Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
theories on vertical rotating meat
you gotta be smart about your rotating meat. there's a lot of places to choose from, so choose wisely.1. if it looks like dog food, it's probably dog food. or dog.
look for discernable layers. the pate-ish ones are mostly filler, maybe cardboard. if you can see texture and pattern, you can rest assured the dog meat is mixed with other kinds of dog meat. or vegetables? even better.
2. the bigger the better
notice the width of the meat tube. if it's like a small hippo, or young american, it's fresh and good. if it looks like a skinny mangled sausage just clinging to the spit, it's been there for a while. go somewhere else, come back in a few days to see the fresh plump version.
3. it's apparently ok if the guy uses his hands
don't cringe when the dude picks up a stray potato or slice of meat with his fingers and puts it in your sandwich, or cuts open your bread with his fingernails. only us foreign americans are all creeped out by bad hygeine. keep your cool, blend in with the locals.
4. make sure it's sliced fresh.
don't get the pieces lying in the pan, sliced during the dude's last cigarette break. point to the meat tube, make slicing gesture. a good place will give you the pieces about 105 degrees clockwise from heat coil.
5. no electric knife slicer things!
that screams "shortcut" to me
6. say no to any tea from behind the counter
if you can water it down yourself (there's a little hot water spout under the tea ball thing) then you're ok. but if you're served it with no option to alter the potency, it's probably the battery acid variety, beware of immediate stomach cramps.
7. try, try again
for statistical significance, your sample size must be twice the standard deviation. you can't pick the best doner after only trying a few of the bigger places. you need to hit every single one, at various stages of progression (see #2). even the one in the u bahn station, even the one that no one else goes to. you never know where the best secret meat tube is hiding.
Friday, March 5, 2010
proof of residency
To: T-Mobile Customer Relations
P.O. Box 37380
Albuquerque, NM
87176-7380
Re: T-Mobile Account # 228132578
To whom it may concern,
This is a letter in response to your request to provide additional proof of residency to have my Early Termination Fee from my cell phone contract waived for reasons of moving out of the country. The person with whom I spoke to before leaving the US said a lease was all that was needed (a 58 page contract on an apartment, signed in triplicate seems pretty good proof of residence to me).
My utilities are included in my rent (see page 32), and my office (whose contract of work I also included in my previous communication) pays my cell phone bill, so I have neither of those to submit.
I am thus including my recent order confirmation for internet service at my residence, where I live, which is at xxxxxxx, Berlin, Germany. I am also including the Berlin registration document, which also has that address, and is legal proof of residency required for all residents, which I must carry with me always. To get this piece of paper, I needed a lease and formal address, a work permit, a bank account (which also requires residency) and 4 hours of standing on line at city hall.
Or, I can provide a recent photo of myself in front of the Brandenburger Gate wearing faded denim, a smug anti-capitalist look on my face, drinking bionade and licking currywurst sauce off the lips of a German guy if that would suffice?
Tschüss,
Aurelgrooves.
P.O. Box 37380
Albuquerque, NM
87176-7380
Re: T-Mobile Account # 228132578
To whom it may concern,
This is a letter in response to your request to provide additional proof of residency to have my Early Termination Fee from my cell phone contract waived for reasons of moving out of the country. The person with whom I spoke to before leaving the US said a lease was all that was needed (a 58 page contract on an apartment, signed in triplicate seems pretty good proof of residence to me).
My utilities are included in my rent (see page 32), and my office (whose contract of work I also included in my previous communication) pays my cell phone bill, so I have neither of those to submit.
I am thus including my recent order confirmation for internet service at my residence, where I live, which is at xxxxxxx, Berlin, Germany. I am also including the Berlin registration document, which also has that address, and is legal proof of residency required for all residents, which I must carry with me always. To get this piece of paper, I needed a lease and formal address, a work permit, a bank account (which also requires residency) and 4 hours of standing on line at city hall.
Or, I can provide a recent photo of myself in front of the Brandenburger Gate wearing faded denim, a smug anti-capitalist look on my face, drinking bionade and licking currywurst sauce off the lips of a German guy if that would suffice?
Tschüss,
Aurelgrooves.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
german appetizer
it's called a "snowstorm." cream cheese with chives and spices, lemon, and...pretzels. another place served it with red onions. always with a side of cold, stale rye bread. 
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
tatort : boring german crime drama
i inadvertently walked into one of these "tatort" parties, just following the final credits last month and was wondering what the hell was going on in this weird place.
http://www.ichwerdeeinberliner.com/27-tatort
(probably one of the most long-winded bloggers to date. good stuff though)
http://www.ichwerdeeinberliner.com/27-tatort
(probably one of the most long-winded bloggers to date. good stuff though)
Monday, March 1, 2010
my new boyfriend..
...is sabah, the septagenarian owner of the junk shop down the street. every day this turkish family sets up a little faux house on the sidewalk with hideous old furniture - rounded leather sofas, wood paneled cabinets with gold trim, tables with wheels.
i finally ventured to see what the inside is like - a sort of rough n ready with an eastern european grandma furniture allure. i found some nice 70's chairs that compliment what's already in my living room. i then discovered the downstairs basement which has an endless assortment of beer mugs, cups, small appliances and stuff arranged into categories: the broken umbrella section, the hardware area, the mismatched shoe collection.
i was told i could pick out whatever i wanted as an extra free gift, so i got a GDR teapot, some bowls. then i was offered some tea in a small glass that had the taste and consistency of battery acid.
we watched a little soccer, i admired sabah's wedding photo album. he was a little touchy feely with all the petting of my hair and calling me "princess." but, he offered me a nice ring and a bracelet so i guess we're legit now. as soon as the tea started wreaking havoc on my insides i had to quickly run home. i have to be careful when i walk by in the morning, because otherwise i'll never get to work on time, or, i might start coughing up blood on the u-bahn which could be uncomfortable.
i think next weekend if it continues to be rainy and grey, a fun activity would be to bring a bunch of friends and see who can find the weirdest item. then, then drink as many cups of tea to see who doesn't get sick. winner wins the items the others picked out.
i finally ventured to see what the inside is like - a sort of rough n ready with an eastern european grandma furniture allure. i found some nice 70's chairs that compliment what's already in my living room. i then discovered the downstairs basement which has an endless assortment of beer mugs, cups, small appliances and stuff arranged into categories: the broken umbrella section, the hardware area, the mismatched shoe collection.
i was told i could pick out whatever i wanted as an extra free gift, so i got a GDR teapot, some bowls. then i was offered some tea in a small glass that had the taste and consistency of battery acid.
we watched a little soccer, i admired sabah's wedding photo album. he was a little touchy feely with all the petting of my hair and calling me "princess." but, he offered me a nice ring and a bracelet so i guess we're legit now. as soon as the tea started wreaking havoc on my insides i had to quickly run home. i have to be careful when i walk by in the morning, because otherwise i'll never get to work on time, or, i might start coughing up blood on the u-bahn which could be uncomfortable.
i think next weekend if it continues to be rainy and grey, a fun activity would be to bring a bunch of friends and see who can find the weirdest item. then, then drink as many cups of tea to see who doesn't get sick. winner wins the items the others picked out.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
more coffee talk
we have, yet another new coffeemachine. the latte thing broke on the other one so this fancy company came in and gave us a demo on this bohemoth thing with buttons for latte mocha choco and stuff, like what they have at the 7-11. company guy said, wow, really? like the 7-11? and i tried to explain that wasn't a complement, the lattes from the 7-11 aren't any good, you just order one at the reststop when you're driving all night and there isn't a starbucks nearby.
anyway, there's a round blue light on the thing that glows like a heartbeat when you order your drink. we opened the insides to see if it was a real heart, or some humanoid being like in terminator, and gasp! it uses powdered milk. non-organic, whole, hormoney, powdered milk. we are shocked. everyone has thus been using the the old machine and we're about ready to drop this new one out the window.
mathias came in the other day and wondered if it was listening to us while we were insulting it, and that we were in for some space odyssey-style revenge. it had one chance to redeem itself: to make mathias lunch.
so he leans in and screams into the glowing heart "mochachino! with chicken and aubergine and french onion soup!"
the coffeemachine responded with deafening silence.
anyway, there's a round blue light on the thing that glows like a heartbeat when you order your drink. we opened the insides to see if it was a real heart, or some humanoid being like in terminator, and gasp! it uses powdered milk. non-organic, whole, hormoney, powdered milk. we are shocked. everyone has thus been using the the old machine and we're about ready to drop this new one out the window.
mathias came in the other day and wondered if it was listening to us while we were insulting it, and that we were in for some space odyssey-style revenge. it had one chance to redeem itself: to make mathias lunch.
so he leans in and screams into the glowing heart "mochachino! with chicken and aubergine and french onion soup!"
the coffeemachine responded with deafening silence.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
everything has a gender
every noun in german has a gender, be it masculine, feminine or neuter. i like how the coffee machine is feminine to everyone. the coffeemachine is pretty high maintenance, you always have to fill the wasstank, empty the coffee grounds, fill it with coffee beans but today it was spraying water and making lots of noice.
so i ask, what is it doing? it says "bitte warten?"
and someone responds "she is cleaning her insides."
sounds dirty.
so i ask, what is it doing? it says "bitte warten?"
and someone responds "she is cleaning her insides."
sounds dirty.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
a HA! always knew there was a little canadian in me...
It’s Not Political, but More Canadians Are Lefties
New York Times
By JEFF Z. KLEIN
Published: February 15, 2010
VANCOUVER, British Columbia — What is the difference between a Canadian and an American? The old question is coming up again here at the Olympics, with answers involving eagerness for war, ketchup, the pronunciation of toque or the ability to identify poutine and the Tragically Hip.
But none may be so simple as how one holds a hockey stick. According to sales figures from stick manufacturers, a majority of Canadian hockey players shoot left-handed, and a majority of American players shoot right-handed. No reason is known for this disparity, which cuts across all age groups and has persisted for decades.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/16/sports/olympics/16lefty.html?hp
New York Times
By JEFF Z. KLEIN
Published: February 15, 2010
VANCOUVER, British Columbia — What is the difference between a Canadian and an American? The old question is coming up again here at the Olympics, with answers involving eagerness for war, ketchup, the pronunciation of toque or the ability to identify poutine and the Tragically Hip.
But none may be so simple as how one holds a hockey stick. According to sales figures from stick manufacturers, a majority of Canadian hockey players shoot left-handed, and a majority of American players shoot right-handed. No reason is known for this disparity, which cuts across all age groups and has persisted for decades.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/16/sports/olympics/16lefty.html?hp
my internet sucks
trying to poach off a neighbor but it's not working. so i catch about a second of olympic sports in between minutes of frozen screens (oddly enough, the real world DC episodes stream effortlessly, and i will soon have poked both my eyes out). but the worst is when you're in the middle of snowboard motorcross and....f$%&§§!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
lidl vs. rewe
i moved on a sunday. which, in europe is the equivelent of trying to open a bank account on christmas.
thankfully, i found a couple of agnostic turkish students to show up with their van and do the deed, which, considering all of my worldly possessions are bundled into a few trunks and backpacks which exploded in my office, took all of 25 min.
they sorta hung around after i paid them, expecting my phone number and a dinner invite i think, but once i ushered them out the door i was fully engaged into filling my empty apartment with stuff. stuff! stuff which i narrowed down to the bare essentials: some lightbulbs, for the wires dangling from the light fixtures, a stepladder to reach said light fixtures which are about 12 feet off the ground, a chair to sit on, a doormat, and maybe a broom or something to wipe up all the gravel and salt that arrive as stowaways in the cuffs of my pants.
my crusade took me to the ostbanhof, the nearby train station which is always a hub of commercial activity when no where else is. this mall was bustling with travelers from frankfurt and munich, mcdonald's eaters, pharmacies and two supermarkets in the basement, facing off like pit bulls in a ring: the Rewe and the Lidl. both competing for advertising space, each one's posters trying to consume the other, yet they could not be more different.
the Rewe has pomagranates, fancy champagne and recycled toilet paper with green trees on the packaging. the Lidl, which is about equivelent to a chinese walmart on the moral business practices barometer has palettes of whatever was seized at customs that day: rotten apples, screw top sparkling wine and the orange facial tissues you find in the bathroom on the train.
also at the Lidl, a number of savvy drunks who know a good sunday bargain on bottled booze and plastic bottled beer (so as not to hurt themselves?) which they then take out to the corridor where they pandhandle for the euro you get back from returning your cart to buy more booze, turn in their empties for more change and then drink, fight, smoke, and flick cigarette butts at the Rewe.
at lidl i skipped the creepy meats, but found one opened pack of organic pretzels, a gallon of "Dovey" shower gel and 25 assorted sponges which i ripped out of a huge shrink wrapped container, and stood on line for 20 minutes while the customers assaulted the cashier with insults.
At the rewe afterwards, the aisles were sparse with customers and "danke" and "bitte" were overheard everywhere. neither of these places had anything resembling a broom, a doormat, or any of the things i needed, but at this point, i was too distracted to remember i needed lightbulbs. so i went home, and sat in the dark on my floor, this time making a list for what i need to buy on my next excursion, which i now have to pack into working hours.
thankfully, i found a couple of agnostic turkish students to show up with their van and do the deed, which, considering all of my worldly possessions are bundled into a few trunks and backpacks which exploded in my office, took all of 25 min.
they sorta hung around after i paid them, expecting my phone number and a dinner invite i think, but once i ushered them out the door i was fully engaged into filling my empty apartment with stuff. stuff! stuff which i narrowed down to the bare essentials: some lightbulbs, for the wires dangling from the light fixtures, a stepladder to reach said light fixtures which are about 12 feet off the ground, a chair to sit on, a doormat, and maybe a broom or something to wipe up all the gravel and salt that arrive as stowaways in the cuffs of my pants.
my crusade took me to the ostbanhof, the nearby train station which is always a hub of commercial activity when no where else is. this mall was bustling with travelers from frankfurt and munich, mcdonald's eaters, pharmacies and two supermarkets in the basement, facing off like pit bulls in a ring: the Rewe and the Lidl. both competing for advertising space, each one's posters trying to consume the other, yet they could not be more different.
the Rewe has pomagranates, fancy champagne and recycled toilet paper with green trees on the packaging. the Lidl, which is about equivelent to a chinese walmart on the moral business practices barometer has palettes of whatever was seized at customs that day: rotten apples, screw top sparkling wine and the orange facial tissues you find in the bathroom on the train.
also at the Lidl, a number of savvy drunks who know a good sunday bargain on bottled booze and plastic bottled beer (so as not to hurt themselves?) which they then take out to the corridor where they pandhandle for the euro you get back from returning your cart to buy more booze, turn in their empties for more change and then drink, fight, smoke, and flick cigarette butts at the Rewe.
at lidl i skipped the creepy meats, but found one opened pack of organic pretzels, a gallon of "Dovey" shower gel and 25 assorted sponges which i ripped out of a huge shrink wrapped container, and stood on line for 20 minutes while the customers assaulted the cashier with insults.
At the rewe afterwards, the aisles were sparse with customers and "danke" and "bitte" were overheard everywhere. neither of these places had anything resembling a broom, a doormat, or any of the things i needed, but at this point, i was too distracted to remember i needed lightbulbs. so i went home, and sat in the dark on my floor, this time making a list for what i need to buy on my next excursion, which i now have to pack into working hours.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
graffiti sheizer
sheizer.
the other day there was a big soccer (football) game and al these drunk chanting hoardes in the u-bahn. as usual. there i was, minding my own business, leaning up against a side door when i noticed people acting weird. whatevs. arrived to my destination and took off my nice patagonia coat: in bright orange i have the reverse imprint of some vulgar graffiti that i had stamped on my outerwear by inadvertently leaning up against a fresh masterpiece. fuckers. i took it to a cleaner and all she could say was "sheizer."
the other day there was a big soccer (football) game and al these drunk chanting hoardes in the u-bahn. as usual. there i was, minding my own business, leaning up against a side door when i noticed people acting weird. whatevs. arrived to my destination and took off my nice patagonia coat: in bright orange i have the reverse imprint of some vulgar graffiti that i had stamped on my outerwear by inadvertently leaning up against a fresh masterpiece. fuckers. i took it to a cleaner and all she could say was "sheizer."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
schmuck = jewelry
anti-fashionweek event: fashion reloaded with do-it-yourself jewelry and clothes making workshops in a converted factory in kreuzberg.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
saturday night...
...is being spent analyzing images on google earth, volunteering as an image analyst for imagecat, an organization that is providing data to the World Bank for reconstruction and recovery planning in Haiti.
so i'm sitting here, clicking on damaged and destroyed buildings...pretty depressing...then again, so is my job usually (deforestation, fires...)
so i'm sitting here, clicking on damaged and destroyed buildings...pretty depressing...then again, so is my job usually (deforestation, fires...)
Friday, January 22, 2010
answer to everything: hire a polish guy
The answer to everything in Germany seems to be "hire a Polish guy" or, if you're really hardup for cash, an Albanian.
And so they have this thing called myhammer.de which is an ebay of sorts for handymen. I put in "transport a bunch of trunks and bags from a Mitte office to an apartment in Kreuzberg for less than 50 euros" and now all these internet savvy pollacks are bidding for my contract.
I need someone to paint my place, too, and Zoran wants to be my man for the job at 10 euros/hour. I'm wondering what happens if i put in "seamlessly integrate into Turksih Mafia" or "join a Bulgarian circus," maybe that will be tomorrow. Right now i need to take 1000 euros out of the ATM for my deposit and i really need an armed goon to provide security.
And so they have this thing called myhammer.de which is an ebay of sorts for handymen. I put in "transport a bunch of trunks and bags from a Mitte office to an apartment in Kreuzberg for less than 50 euros" and now all these internet savvy pollacks are bidding for my contract.
I need someone to paint my place, too, and Zoran wants to be my man for the job at 10 euros/hour. I'm wondering what happens if i put in "seamlessly integrate into Turksih Mafia" or "join a Bulgarian circus," maybe that will be tomorrow. Right now i need to take 1000 euros out of the ATM for my deposit and i really need an armed goon to provide security.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
revenge is a dish best served cold...
my 3 trunks full of sorely needed winter gear, german/english dictionary and clean underwear showed up today, after 2 weeks in customs.
the fedex delivery guy who brought them was SUPER grumpy, like all sweaty and huffing and puffing and complaining and saying sheizer this and sheizer that..like when he saw that my office was alllll the way at the end of the hallway he muttered what even i knew was a string of obscenites. and i kept trying to tell him dude, they have wheels, see? you can wheel them, like this! easy! but he insisted on lugging all 180 pounds, by himself, all at once, i could hear the muscles in his back tearing apart. whatever.
so once he left our scottish admininstrative assistant apologized for me having seen the worst side of germans, "i hope you don't ever get exposed to that again!"
so then i open the window and look for him on the street, and when he was in range i swept all the slushy snow from the windowsill onto his head. Good fun.
the fedex delivery guy who brought them was SUPER grumpy, like all sweaty and huffing and puffing and complaining and saying sheizer this and sheizer that..like when he saw that my office was alllll the way at the end of the hallway he muttered what even i knew was a string of obscenites. and i kept trying to tell him dude, they have wheels, see? you can wheel them, like this! easy! but he insisted on lugging all 180 pounds, by himself, all at once, i could hear the muscles in his back tearing apart. whatever.
so once he left our scottish admininstrative assistant apologized for me having seen the worst side of germans, "i hope you don't ever get exposed to that again!"
so then i open the window and look for him on the street, and when he was in range i swept all the slushy snow from the windowsill onto his head. Good fun.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
fasten your seatbelt, cello!
i got to experience what it's like to be really fat: asking a svelte german flight attendant for my "seat belt extension, bitte."
cello was a nice traveling companion. a little bulky, but it fun to put it through the x-ray machine and hand the security people a boaring pass with "ms. violoncello" as the name.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
ask and you shall receive: bratwurst
bratwurst. 
don't ask why the bun is never as big as the wurst, it's been like that for hundreds of years and it will never change. actually, i tried to ask the guy after i took a bite, but i turned around to see him making lewd gestures mocking me wtih his buddy. not cool.
i'm across the street from the best currywurst in town, which i shall sample next time i'm wasted at 3 am (eh, maybe tomorrow?), which is how you're supposed to eat it.
i live in a gay brothel
so, friends of friends of friends recommended a "bed and breakfast" in berlin. hella cheap for a room in a 2 story penthouse in a great neighborhood! but...it appears to be some sort of gay brothel. there's a lot of dudes in their undies, which for germans is pretty standard but here's it's on a whole other level.
i played chess with a guy in a speedo. this other guy who has never spent the night but comes in to take 4 showers a day keeps using my towel.
one guy who was like 8 feet tall, i've only seen twice took one look at me, sighed, and then went and put on some pants. you know, it's not like i've never seen a shlong dude, i don't care. i'm far more interested in the cats. here kitty kitty!
i played chess with a guy in a speedo. this other guy who has never spent the night but comes in to take 4 showers a day keeps using my towel.
one guy who was like 8 feet tall, i've only seen twice took one look at me, sighed, and then went and put on some pants. you know, it's not like i've never seen a shlong dude, i don't care. i'm far more interested in the cats. here kitty kitty!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
rosé rules, i win.
my friends invited me to a big birthday party in paris, some up and coming actress was throwing down. the rule was you had to bring 1 bottle per person. so it's like 11 pm, we've sorta been sitting around, drinking absynthe and not really motivating and so where are we going to get three bottles of booze? we scour the kitchen and find a bottle of smirnoff left over from new years, a bottle of apple juice (it's in a bottle, and juice is always a hot commodity at these types of parties) and a crappy bottle of rosé which my friend brigitte declares, we are NEVER going to drink fucking rosé (she's from bordeaux and is mega snooty about wine) and her husband says "well, i do not want to be the guy who brings rosé! leave it here" and so they look at me. what's the big deal with rosé? and we decide that I get to walk in with the rosé and be associated with it and if anyone asks, blame the american girl. whatevs.
so the party is in this secret rented room thing, just a door onto the street that you enter into a room with 2 bug arab guys and you had to say the password to get in. the password was "blanquette de veau."
we walk in and it's this big red room with a dj, crazy dancefloor, suuuper smoky (you can't smoke in bars in paris, but this doesn't really count as a bar) and a table with candy, cups and where you mix your own drink. 50 bottles of champagne. good stuff, too.
but i was determined to get other people to drink rosé with me, so i opened it and started serving it up and people were all wtf, is this rosé? crinkling their noses. that's disgusting! (it was warm, too) but you know what, it was empty in 3 minutes. and 7 different people high fived me.
rosé rules, i win.
so the party is in this secret rented room thing, just a door onto the street that you enter into a room with 2 bug arab guys and you had to say the password to get in. the password was "blanquette de veau."
we walk in and it's this big red room with a dj, crazy dancefloor, suuuper smoky (you can't smoke in bars in paris, but this doesn't really count as a bar) and a table with candy, cups and where you mix your own drink. 50 bottles of champagne. good stuff, too.
but i was determined to get other people to drink rosé with me, so i opened it and started serving it up and people were all wtf, is this rosé? crinkling their noses. that's disgusting! (it was warm, too) but you know what, it was empty in 3 minutes. and 7 different people high fived me.
rosé rules, i win.
Friday, January 8, 2010
german indian food
met some people today who drove to france over the holidays for some good food, they say germans have the worst taste. i didn't think the food here was that bad.
then i went to the indian place that advertised a "live kitchen!" whatever that is. i saw real indians though and went in.
i got the samosas, wasn't that hungry (huge lunch, as usual) and they were smothered in red sauce. at first i thought, dang, probably spicy sauce but it was like, salty ketchup? and there was stringy mozarella cheese in the samosas? and something crunchy that must have been peanuts? and a sweet cardamom on the exterior? no clue what planet these samosas came from.
then i went to the indian place that advertised a "live kitchen!" whatever that is. i saw real indians though and went in.
i got the samosas, wasn't that hungry (huge lunch, as usual) and they were smothered in red sauce. at first i thought, dang, probably spicy sauce but it was like, salty ketchup? and there was stringy mozarella cheese in the samosas? and something crunchy that must have been peanuts? and a sweet cardamom on the exterior? no clue what planet these samosas came from.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
first days in berlin
first days in berlin.
first of all, it's f-ing cold. minus 15 or something. there's a permanent grey sky and frozen snow on the ground, and what i saw from the plane, those snowy rooftops and streets looked like those depressing world war I trench movies, and it's pretty much the same from the ground.
people tow their kids around on wooden santa sleds which is cute. people still ride bikes, including the postman on his special yellow-and-blue version.
i'm in a hotel room which is about as big as my king sized bed. they have a tan and turquoise theme going which is all very hip, and there are flat screens everywhere showing a bright yule log fire. it's channel 0 in the room. there's also TV5, which lets me catch up on my chiffres et les lettres (oh there was a good C&L highlight from 2009, when a dude spelled 'niquer' and the judges read out the definition).
the lobby has free internet so i go there to scavenge websites for apartments. i'm certain the waitresses are not turkish, as one would presume being in the kreuzberg, but russian. i ordered one of those mega-tall weissbiers with the drunk monk on it yesterday. i nursed it for a long, long time and nevertheless pretty tipsy and was about to leave. the waitress comes by and i'm all sehr gut! with a double thumbs up. she then brings me TWO more weissbiers, wtf? i gave one to the british guys next to me and had to down the other.
across the street is an 'imbiss' - one of those street takeout places that has currywurst and doner kebap. it's called "the foodbag." it's got a very bag-like see-through vinyl sitting area, and it's packed all the time! i even saw people eating outside at lunch. crazy. i haven't washed my hair yet because i don't have a hair dryer. so i've been wearing my stepmom's old beaver fur bonnet, or the faux-fur ear flap hat from my mom. they both equally crush my hair to make it flat and boring, but i don't care.
first of all, it's f-ing cold. minus 15 or something. there's a permanent grey sky and frozen snow on the ground, and what i saw from the plane, those snowy rooftops and streets looked like those depressing world war I trench movies, and it's pretty much the same from the ground.
people tow their kids around on wooden santa sleds which is cute. people still ride bikes, including the postman on his special yellow-and-blue version.
i'm in a hotel room which is about as big as my king sized bed. they have a tan and turquoise theme going which is all very hip, and there are flat screens everywhere showing a bright yule log fire. it's channel 0 in the room. there's also TV5, which lets me catch up on my chiffres et les lettres (oh there was a good C&L highlight from 2009, when a dude spelled 'niquer' and the judges read out the definition).
the lobby has free internet so i go there to scavenge websites for apartments. i'm certain the waitresses are not turkish, as one would presume being in the kreuzberg, but russian. i ordered one of those mega-tall weissbiers with the drunk monk on it yesterday. i nursed it for a long, long time and nevertheless pretty tipsy and was about to leave. the waitress comes by and i'm all sehr gut! with a double thumbs up. she then brings me TWO more weissbiers, wtf? i gave one to the british guys next to me and had to down the other.
across the street is an 'imbiss' - one of those street takeout places that has currywurst and doner kebap. it's called "the foodbag." it's got a very bag-like see-through vinyl sitting area, and it's packed all the time! i even saw people eating outside at lunch. crazy. i haven't washed my hair yet because i don't have a hair dryer. so i've been wearing my stepmom's old beaver fur bonnet, or the faux-fur ear flap hat from my mom. they both equally crush my hair to make it flat and boring, but i don't care.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
$%^&$ la poste!
the french post office, since 2005 renamed "the postal bank" is the absolute epitome of futility, incompetence and reflects the agressive indifference of your typical french civil servant.
my grandmother was one of the pioneering 'why don't i keep my money at the post office, since i go there everyday for stamps?' people and opened an account for me, back when i was 7. a simple no fee kinda thing with no checks or debit card or anything, just a place to keep cash and withdaw. she opened it in Lozere, a very remote underpopulated mountainous region, the french equivelent of montana.
every year grandma would put a little spending money in, give me a check or something. and i would go from our little village into the tiny town of Florac, and Arlette the postal lady would let me cut the line, and slide chocolates through the open slice of the window with my francs. lovely right?
many years later, La Poste decided to take over more major operations, like checking, mortgages, credit, IRAs, and that sortof thing, significantly increasing their banking clientele at the expense of essential postal transactions, like shipping shit.
now, in a town like Florac where only 4 people are ever in the post office at any time, ok, no big deal right? but now imagine you're at a post office in paris, there's always a line out the door, you think it's for food stamps.
you go in and take a number and basically sit forever on a bench. they split people up into different lines according to three options:
1) picking up a package
2) professional/business accounts, and
3) everything else, i'm not joking, it's called "toutes operations."
so these idiots haven't figured out how to separate the line into people who want say, a stamp, from those looking to refinance their homes. and so if there are 3 people working, the people for groups 1 and 2 are just hanging out trying to look busy while a flash mob is waiting for #3 lady, who is just about to go on a smoke break.
one time i had the misfortune on trying to send a package on payday. it was like an airport before thanksgiving. when i finally made it to the counter hours later the lady was all, "duh, don't you know not to come on the 2nd friday of the month?"
so per usual, i'm on the bench with all these people huffing and looking at their watches while dude for line #2 is checking out his cuticles, and the all operations lady's shift is over and she is replaced by her successor - which, in paris apparently requires saying hi to EVERYONE and giving them FOUR kisses each before sitting down to work and then, i swear she's checking her email or something because she's looking at her screen, laughing, typing, clicking, obviously forwarding a youtube video to the people at the other counters.
Finally, my number is called, because the 3 people before me left. i present a WWF calendar i had been meaning to send to my brother.
"oooooh, that is big, and nice" as she's flipping through the pages. yes, it's normal size calendar, whatever. she spins around in her chair to the envelope stash, which consists of business letter size envelopes and...that's it.
"ok, so you're going to walk down the street 5, maybe 6 blocks and there's a lovely paper store that has envelopes of all sizes!"
you mean you don't have a single large envelope, wrapping paper, tube, anything?
"no, we stopped carrying anything other than regular envelopes, sorry."
ok, so, postal transaction failed, let's try some banking.
i'd like to take the pleasure of closing my bank account!
"may i ask why?"
because i've spent over 10 hours on that bench! i've had enough!
"but those were lovely, enjoyable hours on that bench!"
not really, please close my account
"ooooh, i'm sorry, that won't be possible, you'll need to talk to the financial advisor, who is on his lunch break right now [it's 3:30 pm], or, go to where you opened your account, oh, in florac!"
yes, that's 10 hours away, i can't do it here?
"oh, but isn't florac nice this time of year? and the line would certainly be shorter"
and that's when i gave up. i emptied my account, and walked away defeated.
the woman called after me "bye, see you next time!"
so not only are they pathetic and incompetent, they fuck with you too.
my grandmother was one of the pioneering 'why don't i keep my money at the post office, since i go there everyday for stamps?' people and opened an account for me, back when i was 7. a simple no fee kinda thing with no checks or debit card or anything, just a place to keep cash and withdaw. she opened it in Lozere, a very remote underpopulated mountainous region, the french equivelent of montana.
every year grandma would put a little spending money in, give me a check or something. and i would go from our little village into the tiny town of Florac, and Arlette the postal lady would let me cut the line, and slide chocolates through the open slice of the window with my francs. lovely right?
many years later, La Poste decided to take over more major operations, like checking, mortgages, credit, IRAs, and that sortof thing, significantly increasing their banking clientele at the expense of essential postal transactions, like shipping shit.
now, in a town like Florac where only 4 people are ever in the post office at any time, ok, no big deal right? but now imagine you're at a post office in paris, there's always a line out the door, you think it's for food stamps.
you go in and take a number and basically sit forever on a bench. they split people up into different lines according to three options:
1) picking up a package
2) professional/business accounts, and
3) everything else, i'm not joking, it's called "toutes operations."
so these idiots haven't figured out how to separate the line into people who want say, a stamp, from those looking to refinance their homes. and so if there are 3 people working, the people for groups 1 and 2 are just hanging out trying to look busy while a flash mob is waiting for #3 lady, who is just about to go on a smoke break.
one time i had the misfortune on trying to send a package on payday. it was like an airport before thanksgiving. when i finally made it to the counter hours later the lady was all, "duh, don't you know not to come on the 2nd friday of the month?"
so per usual, i'm on the bench with all these people huffing and looking at their watches while dude for line #2 is checking out his cuticles, and the all operations lady's shift is over and she is replaced by her successor - which, in paris apparently requires saying hi to EVERYONE and giving them FOUR kisses each before sitting down to work and then, i swear she's checking her email or something because she's looking at her screen, laughing, typing, clicking, obviously forwarding a youtube video to the people at the other counters.
Finally, my number is called, because the 3 people before me left. i present a WWF calendar i had been meaning to send to my brother.
"oooooh, that is big, and nice" as she's flipping through the pages. yes, it's normal size calendar, whatever. she spins around in her chair to the envelope stash, which consists of business letter size envelopes and...that's it.
"ok, so you're going to walk down the street 5, maybe 6 blocks and there's a lovely paper store that has envelopes of all sizes!"
you mean you don't have a single large envelope, wrapping paper, tube, anything?
"no, we stopped carrying anything other than regular envelopes, sorry."
ok, so, postal transaction failed, let's try some banking.
i'd like to take the pleasure of closing my bank account!
"may i ask why?"
because i've spent over 10 hours on that bench! i've had enough!
"but those were lovely, enjoyable hours on that bench!"
not really, please close my account
"ooooh, i'm sorry, that won't be possible, you'll need to talk to the financial advisor, who is on his lunch break right now [it's 3:30 pm], or, go to where you opened your account, oh, in florac!"
yes, that's 10 hours away, i can't do it here?
"oh, but isn't florac nice this time of year? and the line would certainly be shorter"
and that's when i gave up. i emptied my account, and walked away defeated.
the woman called after me "bye, see you next time!"
so not only are they pathetic and incompetent, they fuck with you too.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
le barratin
the barratin shows up on google maps of the 20eme paris with a little martini glass. four of us went there for lunch and it makes me want to hit every little google map knife and fork and suitcase within a 2500m radius.
we showed up for lunch, just before the rush. typical windows onto the street with loud metal framed doors that don't shut perfectly, spartan tables and chairs, tile floor, and a simple small curved wooden bar from which you can see into the kithen.
only 2 tables large enough for us were free out of the 10 total, i wanted the one by the window. "desolee, c'est reserve!"
really?
"one guest is already here" and up pops a little furry happy cat head, "c'est sa place."
so we take a seat in back, in front of the bookshelf with magazines and other provided reading material and glance at the menu, which is a large chalkboard on the wall with imperfect elementary school script of today's 3 course offering for 16 Euro with a few choices.
periodically, one of the waiters climbs up on chair to erase what is 86'd with his sleeve and scribble in its replacement. it's almost like a twitter feed...
we chose a wine from the neighboring chalkboard, and it was served in a simple thick-bottomed bottle. my dining companions had the lentil salad to start, i had very tasty flaky fresh cod-stuffed peppers with endives drizzled with olive oil.
the other's main dish was the same delicious fresh cod on tomato and onions in a broth, i had a vegetable and beef cheek soup with meat so tender i never needed a knife. a bit of salt, but no knife.
all very simple plates, what you could probably make yourself if you really put your mind to it, but let's face it, you'd rather be here in this cozy place, eating bright, perfect comfort food made from items purchased the day before from the market down the street.
an elderly couple had been seated at the table with the cat, who simply looked on as i did, occasionally closing our eyes the way cats do when they purr and are just simlply content. the chef came out from the kitchen to help the waiter when the place became jammed, i kept wondering why that wasn't my brother instead, with heccubus seated next the old people, growling happily, smacking his tail against a purse while constable cuddlesworth plays stupidly with a man's shoelace?
we showed up for lunch, just before the rush. typical windows onto the street with loud metal framed doors that don't shut perfectly, spartan tables and chairs, tile floor, and a simple small curved wooden bar from which you can see into the kithen.
only 2 tables large enough for us were free out of the 10 total, i wanted the one by the window. "desolee, c'est reserve!"
really?
"one guest is already here" and up pops a little furry happy cat head, "c'est sa place."
so we take a seat in back, in front of the bookshelf with magazines and other provided reading material and glance at the menu, which is a large chalkboard on the wall with imperfect elementary school script of today's 3 course offering for 16 Euro with a few choices.
periodically, one of the waiters climbs up on chair to erase what is 86'd with his sleeve and scribble in its replacement. it's almost like a twitter feed...
we chose a wine from the neighboring chalkboard, and it was served in a simple thick-bottomed bottle. my dining companions had the lentil salad to start, i had very tasty flaky fresh cod-stuffed peppers with endives drizzled with olive oil.
the other's main dish was the same delicious fresh cod on tomato and onions in a broth, i had a vegetable and beef cheek soup with meat so tender i never needed a knife. a bit of salt, but no knife.
all very simple plates, what you could probably make yourself if you really put your mind to it, but let's face it, you'd rather be here in this cozy place, eating bright, perfect comfort food made from items purchased the day before from the market down the street.
an elderly couple had been seated at the table with the cat, who simply looked on as i did, occasionally closing our eyes the way cats do when they purr and are just simlply content. the chef came out from the kitchen to help the waiter when the place became jammed, i kept wondering why that wasn't my brother instead, with heccubus seated next the old people, growling happily, smacking his tail against a purse while constable cuddlesworth plays stupidly with a man's shoelace?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
tallyho! the 1st semi-annual DC Tweed Ride
'twas a delectable perfectly orchestrated fall data for the first DC Tweed Ride, a sensational day of bi-wheeled fun, hosted by the ever polite and organized dandies and Quaintrelles. Dapper weather indeed and graceful attire of wheelmen and women, adequately documented here.
three cheers to our many humble fans and agreeable quadracycle combustibles who gracefully let us through. 
my pal april shaded me with her parasol, which made my shade simply sublime. 
my sound system was as tested and true, but provided some delightful gangsta rap for times of silence.
three cheers to our many humble fans and agreeable quadracycle combustibles who gracefully let us through. my pal april shaded me with her parasol, which made my shade simply sublime. my sound system was as tested and true, but provided some delightful gangsta rap for times of silence. they say it's semi-annual, i forget if that means every two years or once every six months? i hope it's the latter!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
well, i got my story
i went out for a drink on friday with a guy i met recently, i guess you could call it a 'date.' that's what everyone else was calling it when i was at a happy hour beforehand, and dreading said meeting. one friend said "worst case scenario is you'll have a funny story to tell."
it just so happens that 2 hours of listening to him talk about how he hasn't called his mom in 3 weeks and how many movies and music he illegally downloads was a date, and i found this out only because he texted his recap of the evening -including "she paid for drinks! :) she's moving to germany :(" - to a friend, and as it turns out, inadvertently to me. it was quickly followed up with "oops, wrong person. want to meet up again?"
how do you spell a-w-k-w-a-r-d?
it just so happens that 2 hours of listening to him talk about how he hasn't called his mom in 3 weeks and how many movies and music he illegally downloads was a date, and i found this out only because he texted his recap of the evening -including "she paid for drinks! :) she's moving to germany :(" - to a friend, and as it turns out, inadvertently to me. it was quickly followed up with "oops, wrong person. want to meet up again?"
how do you spell a-w-k-w-a-r-d?
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
octogenarian racquetball revenge
we don't play racquetball in the mornings anymore. all because of the octogenarians.
the octogenarians are a rough bunch of knee brace wearing, coke bottle prescription goggle sporting beer-bellied old guys. the octogenarians have declared that pre 9am, the racquetball courts at the Y are, [despite the clearly marked rules on the sign-in sheets] "first come first served." try showing up earlier than some old timer who eats dinner at 5 and is in bed by 7. once the octos are in their sealed room, there's no amount of noise that will get their near-deaf attention. so, we don't play racquetball in the mornings anymore.
which is fine, because nothing makes a hangover instantly worse and persistent than being hit with a blue bouncy ball. so we started playing at lunch. lunch times are quiet [when the rest of the courts aren't being used by Y youth camp dodgeball or duck duck goose]. only problem there is you can only block off two and half hours in your schedule for so long until the boss notices you keep coming back from the "opthalmalogist" thrice a week with flushed cheeks and wet hair. some might even go so far as to think you're being someone's mistress and meeting at the Mayflower.
so that leaves evenings, which are indoor sport rush hour. to get a court in the prime time 5:30-8pm range you need to sign up for a tuesday a month from now and hope nothing comes up for you or the person you want to play with between now and then. something most often does. so when my partner and i finally managed to be free for a pre-planned no other engagements 5:15 court time you can imagine we were pretty stoked.
game 1 was close, implemented the win-by-two rule to end at 18-16. we come out for a drink at the water fountain and typical chit-chat preparing for game 2 when i notice two octogenarians stalking our door. out of the corner of my eye one of them sneaks in and the other is about to when my partner, a more imposing muscular man than myself politely intervenes.
"excuse me, but i believe we have that court reserved until 6:30"
and the octo replies, with his eyes amplified 20x by his patented googles "no you don't, WE have court 6 reserved until 6:30"
"no, i'm fairly certain WE reserved court 6 weeks ago"
"no, WE have court 6 reserved."
this goes on and on, with the volume of this altercation rising considerably, partly because of the tangible tension, but also the hearing impairment of one of the parties.
finally, both men's noses are inches apart, like a baseball coach questioning an umpire, though my teammate is clearly towering over the shrinking hunchy old guy, until finally my partner, a lawyer, pokes the geezer gently in the sternum uttering the clincher "oh yeah? well is YOUR name Shapiro??"
the man replies almost instantly "well as a matter of fact it IS!" and slams the door to court 6, locking us out of his abyss of silence.
this is an impasse, someone MUST be lying. because my name is Shapiro and I clearly wrote it inside the two boxes (it's actually against Y by-laws to sign back-to-back but I'll admit i do it anyway) from 5:15-6:45. i even put it in my phone. and my partner even verified it before coming up the stairs to play.
the attourney utters under his breath, "i am not beneath evicting those old farts" and we storm down to the main floor with a score to settle. here lies the clipboard with the day's list of reservations for racquetball and squash. and right there, next to my lefty pencil-ed Shapiro/Butler (who actually isn't a member anymore but i like to think i still play her) is a scraggly handed, wobbly arthiritic lettered all-caps SHAPIRO under court 6. sonofabitch! i guess we're on court 8.
on our way back up the stairs we declare that all court reservations be made under a pseudonym to avoid these types of conflicts in the future. so unless your name just happens to be Gretta Schmelmelstein, you better watch out!
the octogenarians are a rough bunch of knee brace wearing, coke bottle prescription goggle sporting beer-bellied old guys. the octogenarians have declared that pre 9am, the racquetball courts at the Y are, [despite the clearly marked rules on the sign-in sheets] "first come first served." try showing up earlier than some old timer who eats dinner at 5 and is in bed by 7. once the octos are in their sealed room, there's no amount of noise that will get their near-deaf attention. so, we don't play racquetball in the mornings anymore.
which is fine, because nothing makes a hangover instantly worse and persistent than being hit with a blue bouncy ball. so we started playing at lunch. lunch times are quiet [when the rest of the courts aren't being used by Y youth camp dodgeball or duck duck goose]. only problem there is you can only block off two and half hours in your schedule for so long until the boss notices you keep coming back from the "opthalmalogist" thrice a week with flushed cheeks and wet hair. some might even go so far as to think you're being someone's mistress and meeting at the Mayflower.
so that leaves evenings, which are indoor sport rush hour. to get a court in the prime time 5:30-8pm range you need to sign up for a tuesday a month from now and hope nothing comes up for you or the person you want to play with between now and then. something most often does. so when my partner and i finally managed to be free for a pre-planned no other engagements 5:15 court time you can imagine we were pretty stoked.
game 1 was close, implemented the win-by-two rule to end at 18-16. we come out for a drink at the water fountain and typical chit-chat preparing for game 2 when i notice two octogenarians stalking our door. out of the corner of my eye one of them sneaks in and the other is about to when my partner, a more imposing muscular man than myself politely intervenes.
"excuse me, but i believe we have that court reserved until 6:30"
and the octo replies, with his eyes amplified 20x by his patented googles "no you don't, WE have court 6 reserved until 6:30"
"no, i'm fairly certain WE reserved court 6 weeks ago"
"no, WE have court 6 reserved."
this goes on and on, with the volume of this altercation rising considerably, partly because of the tangible tension, but also the hearing impairment of one of the parties.
finally, both men's noses are inches apart, like a baseball coach questioning an umpire, though my teammate is clearly towering over the shrinking hunchy old guy, until finally my partner, a lawyer, pokes the geezer gently in the sternum uttering the clincher "oh yeah? well is YOUR name Shapiro??"
the man replies almost instantly "well as a matter of fact it IS!" and slams the door to court 6, locking us out of his abyss of silence.
this is an impasse, someone MUST be lying. because my name is Shapiro and I clearly wrote it inside the two boxes (it's actually against Y by-laws to sign back-to-back but I'll admit i do it anyway) from 5:15-6:45. i even put it in my phone. and my partner even verified it before coming up the stairs to play.
the attourney utters under his breath, "i am not beneath evicting those old farts" and we storm down to the main floor with a score to settle. here lies the clipboard with the day's list of reservations for racquetball and squash. and right there, next to my lefty pencil-ed Shapiro/Butler (who actually isn't a member anymore but i like to think i still play her) is a scraggly handed, wobbly arthiritic lettered all-caps SHAPIRO under court 6. sonofabitch! i guess we're on court 8.
on our way back up the stairs we declare that all court reservations be made under a pseudonym to avoid these types of conflicts in the future. so unless your name just happens to be Gretta Schmelmelstein, you better watch out!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
the D.C. countdown
*insert Europe's the final countdown laser introduction here*
after 9+ years in this wonderous capitol city, i am off to greener, nay, more sausage-y pastures in Berlin, Deutschland. for years and years and years, everyone has come and left, and me, like the horsey statue at connecticut and columbia, i just stayed.
now, German classes are underway, along with the slow pawning off of my material belongings, extra special quality time with my cat and, of course, all the things i've been meaning to do in DC but for whatever reason haven't.
so, with my few remaining months, here comes the D.C. countdown! because, in 9 years, i've never been to the newseum, haven't eaten at CityZen and i've only been to downtown alexandria...thrice?
what have you been hiding from me, DC?
the well-dressed burrito, for starters.
i was invited to lunch by a guy on the 5th floor, works in development, wears a suit. i saw him sneaking around with a brightyellow plastic bag one day and asked "what's that?" it's a well-dressed burrito.
it's in an alley. the same alley, to be exact, where the www.usps.com says there's a post office, but there isn't, there's just a bunch of mail trucks with surly mailmen who won't take your stamped mail no matter how nicely you ask. it's somewhere between 19th and 20th, M and N, the only noticeable markings is a mexican penguin sign and a black door. no windows. there's a counter, and half the space is someone's office.
for $6 i had tacos that were more like burritos, a full 2 pounds of food which will provide lunch for days to come. it's no super tasty taco or anything (this is more tex-mex) but i felt like i found my own little alley slice of heaven.
after 9+ years in this wonderous capitol city, i am off to greener, nay, more sausage-y pastures in Berlin, Deutschland. for years and years and years, everyone has come and left, and me, like the horsey statue at connecticut and columbia, i just stayed.
now, German classes are underway, along with the slow pawning off of my material belongings, extra special quality time with my cat and, of course, all the things i've been meaning to do in DC but for whatever reason haven't.
so, with my few remaining months, here comes the D.C. countdown! because, in 9 years, i've never been to the newseum, haven't eaten at CityZen and i've only been to downtown alexandria...thrice?
what have you been hiding from me, DC?
the well-dressed burrito, for starters.
i was invited to lunch by a guy on the 5th floor, works in development, wears a suit. i saw him sneaking around with a brightyellow plastic bag one day and asked "what's that?" it's a well-dressed burrito.
it's in an alley. the same alley, to be exact, where the www.usps.com says there's a post office, but there isn't, there's just a bunch of mail trucks with surly mailmen who won't take your stamped mail no matter how nicely you ask. it's somewhere between 19th and 20th, M and N, the only noticeable markings is a mexican penguin sign and a black door. no windows. there's a counter, and half the space is someone's office.
for $6 i had tacos that were more like burritos, a full 2 pounds of food which will provide lunch for days to come. it's no super tasty taco or anything (this is more tex-mex) but i felt like i found my own little alley slice of heaven.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Hilton protest
so if you've been walking down connecticut ave in the morning in front of the Hinckley Hilton there have been some protesters. i'm usually on the other side of the street but today i walked by and...they have a giant (we're talking 25 foot tall) inflatable rat on an oldsmobile. i got a flyer that reads "low wages have put this economy where it is today!" and they are mostly irritated by the "largely hispanic" cement employees. i don't really know anything about the details of their plight (nor their spelling error ridden flyer) but i dig the rat. 
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
oh, i hate so many people...
this is just one of them.
craigslist ad: three month old male kitty. (woodbridge)
from: comm-qyz46-1386139544@craigslist.org
hello, i have a three month old lil male kitten. i've had him for about two weeks and i bought him from the humane society, he's had two shots and has been dewormed, he's not nuetered or declawed because my vet wouldn't do it until he was at least six months old. he loves to cuddle and meows at you when you get home. my son likes to throw stuff at him and tries to pull his tail, it's not fair to the kitten so i think it's best if i find him a new home. he comes with cat box, litter, cat food, toy, canned food, cat scratcher, poop scooper, food dish & cat nip. there is a small fee for him so if you are interested please let me know.
so i wrote to them, offering to declaw their kid, or if they want to, keep the kitten and give the little bastard away, i'll take him. and i'll even pay the fee.
the response was not as hilarious as 'emails from an asshole' but people like this shouldn't reproduce. and if do and raise kids who torture animals, well that's when you send in the experts: http://www.rescueink.org/
craigslist ad: three month old male kitty. (woodbridge)
from: comm-qyz46-1386139544@craigslist.org
hello, i have a three month old lil male kitten. i've had him for about two weeks and i bought him from the humane society, he's had two shots and has been dewormed, he's not nuetered or declawed because my vet wouldn't do it until he was at least six months old. he loves to cuddle and meows at you when you get home. my son likes to throw stuff at him and tries to pull his tail, it's not fair to the kitten so i think it's best if i find him a new home. he comes with cat box, litter, cat food, toy, canned food, cat scratcher, poop scooper, food dish & cat nip. there is a small fee for him so if you are interested please let me know.
so i wrote to them, offering to declaw their kid, or if they want to, keep the kitten and give the little bastard away, i'll take him. and i'll even pay the fee.
the response was not as hilarious as 'emails from an asshole' but people like this shouldn't reproduce. and if do and raise kids who torture animals, well that's when you send in the experts: http://www.rescueink.org/
Thursday, September 17, 2009
stupidity and ignorance speaks for itself
i'm not sure if they had to search out all these crazy people to interview...because they are everywhere. i mean, it's all "government is evil we can't trust it!" but might i remind those that the gov is now a major shareholder in our banks..because we can't trust private companies to not be greedy! i could find a metaphor with our health care...and can we just wikpedia socialism, fascism, and czar? i mean, if wikipedia is not a communist website...
Monday, August 31, 2009
capitol skyline pool party
i caught the next to last weekend of the spike'd pool party at the crapitol skyline pool...i have to admit the place has a miami ambiance that's quite lovely. michael jackson could be heard blaring all the way from the navy yard metro station.
my bro found something which might have been a tendon in his cheeseburger (included with entrance. good brunchin').
the speedos were plenty, the old ladies wrinkled into raisins were impressibly tan, drinks amazingly cheap and the pool unexpectedly deep!
for reals, it says 5 1/2 feet. i slipped in, with my sunglasses on trying to be classy and not to get my hair all wet and i quickly fell into the murky depths, got kicked by a guy on a dragon raft and clawed some girl's thigh when i thought i was going to drown. i wonder if they ever find anyone being sucked into the filter at the bottom of this endless abyss.
oh and then there's this article in the citypaper..couldn't they publish this in the beginning of summer? makes you wonder why there wasn't much of a line for the bathrooms...
all in all a good time, not that i would go every weekend or anything. though i'll probably bring a few baby ruths to toss in, just for fun.
my bro found something which might have been a tendon in his cheeseburger (included with entrance. good brunchin').
the speedos were plenty, the old ladies wrinkled into raisins were impressibly tan, drinks amazingly cheap and the pool unexpectedly deep!
for reals, it says 5 1/2 feet. i slipped in, with my sunglasses on trying to be classy and not to get my hair all wet and i quickly fell into the murky depths, got kicked by a guy on a dragon raft and clawed some girl's thigh when i thought i was going to drown. i wonder if they ever find anyone being sucked into the filter at the bottom of this endless abyss.
oh and then there's this article in the citypaper..couldn't they publish this in the beginning of summer? makes you wonder why there wasn't much of a line for the bathrooms...
all in all a good time, not that i would go every weekend or anything. though i'll probably bring a few baby ruths to toss in, just for fun.
Friday, August 28, 2009
i only need one reason to move to europe
and here it is! a wonderful thoughtful comment by the edumacated american who i don't think is part of a lunatic fringe, sadly these people are sadly the majority. what is it about our country that fosters such selfish, competitive, i'm better than you mentality?
"so you wonder why the most successful country in the world doesn't offer health care to all. Because America was doing it differently, we used to have to go to work everyday to earn an honest days pay for honest days work and we used to be able to afford to live. No we are giving away the farm and no one has to go to work or is motivated to go to work because the harder we work the more the government gives to social programs. Why should I work hard anymore there is no benefit to working hard. No I am going to sit back and let the government provide for me. I want to declare myself and Illegal immigrant from the great nation of Long Island, I want my welfare check, my insurance, my housing subsidies, my families education, and I want it all for sitting on my butt. Now you want to follow the rest of the world, but I thought we were the richest most successful country, why would we want to copy other countries that are obviously not as successful if we are the most successful, if we are on top, why change what works. Just cause some dude who ran for president realized that lazy americans had more time to vote. Take away my ability to strive for more and better than the next guy and I will lay down with the rest of the welfare recipients."
commenter celectric, on newsday.com
"so you wonder why the most successful country in the world doesn't offer health care to all. Because America was doing it differently, we used to have to go to work everyday to earn an honest days pay for honest days work and we used to be able to afford to live. No we are giving away the farm and no one has to go to work or is motivated to go to work because the harder we work the more the government gives to social programs. Why should I work hard anymore there is no benefit to working hard. No I am going to sit back and let the government provide for me. I want to declare myself and Illegal immigrant from the great nation of Long Island, I want my welfare check, my insurance, my housing subsidies, my families education, and I want it all for sitting on my butt. Now you want to follow the rest of the world, but I thought we were the richest most successful country, why would we want to copy other countries that are obviously not as successful if we are the most successful, if we are on top, why change what works. Just cause some dude who ran for president realized that lazy americans had more time to vote. Take away my ability to strive for more and better than the next guy and I will lay down with the rest of the welfare recipients."
commenter celectric, on newsday.com
Monday, August 24, 2009
cultural sunday
last sunday, after drinking some champers and eating weenie tots in kalorama park i went to see this.
cool huge reflective ants, trippy photo-realism, some multi-media, silk creations and other stuff, like my friend who took me up to the rooftop.
the meridian center is cool, random, i can't believe i've never been before. wicked little patio and grand ornate inside, i'm a little surprised the place was so empty. then again, they may have wandered in circles like me looking for the entrance in the vortex of 17th and meridian.
anyway, one of the chinese paintings has some sort of predator creature in it, which was a fine interlude to see district 9. low budget, really? with its nano-second human bodies exploding into nothingness and a splatter of blood on the camera lens, a banal statement on segragation and tentacled creatures with hearts of gold. that's real culture for ya.
cool huge reflective ants, trippy photo-realism, some multi-media, silk creations and other stuff, like my friend who took me up to the rooftop.
the meridian center is cool, random, i can't believe i've never been before. wicked little patio and grand ornate inside, i'm a little surprised the place was so empty. then again, they may have wandered in circles like me looking for the entrance in the vortex of 17th and meridian.
anyway, one of the chinese paintings has some sort of predator creature in it, which was a fine interlude to see district 9. low budget, really? with its nano-second human bodies exploding into nothingness and a splatter of blood on the camera lens, a banal statement on segragation and tentacled creatures with hearts of gold. that's real culture for ya.
Monday, August 3, 2009
flamingos!
i rode a 13 hour nightbus from San Cristobal to Merida. i felt surprisingly well rested, and show up to my friend's bonnie's house. the first thing she says is "you look like shit!" gracias.
i enter their fabulously cool (did i mention it's f-ing HOT in Mierda?), 50 foot ceiling casa which has an open kitchen in a patio with a swimming fountain thing. a lion head spits lukewarm water into a shallow pool. classy!
bonnie's roommate and i head to this suburban mall to meet bonnie and another friend after their spanish class. this is a mall with a sears, a walmart, movie theater. it's very much like an american mall but all the stores have hilariously weird names like: Bizarro is the fancy jewelry store, Smoogus is the smoothie joint, LizManelli for old lady clothes, Suburbia is the hip urban outfitters like thing. we go to the food court and i get a really good taco al pastor. with pineapple. bonnie practices her new spanish at the chinese place. very odd.
we hop in the rental car and head to Celestun, which has a huge flamingo population. 4 gringas in a nissan. we stop for gas, which begins our day of inappropriate phrases like "wow, it feels just like home, a mexican guy is cleaning the windshield." or, bonnie's thoughtful description of the interesting landscape dotted with hennequin "that's the plant they use to make shit with." the radio blasts Bon Jovi. we notice a lot of really young kids behind the wheel of cars, but it's just that all mayans look like they're 12 years old, but they're actually 40.
we arrive in celestun and find a boat guy to take us to see the flamingos. he promises 5 stops and a very long tour, just the four of us. special. we all get in the boat which has cool swivelly seats, like airport chairs attached to a series of boards so we can spin around and face eachother . all jorge can do besides drive the boat is is stare at bonnie's bouncing bosom, in unison with the waves. he's in a trance.
stop 1: the petrified forest, which jorge tells us is 60 years old. um, ok. we get attacked by mosquitos and sink into some 3 feet deep mud up to our waists and cry out "atreyu!" and decide to move on to stop 2.
here we see our flamingos. wow, they are really ugly! and sortof pink. turns out flamingos are pink in zoos because they feed them a special diet or something. they twist their heads in ways that make us uncomfortable. like, ow.
next we go to a sinkhole in the middle of some mangroves, which we get to via a very rickety boardwalk. the water is blue green, dotted with colorful fish. verrry beautiful. jorge tells us the water is just a little fresca and we jump in. it's fantastic, refreshing. this is the first time i've felt comfortable, temperature wise in yucatan. jorge is staring at us 4 chicks in bikinis like he's having a vision of the virgin mary or something. i tell him to stop being a wuss and jump in, at least i think that's what i told him in spanish..he dives in and proceeds to pinch each of our asses. like ooh! that was my ass! ooh! mine too! and mine! um, kinda awkward jorge.
we take some silly pictures and head to the next stop, a creepy mangrove tunnel, then some more flamingos, flamingos and it's now 2 1/2 hours later, the sun is setting, we are flying along the coast at full speed, wind in our knotted hair, content with our tour and jorge says "la marea esta muy baja." it sure is jorge, thumbs up! and he's all, no, really, the tide is super low. you betcha jorge! and that's when i notice we've run aground, about a mile from shore, we're on this huge sandbar with patches of seagrass. ok, it's now a three hour tour...
"all the fatties out of the boat!" thankfully, the boat floats at this point, but let's just say that we spent the next hour empuje-ing este pinche barca. we are stepping in goo, crushing crabs and feeling dead fish with our toes. jorge holds up a sea cucumber to the norwegian girl "hola guapaaa" and makes it squirt rather pornographically, she blushes.
we finally free ourselves into the open sea and make it back to the beach in time for a chelada (beer-garita) at sunset. we give jorge a tip despite his creepiness, and enjoy a nighttime swim in the bright hot water. muy excellente my first day in yucatan.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
gracias, san juan chamula
so i was in San Cristobal de las Casas for two days, not doing much besides freezing my butt off (in July, seriously!) and sitting in a hammock all day drinking cervesa. my friend told me that i should really go see something, like a Mayan village or whatnot. ok fine.
so i go over by the crazy food market and find a collectivo (minivan bus thing) to take me to San Juan Chamula. I noticed that this lady was selling bags and bags and bags of pine needles? huh?
so the collectivo doesn't leave until there are at least 12 people in his 6 passenger van, of course. so i squeeeeeze in next to this guy with a dorky sombrero and my pelvis is literally stuck between the door and his thigh. turns out he's a swiss opera composer, and we start chatting and i meet the rest of his friends, this bus is actually full of frenchies.
we get to san juan chamula and it's basically a giant market. the mayans are quite serious about their vending. i eyed some of those big ears of corn that they bbq and slather in mayonnaise (yum), some textiles and a number of things which i told myself not to buy, but bought anyway.
the center of town is all about the church, naturally, and it doesn't look too fancy but we decide to go in. 15 pesos for gringos, and you have to pay over there, at the tourist office. ok fine. i would have given up except swiss guy decided to offer us all a round 'o church visits.
so we enter and i was not all prepared for the total weirdness inside. first of all, the entire floor is covered in pine needles, ah, the pine needles, and amidst all of this dry, flammable vegetation: a bajillion candles. the place was smoky, eerie.
along the side walls all these small statues of saints with creepy looks on their faces, and plastic mirrors around their necks, the kind you put in your locker and plaster with stickers of zach ephron.
at the front of the church where normally you would see jesus on his cross in all his glory, well he was there but kind of tossed to the side, in a box leaning against the wall with some other saints of lower importance. the real deal was on this san juan baptista guy with his awesome hat.
so all around the church you had the mayans sitting on the ground and chanting loudly in their dialect, lighting candles and giving offerings. eggs, cans of coca cola, tang, and live chickens. yes, live chickens. most of the chickens were chillin', like, wow, i'm being lovingly held by my mamasita, but i think once they got a glimpse of their cousins in a pool of bloody newspaper, that's when they would try to get loose. and so every once in a while, the chanting was interrupted by a ba-GAWK! totally worth the 15 pesos.
back outside i was hounded by some girls who literally robbed me of my earrings. they kept asking me for pesos, pesos! or your earrings? ok here you- woahhey! and in a second, my ears were naked. they would have taken my necklace if they could have figured out the clasp. they demanded more. how about a thank you? they tried to force me to buy their bracelets by tying them onto my wrists with double and triple knots...but i have more slender hands than they thought, and off they came. they felt cheated. i gave you my earrings, what else do you want?
a little boy kept grabbing my arm so fine, i bought him a horchata and he wandered away, gloomily sipping his free drink and i was all, pardoneme but that is a tasty and nutritious rice-based beverage there, how about a little gracias?
i quickly got the idea that we weren't welcome in this town if we weren't dispensing pesos, and so we hopped back in our collectivo, all collectively a little depressed.
gracias san juan chamula.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
hey you! over here! no, over here!
so "orale" pronounced ora-lay is spanish for "hey you!" which sounds a lot like my name. i'm just not used to hearing it so much, maybe in france, but here my head nearly spins off its axis every time i wander through a market and hear orale! orale! in every direction. the taxi drivers say it all the time too, in their cellphones and i'm the idiot in the backseat asking are you talking to me? allo?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
fiesta del mezcal : best 15 pesos spent ever
during la guelagetza in oaxaca, you are treated to non-stop fanfares, parades with giant costumes and heads, fireworks, fireworks lit from the giant heads and pretty much all around FIESTA. one thing i noticed though is that no one drinks in the street or is rambunctiously drunk. this is really a family thing. and so that's why you see 1 year olds running around unaccompanied in the street at 2am, chasing balloons and such.
so in the evening, you basically wander the streets and hope to cross paths with one of these pageants, either synchronized dances, little kids with giant sombreros or a 100 foot long dancing fish. a few guys had big papier mache turkeys and cows on their heads with round wheels on them. when you least expect it, someone runs up and lights a fuse and then, in the middle of an eager crowd you get those whiny fireworks and roman candles that make the wheels on the headpiece spin around and create fire spirals. (someone needs to explain to me how papier mache and fireworks are a good combination on someone's head). the guy continues to dance around and little firey ashes rain down on the crowd, it's madness. i think this is my favorite part of the guelagetza.
well, after the mezcal. the reason why no one is drunk on the street is because they're all around the corner at the mezcal festival. it's 15 pesos to get in and there is a live 20 person horn band playing to some of the dancing heads and costumed peoples who must have wandered in from a nearby parade. you make the rounds of the mezcal booths tasting everything from the bottom of the worm barrel to tasty reposado out of little plastic shot glasses. all for free. so it gets kinda rowdy. i thought i was hallucinating when i saw a guy in a tie and mexican wrestler mask dance with a dude with a giant bull head both holding up a large flag with a marijuana leaf on it that read something like "weed is the future." i danced with a goat. we were about to leave when we saw the oro de oaxaca booth which is known as a good mezcal. i bought a mini bottle which came with a free big mezcal sombrero. as if i don't stand out already. so rafa got one too. we were already content with our purchases and leaving but for some reason they rrrrreally wanted us to try all 37 varieties of flavored mezcal. non stop. in a row. one after the other. i felt like i was in a fraternity reality show but as a crowd gathered around it just seemed normal to down shot after shot after shot after shot after shot. kiwi flavored! yum! throw the shot glass on the ground. handed another. vanilla creme! yum! throw the shot glass on the ground. now try mango! this went on for a good 15 minutes when i realized my world was spinning while all these varieties were fighting themselves in my stomach and i just might vomit right now. i high fived a bunch of mexicans and zig zagged towards the exit. it took us 25 minutes to find our hotel which was only a block away as we took more of a spiral route, honed in by our instincts. the sad part was that at this time, it was only 9:45 pm. we hadn't even had dinner yet.
you can imagine how painful the consequent hangover is when there are 1/4 sticks of dynamite being set off outside your hotel room all night, and the drunk tuba and trumpet players that drank mezcal on my stoop and played a boozy version of la cucaracha until dawn. make it stop!
so in the evening, you basically wander the streets and hope to cross paths with one of these pageants, either synchronized dances, little kids with giant sombreros or a 100 foot long dancing fish. a few guys had big papier mache turkeys and cows on their heads with round wheels on them. when you least expect it, someone runs up and lights a fuse and then, in the middle of an eager crowd you get those whiny fireworks and roman candles that make the wheels on the headpiece spin around and create fire spirals. (someone needs to explain to me how papier mache and fireworks are a good combination on someone's head). the guy continues to dance around and little firey ashes rain down on the crowd, it's madness. i think this is my favorite part of the guelagetza.
well, after the mezcal. the reason why no one is drunk on the street is because they're all around the corner at the mezcal festival. it's 15 pesos to get in and there is a live 20 person horn band playing to some of the dancing heads and costumed peoples who must have wandered in from a nearby parade. you make the rounds of the mezcal booths tasting everything from the bottom of the worm barrel to tasty reposado out of little plastic shot glasses. all for free. so it gets kinda rowdy. i thought i was hallucinating when i saw a guy in a tie and mexican wrestler mask dance with a dude with a giant bull head both holding up a large flag with a marijuana leaf on it that read something like "weed is the future." i danced with a goat. we were about to leave when we saw the oro de oaxaca booth which is known as a good mezcal. i bought a mini bottle which came with a free big mezcal sombrero. as if i don't stand out already. so rafa got one too. we were already content with our purchases and leaving but for some reason they rrrrreally wanted us to try all 37 varieties of flavored mezcal. non stop. in a row. one after the other. i felt like i was in a fraternity reality show but as a crowd gathered around it just seemed normal to down shot after shot after shot after shot after shot. kiwi flavored! yum! throw the shot glass on the ground. handed another. vanilla creme! yum! throw the shot glass on the ground. now try mango! this went on for a good 15 minutes when i realized my world was spinning while all these varieties were fighting themselves in my stomach and i just might vomit right now. i high fived a bunch of mexicans and zig zagged towards the exit. it took us 25 minutes to find our hotel which was only a block away as we took more of a spiral route, honed in by our instincts. the sad part was that at this time, it was only 9:45 pm. we hadn't even had dinner yet.
you can imagine how painful the consequent hangover is when there are 1/4 sticks of dynamite being set off outside your hotel room all night, and the drunk tuba and trumpet players that drank mezcal on my stoop and played a boozy version of la cucaracha until dawn. make it stop!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
beware of the mariachi!
so in plaza garibaldi in mexico city you can cruise by in the evening and see what the mariachi market has to offer. here, the mariachis from all over gather around, and kind of like the home depot parking lot is to day laborers, here they offer their music services. you can also drink there, unlike anywhere else in the city, which is a major plus. so if you hear what you like, you can take them, or give them an address or whatever. i can imagine the poor fool "dammit! my wedding band just canceled!" and then you go to plaza garibaldi, problem solved.
i imagine some sort of violent musical feud between rival mariachi gangs. smashed bloody instruments, would make a good movie. in reality though, it's more of a horror genre that quickly turns ugly. the mariachi can be aggressive, and as they can also be expensive (mariachi is actually a luxury good) so you can get yourself into trouble if you're not careful.
and if you happen to be driving by, roll up your windows! they actually swarm vehicles like in a zombie movie and will try to play to you inside your car. it's el mariachi! step on it! don't worry if a mandolin guy rolls over the hood, we've got to get out of here!
i imagine some sort of violent musical feud between rival mariachi gangs. smashed bloody instruments, would make a good movie. in reality though, it's more of a horror genre that quickly turns ugly. the mariachi can be aggressive, and as they can also be expensive (mariachi is actually a luxury good) so you can get yourself into trouble if you're not careful.
and if you happen to be driving by, roll up your windows! they actually swarm vehicles like in a zombie movie and will try to play to you inside your car. it's el mariachi! step on it! don't worry if a mandolin guy rolls over the hood, we've got to get out of here!
Monday, July 27, 2009
now that's street service
one of the wonderful things about mexico is the sheer variety and multitude of street vendors. if you are sitting on a patio, you're guaranteed to have a delightful choice of sweaters, rugs, limes, batteries, novelty sunglasses and lighters and a number of weird services offered to you. most people might find this annoying, but some of the things people offer is pure gold.
first of all, a mariachi band, now that's a great service. i unfortunately found out the hard way that you can't just give them what you want, but you actually ask what a song costs, then negotiate, then let them play. i happened to invite a $35/song mariachi band to our table and they nearly spat in my face when i offered 10 pesos. what? que? we barely even listened to the song and we probably would have to get our money's worth. and the last thing you want is an angry mariachi.
we've seen the lighters in the form of louis vuitton purses, a watch with el demon azul on it that to this day i regret turning away and an 8 year old selling those eyeglasses with eyes painted on the lenses, so you can pretend to not be sleeping in a meeting. i found my pair far more valuable to have to put on when anyone starts telling a boring story. vincente is telling us about his hacienda. glasses on, yawn.
then there was the bearded lady who comes up to us, clicking two metal sticks together, holding a home-made box full of D batteries connected to these two metal sticks by a long wire...the mexicans couldn't believe i've never willingly paid for an electric shock before. "it's awesome!" to which i respond, no wonder why your GDP is so low, eh? i don't want to perpetuate stereotypes, but in this case i'm quite happy to.
so we try it together. 10 pesos paid, i hold one anode, rafa the other, and we hold hands. before she even turns the dial to 1 i imagine myself going into cardiac arrest and start jumping around uncomfortably. a 1.5 i feel a static, this is not enjoyable. a 2, 3, a twitch is running up my forearms and i can't take it anymore, i let it go. the he-woman is all "this level is for children! "you do this to kids?? rafa takes it to 8, and walks away, content. what a macho.
first of all, a mariachi band, now that's a great service. i unfortunately found out the hard way that you can't just give them what you want, but you actually ask what a song costs, then negotiate, then let them play. i happened to invite a $35/song mariachi band to our table and they nearly spat in my face when i offered 10 pesos. what? que? we barely even listened to the song and we probably would have to get our money's worth. and the last thing you want is an angry mariachi.
we've seen the lighters in the form of louis vuitton purses, a watch with el demon azul on it that to this day i regret turning away and an 8 year old selling those eyeglasses with eyes painted on the lenses, so you can pretend to not be sleeping in a meeting. i found my pair far more valuable to have to put on when anyone starts telling a boring story. vincente is telling us about his hacienda. glasses on, yawn.
then there was the bearded lady who comes up to us, clicking two metal sticks together, holding a home-made box full of D batteries connected to these two metal sticks by a long wire...the mexicans couldn't believe i've never willingly paid for an electric shock before. "it's awesome!" to which i respond, no wonder why your GDP is so low, eh? i don't want to perpetuate stereotypes, but in this case i'm quite happy to.
so we try it together. 10 pesos paid, i hold one anode, rafa the other, and we hold hands. before she even turns the dial to 1 i imagine myself going into cardiac arrest and start jumping around uncomfortably. a 1.5 i feel a static, this is not enjoyable. a 2, 3, a twitch is running up my forearms and i can't take it anymore, i let it go. the he-woman is all "this level is for children! "you do this to kids?? rafa takes it to 8, and walks away, content. what a macho.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
LAX to MEX
i had the pleasure of starting my vacation by stopping in the nice new airport in Guadelajara. (i dare you to look that city up in Google Earth, holey moley) within minutes of entering the terminal the duty free muchacho was offering me generous tastes of all the top shelf tequila. my newfound buzz made the sleazy old lebanese guy who kept inviting me to Cancun with him much more bearable.
arriving in D.F. i was met by my host's driver who spoke fast spanish as he took me along a fantastic route through the city. i recognized when we were passing through sexytown even before he muttered something about that 'gente fea.' you can say that again. fattie mexican ladies with skirts so short and see-through they surpass the definition of one.
next, we stop outside el dr. rafa's place of work, the ministry of education. my friend rafa gets mad respect for his phD from Cambridge, hence the title "el doctor." he'll often say "listen, por favor, please don't call me el doctor" and the reponse with a bowed head. "si, doctor."
ironically, just outside the ministry of education there's a guy hawking totally passable diplomas from esteemed universities. you can get a phD in physics from Harvard for $20! i'm going to see if there's a degree in partying from Tiajuana University. or maybe fastrack a master's in Botany from SUNY Buffalo?
arriving in D.F. i was met by my host's driver who spoke fast spanish as he took me along a fantastic route through the city. i recognized when we were passing through sexytown even before he muttered something about that 'gente fea.' you can say that again. fattie mexican ladies with skirts so short and see-through they surpass the definition of one.
next, we stop outside el dr. rafa's place of work, the ministry of education. my friend rafa gets mad respect for his phD from Cambridge, hence the title "el doctor." he'll often say "listen, por favor, please don't call me el doctor" and the reponse with a bowed head. "si, doctor."
ironically, just outside the ministry of education there's a guy hawking totally passable diplomas from esteemed universities. you can get a phD in physics from Harvard for $20! i'm going to see if there's a degree in partying from Tiajuana University. or maybe fastrack a master's in Botany from SUNY Buffalo?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
rode an elephant. butt hurts.
sheeeeeeeeeeepppppp!
that's the sound of an elephant walking in a swamp. 
rama was down to his knees in the muck. he didn't want to move. the mahout gave him a few bare foot kicks to the ears. a tap with his creepy hook tool. rama let out a deep growl in irritation. the whole thing jostled, i grabbed the little rope until my knuckles were white. i almost dropped my sunglasses but caught them at the last second. it's f-ing hot and the huge nasty black flies are alternating between rough hairy elephant skin and my feet.
here we are with the flying squad elephants of Tesso Nilo national park in Sumatra. these trained elephants are indonesia's way of trying to control the roving wild elephants who raid crops and kill people.
the elephants and their mahouts patrol and get called in when there's a conflict with local communities. it's also potentially an eco-tourism thing but they haven't gotten that far yet. but i'm not sure they're ready for that - these elephants don't exactly listen that well. when they really want to eat a branch, they do. if they want to roll around at a river crossing and spray water with their trunks, it's their call.
and i think they forget that my little feet are dangling off their sides when they rub up against a prickly tree. but they do pick flowers if you ask them nicely (like this variety of ginger) 
or clear a giant fallen tree from the trail. (i imagine having an elephant in long island, clearing branches after a hurricane, it would be perfect).
scccchhhhhloooooooooock!
rama was down to his knees in the muck. he didn't want to move. the mahout gave him a few bare foot kicks to the ears. a tap with his creepy hook tool. rama let out a deep growl in irritation. the whole thing jostled, i grabbed the little rope until my knuckles were white. i almost dropped my sunglasses but caught them at the last second. it's f-ing hot and the huge nasty black flies are alternating between rough hairy elephant skin and my feet. here we are with the flying squad elephants of Tesso Nilo national park in Sumatra. these trained elephants are indonesia's way of trying to control the roving wild elephants who raid crops and kill people.
the elephants and their mahouts patrol and get called in when there's a conflict with local communities. it's also potentially an eco-tourism thing but they haven't gotten that far yet. but i'm not sure they're ready for that - these elephants don't exactly listen that well. when they really want to eat a branch, they do. if they want to roll around at a river crossing and spray water with their trunks, it's their call. and i think they forget that my little feet are dangling off their sides when they rub up against a prickly tree. but they do pick flowers if you ask them nicely (like this variety of ginger) or clear a giant fallen tree from the trail. (i imagine having an elephant in long island, clearing branches after a hurricane, it would be perfect). and there are the two babies, Tesso and Nila who have the personality of puppies. imagine a baby elephant wanting to jump on you and lick your face. cute, and terrifiying. the babies manage to rile up the adults once too, they'll get tangled in the legs of their mama who then gets all pissy and screams. that's quite a hairy little situation.
but it's still amazing. this huge beast lies down so you can crawl up onto him, and you kinda amble along, feel this huge warm animal below you. 
sometimes i would pat him and it would erupt with this enormous grumble. and the ears flap against my feet, making a sortof wet leather sound.
sometimes i would pat him and it would erupt with this enormous grumble. and the ears flap against my feet, making a sortof wet leather sound. i wonder how someone decides to become a mahout. i would totally do it.
from on top of the elephant you can see over the flat landscape, beyond the forest, we are on an insland in a sea of oil palm plantations encroaching from all sides. fires in the distance, the ones that in the month of february and march obscure the sun. trucks lugging harvested acacia trees for the pulp and paper industry. when you look at a map you figure it's probably too late, there's nothing left. but then karmila, the 25 year old tiger expert tells me she catches tons of pictures of tigers in camera traps. so i stop being depressed for a moment and see little Nila rushing off into a miniature forest of ferns and grabbing all sorts of stuff with her trunk and i forget everything, especially that my ass is totally killing me.
Monday, May 25, 2009
goodbye banda aceh
after our final day on the aceh project we went to one of the local coffee shops as was promised to me all week - the best coffee! what differentiates a coffee shop from a restaurant (they serve exactly the same thing) is that the coffee shop has loooooww reclining plastic chairs, whereas restaurants have normal upright ones.
we walked through a wonderful wafting smell of coffee, past the guy in the grinding room, 
to sit out back under a tent near a bunch of young boys fighting over a plug to charge their cell phones that didn't work anyway. the waiter comes out and puts a bunch of food our table, like 10 plates, like our acinese lunches - i thought we had ordered it so i felt compelled to eat it all: fried stuff, sweet stuff, coconut empanadas and black sweet rice with flan, egg and coconut sandwiches, sticky rice inside little banana leaves and weird stuff liked striped chocolate colored jell-o. then i realized they just put it out there - here's the honor system help-yourself again. i like the whole eat what you want thing, what i don't like is that if you don't eat it they take it and put it on someone else's table. so how many people have touched this tofu cube (stuffed with meat)? who sneezed on my flan? how many people have picked at this jell-o like thing? it has fingerprints.
ahmad sent his coffee back because it wasn't strong enough. mine was opaque, suger on the bottom and seared through the lining of my stomach, but in a good way. i bought 1KG to bring home (i'm hoping the smell will hide all the crazy illegal fruit i'm smuggling).
to sit out back under a tent near a bunch of young boys fighting over a plug to charge their cell phones that didn't work anyway. the waiter comes out and puts a bunch of food our table, like 10 plates, like our acinese lunches - i thought we had ordered it so i felt compelled to eat it all: fried stuff, sweet stuff, coconut empanadas and black sweet rice with flan, egg and coconut sandwiches, sticky rice inside little banana leaves and weird stuff liked striped chocolate colored jell-o. then i realized they just put it out there - here's the honor system help-yourself again. i like the whole eat what you want thing, what i don't like is that if you don't eat it they take it and put it on someone else's table. so how many people have touched this tofu cube (stuffed with meat)? who sneezed on my flan? how many people have picked at this jell-o like thing? it has fingerprints.ahmad sent his coffee back because it wasn't strong enough. mine was opaque, suger on the bottom and seared through the lining of my stomach, but in a good way. i bought 1KG to bring home (i'm hoping the smell will hide all the crazy illegal fruit i'm smuggling). mahmud sat kinda silent, looking around. he says his coffee shop is way cooler. fewer old people, and super secret special coffee (i think i understood it was weed or something?). so he asked me if i wanted to go. pak tri really wanted to karaoke at the hermes palace, but i guess no one else wanted to go and you sorta need a lot of people (but i practiced my bon jovi!), so mahmud picked me up at 8pm with his scooter to hang with the kool kids. even brought me a helmet.
we went past the big mosque and stupid me forgot my scarf to cover my head so we couldn't really check it out - people were staring. i also forgot my tripod for the hundredth time so i couldn't take any cool nightime pictures.
we get to the chez yukee hangout on the river and people are smoking, drinking, and here come the fried snacks. i know better this time and stay away. well, except for the tempeh sheet. people are smoking over home made mini-donuts and corn dogs with little green chiles sticking out of them. mahmud keeps asking me if i'm hungry. they make me eat 5 meals a day here, i need a break from the food! no! i've already had my two dinners! also, the coffee from before is leaving quite a trail of fire.
mahmud's friends start joining us and i realize they're all photo geeks, just like me, it's awesome! (mahmud took amazing pictures on our trip that makes me want to upgrade from my rebel xti). so there are the nikonians on one side, the canonians on another. one girl has a fancy tripod, another guy shows off his cool bag. it's great because they all think i live here - where's your cello, want to jam tomorrow? where do you play frisbee in Banda? one guy just got back from yogjakarta with these cool keychains and they give me one with a skinny lady with a long pointy nose and curly hair. i get it, looks like me. but she is Srikandi, the hero woman. ok, i like that.
they announce they want to go 'hunting.' it's their word for finding subjects, places to shoot pictures. so we head to this park and start taking all these posed shots, (why do they always pose so normally and formal)? we're competing to see who can take the nicest pictures with my camera in really low light. mahmud wins by using green auto mode when everyone else tries to mess with the all manual settings but it's too dark or blurry, which is funny if you know about photography. such nerds. finally we do some cool long exposure shots and this is my attempt to graffiti banda aceh with my cell phone. 
on the way home mahmud asks me a hundred times if i'm hungry, as we pass a million little warungs (streetside food stands), the pizza hut that is an oasis of light in a dark street. mahmud really wants me to taste crab noodles, the local specialty before i leave, but i can't. my stomach is in the winter of its discontent! we get to my hotel and mahmud shakes my hand - okbye!thanksmahmud!cometoDCsometime!yeahbye! and i run into the relative safety of the kuala radja and their total lack of toilet paper. tomorrow morning i leave for a 12 hour trip to Tesso Nilo and the flying squad trained elephants. goodbye banda!
on the way home mahmud asks me a hundred times if i'm hungry, as we pass a million little warungs (streetside food stands), the pizza hut that is an oasis of light in a dark street. mahmud really wants me to taste crab noodles, the local specialty before i leave, but i can't. my stomach is in the winter of its discontent! we get to my hotel and mahmud shakes my hand - okbye!thanksmahmud!cometoDCsometime!yeahbye! and i run into the relative safety of the kuala radja and their total lack of toilet paper. tomorrow morning i leave for a 12 hour trip to Tesso Nilo and the flying squad trained elephants. goodbye banda!Sunday, May 24, 2009
the shortcut
i was so excited to head back to banda aceh, where i finally have a hotel room with a sink! yes, until now, i've been spitting out my toothpaste onto the drain on the floor, trying not to splash on my pyjamas. only problem is this sink isn't attached to a drain or anything, so i'm still spitting out my toothpaste onto my toes. it's progress.
our trek back to town was much shorter than the way there, our convoy of two vans was able to take the direct route back, although with a few modifications due to broken bridges and landslides. this route, called the USAID road after it's funding source has "Aid from the American people" written the whole way from Calang to Banda Aceh. everytime we were reminded of this, i would be reminded in a rather cynical way that this is alee's road! obama's road! it wasn't perfect, pretty bumpy at times, spectacular at others.
sometimes it was paved and smooth, sometimes dirt and rocks and mud. we would often come to a fork in said road and there's no way of knowing which is the actual road, and which is a sneaky road that leads you to a distant village someone wants you to unknowingly visit. then, there's the guy with the homemade sign, standing out in the blisering sun waving you towards him. the sign has a bunch of painted scribble with the words quick, banda aceh and other stuff. the driver lowers the window and i ask, "what does the sign say? he says "shortcut!" with a huge toothless enterprising grin. my horror movie trained instints say no, don't trust the guy pointing you down a scary muddy road, but i'm not driving. we pay him his little fee and scramble down a path. we pass a lady who is drying octopus on hangers and selling baby hammerhead sharks for 30 cents each (sigh). they STINK. 
and finally we come to the rafts, the infamous river crossing rafts the Red Cross lady warned me about. you're not allowed to take official vehicles on these rafts, but ours are rentals. she specifically told me: take your important things with you, your passport, your plane ticket and make sure you ride on a different boat than your vehicle, take the motorbike boat. it was all very eerie. so i'm rifling through my bag looking for my most important things and everyone is laughing - if we sink you'll get eaten by the crocodiles in a second, why are you worried about your passport?
we're entering into the sorta districts where not many whiteys are seen so in this little port town i'm the main attraction, especially because i'm with this ragtag group of indonesians. i tell you, when the day comes where i'm in a town like this and i DON'T have 5 guys screaming "hey miss! you are my girlfriend!" i will finally reach the pinnacle moment where i realize that i'm an an old, ugly, undesirable bule. and i will be very, very sad, unless i'm living on my island right there.
our trek back to town was much shorter than the way there, our convoy of two vans was able to take the direct route back, although with a few modifications due to broken bridges and landslides. this route, called the USAID road after it's funding source has "Aid from the American people" written the whole way from Calang to Banda Aceh. everytime we were reminded of this, i would be reminded in a rather cynical way that this is alee's road! obama's road! it wasn't perfect, pretty bumpy at times, spectacular at others.
sometimes it was paved and smooth, sometimes dirt and rocks and mud. we would often come to a fork in said road and there's no way of knowing which is the actual road, and which is a sneaky road that leads you to a distant village someone wants you to unknowingly visit. then, there's the guy with the homemade sign, standing out in the blisering sun waving you towards him. the sign has a bunch of painted scribble with the words quick, banda aceh and other stuff. the driver lowers the window and i ask, "what does the sign say? he says "shortcut!" with a huge toothless enterprising grin. my horror movie trained instints say no, don't trust the guy pointing you down a scary muddy road, but i'm not driving. we pay him his little fee and scramble down a path. we pass a lady who is drying octopus on hangers and selling baby hammerhead sharks for 30 cents each (sigh). they STINK. and finally we come to the rafts, the infamous river crossing rafts the Red Cross lady warned me about. you're not allowed to take official vehicles on these rafts, but ours are rentals. she specifically told me: take your important things with you, your passport, your plane ticket and make sure you ride on a different boat than your vehicle, take the motorbike boat. it was all very eerie. so i'm rifling through my bag looking for my most important things and everyone is laughing - if we sink you'll get eaten by the crocodiles in a second, why are you worried about your passport? so i content myself with just my camera. the rafts are three small boats tied together, a sort of pontoon with a nifty shade, and tiny outboard motor on one of the boats. 
to get on the raft you roll your car over two rickety planks, and there are guys to help you measure and proceed juuuuust right. a few inches and splash. on another side is the scooter boat, yes, this one seems more stable, it consists of three full size canoe things. and scooters aren't as heavy and don't make the raft sway and list as it does with the car. 
we all jump on and off we go.
to get on the raft you roll your car over two rickety planks, and there are guys to help you measure and proceed juuuuust right. a few inches and splash. on another side is the scooter boat, yes, this one seems more stable, it consists of three full size canoe things. and scooters aren't as heavy and don't make the raft sway and list as it does with the car. we all jump on and off we go. i have no idea how the boat driver sees what he's doing, he's looking under the car for the other side of the river and they are all smiling "no problem!" 
the raft exit is just as tricky, i can't watch. but there is a little hut to distract me, a little girl eating mango like things with a huge knife. 
they taste like mango, but i'm told they're not mango. we buy all they have, and our car smells like rotting mangos. we get back into the car and we meet shortcut exit guy, and we have to pay him too. only we soon realize he's fake shortcut exit guy, as the real guy who attracts the cars on the other side of the USAID road with his homemade sign is actually a little further. clever indonesians.
the raft exit is just as tricky, i can't watch. but there is a little hut to distract me, a little girl eating mango like things with a huge knife. they taste like mango, but i'm told they're not mango. we buy all they have, and our car smells like rotting mangos. we get back into the car and we meet shortcut exit guy, and we have to pay him too. only we soon realize he's fake shortcut exit guy, as the real guy who attracts the cars on the other side of the USAID road with his homemade sign is actually a little further. clever indonesians.the next raft crossing is more fun. this pontoon takes 6 cars, with even ricketier planks and they squeeze the cars so tight it's crazy. the raft is very unstable, and no engine, these guys push us across with big bamboo poles. 
my favorite is this old guy with a homemade indonesian basket hat (water bottle caps holding the thing together). we take pictures. he tells me he is a proud grandpa and i should be proud of having my picture taken with him.
my favorite is this old guy with a homemade indonesian basket hat (water bottle caps holding the thing together). we take pictures. he tells me he is a proud grandpa and i should be proud of having my picture taken with him. we stop at a cliff and have coffee in front of a spectacular vista. i have selected the island i will live on. 
we listen to the gibbons call, as we scoop the coffee grounds out with a spoon. i kinda like them, they taste like chocolate. and once again, i usually take my coffee with milk and sugar, but this stuff, i'll drink it straight.
we listen to the gibbons call, as we scoop the coffee grounds out with a spoon. i kinda like them, they taste like chocolate. and once again, i usually take my coffee with milk and sugar, but this stuff, i'll drink it straight. we're entering into the sorta districts where not many whiteys are seen so in this little port town i'm the main attraction, especially because i'm with this ragtag group of indonesians. i tell you, when the day comes where i'm in a town like this and i DON'T have 5 guys screaming "hey miss! you are my girlfriend!" i will finally reach the pinnacle moment where i realize that i'm an an old, ugly, undesirable bule. and i will be very, very sad, unless i'm living on my island right there.Saturday, May 23, 2009
free flip flops!
every hotel in indonesia has little complimentary slippers with the name of the hotel on them, probably because of the whole bathroom situation, it's always a puddle in there.
so the park lane hotel in jakarta as you can imagine had nice fuzzy slippers. the maharani had the ones you get at a chinese pedicure place, passable. where we're staying in calang, they're like paper flip flops, you'd probably give them out at an airport security checkpoint. literally disposable.
azhar wears them everywhere.
we're walking through a ravine to get to a makeshift gold mine and there's azhar with his little white paper slippers and i'm wondering if it's a bragging thing, like, hey i'm checked in at the pantai barat, where are you staying?
um, the pantai barat isn't exactly finished yet. this whole spot was pretty much erased by the tsunami so i won't hold it against them. they're missing most of the second floor (i went up there and it's a great place to dry your laundry) and pretty much all of the major walls and finishings, like door numbers. there's a random table and some chairs out in a courtyard that we use to work and hold meetings, it's very rustic.
i'm in a room that faces the clunky old generator. i thought about asking them to shut it off at night, but then that means no A/C so it comes down to hot and quiet vs. cold and loud? what do you think?
so the park lane hotel in jakarta as you can imagine had nice fuzzy slippers. the maharani had the ones you get at a chinese pedicure place, passable. where we're staying in calang, they're like paper flip flops, you'd probably give them out at an airport security checkpoint. literally disposable.
azhar wears them everywhere.
we're walking through a ravine to get to a makeshift gold mine and there's azhar with his little white paper slippers and i'm wondering if it's a bragging thing, like, hey i'm checked in at the pantai barat, where are you staying?
um, the pantai barat isn't exactly finished yet. this whole spot was pretty much erased by the tsunami so i won't hold it against them. they're missing most of the second floor (i went up there and it's a great place to dry your laundry) and pretty much all of the major walls and finishings, like door numbers. there's a random table and some chairs out in a courtyard that we use to work and hold meetings, it's very rustic.
i'm in a room that faces the clunky old generator. i thought about asking them to shut it off at night, but then that means no A/C so it comes down to hot and quiet vs. cold and loud? what do you think?
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