl mich erst in der letzten Woche dazu bereit.
Zu viele Verwandte von mir verdienen einen Brief,
aber irgendwie schaff ich das mit dem Schreiben nie.
Und ich schwöre man,
ich habe es nicht verplant
und der Anfang Anzufangen ist so hart!
ich weiß der Anfang Anzufangen ist hart,
denn manchmal kommt man nicht an Start.
Beziehungsweise einfach nicht in fahrt,
aber wenn nicht jetzt wann denn dann?
Beweg dein Arsch!
--anfang anzufangen, SDP

I am on a quest. I am searching for the holy grail, it's called a thesis and I don't really have one. If I can take Indy with me I'll be happy (before he got old). I've got the Germans down. But my thesis is like a yawning hole where I throw much of my spare time, a fair amount of waning enthusiasm, and a lot of footnotes. Perhaps that's why my toilet keeps backing up. But I have cleared the first hurdle, am entering hell, and should emerge from the shadow of the valley of death next april, when I defend the bastard. I wonder if I can count watching Blood Diamond as research. T.I.A. = holy shit.

In other news, the cooles thing ever happens to be a webcam surveilling the christmarket in Freiburg, which I can steer from my personal desktop computer way the hell far away for as long as it amuses me. Try it : http://217.22.201.135/view/index.shtml . It's like youtube, except less inane and less likely to distract me from More Important Things for quite as long (see above).

This might be the year I learn to ski. I'm not optomistic, but it could happen. I have tentative plans to go cross skiing or snowshoeing or something (*freu freu freu*) so maybe I won't hate winter like the chilly little bastard it is. I hate winter more than I hate the black death. Granted, I've never had bubonic plague before, but I have had winter and don't want it again. No, don't even bother saying it, I know I live in the wrong state. Country.

My notes in history last week featured an East German Cow-Sheep and a Multifunktionstisch. If that doesn't make sense to you, it doesn't to me either, but go watch Sonnenallee. Mostly it means that I am eagerly awaiting the end of this semester, and with it the need to know the properties of Jovian planets, the difference between Australopithecus africanus and Australopithecus afarensis (hint: the former is sometimes called "Lucy"). I might even sleep in.

I haven't gotten around to looking forward to christmas yet. I am still at the stage of getting pissed off at christmas music which follows me around like toilet paper on your shoe (second toilet reference today! I am on a roll! Er...no pun intended). I will bake cookies and foist them off on my friends. I will probably not decorate my house, and if I am a good person I will send off christmas cards.

Hm. I need standards. And sleep. And coffee. More coffee.

UPDATE: Lucy is actually Astralopithecus afarensis. Go figure, I even got that one wrong.