Million of Norwegians Demand Their Booty
Thursday, August 31, 2006
If you haven’t read this as of yet in Oslo today, the Norwegian police recovered Edvard Munch’s Scream along with Madonna. Munch's paintings have been missing for a bit over two years. Little known fact, there are a few versions of the Scream. Munch experimented with the color of the sky until finally settling on this rendering. The humor of this all comes if you noticed another PR piece that hit the wire a few days ago. I wonder if those Viking descendents are going to have enough room for dinner after gorging themselves on their prize. Still feeling nicht so gut. Need more diversions. Achtung!
posted by Don Taylor @ 10:23 PM,
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Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?
The skies' blue, not a sprinkle of precipitation all day and I am still stationed at CheckPoint Bratwurst. I feel like crap. I’ve been up all night as if large raccoons were pilfering the garbage and then decided it would be easier to feast on a couple cats. My friends in Seattle you have been warned. They may look cute, with their little hands and fashionable masks, but they would prefer to go right for the jugular.
I just want to laze on the sofa and stare at cartoons, but TV here is terrible. Turtle and I are thinking of buying some show on DVD. We’ve got it down to a handful: Invasion, Veronica Mars, Millennium or Weeds, any suggestions?
Enough with the ramblings. I’m going to go lie down. Try to feel better. We’re going to visit a castle this weekend, must have the energy to ransack the turrets. The one thing I have to keep in mind is my day will never be as shitty as this guy's.
My defiled devotees send me links, pictures and other surprises so I can get through today.
posted by Don Taylor @ 2:19 PM,
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A Recipe You Won't See on Giada (Unfortunately)
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
At this moment in the small town of Bunol, Spain, a small town nestled between Madrid and Barcelona, the best Gazpacho recipe in the known world is currently being made. It’s a rather simple unforgettable recipe handed down to each generation. And no one tries to keep it a secret. Hell they even told me what it was and I am here to share with you.
INGREDIENTS
100,000 medium sized tomatoes
30,000 or so of your closest friends
Place tomatoes into center of town via large trucks
Pour tomatoes into the middle of the street
Take 3 – 4 tomatoes
Soften tomato by crushing slightly (crushed is preferred to puree or whole)
At exactly noon on the last Wednesday of August take tomatoes and toss
Continue to throw tomatoes, mincing your neighbors as they pulp you
Reach down and pick tomatoes up off the cobblestone
Lob tomato in whatever direction you see fit
Repeat as desired or one hour, which ever comes first
At end of hour, the 30,000 cooks jump into the adjacent river to clean up
The husks of the tomatoes are then hosed out of the town square into a waiting bucket. Add parsley
Chill for 365 days and enjoy.
The citizens of Bunol do this annually, and is called La Tomatina. I have no idea why they do it, nor do I want to know. I just want to do it. I knew this, along with the running of the bulls, getting drunk at a soccer game, plunging my ass into a hot spring in Iceland during winter, getting a stiff neck at Wimbledon, sampling Amsterdam brownies, and pining for the fjords of Finland were things that I need to do before I leave.
Last night, around 2300 (that’s the way they say it here – when in Germany do as the Romans do) I was bounding about on the net and came across the story. Excitement rippled through me, one of my quests was going to come off my list. I catapulted off the bed, going through my limited wardrobe to see what articles of clothing I was willing to destroy and wondering where I can get myself swimming goggles. No one in their right mind, or even a diluted mind wants acidic tomato juices seeping into their eyes. Things picked, ideas in place where to get goggles, I went back to the computer to see when this thing was taking place.
And as you all can figure out it was today (30 August) noon Spain time, which was an hour behind me. I plugged into Google Maps how long it would take to get from Wiesbaden to Bunol, Spain. 23 hours. I can do this. I don’t need no damn sleep, I don’t have a car, and no stores are currently open where I can get protective eyewear. (Do you all know how hard it is to type goggle and google in the same paragraph and not screw it up.) I said to myself, I could do this. I can do this if I could cause the world to rotate the other direction, stop time, teleport, come up with a shitload of money or become the first person to physically experience the string theory.
Needless to say I am still here but there is a big red circle on next year’s calendar around the last Wednesday in August. And I am here to tell you all to get your orders in now for same delicious Gazpacho. I’ll see what I can do to meet your request.
posted by Don Taylor @ 4:25 PM,
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Out of Her Shell
First this note: I had nothing to do with this. At said time I was in the kitchen with Ms. Peacock holding the squirting flower filled with acid. You'll never take me, see?
And with no further ado, the Turtle.
Smearing peanut butter on the Kaiser Wilheim staute and humping it is one thing, spreading it on yourself is completely acceptable.
posted by Don Taylor @ 12:01 AM,
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I Want to Be Able to Boil Sea-Spiders in the Gutters
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Wiesbaden, literal translation white waters (fountain – something dealing with h2o) and the reason it is called that is, I don’t think there has been a day here where it has not rained. It’s not a bad thing when you compare it to living in the Berkshires where it rained everyday at 5:30pm, without fail. Here it seems to rain either at noon or midnight. And then soon after it become partly cloudy again with a chance being much too cool for August.
The other reason this placed is named Wiesbaden is there are natural geothermal springs brewing under the city. I am told that the springs are so close to the surface that when snow falls it melts almost on contact. Grab your pencils, class. Its time for an impromptu science class. Stop that moaning over there, there will be no pop quiz. And you might learn something. Geothermal springs are caused by either the underground water is traveling extremely close to pockets of molten hot fillings of an McDonald’s Apple Pie (also known as magma), or the water is being pushed up by great pressure from the bowels the earth where it lies dormant waiting to attack unsuspecting college coeds who have gathered together one last time before they graduate and head off into the real world.
The other day, I go to Turtle, do you think they have or will ever have a volcano in one of these mountains or an earthquake or is Helmut, lord of the Hessen underworld second in command to his almighty Dark Lord Hassel of the Hoffs plotting his next great uprising to introduce der Dunkin auf Donuts to the Bavarians. Rather than answer, she rolled her eyes and order up another glass of Chianti.
Without an answer I quested to find one. Asking him, probing her, finally I got a local to answer me. This is the conversation, edited for your convenience.
“Why if you have this natural resource don’t you use it?"
“We do. We have many saunas, bathhouse and fountains.“
“I’ve seen most of your fountains but have not partaken in the saunas”
“Oh but you should, they are quite beautiful.”
“Eventually all good things… but that’s not what I mean. Why do you not use the heat from these spring for geothermal energy, like Iceland?”
“There is not enough heat to do that”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it could supplement the energy.”
“True, but then we wouldn’t have our fountains and they are quite beautiful, yes?”
“Yes they are but still”
“Let us go look at the fountains, see how they have gold pieces on them. That is from the water, there is, how do say fake gold?”
“Pyrite? Fool’s Gold?”
“Yes pyrite in the springs when it hits the air it becomes solid and attaches to whatever it meets.” “
“How about flesh?”
With that he rolled his eyes and order another Riesling. I realized then that Helmut does have a plan in the makings, to turn the city of Wiesbaden into something that would make Midas and Goldfinger proud. All right class, I lied. Get out a sheet of paper, put all your books under your desk. Time for a pop quiz.
posted by Don Taylor @ 3:51 PM,
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Leave a Message at the Beep
Monday, August 28, 2006
Just so you all know the commenting section is now fully functional. I slaved all day Saturday to get it up and running, so you better appreciate my fuzzy little pig dogs. More pith and mirth latter.
posted by Don Taylor @ 11:17 AM,
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Day the World Ended
Friday, August 25, 2006
Dear fellow planets,
Let me start by saying I condemn each and everyone of you. What… no how could you just abandon me like that. I’ve always been good to you.
Venus remember that time you were afraid that you might be with moon. Who was there for you? Who took you to the clinic? Who held your hand and pushed aside your clouds as you wept? We all know it wasn’t Mars. Oh hell no. He was out orbiting with Europa, that little asteroid. And yes Mars, you red bastard, I held that secret until just now. Now lets see if you can reconcile that relationship. Venus, as aside, Mercury’s a much better pair for you. Sure he’s small and always has a dark side but at least he’s not going out looking for some action on the side. That and you have to admit he’s hot.
Hey Jupiter, remember when you were going through those tumultuous times? Right after the huge party we had ages ago, and you found out that you weren’t going to be the star of the show? You were completely inhospitable to everyone. Rage on about this, storming up controversy about that, but who was the one planet that called you up and wished that you were the star. Joking that if you were, I could be more than just a big ball of ice. Remember that? Of course you don’t you one-eyed giant freak.
I understand why Gaia’s children would want to kick me out of the universe. They associate me with death and their Christian Satan, hell they named my moon, its not my moon you idiots its my soulmate, Charon, when it should have been Persephone. But noooooo, I have to be all dark, cold and sinister. There can be no light out here, so they name my girlfriend after an old decrepit gondolier.
The children of Gaia say I can’t be a planet because I’m small and don’t follow the same path as everyone else does. Bigotry I say, closed minded sticklers, I decree. Why must everyone follow the same path, march right along and never do anything different. Alas, they are young, they might be able to change, and hopefully they won’t end up like Mars’ spawn. But you eight, you eight and your individual entourage, for just giving up on me, never speaking up, staying silent in the umbra and letting them do what they have done, I will wait. Yes I will wait and wait, because some day you will all get yours even if its not till the day that Helios finally loses his shit and just goes supernova on us all.
Till then myself, Ceres, Charon Persephone and UB313, there is no way in the Milky Way that I am going to call her Xena, will start our own club. We’ll have frozen drinks, and tapas and whatever the hell we want because we don’t have to listen to you all.
Have fun being the one on the outside looking in, Tune. No, you can’t be part of our group, even if you do rotate differently then everyone else. There’s no chance to retrograde now you watery nymph.
To hell with you all,
Pluto
posted by Don Taylor @ 6:19 PM,
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1002 Arabian Nights
Are you all tucked in? Good. Lay back my children and listen to my tale. It is but a simple tale, of discontentment, celebration and revelations. Place your head upon the pillow and close your eyes. The title of our story is Bed Fellows.
There once was a woman named Scarlett who decided that she needed to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday twice. With a pause of 10 days between the two. She thought it would be best if one day a mass of her friends, knowing that five of them would not be there for the actual day of birth, got together, and then again, on the actual day she would assemble all the prior friends minus a few, adding a few more, and go out again. She thought this to be genius, allowing her to reap the benefits of alcohol consumption and frivolity to their most lethal levels.
She let everyone know that she wanted this and this is what would be. She bombarded all she knew with phone calls from her handy, text messages, emails and carrier pigeons. The proclamations read, “All esteemed comrades, as you know tonight is my birthday. And on your birthday you are implored to make with the merrymaking. Meet at the MarketPlatz at 2000hr and from there we shall begin. Wonderfully yours, Scarlett”
Her friends mumbled and wondered. “We just did this last week. Does she deserve another night dedicated to her? And where shall we all go? We are meeting at the Platz and that is where the WineFest still reigns on. And I truly do not want any more white wine. How we all long for a good red.”
Hemmed and hawed. Debated and discussed. In the end this ragged group of compatriots knew that they did not have much else to do, being that all of them were afraid to branch out further then their small circle of friends. All of them unwilling to learn the language of their stadt, all of them thinking they could get by on their handful of words and jester-like gesturing that when the city clock chimed 20hr they came. They came from the east, from the west, from the alleys, from the Straße, from the bars, and from the restaurants every member emerged.
Scarlett smiled and embraced them all welcoming them to her encore fete. Through a din of Riesling she informed them all that they would at the hour or 22 and thirty head over to a club that she fancied. A club fashioned in the style of a pasha’s palace. The entourage quivered with excitement. “There will be drinks, and belly dancers and Indian food and dancing.” Scarlett continued. Everyone cheered. “This is great,” they yelled, they thought, “this is wonderful. This will be fantastic. Can’t we go now?" “No decreed the birthday princess. I am a cute girl and I get what I want. And what I want right now is more Riesling.”
A sigh of discontentment arose from the mass. “Must we?” They pleaded. “Isn’t there anything else that we could do till the golden hour?” They beseeched. “Nein,” she cried. “I want wine.”
Minutes dragged on, hours passed; wine was drunk begrudgedly by some, abstained by others. Most in attendance watched their wrist, spoke to each other in a smattering of words in the attempt to kill time. The joy that was felt in the beginning evaporated and desperation and boredom loomed overhead. The hours of 22 and 30 came and went and the silent grumblings became more vocal. Threats of abandoning the night circulated through the group and finally at the hour of 23 and 15 they reached Scarlett. It was then stated that indeed the time had arisen and all should move along to the highlight of the evening.
They moved out in fours, they moved out in fives, they moved out to a place only a few knew the whereabouts of. When they were at the door they were informed that there would be a tax levied upon them to enter the Pasha’s Palace. “And want is this tax all inquired.” “A small tax. A slight tax to relish in the hedonistic ways of this palace.” “Tell us tell us,” all beckoned. “A tax of three for entry and then two for His kindness.” Within their pockets each found the necessary homage to the Pasha. With the levied tax in his hand the guard told all to wait, for a special spot would be opening up for them soon. “A special spot?” “But of course. You are many and you are all fabulous.” And so they waited with compliments ringing in their ears.
After a few beats of the heart and little fanfare Scarlett’s entourage entered en masse into the Pasha’s Palace. The lighting was soft, dim and red as smoke clung to the air as dancers clung to each other in the throws of the minor harmonic melodies of the Arabian coast. As they walked to their unknown spot all could be heard asking, “What is this? The ground it is soft and moving.” “Sand!” Broadcasted those who wore sandals. “The entire floor is sand.” “How delectable.” Smiles slowly began to be seen on the faces of the crowd again.
They reached their destination in the back of the bar. A large space emerged in front of them a bedded platform full of varying sized pillows of red and golden silk lay in wait for each and every person to lounge upon their fluffed comfort. The group pushed back the flimsy curtain that obscured the area from others in the palace and they began to pile in.
“Ein, zwei, drei, vierzehn! Fourteen! This can not be” yelped the bed. “I cannot hold that many. Some of you must use my friend the comfy chairs over there.” “No, no! We must have the pleasure of sitting up you. You see we have been waiting all night to be here and not one of us will give up the chance to laze about upon your velvet cushions.” “Very well,” said the bed. “But hear me here, when you lie down with too many upon one bed someone will be forgotten, someone will be crushed, someone will be unfulfilled and someone will be stuck with the consequences of such rashness.”
The group pawshawed the bed, but you should always listen to a bed. It knows what it speaks of for it has seen many things that most do not wish to relate to anyone else. And for sometime the group was uncomfortable, too many people crushed up each other, made it difficult to move, drink, talk, breathe. Some were not allowed to witness the awing show that was the dancer performing. Some never received their orders and thusly sat quiet in the corner waiting for the moment that they could leave.
So the lesson to this story is do not be afraid to try new things. But sometimes the new things you need to try are expending your circle of friends for they might look better upon your bed than those you currently revolve around.
I wanted to add an image to this section, but the damn thing wouldn't cooperate. Therefore go here and take a peek.
posted by Don Taylor @ 2:27 AM,
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With a Side of What?
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Ordering food is easy. Knowing what you are going to put into your mouth is something all together different. What I have eatten has ranged the spectrum of “hot damn that looks good” to “you want me to put that where” (said in my best 15 year-old girl way). A few restaurants have international menus, which is Germanized versions of various languages “Hot beef with gooey cheese in many tomotoe sauce.” With that I know what I’m getting. Then there are the Italian restaurants. I’ve eaten enough Italian in my days to know what most of those dishes are. And just for your knowledge, the Italian food here is like Naked Heaven on Silver Platter. (I think you can order that from the Adam and Eve website). Finally the German restaurants, the true Hard Core Deutschland Cuisine.
These are the places that I force myself to go to. Have to learn the ways, have to eat the food, have to appreciate the Hasselhoff. Maybe not the last one. I go in, look at the menu, avoid the foods that will kill me (I’ve got all those damn sea spider names memorized) find words I recognize, and order that up. Most of the time, it’s not bad, other times I will forever remember the way that dish kicked the crap out of my taste buds. Leaving them there whimpering, pleading for the bad man to go away. Shortly after a meal like that my taste buds seek consoling and usually finding in melty goodness that is pizza.
I figure I have to try the good with the bad, and take them both and there you have… a five year-old who is stealing my bread as I write this blog entry. “Hey you! Kid. Hey sie! Stop! Das ist mein Brot!”
“Schießkind!”
I know there are times when I exaggerate but this most assuredly is not one. I was here eating something that the Germans call a salad. Yes, it had lettuce, vegetables and other salad aspects but… think back to when you were a kid on Saturday morning and those short spots like “I’m Just a Bill” and “Golly, Golly get Your Adverbs Here” came on. There was one about not drowning your food is condiments or other extras they never saw that one. Most of their food is asphyxiated in some sauce or another and this salad was over its leaves in vinaigrette. Since I don’t know how to say ‘light on the sauce’ my arteries suffer.
Back to what I was getting at, so I was pluggin' away at the keyboard when I hear this mother shouting from behind me “Nein Sophia! Dat ist keinest
I’m not angry, I’m more shocked. The kind of shock where you wake up in the morning wearing a pink garter belt and you don’t even own a pink garter belt. Turquoise maybe, pink never. I don’t know what to do. The little one waves and walks back to her mother, who in turns says something along the lines of what can you do she is a kid. I let her know that’s its not a problem. Turn back to my screen and well there you have it. The only think I wish I had was my camera with me today so I could have snapped off a shot. That and some bread to soak up this vinaigrette.
posted by Don Taylor @ 7:57 PM,
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And In This Corner...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Laundry day can be a very dangerous day. At CheckPoint Bratwurst you can do your laundry for free. As with most thing run by THE Corp its not the most efficient way of doing things. There are eight über-economy sized washer and four man-sized dryers. One of these dryers can easily hold four of the washer loads and demand more.
Last night I went down to the laundry, one of my many tasks that I am to perform over here. Once a week, I go down, separate the delicates from the insensitive, add a quarter cup of laundry detergent (God bless the soft-water of Germany… why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this) and wait for Stairway to Heaven to play to know the dance is done and move everything to dryer.
The first time I went down to do laundry I ran into Charlie. A retired sailor who proceeded to mentor me in the finer points of these particular machines. “You set the wershers [love the Ohio Valley accent] to this point, any more and bad things could happen. Then on the dryers I suggest setting it to here. I feel if it gets too warm then it removes too much lint from the clothes and ruins them. But if you don’t like lint set to where ever you please.”
Today would be my second day. I felt I was ready to take on the laundry while flying solo. The duffel bag full, detergent in hand, wearing the official laundry day uniform, I was prepped and ready to go. I get down to the basement, there is a woman standing in front of the washers and another one accompanied by her two daughters playing cards. And fuck, all the washers are full. Guess I’ll come back later, this place is open 24 hours.
One of the women notices me leaving and pipes up, “these four are mine and will be done in a couple of minutes. You can have them,” loud enough for the others to hear. I thank her and wait around. The washers go off, she removes her clothes and moves them to the dryer. I proceed to start loading mine in.
When out of the corner of my eye I notice the other woman, Psychotic Soccer Mom (PSM) directing her daughters with orange slices in a Pavlovian fashion, to block me from the empty ones.
I quickly grab one of Turtle’s panties, bunch them into a ball and pitch them into a open washer just as she is about to place a pair of Umbro shorts into the waiting maw. Victory is mine! An evil grin spreads across my face and PSM notices. She reaches into my claimed washer and pulls out Turtle’s underwear.
“I believe that washer is mine.” I challenge.
“I don’t think so.” She grabs the flimsy cloth and tosses it into the washer that is already half full with my clothes.
“Lets go bitch.” I throw down the full bottle of all temperature Cheer onto the cement floor. Detergent sprays forth from the ruptured bottle coating the room in a thin layer or blue slime. Her two daughters begin to circle me. Lions in the midst of an epic gladiator battle.
The smallest daughter goes to kick me in the shins. I wrap her ankle in a pair of 501s, sending her sprawling to the ground. Nudging her cleated foot, she slides across the springtime fresh floor out into the hall. The mother roars, as one of her cubs is removed from battle and lash out with a cup full of Snuggle to my eyes. I feel a swift kick to the back of my legs as the eldest cub attempts to bend my knee like Beckham. I go down to the cement in a heap. PSM bellows as her prey hits the ground. She pounces on me trying to suffocate me with a week-old gym sock. I will not let myself go out like this, but the overwhelming stench is slowly sapping away my consciousness. My arm falls to the ground. I raise it back up, but once again it collapses lifeless to the cement. The laundry room is beginning to close in around me. The last thing I will see is the slick blue concrete floor and the evil snarl of the lioness.
My hand comes up, and begins to descend again when suddenly in mid-fall my arm stops. My fingers splay open and then close. I wag my finger defiantly. Throwing PSM off me with a move I saw in a Jet Li movie, I grab her wrist as she falls back, applying enough pressure to force her to release the sock. With my left hand I snatch the sock out of the air and run it through the detergent pooling on the ground. Springing to my feet I lash out for a nearby hamper. Holding it like a shield and using the now pleasant smelling sock as a whip, I go for the daughter.
I snap the sock. She bares her teeth at me. I have no time for subtlety, I snap the sock again and push back her back with the hamper into an open dryer. Quickly closing the door, the cub looks around her new cage and shrieks a growl that is thunderous even through the door. As I am about to hit the fluff cycle I hear PSM behind me. Without looking I fling the hamper, covering her head with the blue plastic. I can feel exhaustion begin to overtake me. Not much time left, I have to finish this now.
I slide across the floor into her legs causing her to somersault downward. She hits with a mighty thump. I grab her laundry, not mine, mine needs to be washed, and pull out whatever I can; Talbot sweaters, Gap polos, leggings, sari, lederhosen, anything and hog tie her to the best of my ability.
When she is sufficiently incapacitated, I roll her over and let her know that the machine is mine. That this incident is not a blight on her or her kin, its just business and maybe in a different time, we might have been friends. We might have traded recipes for broccoli salad, we might have started an Oprah’s book club, but stealing a man’s “wersher,” that’s reason enough for war. She nods. I let her go and fill my washer with clothes.
Back in the room, I relate the tale to Turtle as she dresses my wounds. 35 minutes later, I head back down to the basement to move my clothes over. PSM is still there. She’s got three dryers full and a sock, the sock, sitting alone in a dryer. She bares her teeth at me and from behind I hear the snarls of her cubs.
“Shall we dance?”
posted by Don Taylor @ 5:24 PM,
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Out of Her Shell
Monday, August 21, 2006
Welcome to what I hope will be our first reoccurring segment. Tidbits from the mind of the Turtle. Sit back and enjoy.
I had the oddest dream. A kingdom obsessed with meat. The royal family were all named after parts of a sandwich and then there was this guy, a peasant who was drinking something like a Capri-Sun, but written on it was NEW BACON FLAVOR. Everyone loved meat.
I have to capture one of those squirrels. Its fur is the exact shade of red I want for my hair.
posted by Don Taylor @ 11:49 AM,
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Pardon the Interruption
We all know that after a few drinks something happens to our souls. We either are the loneliest being on the planet desiring that someone was there to hold back out hair and tell us all will be fine after the vile brown liquor has relinquished its claim. ‘Sir, Jim Beam is here; he’s brought a battalion with him. Let him have his way with our kidneys. You can have our liver but you can never have our Big Toe.’ Or we become the most affectionate being there can be. A cross between a raver on X and a cat in heat. What it comes down to is we want contact, some sort of contact. Physical, emotional, what have you.
There was a man who was convicted in Japan recently arrested for making almost 40,000 calls to operators. He didn’t harass them, make lewd comments or anything that could get someone arrested (which is becoming way too much recently). All this desolate man did was ring the operator and silently wait on the line to hear their “kindly voices.” Reaching out to just feel attached. Grant it he took it to a level of weirdness that is usually reserved for those who have names for every freckle on their body, but I can relate.
So yeah, what I’m getting at it that even though we are hanging out with others here, enjoying the sights, and making the most of it there are times, like this weekend, when the missing of what was hits us. Now, no one start worrying out there for us, we are fine, its just every now and again, for no reason at all we miss you all. Most of the time, we are happy that we don’t have to see you with the big piece of parsley sticking out of your teeth, but then we miss the way you get giddy after having a handful of M&Ms. I thank the days I don’t have to hear you say ‘because that’s the way I roll’, but then for some ungodly known reason I want to hear your version of Queensryche. Insanity I know, but it’s the truth.
In short thanks and sorry to all those that got the late night (well late night for me) emails. Just so you know, the late night emails don’t work as well as the late night phone calls. I’m surprised that I even able to string together letters, let alone words. And to those that got calls, it was exactly the medicine we needed. And I’m sure there will be times when we need another fix, so be good little scouts and be prepared.
Now back to regularly scheduled programming.
posted by Don Taylor @ 11:47 AM,
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I Just Can't Get Right
Thursday, August 17, 2006
With our German licenses in hand we are now allowed to wreak havoc upon the Bavarians. Driving isn’t too different from the states except it's faster, more signs, and more laws like the Good Samaritan law. Yes Seinfeld fans it exists here, and if you are convicted of not practicing it, you can be imprisioned for up to a year. “Es ist sehr wichtig, wo die zweite Taste auf einem Hemd ist. Es kann das vollständige Hemd ruinieren.”
The other odd thing is the right before left rule. When you come to an intersection that has no signs, the vehicle (car, bus, trailer, bicycle, horse drawn cart – no seriously, just look at the diagram) to the right has the right-of-way. There are of course exceptions, when there are signs posted, when the other vehicle is a streetcar, when it’s a VW bug driven by a gnome named Jasper (which there is a rather large contingency of). Other than that motor on. Now I just gots to get myself a couple of pairs of latex gloves. Its the law. For driving of course. What else would I use them for?
posted by Don Taylor @ 2:44 PM,
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Must…resist…your…power...
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The other day we began our search for a place to live. THE Corp finds that it is best to go to them, have them use their translators and set up time for us to see places. I have no problem with that; the problems arise when they have a set of houses they want you to look at and not to use a German Immobilien (a rental service that finds places they think you might like). A limited number of places with an exponentially growing amount of people that need to be placed. No problem at all. Breathe deep, out with the bad in with the cleansing breathe. Onward.
Choosing three numbers –the addresses of the places aren’t known until you go to the clerk -- we had two places that were in areas that we thought we would like. Notice the word thought in there. We walked by the first place and can’t wait to see it, but that is later in the week. The second place, well it was much, much, much further than we thought. A fifteen-minute walk we were told. It was a hike. We should have brought a Sherpa and a change of underwear. When we got to the place a half an hour later, Turtle was exhausted, and I was already thinking no way in hell, its too far from where we want to be. Then the Germans hit us with their secret weapon.
The caretaker of the place was this little old woman who spoke broken English. She waited for us up the fourth floor of this row house, standing no taller than five nothing, if that, holding the keys in one hand and an German/English dictionary in the other. After introductions she slowly marched up another two stories to the open apartment. Her hands were shaking so violently from the exhaustion of the climb, that she beckoned for me to open the door. As we were let in, the clouds parted and filled the vacant space with majestic light. A small aura of mysticism surrounded our guide as she proceeded to tell us, in a voice so soft you had to bend your ear close, all about the neighborhood, the people living in the building, the history of the area, how the place is quiet, how to make quark, everything. You could not help but smile and smell homemade pies being cooked when she was in the room.
With our tour at its end, Turtle and I walked our guide back to her apartment where she shook our hands and said to us “I will very much love when you move in. Please do soon.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her, that we weren’t going to take it. The apartment was plain, and too far away, the only thing that would of kept us was her and the thought of listening to her tell stories. I would very much love that.
posted by Don Taylor @ 5:54 PM,
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The White Zone is for Immediate Drinking Only
Monday, August 14, 2006
It seems that we arrived on Germany at the right time. The temperature has only been over 80 one day and it’s the start of the Festivals. Not the Ferris wheel, pony rides and cotton candy side of the festival coin, but festivals in the way of Dionysus. And it’s most assuredly a festival that would make Dionysus weep with joy and then drink some more.
Starting last Friday and continuing ten days out, is the RheinGrau Fest. There’s about a hundred vineyards that show up, set up a stand, shine the stemware, get the corks-a-poppin and let the wine flow. And it flows, and flows, and flows.
I would have enjoyed it more, but German red wine is nicht gut. Most of the wines served are white, more specifically Rieslings. Normally, the only reason I would touch a white wine would be to water the grapes that are going to make me delicious red. Yet, with a snarl on my face, apprehension in heart and a glass of white in my hand I joined in. Yeah I catered to masses, I can hear the calls of Wine Slut -- but at two bucks a glass (a full glass) you talk to me about standards. Okay two bucks and then another Euro for a deposit on the goblet that vineyard gives you. Not plastic cups, oh hell no, glass, breakable shatter and splintering glass. Everyone knows that booze tastes better surrounded by potential death.
The streets are packed. Shoulder to shoulder, glass-to-glass, bratwurst-to-bratwurst. People are talking, listening to bad German bands playing American music.
Let me stop there for a moment, if anyone knows why the Germans love any song by CCR and Ike and Tina’s Proud Mary so much let me know. Every time I went down to the MarketPlatz I heard one of these two being played. How I longed for a bit of Bread.
That being said, I never felt bad being out in the streets drinking, I always saw people who took it to another level. Instead of drinking from glasses, they were drinking straight from the bottle. But the Germans take drinking to a different level. When they celebrate, they let go of that very Prussian exterior and get crazy Bavarian style. It scares me a bit. Oktoberfest is right around the corner. And if the wine fest, which we all know wine is for the sophisticated, was like this, what will happen when beer is unleashed upon the masses.
I have to stop my liver from whimpering.
posted by Don Taylor @ 3:56 PM,
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Eulogy to the Penny
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Let us mourn the penny. It had a good run, but its time has come and gone. I’ve always been one of those that wondered if the penny was really necessary. It was fun as kid, collecting them, putting them on your elbow then trying to catch them, placing them on the railroad tracks, but as an adult all they seem to do is sit in your pocket, clog the catch in your dryer, fall down into the cracks of your sofa and ruin the color scheme of American currency. That and it became easy to use them for ass pennies. They were small, easy to stuff, and since they were already brown, they camouflaged any unsavory residue. Hence the reason the ass dime never took off. But back to the matter at hand, over here they don’t use the single cent. All prices end in 5 or 0; all the coinage is either 5, 10, 20, or 50. The thing is even businesses that are run by Americans on so-called American land over here, don’t use pennies. Seriously. Military installation round everything up or down to the nearest nickel. And it works.
I know, I know there are those that wish to hold onto the past, if ain’t broke there ain’t no need to fix it Cletus. And then there are those that say “well if we rounded everything up or down then I could lose 13 cents a year”. Well the death rattle of the penny can be heard. Hell its been resuscitated lord knows how many times. And on top of all that, the government is eventually going to stop production of the little bastards since the production cost of a penny is actually .014 cents. That’s right. To make a penny, it cost more than the penny is worth. That’s just bad business. Any good business would cut expenses and rid them selves of this albatross. In the next few years, we will all be saying, “I remember the penny, I liked the way Abe smirked at me. Made me humble. Dem was da days.”
And to those that are worried about losing their 13 cents per year, I’ve got 13 pennies for you right here. Don’t mind the smell.
posted by Don Taylor @ 3:57 PM,
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Another Round for My Friends, Hans
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
All right, my German is bad that’s a given, but I think they are trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me. I know how to say check please, thank you, where’s the bathroom what have you. The really, truly, honest basics of the language. If you thought German sounded bad before, let me talk to you for a while, at that point you will discover the melodic harmony of the natives.
A moment ago I was ready to be on my way, head back to Check Point Bratwurst, now that I’m a real boy (thank you thank you – I couldn’t of done it without you all) after eating at the restaurant of an old client of mine (Paulaner Bier if you must know). I liked the restaurant, real old world German food, a kind of BierGarten vibe and not too expensive. My bill was going to come to about 6 euro for a beer, two wursts and some potato salad, all tasty. I asked the waiter for my Rechnung (bill) and the waiter brought me out another beer.
Two things, its hard for me to refuse a beer and I have no idea how to say that’s not what I asked for. Guess I should learn that, when I’m sober. Normally two beers would not concern me, I’m a big boy, and can hold my alcohol pretty well, but today I order a Salvatore. The only reason I know about this beer is because as stated above, I had Paulaner as a client. This variety of hops and barley is difficult to get in the states because its so strong; but in the states they water it down some to get it to be 8.6%, in Germany its 14.6%. I wish I knew that earlier, but the first thing they do over here when you sit at a table, is ask you what you what to drink. I ordered the Salvatore and then looked at the menu. If I recall my history of the beer correctly, this is the beer the monks drank to help them get through their fasting. Yeah, because they were drunk off their collective Lutheran Asses. The beer taste like a good porter but hits you on the back of the skull with a sap, stealing your sobriety, your wallet, your woman and then kicks your dog on the way out for shits and giggles. It comes in a thick ceramic mug so that you can test your sobriety by bashing yourself in the head with it. CLANK! I felt that… still sober. Order up another round Hans. Notice how I didn’t use Hansel, I’m waiting for a Hansel, and then I will laugh as the Bugs Bunny sketch runs through my head. “Hansel? HAN-sel? HANSEL!?”
This land could be the death or resurrection of me. I still don’t know. Sit back and have another round. On Hansel.
posted by Don Taylor @ 4:29 PM,
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Someday I'll Be a Real Boy
Monday, August 07, 2006
For the past four days I've had to be signed in and out of Check Point Bratwurst by Turtle. I can't go or do anything without her by my side, all because I don't have the proper paper work. And no, not even my passport and best 'hey you can trust me smile' will work. It’s not so bad, except when I want to go for a run, or eat while she's at work, or do anything while she's at work. I'm a shut in, shut out from doing anything. There's a whole new city out there waiting for me to smooze with. Waiting for me to have my way with it and I have to respectfully decline, to stay at home and wash my hair.
Well today that was all to end. We were to go the main site, fill out this form, fill out that form, wait in this line, wind up the small child whose mother is busy filling out said forms and send him rampaging down the hall to torment others. The amount of paper work and bureaucratic red bull tape you have to get through is comparable to... well nothing. The closest thing that I can think of is if you are one of those lucky people who have tried to enter college at the last minute. I mean the last possible minute where the second you arrive on campus you have your acceptance letter but nowhere to stay, no room, no classes, no financial aid, don't exist in the computer system, aren't even a blip on the bursars coffers. You have to have everything done that day because your girlfriend is waiting for you in the ninety degree heat with all your shit. Waiting to get everything in, so that she can get to her campus five hours away. And while we're at why don't we throw in the fact that you forgot to wear a belt your shorts falling exposing your Betty-Boop boxers causing you to fall face first into the one mud puddle on the otherwise arid campus. Its that kind of feeling.
There is the new bank account that you have to set up, since the German business only accept EFT from banks set up in Germany. That and THE Corp only allows paychecks to go to certain banks. To live in the German community, THE Corp mandates that you have to stand in line to take two courses to better understand how one is to live in Deutschland. These course teach you that, well, they speak German, they recycle, they drive fast, they have quiet hours, and they're, well, German. Once again it’s just like college orientation. Subject matters that don't really matter to you, but if you listened might be useful somewhere down the road.
First stop on the red-tape cruise was getting my ID. Yes, yes, yes, soon I will be a real boy. I will be somebody. I can live free again. I can live free after I get through these 30 other people here. These 30 other people who take about 15 minutes each to do their business. Ugh. I can wait though; it’s worth it, as all the posters say in these hallways Freedom isn't Free. True it cost you some grey hair and three hours of your time.
Finally my time has come, I go in with Turtle during her turn (all she has to do is update her ID) since technically I am her dependent. But not for much longer, the scissors are in my hands and I'm ready to cut the strings Gepetto. Just as I'm about to snip the wires, I'm asked "Do you have your social security card with you? "
"Um, no. But I can tell you the numbers. Hell I can tell them to you backwards. I've been reciting them since that hot August day when I started college."
"That wont do sir."
"But you have my license, my birth certificate, my passport, urine sample, my third grade report card, and the name of every pet I've ever had."
"My compliments on the A in geography, but we need you soc card to make this valid."
"Okay but you know I've been watching your television shows for the past four nights, nice porn after 11 by the way."
"Our troops deserve only the best."
"That they do, that they do. But you propaganda, I mean informative PSAs really hit home the idea of avoiding accidents and identity theft."
"Very important things to look out for."
"Exactly my point. Don't you think its, just between you and me, a bit foolish having all these important article of my life together at one time. Wouldn't it be easy to just become me if, oops, I dropped this here folder of mine."
"Yes it would."
"Then why do I need all this information on me?"
"Its regulations sir."
With that I am thrust into the world of THE Corp. Turtle still had to go through all the files and what have you today, with me by her side, only to know that tomorrow she would be doing it again. And tomorrow I have the chance again of meeting the Blue Fairy and getting my wish. Let's hope she exist for the sake of my departing sanity.
posted by Don Taylor @ 3:25 PM,
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I'm Not a Very Strong Swimmer
We've been here a couple of days now, and its nothing like what I've expected. Everywhere you look you are inundated with a new bit of architecture, a new word to learn, a new custom to understand. I wish I were joking when I say this, but it’s exhausting. Every day I have to take a nap, I thought it was the six-hour time skip, now I don't know. I've jumped into this Bavarian lake, no ducky water wings, no piece of driftwood, and I think I'm going down. But damn it, its a glorious thing.
There are the things that are curious, for instance when Germans parallel park, they don’t park 12 inches away from the curb -- the roads are much too narrow for that. Instead they have about 90 percent of the car up on the sidewalk. No need to worry about alignment, the curbs is no more than four inches high. Next, going out to dinner. Being a northeasterner we must learn to slow down. The wait staff will get to you, eventually. Meals are a time of relaxing, talking and slowing down the pace of the day. Everything happens on its own accord, you can’t push it along. It’s not unheard of for a quick bite to last about an hour. The menu, other than being in German, therefore having to guess what you are eating half the time (can I have the Labskaus. What’s that? I have no idea but there is a pickle in it) is the alcohol induced splendor that is beer being the same price as soda, I have a feeling by the time we leave here, our livers are going to be on the verge of shutting down.
The hardest thing for me, I'm not sure about Turtle, is the language barrier. It’s frustrating when a five year-old speaks in coherent sentences and you are struggling with asking what are the specials. I don't expect that I will be fluent over night, but its rough when you are used to expressing yourself easily.
But you forget all that walking around. The city is clean. Quiet when you compare to those famous east coast burghs. We haven’t seen one part of the city where we feel uncomfortable (and we've been doing some walking). The architecture is beautiful. A mixture of Swiss aesthetics, Art Deco influence and Rocco posturing. For a city of about a quarter of a million people it is unbelievably green. You expect evergreens, chestnut, and shrubbery, but an English garden... well maybe, but 20 foot bamboo trees?
It’s hard to put down everything we've seen. Information overload. Within the first hour of going out everyday I think my brain turns off. Too much to process. I know sooner or later it will become apparent to me what there is and sooner or later I will be able to relate better tales, but for now I am basking in the city, drowning in it. Let's hope brain damage doesn't occur.
posted by Don Taylor @ 12:00 AM,
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Ladies and Gentlemen; Germany
Friday, August 04, 2006
This began many months ago, but for now this is as good as any place to start. Our bags were packed, and off we were going. It was the first time I actually felt like I was leaving the States and everything I knew behind. I was saying to Turtle earlier on in the week that I was questioning if I was a sociopath of some variety. When everyone around me was trying to quell tears and saying goodbye to us, I was stoic, with a smile tattooed to my face. Finally hours before we took flight, I was understanding why I was acting the way I was. Up to this minute it never felt like the end to me, but now here we were. For a moment I was even getting sentimental about the construction being done on 90. Oh construction you made my commute unbearable every summer, but I'm going to miss rubblestrips and your barriers, but most of all the way you made us all stop and take a good hard look at your curves.
Most people at this point would expect the writer to go on a diatribe about the flight, but honestly it was pretty uneventful. The most interesting thing to me was the shortest night ever. It lasted about three hours, flying into the sun can do that to the night you know.
We arrived in Germany without much fanfare, getting into the country was easier than getting into the Dominican Republic. Show the passport, tell them where you are going, get the stamp, go grab some coffee. Why coffee? Even in Germany 7am is to early for beer (even though it was 1 am on my time). In retrospect perhaps a Hefe-Weisen was in order.
We gathered our luggage but only after a moment of fear. For about ten minutes my guitar was nowhere to be found, then like the Siren that it is, it got my attention. Laying in wait, over in the corner in the übergroße luggage area there she waited, begging for my attention. I opened her up the minute I got her, fearing that she might not have been there -- I've heard stories you see, but she was there along with a little note from the US governement letting me know that she was so pretty that they had to look at her too. I laughed the minute I saw that note knowing that some inspector saw the case and said "Hey, this is a guitar. Musician are weird and take drugs, maybe there's drugs in here." Idiots.
As I was saying luggage gathered, we go out to meet our taxi helmed by Helmi. Helmi is a large German woman who could easily play the part of a supporting character in a Grimm Brothers tale. Large, robust with a laugh that was infectious out of fear, hearty with a pinch of dear god she could destroy me. And then there was her taxi. It's a little difficult to call a S class Mercedes station wagon a taxi, but it was. It also does 120mph going down the autobahn. Ah, the days when we get a license here. Lets see if the Cavalier can do 100mph, 120 might be pushing it.
Eventually we made it to the hotel also known as Check Point Bratwurst, brought our belongings in, met Turtle's co-workers and attempted to make it through the rest of the day on no sleep. There were days when I was younger that staying up for 36 hours was easy to do. Caffenine, plenty to eat, a few vigorous jumps, voila awake for another hour. This day though I was walking around with shades on, a 50lb weight around my neck, and my brain being tranquilized by ameoba ninjas. Consciousness was a marathon being run by a man in a potato sack.
I know that other things happened that first day, but its all blurry, like loooking through the windshield during a deluge with the wipers turned off. Colors, shapes, no defining features. Just like a baby views the world. Kind of how like living in Germany is being reborn. A new life, a new country, a new culture, a new language, a new beginning. TIme to take a nap before I get cranky.
posted by Don Taylor @ 10:15 AM,
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