tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83741892024-03-14T10:21:46.035+01:00Take off your daisy dukes and stay awhileCarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-70102534044534345652009-07-19T20:31:00.000+02:002009-07-19T20:32:20.545+02:00The Bruschetta Debate: Pitfalls of Pretentious Pronunciation"What do you think, Geoffrey? Should we get an appetizer? What about the bru-shedda?"<br />"Great idea Cheryl! They do a really good job with that here. [to waiter] I think we'll start with the bru-SKedda, thanks." Poor Cheryl.<br /><br />In high school I worked at an Italian restaurant as a seater (a singing seater, no less; embarrassing times, those) and a conversation similar to the one above was to be overheard at least once per shift. On especially exciting (and mystifying) occasions, servers themselves would take a moment to kindly dispossess diners of their unfortunate ignorance and softly inform them that, in fact, they meant to order "bru-skedda" with a very explosive "k." As you'd expect, such lingual evangelism was usually met by customers with a look that said, "If you want, I'll help you shove that bru-skedda right up your ass-holé."<br /><br />And who could blame them? You hear it all the time nowadays, even outside of restaurants. "Ugh," someone will exasperate, "I <i>hate</i> it when people say bru-shedda. I mean, that's why everyone thinks Americans are so stupid." For several years now the aggravating habit of correcting the mispronunciation of foreign words has been seeping into the realm of acceptable behavior like pus seeping into an infected wound. The intent seems obvious: to impress a date with an infinitely varied potpourri of knowledge with regards to far-flung cultures and languages. Sadly no one ever tells these people the regrettable truth: their potpourri smells like shit. And as anyone who's been there knows, it's never pleasant to be downwind of such phonetic ostentation. Instead of being impressed by the display of cosmopolitan <i>savoir-faire</i>, we're repulsed by it on nearly every occasion. With such a miserable success rate, one wonders at the persistence of such pretension.<br /><br />I use the word "pretension" deliberately, for more often than not those who engage in this behavior are simply pretending. Pretending at knowledge of a language they studied for a semester or two and then put to diligent use during some time abroad (cloistered in an American institution, speaking mainly English all day, but that's neither here nor there now, is it? I mean, they always ordered their gelato in Italian!). What happened in this country with regards to our worldview? Somehow we created two extremes: the rabidly xenophobic on one end and those with an annoying penchant for overblown displays of sophistication on the other. Thankfully most people fall somewhere in between. But there seems to be this burning desire in many to prove that the iron fetters of middle-class upbringing and education have been flung aside in order to taste the sweet freedom of constant mental stimulation and intellectual challenge. Never mind they haven't read a book since <u>Island of the Blue Dolphins</u>. Well, and <u>The Audacity of Hope</u> on CD.<br /><br />Although it occurs not just with food and not just in Italian, I'll use <i>bruschetta</i> as the most mind-numbing and perhaps most prevalent example of this pretentiousness. Maybe they heard Emeril talking on TV and loved the musical sounds tripping upon his Italo-Bostonian tongue. Could be they know that the <i>David</i> wasn't sculpted by Michelle-angelo, so they extend the rule to all "ch" combinations they see in Italian (in which case, praise for being observant is in order). And yes, it is true: in Italian, in the word <i>bruschetta</i>, the "sch" is pronounced as in English "SCHool," "SColiosis," "SCurvy," "Antonin SCalia SCanned the SCreen at the porn theater as Tom SKerritt SKipped aSKance." However, as it turns out, the Italian language has more than one pronunciation rule. Go figure.<br /><br />I say if you're going to feign erudition, might as well go balls out. There's more to a correct pronunciation of <i>bruschetta</i> than just the "k" sound. You'll want to be sure, as of course you're aware, that your <i>r</i> is pronounced as an alveolar tap, retracting the tongue tip behind the alveolar ridge before striking the ridge in passing. Obviously, though you'll pardon me explaining it to the Unwashed, the <i>u</i> will be the pure close back rounded vowel, pronounced endolabially, with no wretched diphthong leakage (unlike the waiters at the restaurant in California, whose "bru" in bruschetta sounds like "brew" in "tasty brewskis"). It seems silly to mention this, but certainly you'll double the <i>t</i> 's as in Italian doubled consonants require gemination and you'd be completely mortified to have your double <i>t</i> 's sound as a single<i>d</i>. Lastly, only a simpleton, we're talking a real fucking jackass, pronounces the <i>a</i> as a schwa, or neutral vowel, as in "thE," "dUH," or "jUst shUt thE hell Up." You employ a gorgeous open front unrounded vowel, as pure as the driven snow in Turin. Oh, I apologize. <i>Torino</i>. How foolishly and chauvinistically American of me. <br /><br />Perhaps those of you who know me well are surprised to find me on this side of this debate. As an aspiring opera singer and alumnus of a semester abroad, my words may even seem hypocritical. But the intellectual dishonesty of what I'll call the "bru-skedda position" is too profound for me to accept it as valid. Frankly I think it's cowardly not to follow the logic to its conclusion: if it's not too much trouble to learn the basic pronunciation rules for Italian, surely it wouldn't be asking too much to extend such diligence to every one of the world's roughly 2,197 (known) languages. Anyone who subscribes to the "bru-skedda position" I would expect to have no trouble with native-sounding pronunciations of:<br /><br />- Chow mein. [chau (tone 1) and meing (tone 4). duh.]<br />- Smörgåsbord<br />- Foie gras (with the "French R," the voiced uvular fricative. Want to display 100% authenticity, right?)<br />- Taco (with a dental "t" and mind your diphthongs!)<br />- Barcelona (with a beautiful, ringing "th")<br />- São Paulo (nasal vowels, please)<br />- Rio de Janeiro (with dialectical accuracy, no doubt. You were in the airport that one time.)<br />- Kiełbasa<br />- Scheiße (nice strong sibilant, natürlich!)<br /><br />You go to Frederick's of Hollywood and buy your wife some sexy "lin[nasal]-zhuh-ree" and gaze at the magnificent artistry of <i>Starry Night</i>, painted by a very gutteral "van Gokhkhkhkhkhkhkh," not bothered by the fact you're still saying "van" as in the car your Mom drove you to soccer practice in. You shake your head at the political excesses of Iran's "Makhkhkh-mood Akhkhkh-ma-deen-a-zhad" and sink into the bliss of <i>Clair de lune</i> by "Duh-büüüüü-see" while you recline on your "shez" in your comfortable home on that cute little "cüüül-duh-sac." The tones of your flawless Mandarin ring like bells as you discuss Mao or Tienanmen Square or the plight of earthquake victims in Szechuan over kung pao at General Tso's.<br /><br />"But those are all silly," you say. "And besides, who could possibly know how to pronounce everything in every language?" I certainly couldn't.<br /><br />But I'd argue that what matters is the <i>accepted</i> pronunciation. If I ask for "bru-shedda," you know I mean the damn delicious toast-and-tomato appetizer. If someone wants to talk about "Angela" and not "An-gay-la" Merkel, I know they're referring to Germany's rather homely chancellor. The primary purpose of language is to convey <i>meaning</i>. "Conveying intellectual superiority" and "boasting facility with foreign tongues" are far down on the list of The Functions of Language.<br /><br />So the next time someone orders "bru-shedda," try letting it go and enjoying the meal. Cringe, if you must, when they accompany you to a performance of "Don Geo-vanni," because chances are you'll run into some confusion with your first <i>Götterdämmerung</i>, and you'd feel hurt if someone corrected you. As long as the meaning is clear, accept it. If you have to, remember that you know how to say <i>gnocchi</i> and let that calm you down. Bottom line, if you're going to have a conversation in English, then damnit - have it in English.<br /><br />Of course, "bru-shedda" won't get you very far when you're actually in Italy, but that's another blog.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-33374027000304821602007-05-04T16:27:00.000+02:002007-05-05T23:47:57.182+02:00Cold Borscht and Hard Lessons<span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I'm handwriting this entry (to be transcribed whenever I damn well feel like it) to the cold openness of Sibelius's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Fifth Symphony</span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >. One among a handful of well-known Finnish composers, Sibelius writes music that evokes vast tundras of snowy firs in a perpetual twilight. Occasionally the listener will perceive a small Lapp child at play in the frozen landscape, her lips and thick coat displaying the tell-tale blood stains of recent reindeer consumption. I suppose it isn't quite fair to link Sibelius so closely with his homeland for no better reason than he's basically the only famous composer to have emerged from there; no one says, "Oooh, Mozart, what wonderfully </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Austrian</span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" > music he wrote!" for example. I'm not sure where this is going, and will blame any rambling of thought on the fact that I'm working on my third beer in the space of thirty minutes.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >After completing my last final exam </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >of college</span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" > on Monday, a strange nostalgic mood has all but consumed me. I think it was the odd fact that my last pre-graduate written thought was:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >"Моя бабушка живет в Москве, и она часто идет на театре - она любит Чехова."</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >This means, in Russian, "My grandmother lives in Moscow, and she often goes to the theater - she loves Chekhov." As I wrote that, three things occurred to me:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >1) My grandmother in fact does not live in Moscow.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >2) If she did, she'd only bother to go to the Russian-language production of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Cats</span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" > (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Кошки)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >3) A short time ago, I hadn't envisioned myself doing 1/8 of the things I've done in college, including learning Russian.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I suppose the reason for going to college (which many don't realize until it's too late) is experimentation. Berkeley students see what it's like to not shave for a full leap-year cycle, and young women at Sarah Lawrence have been exploring their Sapphic urges for generations (translation: they try a little "lesbian" on for size). In my case, college was the scene of a number of firsts, of getting my feet wet, of blindly pursuing desire (or often, pursuing blind desire); and I think I'm all the better for it. Mom and Dad, your years' worth of wages didn't go to waste - behold the list of precious and treasured times (color-coded for your convenience!):</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Year 2</span> - I discover that the Screwdriver cocktail is in fact a sentient being, whose sole aim is to climb out of your esophagus.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Year 4</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">- Beer can be delicious, and enjoyed beyond its capacity to have you passed out or make wretchedly ugly people rather do-able. In fact, with a good beer, the enjoyment is in the </span></span></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">flavor<span style="font-style: italic;">, and the intoxication is merely a bonus. Wow!<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Year 3</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> - I learn that if I need to find a bathroom, shelter, or food, I can be compelled to speak a foreign language pretty fucking well.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" ><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Year 3</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"> - I learn the German words for "top" and "bottom" after being picked up at a bar by a man who looks like Miss Piggy but smells like Gonzo - "Aktiv oder passiv?"<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Year 2</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">- </span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">After 7 months dating the self-same individual, CONTINUOUSLY, I prove to myself that monogamy is possible even for non-Mormons.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);">Years 1 <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">& <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">2</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"> - The "not-judging-a-book" rule hits home. After thinking him an asshole for knowing all the answers I don't know in theory class, Daniel Spaw becomes the closest friend I've yet had.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Year 1<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> - </span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Just because you go to US News and World Report's #1 music school doesn't mean that everyone you meet really wants to devote his entire life to dead Europeans' music the way you do.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);">Year 1<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> - </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">I'm as handy in a physics course as I am on a basketball court.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Years 2</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">& <span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">4<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> - </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Not doing the reading for a class that's conducted in a language other than your mother tongue is a marvelous way to look like an idiot.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Year 4</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> - Despite my attempts to prove everyone I know over 45 wrong, I find that hard work and tenacity really do work.<br /></span><br /></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Perhaps the best and most concise ('cuz we know I'm </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >all </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">about concise) way to sum all of this up is to say that I've come to see that one's life is not to be predicted - we're just not blessed with enough foresight to know what will happen to us, and the idea of positive correlation (that one event leads inevitably to a predictable other) isn't worth planning one's life around. Remember when I said I was going to be concise?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Anyhow, I'm most proud of one thing: I came here excited about change, and I think I'll graduate feeling the same way. I've come to believe that a fear of change is the most crippling and detrimental barrier to one's development, and so I'm glad that after 22 years, I'm still welcoming to the unforeseen and the unexpected. Bring it on, bitches - I took Russian, sang a role in a modern opera, made excellent friends and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >kept</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> them, and came to better understand how I function in a romantic relationship. I'll weather the storms of life with my lean-to of confidence. Oh, and it seems I've learned how to write vomit-worthy one-liners as well. Отлично!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Finishing up with Tchaikovsky's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Piano Trio in a minor</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. It sounds like Schindler's List, only more infused with genius. That Tchaikovsky, man, what a hero he is for me. Took the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >gayest </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">music imaginable and made it timeless.</span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">О Чайковский, как мы ты любим!</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" ><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:webdings;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1156730057228548912006-08-28T01:46:00.000+02:002006-08-28T07:53:47.136+02:00Terminal DiscourtesyI've got on: <span style="font-style: italic;">Hello, Mary Lou, </span>by Creedence Clearwater Revival. That's right, sports fans... I've made inroads into expanding my musical horizons. Paul Simon and Ella Fitzgerald are lounging on my playlist as well. Music in English, with a drum set, can be just what's needed when walking through the hot-as-balls humidity of a midwestern summer--it pumps the blood, so to speak. Quickens the step, etc. Sometimes well-crafted and beautifully performed songs satisfy as much as the unfathomable profundity of Wagner. Moreso, even, especially when it's hotter than a Teamster's armpit in July. Seriously, we're talking Ghosts of Mississippi hot.<br /><br /><br />So tonight is the final night before classes begin for fall '06. I arrived on Wednesday, after what turned out to be some rather eventful travelling. This is part one of an untitled two-part mini series. It starts, as many of my stories might, with a sickening man...<br /><br />Having arrived early to the airport, and finding the security line to be rather sparse, I progressed quickly to the terminal and found a comfortable, squishy-like chair to wait out the hour or so until boarding. I was alone for a small while, reading up on Barack Obama and the new Burberry line, until <span style="font-style: italic;">he </span>sat down across from me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>was caucasian, short and very thin but for the spherical belly that placed itself nicely between his ribs and groin when he sat. I guessed from his monastic coif that he was around 45. This estimate was supported by the obvious traits of the mid-life crisis:<br /><ul><li>Razr - this rang twice, once to "Dirrty," once to "Born to be Wild."<br /></li><li>PDF - never came out of his hand</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Wall Street</span>-esque suit which included:</li><ul><li>french cuffs with embossed and initial-engraved cufflinks</li><li>navy vest</li><li>suspenders</li><li>Presidential-candidate tie</li></ul></ul><span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>arrived on the phone, and talked to more excess than an 8th-grader who's just discovered that if she chit-chats enough, she may just be able to avoid seeing her family ever again. At no time did his conversation cease to be crass or uncouth... obviously, he was more important than anyone who'd walked through LAX in a very long time.<br /><br />"Sarah, doll," yes, he said <span style="font-style: italic;">doll</span>, "next time, see if you can't arrange the limo so that it picks me up ontime. And maybe my memory's getting bad, but I could've sworn I asked for Perrier-Jouët. They gave me Cooks, Sarah. <span style="font-style: italic;">Cooks</span>, for fuck's sake. Whatever. Do I have any messages?"<br /><br />"Brad, hey man. Yeah, I'm stuck at the fucking terminal... Tell me about it, this goddamned security isn't going to mean anything. They made me take off my shoes... yeah, right? Like that's going to stop these fuckers. If they're going to blow the plane they'll blow the goddamn plane... No, they didn't search me. I don't fucking look like Osama."<br /><br />"...yeah, tell me about it. Like these Jews can change anything. That fucking place is fucked up. You're never going to change these idiots' minds. We should just go in there and tell the whole fucking Middle-East what's up... seriously, drop the goddamn bomb, then we won't have any more issues from these bastards."<br /><br />Now, as more and more people showed up at the terminal, obviously they avoided this man like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Poseidon Adventure</span>. However, as it became more crowded, people had to choose between sitting on the floor or listening to the best definition of "windbag" since Antonin Scalia.<br /><br />There was still about a half-hour before boarding, and I had to get away from Hatred's mouthpiece. I got up to get some coffee, and, taking my bags with me, I marked my seat with a couple of magazines.<br /><br />I went and bought my coffee, and a scrumptious cran-orange muffin. Having completely forgotten that my mp3 player was in my bag, I decided that once I sat back down, I'd put my music on and watch <span style="font-style: italic;">his </span>jaw flap wordlessly while I soaked in Strauss. I nearly skipped back to my seat.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>was still on the phone when I arrived, and between the noise of the crowd and the crinkling of my muffin bag, I only picked up bits and pieces. <span style="font-style: italic;">His </span>vocabulary had worsened: "... God, what a cunt..." "... you'd think the idiot would promote my ass after I've basically been sucking his cock for 6 years." Class upon class.<br /><br />I rolled my eyes and looked forward to sitting down to my music. But, lo! There upon my chair (still marked with <span style="font-style: italic;">Details </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">Men's Vogue</span>) was an alligator briefcase. I looked about to see whose it might be, but no one seemed to have only just set it down. So I bent to pick it up and put it under my chair, thinking I'd hand it to whomever claimed it later on.<br /><br />"... yeah, hold on. Hey, man, can I help you?" Oh, Christ. <span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>was talking to me. It was <span style="font-style: italic;">his </span>bag.<br />"Oh, sorry. These [magazines] are mine, I was saving my seat."<br />"Ok, well, that's my briefcase. Don't touch it."<br />"... but... my seat?" I've never dealt with such assholery. I wasn't quite sure what to say.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>held up his finger to me, then put it in his ear, and continued his conversation. "Yeah, sorry. Fuck, I hate the airport... all these people." I understood at that point why people get in fights with strangers in public. I would gladly have accepted community service or even jail time to place the heel of my loafer squarely into <span style="font-style: italic;">his </span>No-No Zone.<br /><br />Just then, an angel in the form of a sweet grandfatherly-type gentleman stood up in his seat, which was next to <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>. This guy couldn't have been less than 75, but he was still tall and had a commanding voice.<br /><br />"Listen, I was sitting here when he [me] left, and I think you ought to move your briefcase and let him sit down. Hope I didn't interrupt your phone call." He said <span style="font-style: italic;">phone call </span>with such an oil-slick sarcasm that, when coupled with his semi-raised meaty fists, the ridiculous pomposo had no choice but to obey.<br /><br />As I sat down, the older man gave me a friendly wink, and I returned a small smile as I put my headphones in. <span style="font-style: italic;">He </span>continued his phone calls, but I didn't hear another word.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />Paul Simon's <span style="font-style: italic;">Still Crazy After All These Years</span>. One of those songs that says what it wants to simply and in a straightforward manner, yet it can only be understood by someone who's "talked about some old times and drank himself some beers" and enjoyed the exquisite bittersweetness that comes therewith.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1152589395128506302006-07-11T05:37:00.000+02:002006-07-17T08:48:01.563+02:00"... a failure to c'municate."<p class="MsoNormal">Listening to Carl Orff’s <i>Carmina Burana</i>.<span style=""> </span>The most well-known movement to this piece is the stirring “O Fortuna,” which anyone who’s ever watched TV would recognize instantly.<span style=""> </span>This music has been the soundtrack to countless curve-hugging sport utilities; repugnant, hateful children watching their spaghetti fall to the floor like so much Italian intestine, only to have mother and her Bounty© scrub away at the mess; and the insides of showers that were apparently the site of numerous gruesome murders, the blood and plaque splattered hither and yon, unable to seep down a drain impossibly clogged by hair (or teenage/middle-aged male sloth), thus facilitating a miraculously powerful new 409 or Lime Away.<span style=""> </span>“I’ll write the most epic music of the 20<sup>th</sup> century,” Orff must have said to himself, “so that it may be mutilated and parodied by relentless capitalism.”<span style=""> </span>Ok, maybe he wasn’t that dramatic.<span style=""> </span>But he <i>was </i>German, and born of a German philosophical background: in other words, we’re shocked that the world hasn’t completely gone to pot, but it probably will within 10-15 years.<span style=""> </span>More beer, please.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br />Today’s entry could have been titled <i>More Fun with Jews, </i>or <i>Pepperoni Pandemonium</i>, or even <i>Kosher Komedy of Errors</i>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>You see, the Symphony recently completed it’s 2005-2006 concert series with a grand production at Hollywood’s Ford Amphitheatre, an atmospheric 2000-seat venue with a lush and dramatic backdrop of cypress, oak, and many other species of Californian botanical treasure.<span style=""> </span>It’s a nice fucking place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>To prepare for this event, my boss decided to stage her rehearsals at the temple.<span style=""> </span>A sort of mall of Judaism, there was more than enough room in the social hall for a large ensemble.<span style=""> </span>Besides, where better to rehearse the Jewish Symphony than a temple?<span style=""> </span>But I digress: this entry is much more about the food brought to the rehearsal, not the event itself.<span style=""> </span>But I thought I’d set the scene.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>For this concert, which featured Israeli composers and performers, the Symphony flew a number of Israeli musicians to Los Angeles.<span style=""> </span>These performers were housed in hotels throughout the city, and had arrived an hour early to the rehearsal so that they could get to know one another.<span style=""> </span>I was charged with feeding them.<span style=""> </span>The trouble starts:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>“Go ahead and call for pizza,” my boss said.<span style=""> </span>“But you can’t have it delivered—nothing unkosher can be brought into the temple, so you’ll have to go pick it up, and the temple administration will be none the wiser.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><!--[endif]--> I understood that message in this way: when buying pizza for many people, and these people are unavailable for an in-depth questioning as to their pizzatic preferences, it is customary to order standard, unexciting ingredients.<span style=""> </span>You might go wrong with pineapple or anchovies, so you play it safe and get pepperoni.<span style=""> </span>Now, of course I knew that if we were playing by the kosher rules (which we obviously were not, as evidenced by her “none the wiser” thought line), pepperoni (which is made from the meat of a very slaughtered and very cloven-hoofed pig) would be off-limits.<span style=""> </span>However, I took her message to mean that her feeling was that few Jews are strictly kosher.<span style=""> </span>Ergo, a pepperoni pizza (the gold standard of every childhood pool party), while unkosher, would bother only the temple big-wigs—hide it from them, and everyone’s happy as clams.<span style=""> </span>So I’ll quickly recap, if that was at all tough to follow:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="">She says, “Order pizza, but go pick it up so as to hide it from the Kosher Police.” </li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">I think, “Well yes, of course, as the <i>standard </i>random-group-of-people pizza is Pepperoni, which is made of pork.<span style=""> </span>Most people aren’t strict kosher adherents, though, and won’t care if there’s some cooked swine on their food, so this clever ruse to sneak the pizza in will work just dandy-like.”</li></ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now comes the real meat (no pun intended) of the story.<span style=""> </span>As it turns out, <i>any and all </i>run of the mill pizza joint fare (ie cheese) is ALSO UNKOSHER.<span style=""> </span>So somehow, I, as a goy, was supposed to understand the minutiae of her rule-breaking… another set of bullets, I think, this time fancier (because I like to pretend I’m an aesthete):</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Wingdings;">v<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Rule to break:</b> ALL pizza has been tagged by the kosher laws as being unsuitable for Jewish consumption, therefore it may not be permitted to enter temple grounds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=";font-family:";" >o<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]-->Supervisor conveniently leaves out the word “ALL,” so that the Catholic-reared intern interprets this to mean “steamy pig flesh is ok so long as no one finds out about it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Wingdings;">v<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]--><b>How supervisor envisioned the rule being broken:</b> Intern will order <i>cheese </i>pizza, because although unkosher, it is somehow less unkosher than pepperoni.<span style=""> </span>Everyone knows this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And so an incredible chain of misunderstanding leads to this unfortunate and frightening scene:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>Although possessed of a circumcised penis, I unwittingly and very un-Jewishly drive to Ameci’s Pizza and pick up my order of 2 large pepperoni pies.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>I arrive at the temple with my bounty (or my kill, rather, as the food was covered in FRESHLY MURDERED MEAT PRODUCT!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>I ready the feast in the rehearsal room and then leave to finish some office work in the few minutes before everyone arrives.<span style=""> </span>While walking through the hallway, I encounter my boss.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>“Oh,” say I, “I wasn’t sure what everyone would like… I hope pepperoni is ok.” </p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I’ll pause here to try and decide how best to illustrate the ensuing chaos. You can help me (and yourselves) by envisioning those precious moments when you are sent into shock by unexplained rage</span>.</p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;">One would have thought I had said, “I wasn’t sure what everyone would like… I hope human feces and toxic waste product from Lake Michigan is ok.”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>She turned on her heels fast enough to make the Temple Donor Tree come off the wall (it didn’t really, but it could have, is all I’m saying.<span style=""> </span>God, have some imagination), and threw her hands into the air.<span style=""> </span>She waved her hair about in anguish, her fingers clutching some unknown horror as she yelled, “NO! Oh my god, no! It’s pork! It’s </span><span style="font-style: italic;">pork</span>!<span style=""> </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Take it back take it back! Don’t argue Carl just do it! They’ll KILL me! Quick, before they open the box oh GOD they haven’t opened the box have they?!<span style=""> </span>I don’t care what you do with it GET IT OUT </span><b style="font-style: italic;">GET IT OUT!!!!!</b><span style="font-style: normal;">” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;">By this time she had grabbed both my shoulders and was pushing me back into the tainted room that was now filled with the putrid stench of cured pig muscle.<span style=""> </span>And I was seething.<span style=""> </span>I was so frustrated with what has become indicative of her lack of communication that I grabbed the pizzas and stomped past her without saying a word. (I didn’t </span><span style="font-style: italic;">march</span><span style="font-style: normal;">-stomp, just walked deliberately.<span style=""> </span>I’m not 4).<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>I took the pizzas back into the office and set them down (deliberately) on my desk.<span style=""> </span>My coworker looked shocked.<span style=""> </span>“What’s going on?” she queried.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>In response, I dove my hand into the top box and scraped more than a handful of pepperonis into my grasp.<span style=""> </span>Casting a bitter glance towards the door, I glared at the mezuzah (the elongated boxes that adorn Jewish doorjambs… </span>I<span style="font-style: normal;"> won’t </span>assume <span style="font-style: normal;">that as goy, you’ll necessarily know this!), so that the temple gods would have to watch my blasphemy, and without blinking or wasting any time, I shoved that entire handful of motherfucking swine into my mouth.<span style=""> </span>Oh, I savored it.<span style=""> </span>Oh! by my troth and my word as a man of honor <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">tasted every sweet spice and note of smoky flavor</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.<span style=""> </span>The grease and cheese remains ran down my chin as I greedily broke the law of a whole faith—this being the only way I could think of, in my incredible churning frenzy of anger, to stick it to my boss. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: normal;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span>I’m usually ambivalent to pizza.<span style=""> </span>This… this! was the most delicious goddamned pizza I’d ever had the pleasure of wrapping my lips around.<span style=""> </span>And I didn’t even eat the bread or sauce.<span style=""> </span>Only the meat.<span style=""> </span>Only the filthy meat which is somehow more filthy than cheese by itself and I’m supposed to know this by some kind of magical osmosis of living in the city with the largest Jewish population in the western hemisphere!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->And with that, my story concludes.<span style=""> </span>I have resolved to be more culturally aware from now on. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’m not listening to anything because in order to relive my outrageous ire, I had to have total silence.<span style=""> </span>But I think I’ll put something soothing on now.<span style=""> </span>Like Strauss’s <i>Vier letzte Lieder</i>.<span style=""> </span>Hear Jessye Norman sing them and you’ll never look back.<span style=""> </span>I was going to play Wagner, simply because HIS MUSIC ISN’T ALLOWED IN ISRAEL JUST LIKE THE SEARED AND DELICIOUS FLESH OF THE HOG, but that would only fan the fire, and I wanted calm. Ahh.</p>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1152157107380092942006-07-06T05:35:00.001+02:002006-07-06T10:19:04.653+02:00L'dor v'dor<p class="MsoNormal">My supervisor Maia (pronounced like the ancient South American empire) has put on STAR 98.7, and so currently I'm listening to "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day. I'm feeling literal today, so here's a list of what I've decided are some possible candidates for the Boulevard mentioned in the song:<br /> <br /> Valencia Boulevard, Santa Clarita, CA: Probably not. The only thing broken on this thoroughly suburban thoroughfare is the occasional 40-something's french tipped nail or heel of a Steve Madden, a casualty whose killer is the loose hem of track suit pants or a Talbot's skirt. From the 5 freeway to City Hall and on through the auto mall, dreams are busy coming true on this V-town artery. True to the "dream" motif, the new Valencia street sign looks like it was jacked from downtown Sesame Street. Somewhere there's a furry muppet who's totally fucking lost.<br /> <br /> Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas, NV: Perhaps.... Sin City dreams must be made of the same impenetrable material as the bubble which shields His Holiness the Pope. This is the only place in the world where you can lose thousands of dollars to ephemeral Luck but then walk outside and hire the services of a wanton Lady. Nothing broken here but those persnickety monogomy vows you made when you got married. They need to change that slogan: What happens in Vegas, gets you divorced. What happens in Vegas, means a visit to the free clinic. What happens in Vegas, is really itchy.<br /><br /> Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, CA: Ding! Dreams aren't broken here, they're absolutely shattered. For the Angeleno, this is the epicenter of Schadenfreude. Some well-known demolished dreams on this road include: the dream of the wide-eyed Starlet; the dream of the moviegoer walking out of the Chinese Theater saying, "That was $15?"; the voyeur’s dream of seeing a celebrity and meeting only wookies and Charlie Chaplin.<span style=""> </span>The best has to be the dream of the tourist: he hops gaily out of his van, pocket-sized digital camera in hand, unable to retain his flood of excitement—“this is Hollywood!” he says, “land of the glamorous première.” When he sees there’s far more glamour in a Tim Burton Gotham than in his idea of Hollywood&Vine, his crestfallen look satisfies the bitterly hypocritical Angeleno like nothing else.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ok, so people in LA really aren’t that bitter.<span style=""> </span>Well, there are 2 exceptions: those who’ve just had a really bad day (and can you blame them for a little schadenfreude?), and people who didn’t make it as an actor, and found nothing else.<span style=""> </span>Those people are like unsweeted<span style=""> </span>chocolate or bay leaves or something (shit, I don’t know.<span style=""> </span>Think of something bitter.<span style=""> </span>Insert it.<span style=""> </span>Laugh).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br />So for those of you who’ve read my blog before, I would imagine that you’re quite tired of my little resurrections after too-long hiatuses.<span style=""> </span>I know, I should impose a statute of limitations on myself—if after nearly 8 months of absence, don’t try and be a damn Christ figure thinking he can walk right into Jerusalem and enjoy triumph.<span style=""> </span>PS, I’m not comparing myself to Christ—I am neither a psycho nor a Beatle.<span style=""> </span>Anyways, I’m sorry.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know if I’ll vanish again, but I apologize for the times I did.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Speaking of Jerusalem!<span style=""> </span>I have been working for nearly two months now down at a temple (rather, <i>the </i>temple) in the San Fernando Valley (for non-natives, think “oh my god, becky, look at her butt!” and <i>Fast Times at Ridgemont High.<span style=""> </span></i>It’s that valley).<span style=""> </span>I’m interning this summer with the Los Angeles Jewish Symphony, and they are in fact headquartered at this temple (which shall remain nameless, lest someone googles it, finds my page, and I am hated forever) which I’m told is the largest temple west of the Mississippi.<span style=""> </span>Translation: I hang out with tons of the Chosen People all day long.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>Now, before I start in on them, a disclaimer: In a diverse setting like, say, a UN Conference, I’m not about to start assigning stereotypes.<span style=""> </span>I won’t think that the colorfully dressed Zimbabwe representative propagates African stereotypes or that the Korean delegate eats rice like it’s going out of style.<span style=""> </span>No, in a setting with many walks of life, like in the day to day happenings of a large city, I’ll not observe behavior and think of it as typical of that race or class.<span style=""> </span>I’ll choose the moral high ground before milking comic possibilities.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>But <b><i>cmon!</i></b><i><span style=""> </span></i>I work at a TEMPLE, and a damn huge one besides.<span style=""> </span>These people are a <i>gold mine</i>, the same as if I’d walked into the Lesbian Equality Foundation or the Republican Barbecuer’s Convention—any time you put all of the same kind of person in a single place, they can’t help but come together in the spirit of complete predictability!<span style=""> </span>It’s the reason that when you get a bunch of music kids together, they go on and on about Bach, to the frustration of the business major.<span style=""> </span>It’s why when you go to gay clubs, it’s like a veritable parade of the Flavors of Queer: twink, bear, priss, weirdo, idiot, genius, hottie, “oh-dude-is-that-your-real-face?”, etc.<span style=""> </span>So the disclaimer is this: I do not assign the following traits to all Jews, but merely enjoy that when grouped together, you discover that no one has ever been more gifted with comic truth than Fran Drescher.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>I’ll start with what is hands down the most fascinating thing about Jews who are always at the temple: no matter where you were born, grew up, or even lived for a period of time, as a Jew you will have a thick New York accent.<span style=""> </span>It’s not just the bagel-shmearers from the Upper West Side—I know three women from Santa Monica who call me Cwawrl and drink cwaffee.<span style=""> </span>And those are just the basics.<span style=""> </span>Here’s a crash course in speaking like a Jew (again, no matter where you’re from):</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 39pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]-->When it’s hot, you ask the custodian to turn on the “eh condishionink.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 39pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]-->Rachel is pronounced with a long “ah” and a gutteral –ch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 39pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span><!--[endif]-->Darfur, or rather the cessation of that nation’s genocide, is a big topic.<span style=""> </span>“Dwaw FUH” is the pronunciation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Doting parents name their children Micah and Rebecca, Aaron and Abraham.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Herschel and Joshua! You two need to stop fighting and get your backpacks or you’ll be late for shul.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>The Jews are a people blessed with wonderful music (I’m being serious.<span style=""> </span>To walk down the halls of a religious organization and not hear “How Great Thou Art” or “Unless a Grain of Wheat” is marvelous.<span style=""> </span>Mwaw.<span style=""> </span>Mwawvelussss. Almost).<span style=""> </span>However, the absence of tired old hymns such as those makes for interesting non-religious ceremonies, such as Hebrew School graduation, which includes a performance by the oh-so-darling graduates.<span style=""> </span>The program includes:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Heal the World,” Michael Jackson</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hero,” Mariah Carey</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and a barrage of your favorite Motown hits!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, this next one may be the most sensitive, so I’ll approach it carefully.<span style=""> </span>To begin, I know many Jews who would not be considered “rich.”<span style=""> </span>In fact, most of the Jewish people I know do not enjoy the exorbitant incomes that many a crusty anti-Semite would accuse them of having.<span style=""> </span>That said, the temple is in Encino, sometimes called the “Beverly Hills of the Valley.” At this temple, the Donor is held in the highest regard, and there are quite a few people with the income to make <i>large </i>donations.<span style=""> </span>So what all this wealth (and willingness to donate) means is that you end up with a number of people who need to be thanked and appreciated.<span style=""> </span>This is done in the form of the almighty and omnipresent Plaque.<span style=""> </span>Come, a tour:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>When you turn off of Ventura Boulevard onto the temple’s street, you pull into the Beth and Simon Levin Parking Center.<span style=""> </span>You then walk past the Cindy and Howard Liebeskind Security Bungalow and into the Cookie and Mark Leibsohn Synagogue.<span style=""> </span>If you’re tired after a long walk through the hallway, you can rest on the Alisha Reskowitz Bench in the Bob and Sarah Shulman Rest Area.<span style=""> </span>However, the Sandy Makowski Bench is across the hall.<span style=""> </span>The toilet you pee in is given in memory of Daniel Green, and the David Hoffman Paper Towel Dispenser is a battery-operated automatic.<span style=""> </span>Don’t worry if you make a mess, because the custodian (who is not donated, apparently) will clean it using his Rachel and Moses Wichtberg Mop, which he pulled from the Bunny and Merv Eichman Broom Closet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">However, with all of this said, the Jews are not without a sense of humor, even (or perhaps especially) when it comes to themselves.<span style=""> </span>After attending a Shabbat service (my boss asked me to join her choir), the Rabbi encouraged the faithful to go to the back, take “10 Jewish minutes” and enjoy some coffee and cake.<span style=""> </span>Because Jews, he said, should never do <i>anything </i>without coffee and cake.<span style=""> </span>More than any other group I’ve encountered, this is a people who recognizes exactly that—they are a People.<span style=""> </span>Their sense of unity and solidarity with their own is rock solid and incredibly admirable.<span style=""> </span>Family life is the absolute center of existence, and the love shown to one’s neighbor is immense.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps it is the Jews’ devotion to one another which has kept them alive throughout their difficult history.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>Sure, “difficult history” is tough to take seriously when 14 year-old Samantha Lichtman walks in with a Prada bag and Jimmy Choos.<span style=""> </span>Ahem, but that’s neither here nor there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p>I’m finishing my writing tonight while enjoying the soundtrack from Amélie.<span style=""> </span>It would seem on the surface that Minimalism and Frenchness are two ideas that have nothing to do with one another, but it comes together beautifully. </p>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1131837720050166252005-11-12T21:47:00.000+01:002005-11-13T02:55:56.836+01:00Christmas, or the Childhood Fight for SurvivalMy mp3 player is currently in the guise of an orchestra of over 150, and the incendiary device that is Wagner's <em>Tannhäuser </em>detonates in my ears. I've decided that it is now time for me to tackle this musical alligator, and I shall wrestle him with all the power of an Australian naturalist. The music is, of course, indescribably beautiful (fame's gotta be justified somehow), but he can be a mite lofty. This opera, for example, begins with Tannhäuser hanging out in the palace of Venus. The GODDESS OF BEAUTY, we're talking, the SUPREME EXEMPLIFICATRIX OF ALL THINGS VAGUELY AND OVERTLY SEXUAL. This is a sex-crazed babe, and she runs a palace full of other like-minded babes. But Tannhäuser leaves Mt. Olympus (and a better sex life than Ron Jeremy's) because he has a rotund German woman waiting for him back in the Vaterland who probably makes a to-die-for Apfelstrudel. I think this is where Wagner loses his modern audiences. Look, Rich (or Dick, which in this case may be more appropriate), no man, especially not this paragon of heterosexual copulatory majesty, is going to leave the palace of Venus, which can boast over 300 channels and an infinity pool, for medieval Bavaria simply because of the prospect of good home cooking. Get with the times, man. Sex sells.<br /><br />That said, this entry is about Christmas.<br /><br />After much to-do and anticipation, the famed Viennese <em>Christkindlmärkte </em>opened tonight in the Rathausplatz (City Hall Plaza). This incredible open-air market is what many consider the center of yuletide merrymaking in all of Europe. The product of Mary's hours of labor in a steamy, poop-filled manger full of filthy farm animals (including, depending on one's childhood home nativity scene: sheep, camels, oxen, buffalo, pigs, geese, bengal tigers, panthers, black bears, sperm whales, and a host of other creatures who don't belong together) is celebrated here with such an array of sweets, drinks, and trinkets as to make known to all the true meaning of this joyous holiday: sugar.<br /><br />One is surprised that the ground isn't littered with hundreds of seizing children, their contorted bodies unable to cope with the kilos of pure Hawaiian cane which is slowly replacing the blood in their veins with sweet, sweet crystal... their tiny hands still clutching the remnants of Giant Frosted Cookie #724. No, these children amble around the market, ogling the wares with their parents, an 8-foot cotton candy obelisk in one hand and a stein of <em>Kinderpunsch</em> in the other. I don't know what it is: adolescent african elephants would be felled by consumption of such vast amounts of sugar, but Austrian children process it easier than Gerber© applesauce. Austria does consume more sugar per capita than any other nation, so perhaps there's an enzyme in the water or something.<br /><br />The market really is heart-warmingly festive, though, and it is a welcome respite from the bombardment of forced Victorianism that in America endures from the day after Halloween until the last box of L'eggs© (<em>Shimmer Toast </em>variety) has been plucked from the shelves at the after-christmas sales.<br /><br />The list of items up for sale at these markets is extensive, but there's a lot of repetition. A short survey:<br /><br /><strong>Punsch, Glühwein, or any variation thereof</strong>: This is the first purchase upon reaching the markets. For €5, choose your mug and any of the hot, spicy drinks. Return your mug at the end of the night and receive €2 back. "What?" you ask, "they intentionally miss out on €2 from everyone?" Ah, but here's the game: these drinks are meant to keep you warm, and therefore have a higher alcohol content than the bottle of isopropyl you have in your medicine cabinet. You're passed out on the ground with the sugary children before you have a chance to return your mug. You awaken in the morning with a brand new souvenir. Congratulations.<br /><br /><strong>Heissen Riesenkartoffeln: </strong>The pinnacle of the baked potato. These giant spuds come in about 80 different presentations, depending on the toppings one orders. Packs of Irishmen hang about and salivate. I had one with swiss cheese, garlic, and bolognese sauce. Delicious.<br /><br /><strong>Christmas ornanments: </strong>much like in the United States and elsewhere, but extremely affordable and unpredictable. Some have little traps that spring open to blind the family cat. Some are more kitschy than your grandmother's living room, and some are stunning works of art whose low price would make any aesthete feel downright guilty. Most are your typical ball shape, but variations include: stars, trees, babies, baby bottles, and reindeer (much like the Native Americans, all parts of the reindeer are here used--head, whole body, antlers only, prancing legs, leering reindeer faces, both the distraught, "Why, why did you hunt me?" and the enraged, "You bastard hunter. Buy me! YEAH, BITCH, BUY ME! Put me on your damn tree, and I'll give your children heart attacks with my vicious gaze." Chilling.)<br /><br /><strong>Sweets: </strong>Think you can't make a meal on empty calories? The vendors here dare you to try. Anything edible is covered in copious amounts of chocolate and decorated with little fruits (sugared, obviously). They've done things with chocolate here about which as I child I dared not even dream. If chocolate isn't your thing, they've also thought of ways to turn the most innocent foods into decadent treasures. Pretzels, cookies, cakes, sweet breads, sugared fruit, chocolate covered everything (sometimes with Bailey's), pies, strudels, candy/caramel apples, unfilled donuts, filled donuts (with chocolate, apricot jam, vanilla sauce, or just frosting), but no chocolate figurines. We don't deal with that lame shit here.<br /><br />There are also of course hundreds of toys and other gift-y type places, but that would take far too long to describe. Just use your imaginations, and assign yourself no limits: if you want it to have karate chop action or the ability to translate the works of the Russian masters into Urdu, it will.<br /><br />Since my arrival in Vienna, I've marveled at how well-behaved the children here are. It's more than that, actually--children and young people here exhibit an incredible maturity, and it shows in not only their behavior towards others, but how they carry themselves. These kids are universally <em>wise</em>. It's obvious they understand at 12 much more about the human condition than I ever will. Up till now, I figured that incredible parenting skills were the cause. Well, they are and they aren't--parents here have a fantastically strong tool with which to control/teach/horrify their progeny. I found this out tonight at the markets:<br /><br />Each year on December <em>23rd</em>, not 24th, St. Nicholas visits the homes of Austrian children dispersing gifts much the same way he does in the US. Also like the US, Santa has in his possession the List of those who have been "gut" and those who, unfortunately, have been "schlecht." [An interesting aside here. The List is drawn up every year on December 12... so children know exactly when their fates will be pronounced. Once December 13th arrives, the statute of limitations on allowable goodness has passed, and no more submissions can be made to the vastly complex bureaucracy of the North Pole. I imagine that on December 11th, crappy children are busy racking up goodness. The death rate of geriatrics crossing the street probably plummets on that day, and all those 10 and over hurry to sign up for the Peace Corps.] However, knowing what awaits the "schlechte" children, I can hardly blame them: if you have the incredible bad luck of being on the bad side of the List, you're not getting any coal. Shit, if they could get out with just a lump of coal, children here would walk on their knees through the vast desert to offer penance. No, the reward for naughty Austrian children is immediate and uncontestable consignment to Hell. Satan, dressed in black and with flaming red hair and arms arrives in the night with a sack of his own, filled with the morbidly frightened, squirming <strong><em>bodies and souls </em></strong>of the doomed Kinder, and each new acquisition is shoved violently in with the others. While the excited good children rush to their toys in the morning, the bad ones will just have been beginning their eternities of perpetual and unrelenting torment and woe, already long forgotten by their kin and left to weep bitter tears in the inferno.<br /><br />The thought of Satan putting me in a sack and taking me away in the middle of the night would have been enough to keep me well-behaved, I think. I would have betrayed every member of my family to escape such a fate. Most American parents would love to have such a powerful tool as the above story.<br /><br />Happy holidays to you all. If you feel at all that you might need to repent, do so before December 12th.<br /><br /><br />Still listening to <em>Tannhäuser</em>. It's Wagner, ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to be here for a while. Although, with my chocolate coated pretzel and some candied fingernail that once belonged to Gerhard Fürnstern, 9, of Baden, Austria, I think I can pass the time quite nicely.<br /><br />Mark Twain once said, "Wagner's music is better than it sounds." I'm starting to agree.<br /><strong></strong>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1130248198159694982005-10-25T15:22:00.000+02:002006-08-04T08:06:04.433+02:00Rocket ManEars absorbing: Bach’s <em>St. Matthew Passion</em>. There’s a sizable contingent of musicologists who would say that this is the greatest piece of music yet written. Like, we’re talking the entire Western musical tradition. Not wanting to incur the anger of any rabid musicologist by agreeing or disagreeing, I’ll simply say that the music’s beauty is making it difficult for me to concentrate on the writing. Not unlike when I drink Viennese coffee—sometimes I forget as I savor bitter perfection in my cup that I’m required to breathe in order to stay alive (and enjoy more coffee).<br /><br />Today was spent in Café Prückel (perhaps my favorite café so far) and strolling through the Prater with my friend Jimmy. The Prater is a boardwalk-style amusement area, complete with Ferris wheel, pouty children, vomit-paved pathways stemming from the more heinous attractions, and shooting games that are about as honest as a Stalinist state-run newspaper. I laughed out loud when I saw the game named “Gangster Alley” and the American flag flying underneath its flashing letters. These were bootleggers, though, not Crips, and a poorly disguised Austrian-as-New-Yorker voice invited us to “pick up a [tommy] gun and get the varmints.” Not wanting to split hairs, I let go the fact that varmints aren’t native to 1920s Chicago.<br /><br />At nearly 100 years old, the Ferris wheel (known as the “Riesenrad”) is the main attraction. Passengers are transported around the wheel by ancient boxes that are reminiscent of the San Francisco trolley cars, in that they’re outrageously expensive and don’t really take you anywhere.<br /><br />Jimmy and I however, were not to be deterred. We wanted to treat ourselves to what we’ve been told is a magnificent view of Vienna and the entire Danube Valley: the best way to glimpse this jewel of Central Europe, so we’ve heard. It was one of those truly beautiful Autumnal afternoons, where the sunlight is magnified in brilliant colors as it passes through the frail leaves and is shot all over the city as beautifully nostalgic echoes of morning radiance. The breeze danced playfully with women’s scarves and tickled the cheeks of the children they carried. There seemed never to have been such a day for Ferris wheeling as this particularly breathtaking day. We wouldn’t have dreamed of abandoning this celestial beauty to the annals of Yesterday without a ride in the Riesenrad.<br /><br />“Fuck this shit,” we said when we saw the price of €7.50, and we left.<br /><br /><br /><br />After a lengthy courtship, my brother Ted finally married the lovely Amy Means (now Amy Sparks) in a touching ceremony in Malibu. [Amy has chosen not to hyphenate her name, because as Ted explains, she doesn’t want to become a sentence {Amy Means-Sparks}]. Yes, I came home for the wedding, but I consider it more than a fringe benefit that I was able to spend time on a Virgin Atlantic flight.<br /><br />My flights on Virgin Atlantic are perhaps the closest I’ve come to feeling as though all the world is perfect and that strife is merely a word that applies to people who aren’t as deserving of the VIP treatment as my marvelous self. I mean, it just cannot be that everyone is entitled to being fed 5 times and watching 6 movies (started and stopped at one’s own discretion) in a single transatlantic flight. Nevermind that the upper class passengers have beds, massages, and free-flowing champagne served with foie gras and limitless caviar on diamond-encrusted plates of white gold to the live violinistic stylings of Jascha Heifetz. I got a bag with a sleeping mask and a portable toothbrush. The bag had tassels. <em>Tassels!</em><br /><br />The flight was not uneventful, however. As a British firm, Virgin Atlantic makes it a point of hiring British flight attendants. These gorgeous ladies (all of whom were under 35) cater to you as the pharaohs were once catered to, but they do so through the varied and immeasurably complex accents of the English Isles. I had a couple embarrassing episodes while trying to understand my comfort crew.<br /><br />After meal #4, roast beef au jus with Caesar salad, an adorable biscuit (read: cookie) and two éclairs, I had a decent amount of trash. Never missing a step, the marvelous flight attendants knew exactly what I needed. As if on cue, down walked a petite British Pakistani, casually carrying her stunning beauty through the aircraft.<br /><br />“Have you got any <span style="font-family:webdings;">rubbish</span>?” she asked. I was sitting over one of the engines, so I figured I just couldn’t hear her. “Excuse me?” I tried.<br /><br />“Ru<span style="font-family:webdings;">bbish</span>?” this time I distinctly heard English sounds. Almost there. “So sorry. One more time?” I begged.<br /><br />She rolled her eyes and held up a handful of garbage. “<em>Rubbish</em>,” she said firmly. I had caused her to break the seal of nicety, and she was not happy about it.<br /><br />Feeling sheepish at this point, I gathered all my rubbish together as quickly as I could onto my tray, and then—perhaps too quickly—thrust the tray at the poor Brit. She almost got away clean, but the éclair chocolate had other plans. She smiled broadly as she wiped the chocolate from her blouse, the kind of smile that’s reserved usually for vagrant relatives and people at the DMV, and continued on her way. She probably didn’t even hear my 15 apologies over the engine’s roar.<br /><br />At this point I resolved to not so much as make eye contact with another flight attendant for the remainder of the journey, sure that I had been blacklisted and knowing they would probably spit in my food and give me Darjeeling when I asked for Earl Grey (I don’t know. I’d imagine that’s a serious offense in British culture).<br /><br />I feel it is important to mention, though, that my fears of inviting the hatred of the flight attendants were not unfounded. I sat in the back of the first section of the plane, and during takeoff, landing, and high turbulence, the flight attendants sat right behind me. They can be brutal, unforgiving creatures.<br /><br />“Did you <em>see</em> that horrid cow in 53J?” I was pretty sure I didn’t qualify as a cow, but to double check I looked at my row and seat. 72C. All clear.<br /><br />“I certainly did! But she wasn’t much compared to that trotter in Premium Class.” I don’t know what a “trotter” is, but judging by the sound of her voice, I hope to God I’m not one.<br /><br />There was also some confusion during afternoon tea. For one thing, there was some difficulty with my taking coffee instead of tea. I got a look that said, “There’s a reason it’s called afternoon <strong>tea</strong>.” The other hang-up was another problem with regional dialects.<br /><br />While watching <em>The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy</em>, I was interrupted by a small notice in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. “Afternoon tea in 10 minutes,” it explained, “choice of salad sandwich or cheese rocket.”<br /><br />There’s something particularly electrifying about the prospect of new words in one’s own language: the possibility that a “rocket” was another name for something I’d already eaten in my life led to dramatically funny possibilities. “Oh, those English,” I would say, “calling a food item a ‘rocket.’ What will they think of next? [insert American condescension here]”<br /><br />So when the flight attendant (not the éclair one… I had lost the privilege of her service) came by to ask which I preferred, salad sandwich or rocket, the answer was clear.<br /><br />“Rocket, please,” I requested in a boisterously singsong voice, proud of my intercontinental savoir-faire and suavité.<br /><br />She stared at me blankly. “… yes?” she asked, looking puzzled. It turns out that to just ask for a rocket is like just asking for a drink. One needs a bit more information to continue.<br /><br />After the éclair incident, I was on edge with the flight attendants, and I panicked. <em>She didn’t understand me, what’s wrong with me, oh God they’re all going to hate me and call me a trotter and there’ll be a much more horrid goddamn cow in </em><strong>72C</strong><em> then there ever was in 53J!</em> So I did what, in my frantic mind, made the most sense.<br /><br />“Sorreh,” I tried with a devastatingly inauthentic English accent, “Ay’d layk a rock-it, if yoo’ve got wun.” Unfortunately the plane did not crash at this point.<br /><br />Of course she was just lost. I’m sure she had no idea what this obvious American (I had spoken to her previously with my regular accent) was saying or if he was trying to be funny or if he was just odd. “Look,” she offered finally, “we’ve got cheese rockets and veggie rockets. Which would you like?” I held out my hand and quietly asked for cheese, politely clearing my throat as an excuse to look away--much as one does when being examined for a hernia. A rocket, to dispel the mystery, is something like a hot pocket. At this point she could have given me a refrigerated one, and the heat from my face would have nuked it in no time. The pain continued, “And coffee?” she asked. I nodded and gave her my mug. “No, on the tray,” she said firmly, and I at once understood the origin of the stern English nanny stereotype. She took my tray, filled my mug with coffee, and handed it back to me. I looked in my complimentary travel bag, and, not finding a razor with which to kill myself, munched shamefacedly on my rocket.<br /><br /><br /><br />The wedding, however, was well worth the embarrassment. The ceremony was beautiful and very touching: Amy and Ted found out that for $50, the great State of California will award to anyone the title of Deputy Justice of the Peace for a period of 24 hours. So they asked their very good friend Brian to go get Deputied and officiate. The three friends stood before their friends and family and bonded in a way that was expressive and yet entirely intimate. Tears were cried, laughs were had, sand was poured, and all of a sudden Ted had a wife. It was short and sweet; a model of modern efficiency. We had a reception to get to, damnit.<br /><br />I walked into the reception hall after the ceremony to warm up for my Josh Groban performance (on a <em>white</em> baby grand! I felt like Elton), and found the cake decorator poring over the many-tiered beauty, looking a little flustered. “Fastest ceremony in the <em>West</em>,” she muttered. She clearly was counting on a long drawn-out schmaltz fest. Not for T&A.<br />I’ll not linger my own Josh Groban stylings, except to say that Ted’s rewriting of the “When You Say You Love Me” lyrics were on my mind during the whole performance. Towards the end, I nearly slipped, but missed saying “When You Say You Cream Me” just in time.<br /><br /><strong>Epilogue:<br /></strong>As we were walking through the adjoining park, Jimmy and I were talking about our families, and he said something interesting: “… your sister-in-law.” Saying “Ted’s wife” hadn’t seemed at all strange, but when applied to me I found things became different entirely, and I realized for the first time that I have indeed had an in-law for nearly a month. I didn’t say anything, but felt a little bit of a warm fuzzy inside. Amy is a fantastic candidate for the sister I never had, but have always wanted. Along with the title of "Most Feminine One in the House" comes a heavy tiara indeed. One which I'll no longer have to bear.<br /><br />Congratulations, guys. I couldn’t be happier for you.<br /><br />The music right now is decidedly <em>not</em> warm fuzzy, so to preserve the feeling I’ll say only that Bizet’s musical treatment of Carmen’s murder by a jealous lover with a long dagger is masterful.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1129059782211131592005-10-11T21:25:00.000+02:002005-10-31T15:07:51.286+01:00Nightline Confessions<span style="font-family:georgia;">Now listening to: Sara Montiel, <em>Quizas, quizas, quizas</em>. (For those of you who know how I am about accent marks, you know that it kills me to leave out the accents on "quizas." But unfortunately I'm on a school computer, and these Germanic keyboards aren't too worried about none of that Iberian shit. Can we use our imaginations?) Some of you may know this excellent tune by virtue of Doris Day and her English version, entitled <em>Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps</em>. If you haven't seen Pedro Almodovar's (another missing accent. My god, I'm going to develop a nervous tic as a result of frustration) wonderful film Mala educacion (and another.*eye-twitch*) then do youself a favor and pick it up at your friendly neighborhood video store. You'll see Gael Garcia (tic) Bernal perform this song, complete with a Spanish (as in Spain) lisp. In drag. Class-A cinema.<br /><br />The city of Vienna, among its many other great attributes, is possessed of a fantastic public transportation system. Five underground lines and countless bus, tram, and streetcar routes take a body all over the city for a song. A textbook example of German-style efficiency. Makes taking the 101 seem absolutely primitive in comparison.<br /><br />Most Viennese institutions, public transportation included, do not recognize the existence of the hours between 22:00 and 06:00. However, for those of us nightcrawlers who prefer a post-midnight romp, we are catered to six ways to Sunday by the Nightline. The Nightline takes responsibility for the city's transportation needs beginning at 00:30 and lasting until 06:00. So, fret ye not, o partiers. Though the U-Bahn may close at 00:30, the Nightline will take you wherever you wish to go for a mere €1.50. Often, if one enters the bus at the rear, this fee can be avoided. SO! Point? This incredible system is used by a staggering number of Viennese and tourists alike, which makes for some enlightening Klatsch. The Nightline routes are fairly simple: starting from the outer districts, the bus weaves its way through the town, finally stopping at the Staatsoper in the center of the city. It then turns around and begins anew. Because of my proximity to the Oper, and because many of my preferred haunts dot the outer districts, I usually have a fairly long ride, and thus ample opportunity to meet-and-greet with my fellow riders. Since I often enjoy the Nightline services while inebriated, the following anecdotes will be titled by corresponding cocktail names. Hey--you want classy, you got classy.<br /><br /><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>The White Russian</em><br />After a Trink-filled night of dance and song, I hopped on the bus at my favorite stop, Meidlingerhaupstrasse. (As this name is a mine field while sober, one can easily understand how, when I am not as sober, it becomes my favorite stop). Only three of us riding at the moment. Two stops further, on steps perhaps the most unfortunately ugly Russian woman I've ever seen. I'm being very serious... stand back Janet Reno (or Rip Torn, for that matter) because here comes the product of a couple of Petersburg cousins and too much Stolichnaya. I noticed her climbing on because she was about 4’5” yet managed to test the limits of Austrian bus tires as she negotiated her 300 pounds through the double doors. Her outfit might have been titled <em><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,153,0)">Easter</span> <span style="COLOR: rgb(102,255,255)">Basket</span> <span style="COLOR: rgb(204,102,204)">Explosion!</span></strong></em> as she sported a large baby blue blouse (which enabled her to boast some generous cleavage), and purple Nikes. The theme continued as I saw that the ensemble was held together by a suit (i.e. pants and sportcoat) of matching forest green corduroy. Forest green isn’t accurate. It was more like the <em>Spinaci alla caprese</em>© crayons that we used to put on the tables at Macaroni Grill. Her costume jewelry from Claire’s nicely finished off the Easter basket theme. They were like the little foil-wrapped chocolates in sea of green grass and two large robin’s eggs. She wore orange eye shadow. The other two passengers were, in typical Nightline fashion, passed out at the front of the bus. Seeing that I was awake, she smiled at me (unwittingly letting me in on the secret that, based on the state of her tooth, she hadn’t enjoyed solid foods for some time) and sat down to my right. Now, up to this point she had not given me cause for the physical diatribe you’ve just read. Here’s where I feel justified:<br /><br />[Let’s call her Oksana]<br /><strong>Oksana</strong>: я иду к магазину?<br /><strong>Me</strong>: Oh, um, entschuldigung. Ich spreche kein russisch. Sprechen Sie deutsch?<br /><strong>Oksana</strong>: [Pointing out the window] я иду к магазину??<br /><strong>Me</strong>: [wondering where to go from here] Um, do you speak English? I don’t speak Russian, I’m sorry.<br /><strong>Oksana</strong>: [Rolling her eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately, at great volume] </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>я иду к магазину!<br /></em><strong>Me</strong>: I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you.<br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>At this point, Oksana furrows her brow. Not a good idea cosmetically speaking, seeing as her former unibrow has now become an oval of angry fur on her forehead. She stares me down for about 20 seconds. She then rises and moves to another part of the bus, which is giving a real college try to supporting her migration.<br /></em><strong>Oksana</strong>: [Frustrated, under her breath] я буду… большой… собакой.<br /><em>She approaches one of the formerly sleeping passengers, and sits at his side. Once seated, she turns to her new victim, and points to me.</em><br /><strong>Oksana</strong>: [Loudly and with righteous indignation] он. Будет. Малым. Котом.<br /><br />She proceeded to harass that poor soul until, worn out, she fell asleep, her heavily made-up forehead resting against the seat in front of her. As we approached my stop, she awoke to find me alighting. She scowled as I left, and, slightly tipsy as I was, I returned the scowl as the bus pulled away. Now I know how everyone feels when Americans shout English at them. There's not much you can do when someone feels really strongly that if they speak a language you don't understand, you'll be ok as long as they treat you as a deaf person.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Cosmopolitan<br /></em>02:45. A man boards the Nightline at Kettenbrückengasse, not more than 4-5 stops from my own. He is impossibly drunk. Like, right up there with Bugs Bunny or Elmer Fudd in their best moments. A once-ironed dress shirt was draped over his sickly-thin body, partly untucked, and his rooster gobble was cradled by an abused collar, half-up and half-down. One hand held breakfast in a small brown paper bag [I’ve never understood that one, by the way… we all know it’s not fruit juice you have in that bag. Really, embrace the alcoholism, you’ll feel better]. The other hand was buried in his pants (not his pockets, I mean. Both hands held a bag of sorts). As if he thought he’d pulled a fast one with the paper bag, he thought he’d be as swift by hiding the fondling hand with a dirty blazer hanging on his shoulder. Swinging lazily at his side, this failed to do the trick. He hiccoughed after each word (or at a rate of about 25/min, during those times when he chose to reflect silently). These were high pitched and powerful, violently shaking his frail body. After each hiccough came a satisfied sigh, and one worried whether these were due to the release of gas orally or anally. Originally he sat down a comfortable distance away (about 4 rows), but decided that after 2 stops he couldn’t hold it in any longer. This man needed some nicotine, and something had convinced him that I would be the one to supply it for him.<br /><br />He stumbled over to me, receiving a boost from the jerky bus. While approaching, he looked me over carefully, as though he were shopping sofas. Apparently, I didn’t seem threatening, as he eventually sat himself across from me and leaned in as if to tell me a penetrating secret. One eye was half-closed and the other was horribly bloodshot. The one pupil I could see wouldn’t be focusing on anything for at least another 6-8 hours. Without warning, his body was ravaged by another hiccough, and in that moment I was given a thorough run-down of all that had passed through his mouth that evening. He sighed contentedly.<br />Now I know where elephants go to die.<br /><br />I would have moved at that point, acquiescing to my human need for oxygen, but his sad eye narrowed, and with great effort he expressed to me his greatest desire.<br />“Hast du eine Zigarette?” I didn’t, and I shook my head.<br />“Nein, tut mir leid,” I apologized politely. He showed no expression for about 10 seconds, and then slowly leaned back into his chair, as if succumbing to the harsh reality of a smokeless bus ride. He leaned his neck back, rolling his head back and forth. Eventually settling on his left shoulder, his gaping mouth told me that we were well past his bedtime.<br />“Great,” I thought, “he’s passed out.” And indeed he had. Another hiccough jolted him, but he merely switched shoulders. Two more stops to go, and I couldn’t wait to get off the bus—the man himself was fine, but I just couldn’t reconcile my need to breathe with the rancid smell which was the product of his liver’s battle with half a bottle of Jack Daniels.<br /><br />Suddenly, he shook awake. Not from a hiccough this time, and now both eyes were wide open. His mouth still hung wide, but not from the drunkenness. It was total shock I saw on his face—total shock or some kind of dramatic moment of great knowledge. Before I could decide if he’d found Jesus or the meaning of life, he ripped his hand from his pants and drove it into his blazer pocket. He searched for a few seconds, and emerged victorious, as if he’d won the rigged crane game they have at arcades. His wrinkled and sweaty hand clutched at a package of Gauloises, a favorite Viennese cigarette brand. It seems that in his stupor he had forgotten the 8 or so cigs he still had left. He greedily tore one from the package and drove it into his mouth. The hand went spelunking once again in the bottomless pocket of his blazer, and this time its prize was a small plastic lighter. In his excitement, he was overcome with a fit of hiccoughs. He fumbled furiously with his lighter, but couldn’t force his hand to remain still for enough time to ignite the Stick of Life that hung between his lips. Feeling badly, I reached out a hand to take the lighter and give him his light.<br />“Oh, um, ich kann…” I said, beginning one of those sentences that one doesn’t intend to finish. He wasn’t having it.<br />“Nein! As isss ei, u has keine Zigare’e!” he cried, although none too succinctly—the liquor had given his speech the consistency of warm peanut butter. Vowels were manageable, but only to a point, and consonants just weren’t within the realm of possibility.<br />“Ok,” I said with more than a hint of righteous indignation. I had tolerated his emissions, I would not tolerate his rudeness—especially when I had tried to help. He continued to struggle with his lighter. One stop to go. After a short while, he stopped flicking the starter; he seemed to have given up his quest. He looked at me, not pleadingly, but as if I were just out of his reach. My help was so close, yet so far away. He got an idea.<br /><br />“Öch’ess’ du [hiccough] ei’e Zigare’e?” he asked, offering me the package of smokes. I moved to decline, but then he offered me the lighter as well. “Ja, ja!” he said, and pushed the box just under my nose. Suddenly I understood his motives: his inebriated logic dictated that I couldn’t very well light his cigarette unless I had one of my own. Far and away the most polite drunken Viennese smoker I’d ever encountered. I shrugged, accepted the stick with its flashing red <em>Gauloise</em> insignia, and put it between my lips. He pushed the lighter closer to me, altogether forgetting his own uncontrollable craving for nicotine. Never having lit a cigarette, I held the flame awkwardly until satisfied that the paper was indeed on fire, and took a short drag. I didn’t swallow the smoke, knowing it would make me cough, and blew it out of my mouth slowly. Satisfied, he repositioned his own smoke and leaned his face in toward mine. I lit his cigarette, and held out his lighter. Wanting first to enjoy the wonderful lubrication of tar in his throat, he ignored my hand. He sighed again as he blew the smoke out of his mouth and nose, and took his lighter.<br /><br />“Ringstrasse, Staatsoper,” the automated and smoothly pleasant voice of the <em>Vienna Transportation Lines</em> announced. My stop. I moved to get off, and my drunken smoker friend smiled. “Danke!” he yelled, although I was no more than 2 feet from him. “Bitte,” I said, and got off the bus. As the bus pulled away, I went to put out the cigarette, but he smiled and waved at me, holding up his own cigarette. I smiled back and waited until the bus was gone to put the thing out. I felt slightly odd walking back to my apartment—I suppose I’d done a nice thing, even if it was to light his cancer stick and accept (and waste) another of his precious bounty. The most prevalent feeling, however, was confusion at his wonderfully intricate logic. Drunk people are a hoot.<br /><br /><br /><em>Vodka & Red Bull<br /></em>A word re: the title of this passage: Red Bull© is a uniquely Austrian creation. It was invented in Austria and the Red Bull manufacturing and shipping plant for the whole of Europe is in Vienna. This drink is wildly popular…usually, if one isn’t drinking a beer, one is pulling down a Vodka & Red Bull. It’s also the drink of choice for people in the 18-25 demographic. Since Red Bull has an orange-red color, Vodka & Red Bull has the look of extremely weak iced tea or the urine of a geriatric connoisseur of V8 Juice.<br /><br />As you may have guessed, the combination of a strong depressant and an equally strong stimulant makes for an interesting effect.<br /><br />Another ride on the Nightbus, this time from fairly far away, an area of town called Floridsdorf. This ride takes close to 30 minutes. Because it passes by a number of hot nighttime locales and follows a route whose stops are sparsely used, this bus can get very full indeed.<br /><br />When I got on the bus it was fairly empty, but after about 3 stops there was hardly a seat left, save for the ones in the back where I like to sit. The bus stopped for a fourth time, and on came 15 or so thoroughly boozed Americans. A few of them, including this segment’s subject, sat in the seats near me. She was in her mid twenties, awfully pretty and pissed out of her gourd. She wore a miniskirt and a camisole decorated with rhinestones, which read, “Will Fuck for Coke.” I don’t believe she meant the refreshing beverage. She was introduced to me as Tanya [well, her friend clued me in when she jostled our subject and said, “Tanya, holy shit you’re fucking cheezing out.”].<br /><br />Tanya was friendly. She turned to me and said, “Oh my God are you Austrian?” I took this as a compliment, but had to deny it. “No, I’m from California.” Fifteen Americans notwithstanding, Tanya was ecstatic to have met one of her countrymen. She screamed joyfully:<br />“I’m from Wisconsin and the men here are <em>hot</em>!” I nodded in agreement, and began to ask her about her visit to Vienna.<br />“Are you studying here?” I asked. She proceeded to tell me about the incredible vacation that she and her friends were having: touring all of Spain, southern France, Italy, and Austria. She talked animatedly for a good 5 minutes, and then asked me the same question.<br />“So, like, are you studying here? Cuzseriouslyohmygodthatwouldbesocool!” she perried.<br />“Yes,” I said, “I’m studying here until December. I’m studying music and German.” I turned to her, so as to better hear her answer. She had fallen asleep, and was out enough to have small bit of drool forming in the corners of her mouth.<br /><br />Not particularly entranced by our conversation, and fairly worn out myself, I accepted her passing out rather gratefully. I looked out of the windows and watched as we came closer to the center of the city. Three minutes passed.<br /><br />“Oh holy fuck oh my god I’m sorry what were you saying? Did I like totally pass out just now?” She stirreth. A little shocked but never one to be made to feel awkward, I began again. She listened intently and had at least one or two questions for every one of my sentences. We were having, in short, a really nice conversation. I asked her if she’d been having a fun night.<br />“Oh holy shit you wouldn’t believe how much VodkaRedBull I drank.” I told her I probably could, because I’ve seen lots of people get very drunk on that stuff. I laughed, and looked at her. He head was hanging in her lap and she was very nearly falling out of her chair. If it weren’t for all of the people on the bus blocking her way, there would have been some seriously wasted Tanya to pick up off the floor.<br /><br />And so went the rest of the trip—Tanya waking to apologize and ask me questions, Tanya falling asleep… one big cycle of excess. I hope she got home ok. If not, I hope she got her wish and found some nose candy.<br /><br /><br />Listening to: Césaria Évora, <em>Sodade</em>. She’s an Angolan singer, and you’ve probably heard her on a number of movie soundtracks. A rich, burnished sound and all the romance of the Portuguese language make for some sexy music. The song title, <em>Sodade</em>, is an untranslatable Portuguese word which basically means “the blues.” Here’s a slight difference I’ve noticed in cultures… When Werther or a Wagner hero get the blues, they off themselves. When Césaria Évora gets ‘em, she turns it into passion. I mean, intellectualism is hot, but sometimes a body just needs unbridled coital energy.<br /><br />By the by, here’s a link to some of the pics my friends and I have been taking here in Österreich. Hopes you likes ‘em.<br /><br /></span><a href="http://ckanowsky.photosite.com/viennadventures"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">http://ckanowsky.photosite.com/viennadventures</span></a>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1128437287531255342005-10-04T14:59:00.000+02:002005-10-04T16:48:09.350+02:00No, but seriously folks...<span style="font-family: georgia;">*ACHTUNG* This entry includes my being serious about something. I've not experimented much with this state of mind, and the results may be disturbing. Or utterly boring. But you got an *ACHTUNG* so no bitching.<br /><br />Music (and this time it <span style="font-style: italic;">relates</span> to some of the post. I know... frightening. Lock up your women): Listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen</span>, one of Gus Mahler's 5 songs set to texts by Friedrich Rückert. Both the text and the music speak to the listener of transcendence and separation from the world at large, of a state in which one has reached complete restfulness and peace. Now, prompted by a number of my fellow bloggers who decided that last week was <span style="font-weight: bold;">Philosophical Life Outlook Explanation Week</span>, I'm devoting part of this post to my inner self. I'm sure you all think that I expose myself quite enough, thank-you-very-much, but this time it may come out differently. Call me shallow for doing this only because everyone else was, but it could also be an intense snobbery which prevents me from consciously ignoring the current online literary trends. Um, in which case I guess I'm still shallow. Fuck.<br /><br />So yeah, this piece of music. I'm listening to it for the Mahler class. This last week has been mostly a discussion of Mahler's philosophical background and influences (he certainly considered himself to be as much a "thinker" as a "composer." At least in the sense that he was all-consumed with trying to figure out life's little conundrums). In order to better understand our subject, we've been reading treatises by a number of clever German-speaking Herren, namely (in the order in which they lived) Kant, Schopenhauer, Wagner, and Nietzsche. In their respective nutshells, Kant says, "Life sucks and then you die," Schopenhauer retorts with "Maybe so, but there are loopholes around the dying part," Wagner does his own thing with, "Jews suck and then you die. Oh, don't eat meat," and finally Nietzsche with his Übermensch or Superman, who sounds like he'd actually be pretty hot and would he like to go to the opera tomorrow night around 7:30?<br /><br />So it goes like this for me: the more I read Schopenhauer, the more I'm like, "Wow, how did he know how to explain what's happening in my brain better than I did?" Now I'm not some kind of Schopenhauer disciple, and you wont see me with pamphlets at the airport, but many of his ideas are pretty interesting to me, particularly his ideas of artistic transcendence. There's this thing called the "Will," you see, and this Willy is the essence of all beings. It is sentient, and ruthlessly driven to a single purpose: survival. The ultimate goal of man is to find Will's address, go hang out and shoot the shit with him, and then beat him senseless. To know the Will, in a sense, is to defeat it. Still with me? Good. There are two ways to defeat Will and reach this kind of pinnacle of existence (sound Eastern? He was heavily influenced by Buddhism):<br />1. Accept the Kantian notion of a sucky life. Yes, life blows chunks. Poor people die of starvation while rich people grow fat, and in our struggle, we are ultimately crude beings. Accept this, and be cool with it, and you've figured life out, so says Schopy. <br />2. Create artistically. It is only in the creative mind where one can glimpse this Will and be influenced by it. Inspiration is a direct result of contact with the Will, and a true artist is simply a vessel for said inspiration. (There are heirarchical levels of art, by the way, but let's not go there for right now). <br /><br />So maybe right now you're thinking about what a psycho I am for buying into this. Here's (finally) where I'm getting, though: No, I don't agree with Kant. Life can't altogether suck some hairy ones. But I'm not convinced with Ayn Rand, either, in thinking that life is INCREDIBLE and so let's selfishly milk it for all it's worth, environment and human life be damned. (And no, in case you're wondering, I wasn't waiting for some books to come along and tell me how I'm feeling... they just have been helpful in the illumination process). I feel as though I'm in a position between the two, in that:<br />a) I believe we are selfish beings, in the sense that our "will" to survive takes precedent over all else. That selfishness, I believe, also often motivates our "good deeds." I believe that what one does for others is motivated primarily for how it makes one feel about one's self. I strive to be my best because it makes me feel good, and I'm attracted to others who feel the same way because these people, like myself, tend to be generally happy. Everything they do is done for them... life can be whatever we make it to be if we employ ourselves and this "selfishness" to its utmost. That's the "Ayn" side talking.<br />b) Ok, so a) is a bit of wishful thinking, perhaps. Sure, if <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone </span>had the capacity and good fortune to be able to pursue this selfishness, we'd all be in some heaven of technological and personal advancement. However, the "Schopenhauer" side of me doesn't want to leave the rest (meaning those unable to persue only their own desires) behind. If life is suffering, I believe that the overall quality of life for the masses (call me a Commie) should be placed in the foreground. I'd rather fight the "Life sucks and then you die" principle with my fellows, to try and be a match for the will (or God or whatever) and it's ruthlessness, than ignore it in the pursuit of happiness. I'm selfishly motivated to fight, perhaps, but so what? It is action, not motivation, which is the end goal. I fight for (and with) these masses because they are <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>friends, <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> family, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">my</span></span> fellows, becuase Humanity, the marvel that is the pairing of the human heart <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>the mind, is <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> religion. If the end goal is the end of this suffering and the transcendence over the Will, then I want it to be <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> goal together--if this means it takes longer to get there, at least I'll have company when we do. I believe in first getting to the point where we are all free to try for "a)," and I don't believe that "a)," despite its merits, has a monopoly on happiness. Art is the overcoming, the lasting, and the ultimate triumph of man. <span style="font-style: italic;">There's</span> the transcendence, right here on Earth: through art, we discover ourselves, the process by which our own unique selves mix with the whole of humanity. There is no mass v. individual, there is no struggle there: the struggle is with the ancient suffering and its casting off. <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>will do the best I can for my own benefit and for the benefit of this race which I love. This is not trickle-down theory or diluted Ayn. Their arguments are dependent upon the idea that one must <span style="font-style: italic;">choose</span> to be an individualist or a socialist. I'm suggesting that there should be no difference between the two. <br /><br /><br />ALRIGHT, so now that you've waded through <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>one... heilige Scheisse that was a crazy bit of abstractness that I got lost in a number of times, and that I'm sure you did too, and I apologize. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">DISCLAIMER</span></span>: Go ahead and find loopholes. Hell, I found some of my own. But this is a work in progress, this whole figuring out life thing, one with which I hope I am never done. I think one can always do to have a open mind.<br /><br />Well, now this blog has gone on far too long for me to continue on to fun Vienna stories, so I'll go ahead and publish those in another entry. My intention was to merely dally with the philosophy stuff, but it got away from me. <br /><br />Music: Ancient French troubadour tunes from the 12th and 13th centuries--the beginnings of polyphony (using more than one melodic line). I'm listening for homework, but I also felt like my brain was too fried to listen to anything more complex than 2 singers. <br /></span>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1127722420832722122005-09-26T10:12:00.000+02:002007-05-05T23:26:47.626+02:00The Serbian ExpressMúsica: Schönberg’s <em>Verklärte Nacht</em>. And what a gorgeous Nacht it is. Last night I went to a performance of the Vienna Philharmonic—what many consider to be the world’s best orchestra—and they played this piece during the program, with Pierre Boulez conducting. I stood there in the Musikverein, in all its Romantic splendor (um, yeah that gold you see ain’t no paint) and listened to music which was at once mysterious, sexual, sumptuous, (etc. etc., just think of any adjectives used to describe really excellent ice cream being eaten by your favorite supermodel), played by people whose level of talent I can’t really begin to understand, and conducted by a man whose name is on at least 10-20 of my CDs. Maybe this is my suburban middle-class upbringing talking, but when the sound of horse hair rubbed on cat gut over a piece of wood can cause an audience to examine and appreciate the magnitude of beauty that art can contain in a single moment, perhaps life was never meant to suck.<br /><br /><br />It takes a decent amount of time to realize the birth, the growth, and finally the death of an era. About a month, actually. I know this because I have indeed been in Austria for a little over a month, and I have indeed known a great transition in my life… the end of free maid service.<br /><br />I live, you see, in the dorm for the University of Music. During the summer, as the building is not occupied by students, it becomes a very affordable hotel. (University summer in Europe, by the way, usually extends from June to the beginning of October). Now, picture your first college dorm. As a hotel, it probably wouldn’t have scored too highly in a Fodor’s review. Neither would this one. This is not the Waldorf. There is, however, one very important difference between this place and your average youth hostel: the service provided by 4 adorable Serbian ladies, ranging in age from maybe 30 to about 85.<br /><br />My first encounter with the former citizens of the Soviet Bloc went thusly:<br /><br />It was very early on the morning of Sunday last, and Julia and I were still very much asleep. We’d had a sizable German exam the Friday before, and had decided to unwind through Saturday. It would take at least till midday for our minds to filter out the night’s liquor consumption. We had not set an alarm, we had no plans to awaken before noon. ‘Twas not to be.<br /><br />It sounded rather like a man being thrust against the door by a powerful kick, à la Jackie Chan movie. Or a battering ram. In any case, it was incredible fear of the most agitated explosion of sound I’d ever heard that caused me to fall from my bed and stumble to the door. I saw my clock as I ran: 7:14<br /><br />My bed is maybe 12 feet from the door. There were at least 15 more knocks before I reached the handle. I thrust it open, mid-knock, and was faced with the meatiest fist I’ve yet to encounter. It was as if someone had stolen it from a Rodin statue and placed it on the end of her arm. The fingers were like clenched ham hocks, and the thumb nail was glacially large.<br /><br />This enormous hand and its arm were only a prelude to the rest of the appendage’s owner. The colossal woman before me was much more than the sum of her parts: I didn’t have my glasses on, but she had to be at least 6 feet tall, and only the narrowest slivers of light from the hallway were able to escape from behind her and flow into the bedroom through the doorway.<br /><br />“Frische Handtüche und Sauber?” the beast thundered. You’ve all had hangovers, you know what I mean when I say “thundered.” I was still in the one-eye-half-closed stage of wakefulness, and as such was not at all able to comprehend Goliatha’s request. Her moustache shook with indignation. “Frische Handtüche?!” she cried, impatient and unable to understand why she wasn’t getting answers from the pathetic figure standing in the threshold. [I was at this point still in my skivvies, and after a night of drinking and the sudden frigidity of being out of bed, I’m sure I looked like the sickly ET—horribly pale and thin, with skeletal fingers and a pair of tiny, pointed nipples]. I couldn’t answer. I hadn’t the mental capacity at that point to form words in any language, and I was more than a little intimidated and confused by the angry middle aged giant with nun’s shoes and a woman’s voice. Just then, Julia appeared behind me. She didn’t look any better than I did, but managed to push the words “Ja, bitte,” out of an abused and dry-sounding throat.<br /><br />As if the starting gun had been fired, the maid burst into the room. Her entourage was not a step behind her: a young woman with rose-red Mary Janes and knee-highs of soft pink, carrying a pile of sheets; another middle aged woman who had obviously long ago rejected the notion of the bra as a necessity, carrying a number of hand towels; and finally an ancient woman, who looked not unlike Zelda Rubinstein and came up to about my navel, doing an admirable job of wielding a vacuum cleaner that looked as if it had been stolen from a museum devoted to homemaking. I mean, it could have been a 1950s atomic powered model.<br /><br />Nascar has nothing on these ladies. They ran past Julia and me and into the room, each to a different task. The younger one ran at my bed, tore off the sheets, and began to remake it. The 2nd middle aged woman was not in the room when I looked—she had replaced the bathroom hand towels and was throwing the old ones in a basket outside in the hallway. She returned carrying neatly folded bath towels. Zelda had already vacuumed half of the room and was furiously thrusting the head of the apparatus at the area by Julia’s bed. With her bed being made, Julia had no means of escaping the vacuum, and she was dancing around Zelda’s attacks like a cowboy in a Western whose feet are being shot at. The 1st middle aged woman, however, who had been barking orders in an eastern European language, was still. She wore a look that would have been more appropriate for being branded or walking on hot coals. The look was aimed at me.<br /><br />“Ihre Kleide?” she commanded, pointing at my jeans and t-shirt which had been lying near my bed from the night before. “Entschuldigung,” I begged, the tone of my voice telling my mistress that I very much wished to live and would do whatever penance necessary to avoid incurring her wrath. I leapt at my clothes and hugged them close to me. She began to clean the surrounding area and to dust the furniture.<br /><br />Zelda came at me like an angry silverback—I leapt away just in time.<br /><br />It was over before I had time to remember that “frische Handtüche und Sauber” meant “fresh hand towels and vacuum.” The leader was the last to finish, and they all fled the room as though Julia and I had Ebola. With a thickly accented “auf Wiedersehen” and a slamming of the door, they were gone. I felt like I was standing in a Midwestern barn that had barely survived a tornado. But what a clean barn! The beds were beautifully made and turned down, the towels in the bathroom were folded and smelled of fresh laundry, the furniture spotless, and the floor immaculate. I looked at my alarm clock: 7:17.<br /><br />Their other visits (we discovered they occurred twice weekly) were less harrowing, and after learning on which days they came, we had the room ready for them every Sunday and Wednesday morning.<br /><br />Up until now, Julia and I have been about the only guests in the building. This last week, however, has seen a number of students moving in. This Sunday morning, with the floor ready, I was up and waiting for my favorite Formula 1 team—they never showed up. I asked at the reception, and was told that the place was no longer considered a hotel, and that maid service was available at 15 euro per week. I would weep for the loss of the cleaning ladies, were it not for my black and stony heart.<br /><br />Listening to Bulgarian folk music sung by a female a capella choir. It’s a very cool sound they make—quarter-tone harmonies sung with a kind of “correct belting.” I don’t really know how else to describe it. Since it’s all women, the songs are about everything from weddings to giving birth to menstrual pains, and the music is sometimes very harsh and real. I know they’re not really from the same region, but I can’t help thinking of the cleaning ladies… tough music for tough broads. They make Rosie the Riveter look like a debutante.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1127128009387617482005-09-19T12:09:00.000+02:002005-10-31T15:26:22.696+01:00Sturm und DrangListening to Gus Mahler’s sixth symphony, the <em>Tragic</em>. Whoever coined the name <em>Tragic</em> (it wasn’t Mahler) wasn’t kidding—this bitch tears at the heart. The last movement begins with a soaring theme of Hope that fights against its enemies throughout the piece. At the last statement of the theme, it seems to be pulling away from the evil it’s been fighting—it grows and pulsates with life, and at the last moment, the theme turns to minor, as the opposition grabs hold of its ankles and violently pulls it down into the dregs… an hour and a half of struggle, and Hope loses. Not the feel-good symphony of the summer.<br /><br />The blog gets happier, I swear. My little musical things at the beginning of each entry are in no way to be interpreted as “thematic” or related in any way to the blog. I just gotsta feel the passion sometimes. I’m also near the end of <em>Atlas Shrugged</em>, and Ayn, that big freaky capitalist, is totally making a nerdy recluse of me.<br /><br /><br />Oh, that’s right so I was spending this semester in <em>VIENNA!</em> No more talk of boring things.<br /><br />Speaking of talk, my freshman physics class, which once could claim the title of “Carl’s Time of Greatest Stupidity and Helplessness,” has been dethroned by a single night of partying. I shall explain:<br /><br />The three weeks of the German Intensive now over, we IES kids have a weeklong break before normal classes begin. Most, including my roomie, decided to go on the so-called Three City Tour—nine days of touring Krakow, Budapest, and Prague. Others chose to travel independently, and went in small groups to Italy, Switzerland, the UK, and Croatia (site of what are supposed to be some incredible beaches—the tricky thing is getting through Bosnia and Herzegovina, which Americans aren’t really supposed to do, seeing as how Americans and Balkan unrest go together about as well as Palestinians at seder).<br /><br />Long story short, I’m the only one I know currently in Vienna, or even Austria. Don’t misunderstand—I love this situation. I’m going to spend this week getting to really know this amazing town: its museums, cafés, musical offerings, parks, architecture, history, and its people. Which brings me to my story (I didn’t forget it in my tangenting) and why a party made physics look like a cakewalk. Since there wasn’t going to be anyone here, my Austrian friend Sally (she’s not the <em>only</em> one, naysayers) invited me to a “small” party she was throwing at her flat. Great, I thought, what a fantastic way to get to know some natives and practice some Deutsch. Ha.<br /><strong>Sally</strong>: Carl! So glad you could make it!<br /><strong>Carl</strong>: Totally, Sally. Hey, I brought some wine.<br /><strong>Sally</strong>: Oh, cool! Come in, we’re on the balcony.<br /><br />[on the balcony, where there are 30-40 people].<br /><strong>Sally</strong>: [to her guests] <span style="font-family:webdings;">OINF DOIBR BS LK</span> Carl <span style="font-family:webdings;">JNBW</span>!<br /><strong>Guests</strong>: <span style="font-family:webdings;">sSDFGLOLB</span> cool <span style="font-family:webdings;">eigonq 124 RT FLOKJ</span>!<br /><strong>Sally</strong>: You speak German, right Carl? Yes, I’ve heard you, you’re pretty good.<br /><strong>Carl</strong>: Well, a little. [ever optimistic and confident] But this is the best way to learn.<br /><strong>Sally</strong>: Definitely. I’m gonna go get some more food, I’ll be right back.<br /><br /><strong>Guest 1</strong>: [to Carl] <span style="font-family:webdings;">sO Sally told us you're from tje USA </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">USA</span>?<br /><strong>Carl</strong>: [hoping his answer works, and with great effort] Ja, ich komme aus Kalifornien. Ich studiere hier bis Dezember.<br /><strong>Guest 1</strong>: Und was studierst du?<br /><strong>Carl</strong>: [spurred on by his understanding the question, answers loudly and over-excitedly] MUSIK!<br /><strong>Guest 1</strong>: [weirded out] Ah, ok. [points to Guest 2] <span style="font-family:webdings;">GVLIUBRG FND45</span> Musik.<br /><strong>Guest 2</strong>: <span style="font-family:webdings;">dfvoihskkkkk ndogvoasgflj ;p jsnwu8572 djs</span>.<br /><strong>Carl</strong>: ………………… er, langsammer, bitte? [slower, please?]<br /><br />And so progressed the evening. It was like talking to the Sims.<br /><br />I’m probably exaggerating a little, in that I did understand a good amount. They were also very kind, and were not above translating a word or two for me if I had the face I used to make after my mom would ask, “CJ, did <em>you</em> take the cookies?”<br /><br />I‘ll not place blame on the American educational system, seeing as how my ability with a language is entirely up to me, but I will say that it pretty much sucks balls in comparison to the Austrian system, whose products were completely bilingual, if not tri- or quad lingual.<br /><br />Bottom line, I did ok, but not great. I mean, I would have felt less helpless and idiotic had I no motor skills, but was in an English-speaking city. Because of my German diction classes, everyone said I had a wonderful accent. “You speak more clearly than I do,” said a sprightly little psych major from Innsbruck. Fantastic. Now all I need are some words to speak and the knowledge of how to put them together correctly. Back in a flash….<br /><br />I did make one awful mistake, but to my credit, this one was due to a regional dialect kinda thing, not just plain ignorance and stupidity. Someone asked me how I liked Vienna’s weather. “Das Wetter hier ist so schön,” I exclaimed, “es ist nimmer feucht.” My new friend had to sit down after spilling his beer from laughing. I thought I had said, “The weather here is so beautiful. It is never humid.” Well, I had—but this was Berliner Deutsch I was using. In Viennese German, “feucht” is the adjective applied to a human female’s sexual organs when she is in heat. “It’s never a wet vagina,” is basically how I described the weather. But I can’t win for losing—it turns out the Viennese word for “humid” is “schwül.” The Viennese word for “gay” is “schwul.” A small difference in vowel sounds is all it will take for me to screw up again. And it will happen, I’m almost positive.<br /><br />But all in all the night was a success. I felt like I learned quite a bit, and could do passably well on a one-to-one basis. Parties, I feel, are as of yet a little beyond my reach.<br /><br />* *<br /><br />Ok, so you saw my little pause stars and probably thought, “My God, how much more of this is there and should I get up and pee before continuing?” Pee if you must, but I won’t go on too much longer.<br /><br />As foolish as I felt at Sally’s party, I’ve caught myself being viciously happy at the fact that I haven’t made some of the cross-cultural faux pas that some of the other Americans have made. I consider myself lucky that my only flaw is to have no understanding of these people’s language—I've no international incidents under <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">my </span>belt.<br /><br />Friday night, I ran into Sally and her friend Sam on the U-Bahn (that happens here… a city of 2 million and yet it feels quite small). I was with a couple of my American friends, and we were coming home from a party. Sally, ever the heavyweight, suggested that we accompany her and Sam to a bar on the Danube. I’m still not quite over the incredible romanticism of this city, and sipping Sturm by the Danube seemed like a phenomenal idea.<br /><br />[Sturm, by the way, is the second of three stages in wine making here in Austria. The first is just the crushed grapes (Weintraubensaft), then it begins to ferment, but is still sweet like grape juice (Sturm) and finally it becomes wine. Oh my, Sturm. It goes down smooth, like 3-year-old-drinking-apple-juice smooth, and although it has a lower alcohol content than wine, 7-10 glasses will do the job nicely.]<br /><br />So there we were at the Strandbar, (literally Beach Bar—there’s a man-made beach along the river in the center of the city) sitting in cabana chairs, sipping Sturm and sangria, and listening to (of course) Bob Marley. We even met some random Wieners and invited them over to our little beach spot. Generally having a pretty damn incredible time. The Austrians asked us where we had gone and what sites we had seen. Our German classes included some interesting excursions, and so we told them about our trip to the Rathaus (city hall).<br /><br />Now, because one didn’t need any prior German knowledge to come to Austria, there are a number of German classes and different levels of instruction. Intermediate I, the class into which I was placed, and Beginner 2 usually went on these excursions together. For the Rathaus trip, however, <em>all</em> of the German classes went along. We were regaling the Austrians with hilarious tales of American naiveté when Sally asked, “Wow, how many of there were you?” Whereby my somewhat bitter friend John replied, “Well, they put all the classes together, so there were about 150 of us. It was totally a German Anschulss.”<br /><br />I choked on my Sturm. Sally made no motion whatsoever, and Sam kind of gaped. The other Austrians looked as though they’d been slapped. Hard. Cricket, cricket. Sally glanced at John with a horribly pathetic look of pity on her face, and she turned to our new friends and changed the subject to the weather.<br /><br />Coming home that night, John was beside himself. He had no idea what he had said to so utterly and completely kill the conversation. He thought he’d made a pretty good joke, involving Austrian history with some vocab from class (<em>anschluss</em> means “annexation”). What he was unaware of, however, was the fact that the <em>Anschluss</em> in the late 1930s was perhaps the worst period in Austria’s history—when Hitler not only entered the country, but was greeted by a ticker tape parade. It’s as if John had made a Japanese internment joke in San Francisco. But much worse. The Austrians are still fairly touchy about this subject, and it is, as John discovered, <em>not</em> for joking. Ouch.<br /><br />But back to gaiety… classes start the 26th! I’m a big fan of my schedule:<br /><br />Monday-<br />10:20-11:30—Gustav Mahler and Turn of the Century Vienna<br />11:55-1:10—German<br />3:15-6:20—Music History<br /><br />Tuesday-<br />10:30-11:45—German<br /><br />Wednesday-<br />10:35-12:05—Mahler<br />3:00-4:30—Music History<br />6:10-7:40—Vocal Performance Workshop<br /><br />Thursday-<br />10:30-11:45—German<br />4:35-6:05—Vocal Performance Workshop<br /><br />Friday-<br />Free as a child molesting pop star.<br /><br />Listening to: Mozart’s 40th symphony. I saw the house where he wrote this. No words, no words at all.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1126272823467490802005-09-09T15:32:00.000+02:002005-10-01T20:34:56.136+02:00Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance.<span style="font-family:georgia;">Listening me to some: Agnus Dei (Barber’s famous <em>Adagio for Strings</em> arranged for boys choir). Ethereally beautiful, if somewhat of a priest’s wet dream. Highly, highly recommended; listen sparingly, however, and never while operating heavy machinery.<br /><br />As of last night, I am no longer a euro-club virgin. I fulfilled a life’s ambition of dancing [insert preposition here… try fun ones like under, through, without…I’ll go with “at”] at a crowded, loud, incredibly wild and thinly-veiled-as-dancing European sex fest. I’m not sure where on the long-term goals list this one stood, but it was probably somewhere in between “Get a Doberman” and “Try Kobe Beef.”<br /><br />These people don’t fool around when it comes to clubbing. The club opens at 11:30 (I’m sorry, 23:30, or dreißig nach dreiundzwanzig… “11:30” is just far too vague, it seems), so my friends and I thought we’d begin our journey around 23:45. Poorly planned. We arrived at U4 (so named because of it’s proximity to a stop on one of the local subway lines) at 00:05 to find the line backed up two blocks. Sally, an Austrian student at the University of Vienna and an all-around cool person, said this was standard issue. A few of us decided to detour to a bar while 2 non-drinking compadres held our place in line.<br /><br />All one need know about most European bars is this: buy whatever you want, the strongest drink on the menu even; you won’t taste it. The haze of cigarette smoke is far too thick and oppresive to allow for anything as uncool as the sense of taste. Here’s the best way for me to explain it: picture yourself skiing down the Alps, the cool, clear wind whipping your cheeks a brilliant red. To inhale air of this quality as you head down the slope is a marvelous feeling. Faster and faster you rush through the cold, but then!… you reach the bottom of the mountain, and you’re in Mexico City or Pasadena. It’s that abrupt. I didn’t have to worry about secondhand smoke, though, seeing as how I was coughing way too much to inhale.<br /><br />Sufficiently liquored, we returned to the club and rejoined our line holders. After 15 minutes, we had reached the front of the queue of sexily dressed Volk. We paid the cover, and the velvet rope was pulled away.<br /><br />It’s been a few years, but I honestly think the only time I’d felt this excited was when I walked into Chuck E. Cheese for the first time. That’s not a bad analogy, actually… with the strobe lights, loud music, and expensive drinks, all we needed was some of that tar-like pizza and some animatronic entertainment in bad need of repair, and the line between club and 5-year-old's birthday party would have been irrevocably blurred.<br /><br />But I digress. The club was laid out thusly: a long stairway led to a small chamber that lay between two large dance rooms. The smaller of the two rooms was pulsing with some hardcore hip hop, and the larger one (and it was huge) boasted German techno and 80s pop (also German). Now, I did visit both rooms in the course of the night, but naturally I went first for the techno room. Old habits die hard, I suppose, and I wanted to feel again the heady rush of my glow-stick days.<br /><br />So into the pop room I went, and there must have been half the under-25 population of Vienna. It was like a stationary stampede, except these wildebeests smelled of Acqua di Giò and were sweating like a hockey team.<br /><br />My friend Lauren and I began to dance, and that girl had some sexy moves (she’s from a rough Philadelphia neighborhood… tough as nails and just a downright sex kitten). We got some interesting looks—don’t get me wrong, the Austrians were all over one another, but they weren’t quite practicing their <em>tango penetrado</em> as Lauren and I were. Jinkies, we were sexy.<br /><br />The music ranged from Tina Turner (which was great, because Lauren and I got on the stage and with our dancing and our total knowledge of the lyrics, we were bigger than Strudel), to hardcore-lose-yourself-in-a-trance German techno, and we had a blast—our blatant and far too over-the-top sexuality proved fruitful, indeed. We had our picture taken and a number of people offered to buy us drinks. Word to the wise: absinthe is not conducive to any form of exercise, dancing certainly included. Man, that drink… it’s as if the contents of Pandora’s box were introduced to a wine press, and then you drank the liquid thus produced. Death, be not proud. I have tasted thee, and thou hast made my breath taste like bile, but I have survived.<br /><br />The most difficult part about clubbing in another country is the language barrier. No, there’s not much talking that goes on, seeing as how the music is worse for one’s hearing than a marathon of <em>The Nanny,</em> but there is (unsurprisingly) a good amount of music in German. When they said 80s night, they were thinking Berlin Wall, not the Gipper. So there’s quite a bit of this:<br /><br />[Dancing, woo, lost in the music and the crowd and the noise, kinda sounds like Prince’s Austrian cousin but who cares woo]<br /><br />[DJ cuts the music, apparently at a spot in the song whose lyrics everyone knows, and they all scream:<br /><br />“Wir gehen zur Party wie im Jahre Neunzehnneunundneunzig!”<br /><br />Yes. Turns out it is indeed Prince’s famous “We’re Gonna Party Like It’s 1999,” but in German. With the crazy techno beat, I couldn’t begin to recognize it. I was later told what the hell I was dancing to].<br /><br />Many were German songs never heard by anyone stateside. These were always more fun and I got to practice my German while being jiggy on the dance floor.<br /><br />Really an all around incredible night. Another friend, also named Lauren, found out this fun European clubbing rule: after dancing with a new partner for 5.46 minutes, it is de rigueur that said partner makes out with you hardcore. Lauren actually had quite an international cartel of boys going, and we have since banned her from Brazilians and Serbians.<br /><br />As a fun prize for slogging thru the blogging, please visit this website:<br /><br /></span><a style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia" href="http://www.arctur.si/mkajfez/helmut.html">http://www.arctur.si/mkajfez/helmut.html</a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />That sexy Austrian is our Student Services Coordinator, Helmut Summesberger. It’s hysterical for us, seeing as how he’s basically our camp counselor, and he has a personality straight out of <em>Salute Your Shorts</em>, but if you want to enjoy it on another level you’re more than welcome. </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Currently enjoying: <em>Der Rosenkavalier</em>, in preparation for the performance I’ll be attending tomorrow at the VIENNA STATE OPERA?!!?! This can’t be reality I’m living, but the dream sure is nice. Now all I need is… wait, here comes Helmut. Ciao.</span>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1125563906436941722005-09-01T09:33:00.000+02:002005-10-01T20:33:34.053+02:00Willkommen in Wien<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Currently listening to: A flute, a horn, and a soprano playing (and singing) scales in different keys. That's right... I'm hanging out near the practice rooms at the Institute here in Wien, and this place is at all times filled with one of two sounds: 1) Incredibly fast and hearty Austrian German, or 2) Music in practice rooms whose acoustical barriers are about as effective as the current American drinking age.<br /><br />Firstly, an explanation for the lengthy pause since my last post. Second semester, although full of ups and downs and laughs and tears and death and hope and joy and betrayal and sex and murder and pathos and poetry, was relatively standard. No strange teachers, no weird dates, only the daily (and wonderful) grind of class, framed by the new (to me) process of building a life around someone you love. Had I been blogging during this time, you would have fallen asleep while reading and woken up with drool and computer key markings all over your face. No one wants to read a semester of:<br /><br />Dear Diary,<br />After some hard-boiled eggs, I went to class. We learned about nothing useful or interesting in particular. Then for lunch I had an omelet. Out of meat today, cheese only. I practiced for a while and then translated Italian. Then Zach came over. I made Tuna Helper, with eggs. Zach watched me drink coffee, we had Private Selection English Toffee ice cream, then retired to my room. Zach left an hour later. My, it's cold in January.<br /><br />See? So in fact it's a rather great thing that you were spared a semester of this tedium. Not to say it was boring, it just wasn't terribly <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">funny.</span> My Italian teacher was a bit of a loon, but material can only be rehashed so many times.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>SO THE<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"> </span></span></span></span>PRESENT! </span></span>I'm not sure where to begin... watch out, this blog might be a bit discombobulated.<br /><br />Austria is stunning. I have no better word, and for that I apologize, but it's true. We spent the first weekend in the Alps. There's more justice in the OJ trial than in the gross understatement that the hills are "alive." These things just have to be seen. We took a little trip to the Erlaufsee, a "small" lake in the middle of the Alps. After hiking around on the lake, I sat on a dock with my feet dangling in the water, taking in the living postcard in front of me. You can't help but wax philisophical at that point, and it's a small wonder how people like Beethoven and Mahler got their inspiration. After thinking about life and love and meaning and truth and beauty and art, I thought for a while how nice it would be to own one of the €25,000,000 houses that inhabit lake's edge. But then crazy/beautiful architecture in idyllic settings is nothing new to these people... Jesü Christ. I just turn a corner in the city and make the "Thank-God-You-Knew-the-Heimlich-Cuz-that-was-a-Huge-Piece-of-Schnitzel" face. Wiener Schnitzel, by the by, is <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">not</span> a big phallus covered in sauerkraut and generally made to look as unappetizing as possible. It's usually a veal cutlet, sometimes turkey, that's been breaded and fried. A lot like cordon bleu, only if you call it cordon bleu a huge man named Helmut comes out of the shadows (or out of an <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">indescribably small</span> car), and pummels you. Don't be fooled by the long hair and pleasant Austrian manner: Helmut is one Wiener who doesn't fool around when it comes to his Schnitzel.<br /><br />But yes, so as an example of the stunningness... I'm writing this blog in a large room in the Institute. The walls are gilded, the doors (also gilded) are 20 feet tall, there are... wait, I'm counting... 10 magnificent carvings adorning the spaces above the doors, the ceiling (gilded) is painted to look like a serene, cerulean sky, there are enough mirrors to make Paris Hilton happy, and the chandelier is probably on loan from the last Viennese production of Das Phantom der Oper. And that's all fairly blase compared to the velvet carpeting, marble columns, oak, ebony, and mahogony walls, and intricate stone-lace designs which decorate the rest of the building. This is the Palais Corbelli, the home of the IES Institute, and it's on an unimportant, untouched side of the street in the middle of Vienna. This building, which in any American town would have a spot on A&E and be perused by an army of Antiques Roadshow appraisers, pretty much fades into the unbelievable splendor on every street. I've been aghast (and I'm not just being dramatic, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">aghast</span> is what I feel) at every corner. I really had no concept of "ornate" until visiting this Imperial City.<br /><br />So I'm learning Deutsch like a psycho person... we're in the middle of the "German Intensive" which dominates the first three weeks of the program. My teacher, Frau Schachermeier (I can't make this stuff up), is a wonderfully cute Austrian native who is perhaps the most spry and delightful teacher I've ever had. She nurtures as if she were just one large breast, and she has a voice that could charm the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">honig</span> right out of the beehive. There is absolutely (under no circumstances and penalty of death) English spoken in her class, but when you get stuck (which is fairly often) she approaches you sweetly and her lilt becomes even more pronounced. Her eyes get wide when she speaks, and all you want to do is get your place on the rug for story time and hope that caca-sandwich Susie didn't take your spot for nappy time.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Ein Student:</span> Kann ich die Toilette... um... er...?<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Fr. Schachermeier:</span> BenÜTZen?! naTÜRlich!!!<br /><br />She's just a big bundle of Austrian goodness.<br /><br />But I'm learning a lot of German very very quickly, which provides a good deal of satisfaction. Class is certainly helpful, but most of the learning comes from street life. For instance, today I ordered a Käsekrainer, which is a massive piece of meat in hot doggish form that is filled with melted cheese. I mean, I bit into this thing and it splurted all over me like some kind of delicious pustule. When I ordered, however, the man behind the counter just handed me this cheese-oozing item without anything but the flimsiest of napkins to hold it. I couldn't be expected to grasp this giant wurst, bleeding as it was with grease and gouda, with only a simple piece of paper. So, knowing I didn't know the word for "bun," I said, "Können Sie englisch, bitte?" His response was to lift an eyebrow, point to my meat, and say, "Ja, Käsekrainer." This answer was insufficient. Thinking that mental images were certainly the best way to solve a language problem, I grasped the meat with my hand and proceeded to vigorgously rub it up and down. This way, I thought, I can show that I'm looking for an item that will cover the dog in its entirety. "Do you have a bun?" I asked in English. Obviously he thought my Käsekrainer masturbation was pretty funny. He brought his friends over to watch me make an unbelievable ass out of myself. After about two minutes, I realized what I was doing to this poor food and put my then-greasy hand at my side.<br /><br />"Did you want a bun?" asked the first man. Wanting to preserve any semblance of dignity, I denied his request and went to the table, where I gnawed on the best hot dog of my life and drank down a half-liter of Ottakringer (the local everyman's beer, which, incidentally, is excellent. I've never been a beer fan, but that's because I only had Natty Light and Milwaukee's Best to work with).<br /><br />One young Austrian, my age or maybe younger, approached me on Mariahilferstraße, one of the see-and-be-seen shopping avenues.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Austrian: </span>*Lots o' German, maybe every 5th word of which I understood*<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Me: </span>Entschuldigung, ich kann deutsch nicht so gut.<br />(Austrian looks at me disbelievingly)<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Me: </span>No seriously, I really can't speak German.<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Austrian: </span>Well, do you have an Austrian bank account?<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Me: </span>No.<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Austrian: </span>Ok. Well, then, you are allowed to go away from me.<br />His permission granted, I left.<br /><br />I know this blog is a long one, and I could go on and on (some more), but I'll try and wrap it up and save some for later.<br /><br />I'll finish with my living situation. I live in the dorm of the Universität für Musik und Darstellende Kunst (University for Music and Performing Arts). For the sake of brevity: classes take place in District 1, Johannesgasse 7. I live at Johannesgasse 8. Schön as all get-out. I live about 30 steps from Kärntnerstraße, which is basically the Michigan Avenue or Rodeo Drive or 5th Avenue of Vienna. Full of tourists, but very happening, especially at night. Oh, and there's the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">single largest building I have ever seen</span> about 3 minutes from my place. Stephansdom, or St. Stephan's Cathedral, is a gothic masterpiece situated at the very center of Vienna. I hear the bells ringing as I wake up. All I need are some birds to come and draw my curtains, revealing a late summer morning as they chirp Mozart tunes, and I'd be a real Austrian.<br /><br />Once I'm able to relax my "I-just-witnessed-a-triple-homicide" wonderment face and get used to the place a little, the blogs should become a little less descriptive and a little more narrative.<br /><br />Listening to: German rap from my roommate's computer. She thinks it will help our language study. This particular song is a list of commercial acronyms. I don't quite see the usefulness in knowing "KNY, GmbH, MCO und BMW, yo!" BMW, by the way, is pronounced here as "bay-em-vay" and they're like Fords... a 7-series in every garage. The garbage trucks have Mercedes logos. What a sexy place.<br /></span></span>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1101526550553475522004-11-27T02:18:00.000+01:002004-11-27T11:50:32.516+01:00Making yuletides gay since 1985Listening to <em>As Long as There's Christmas</em>, courtesy of my cable company's music channels. My mom turns on Sounds of the Season as we menfolk put up X-mas lights, those sparkling reminders of the glowing holy babe. In the grand tradition of <em>The Prayer </em>and <em>Up Where We Belong</em>, this is a really vomitous duet. But thanks to Comcast© and Sound of the Season, I can enjoy these and other horrible covers of navidad music all day/night/December long. What a joyous cacophony of classic songs! Now on <em>White Christmas</em> <em>with Perry Como and his Choir</em>. Boy, this takes me back.
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<br />Another beautiful Thanksgiving come and gone. I'll tell ya, I ate quite a bit. Enough that I sighed with relief when, after the meal, I made it to the bathroom. Not for the crapping, but for the loosening of my 28" pants. Next Thanksgiving, I'm going elastic.
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<br />Now on to Karen Carpenter's <em>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. </em>My dad hears the music from his perch atop the house.
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<br />"Is this that dead girl?" Ol' softie, he.
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<br />This year's meal was spent down in Murrieta (north of San Diego) with my cousin Yvonne and her family. She has two adorable little kids, Daniel, 7, and Julia, 6. They had recently received an early gift from St. Nick: a tiny bichon frisé puppy named Henri.
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<br />Me: Daniel, what kind of dog is Henri?
<br />Daniel: A French dog.
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<br />*Later*
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<br />Me: Julia, what kind of dog is Henri?
<br />Julia: A Jonbenet.
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<br />Now listening to Olivia Newton John and her rendition of <em>Hark the Herald Angels Sing.</em>
<br />Christ is the word!
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<br />So I definitely enjoyed the free alcohol this holiday. Finally having access to wine and champagne, I had about four times as much drink as food. No matter. Those family members over 6 days old generally followed my lead, so I blended right in. I had some strange concoction called Apples to Oranges, which included:
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<br />2 parts applesauce
<br />1 part Grand Marnier
<br />1 part Cognac
<br />1 part Champagne
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<br />This was disgusting, foul, stomach-turning. So I was told. By the time I began to drink it, my tastebuds were out of commission and I was laughing at King of Queens. By the time I <em>finished </em>it, I was unfit to drive a tricycle.
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<br />The turkey, other than having some strange tumor/bump/abcess/alien baby between the breasts, was beautiful and tasted delicious. My favorite hors d'oeuvres, black olives, were laid out and I happily took to putting them on my fingers and sucking them off with a vigor reminiscent of my childhood days. Even though I later rubbed my eye, and even though it stung visciously from the olive brine, and even though I had to excuse myself to wash out my eyeball and then come back out looking like I'd smoked out on half of my face, I had a great night. I hope you all had the same.
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<br />So Day 1 of Christmas Light Application is complete. The neighbors won't need sunscreen until we're completely finished tomorrow. We did find some snags in putting up the first 80 lbs. of stands, however.
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<br />"Wow, Dad, you did a great job on the roof!"
<br />"Thanks. It's so great when the family can get together and do satisfying work like this. I'm very pleased."
<br />"Oh, look, those two on the highest and least-accesible part of the house went out."
<br />"FUCK!"
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<br />"CJ, the first story looks great."
<br />"Thanks. It's tough going through the rain gutters, behind the bushes, and tip-toeing precariously on the windowsill, but the looks on your faces are worth it, family."
<br />"Wait, CJ, you put that one strand over the bay window on backwards. The plugs wont fit."
<br />"MOTHERFUCKINGBITCHASSWHORE"
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<br />Here's hoping everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I sure did. I'll probably post before the December holidays, but if I don't, then have a fantastic time with your:
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<br />A. Overbearing mother (Chanukkah)
<br />B. Overzealous uncle (Kwanzaa)
<br />C. Oversexed family (Catholic Christmas)
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<br />Now hearing Run-D.M.C's <em>Christmas in Hollis.</em> Where is that olive brine?
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<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1099899223530708012004-11-08T07:37:00.000+01:002004-11-08T08:43:15.143+01:00I give a cigarette to the baby<p>Listening to Beethoven's <em>Missa Solemnis</em>. Two reasons: 1) It's incredible. 2) For my Beet class, I'm writing a paper on his vocal music. And you don't get more vocal than a choir. ZING! oh, yeah, I am so back!
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<br />In regards to the huge pausa... I'm sorry to have kept my my legions of loyal fans waiting. Well, the one person. Kate has the temerity and spunk to be a legion. She expressed same in this way:
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<br />"Goddamnit Carl, update!"
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<br />There's trouble in paradise. Kate doesn't address my needs. I'm not content. I can only have me-time in the bathroom. She censors verbal expression, so I write this escapist plea. Remember that I write while pooing:
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<br />The leaves fall softly
<br />From the tree, gay girlfriend. I
<br />Wait for winter. <em>Splash.</em>
<br /><em></em>
<br />Should I hang on, as
<br />The stubborn malcontent poo
<br />Does so often? <em>Plop.</em>
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<br />No, Kate knows I love her... and you have to give me credit for being so understanding. I mean, she poos way more than me. And her emissions don't exactly tickle my olfactory receptors and cause them to do a merry dance.
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<br />It's difficult not to feel like a martyr, when you suffer those handicapped by chronic pooing.
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<br />SPEAKING of feces, we failed to clean the septic tank in Washington, guys. Not only did we not call the Kerry Honeywagon, but we let the shit leak all over the yard of Capitol Hill.
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<br />Not to go on for too long, because I'm sure you've seen it on blog after woebegone blog, but one point of utter confusion.
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<br />Overall, morality was the key to Americans' presidential decisions. A greater factor than the economy and terror. Maybe I'm missing the point--we <em>should</em> concentrate on our neighbors' business, I suppose. Why <em>shouldn't</em> practicality take a back seat to moral values? Besides, being a Mrs. Kravitz can be a lot of fun.
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<br />In response to our country's unashamed admission to the utmost importance of moral values, I propose this:
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<br />A complete de-pruding of the American public. We'll shock them all until we enjoy a European level of acceptance. It's fun and easy, here are just a few ideas!</p><ul><li>FUCK IN THE STREETS! At a certain time each day, we can all just go for it. Of course, we'll put those inclined to similar genitalia in the front of the orgy parade. Coast-to-coast nudity and copulation. From La Cienega to 5th Avenue, the streets'll be paved with, well, what the Sperm Banks consider liquid gold. Do it with a friend or use it as an opportunity to make new ones! </li><li>GET DRUNK WITH YOUR PARENTS DAY! Bring Daddy's temper to show-and-tell! Impress your friends when you, as a 10 year old, win the local sake bomb contest. Let's show the Russians they can't do <em>anything </em>better than us, those commie fools!</li><li>MULTICULTURAL HOMES (AND HOMOS) IN EVERY NEIGHBORHOOD! Two mommies, one black, one white, an asian girl, a latino boy. Scare the wits out of your conservative relatives as little José plays the violin and cute-as-a-bug's-ear Ling runs from the INS! </li><li>ISLAM DAY! Self-explanatory!</li><li>LEGALIZE MARIJUANA, GAMBLING, AND PROSTITUTION! Celebrate your newly legal friends, those clandestine individuals who until now had to hide in the shadows. Flaunt your love of this country by getting high and having anonymous sex in casinos all across the union! This amazing legislation would deal hypocrisy a deadly blow! Write your Congressperson today!</li><li>EQUIP AND TRAIN WILD GAME TO FIGHT BACK! Doe, a deer, a female ass-kicker. Do you smell what the endangered species are cookin? The conservatives want availability of guns, there's no reason why ducks and geese can't have assault rifles! It's definitely hunting season, my friends... this Thanksgiving, help a game animal to serve his family some roast "athlete."</li></ul><p>Other options included BEFRIEND A EUROPEAN! and PAY WOMEN THE SAME AMOUNT!, but then it stopped being crazy and just turned cynical, and that's just no fun.</p><p>If we work hard, I see no reason why we can't have everyone appreciate humanity just a little bit more. And I sure wouldn't mind a price-cap on whores!</p><p>Music: More Beethoven. Sonata 15 in D. I know, I know, I should broaden my musical horizons or I'll be no better than those I deride. There. I just switched to Edith Piaf. <span style="font-size:78%;">I'll be accepting my award for Pathetic Cultural Wannabe later. </span></p>
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<br /></p>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1097623235998393722004-10-13T00:03:00.000+02:002004-10-13T07:38:08.796+02:00"Buy me a Disaronno first."Listenin' me to some Mahler--<em>Symphony no. 8 in Eb major</em>--also known as the <em>Symphony of a Thousand</em> (a name of which Mahler did not approve). This is like, sit in the audience and your ears will be bleeding as much as your eyes are crying. Bernstein looked like he was passing a kidney stone and experiencing fellatio at the same time when he conducted this one. My, that'd lead to a surprise ending for the fellatiator. ptooey.
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<br />Well, it seems I don't smell as badly as I thought I did. I went on a date. Yes, a real live date with a living, breathing Mann. No, I did not pay him and no, he was not a confused illegal alien with limited English capabilities who thought I was his ticket into the country. This one actually wanted to go on a date, to DINNER, with me. I was ecstatic.
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<br />Now, normally my sexual life is as follows:
<br />1. Meet low-voiced human, establish masculinity. (Those who are high-voiced are not excluded, but they tend to be menstruators. No cervix for me, thank you.)
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<br />2. Man buys me a drink at Bull's. I sip my Midori sour, thinking that he doesn't look quite as much like Matt Damon as his Yenta girlfriend told me. In fact, he usually has one eye and just enough teeth so that he can eat without the aid of a food processor. Sometimes a puncture wound on his upper lip, sometimes a kind of herpes-excema around the mouth and inner elbow. It's a neat kind of lottery, really.
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<br />3. If Man can walk down the street without having children scream in terror (or poorly-dubbed Japanese musicians pointing and ruing the day when the atom was harnessed), then I usually end up going home with him or taking him home.
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<br />4. After a lengthy courtship of 2 hours (the time it takes to make me some coffee and get through the only-slightly-more-interesting-than-a-funeral discussion about his major) Man and I will ___________<em><strong>CENSORED___________. </strong></em>Depending on the Man, this can take up to 11.94 minutes. Usually, though, this step is quicker than Easy-Mac.
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<br />5. I put on my pants, and start walking home. When he insists on driving, I simply say, "Oh, that's ok, it's really nice outside and I didn't make it to the gym today." This means, "Oh, that's ok. I'd rather walk home so that I don't walk into my apartment smelling like one-eyed comp. lit. major with a thing for licking my knees."
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<br />6. After some tentative AIM back-and-forths, I'm back to concentrating on C.P.E. Bach. So long, Reginald (sometimes the names you make up are better than the names you didn't get.)
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<br />Alright, so this is a re-enactment, somewhat sensationalized for dramatic effect. But the subtext is still there: it's the rare boy who exhibits true character--intelligence, wit, humor, attractiveness, maturity, opinion, and a moral fiber no more dense than my own. I think I've found one of the rarest. I feel like calling the Discovery Channel.
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<br />Zach is a fantastic guy, one about whom I'm quickly becoming more and more excited. After dinner and then <em>Chocolat</em>, I'm ready to pursue this one with all my energy. With any luck, by this time next month, I won't be back at Bull's, warding off the pockèd penis pirates. I'll be on a couch on Fess Avenue, content to spend a Saturday evening lying with him, comfortable in the commitment.
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<br />I can't wait.
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<br />Currently listening to: Mahler 2--<em>Resurrection</em>. This one is aptly named. At the end, a big Jesus appears and smites the wicked and poorly-dressed. Just kidding. It's a small Jesus.
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<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1097223558703749712004-10-08T06:43:00.000+02:002004-10-09T20:52:50.996+02:00C is for cookie. Me no share.Listening to Wagner's <em>Tristan und Isolde.</em> Your classic boy loves girl, girl loves boy, boy has allegiances to royal uncle, royal uncle loves girl, jealousy and same-sex incest kinda story. Ok, maybe not the uncle. Wagner is so German that he embodies everything before and <em>after </em>him in German culture. He is at once beer steins and Habsburgs, Nazism and Humperdinck. Impossible to like the man, but I highly recommend the music. but not at sleepy-time. ok enough. I can't make this anti-semite funny, so I'll just quote Young Frankenstein.
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<br />"Why, he'd have an enourmous Staanstücher!" The incomparable Teri Garr.
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<br />Today was Carl smacks Carl in the face day. I just went crazy buck wil' with the faux pas. At one point, I turned on Bob Vila to see if he could give me tips on how to nail-gun my lips together. I suppose it's not surprising... I'm not the most candy-coated-gooey-center kinda guy. I'm those little generic brand-name suckers that can only say, "Your pediatrician is too cheap to get Tootsie-Roll Pops." I'm the old, stale Dots, the ones that you think might be pretty good, but ohp! they're vile and stick to your teeth. I don't try to be this way, but often people would much rather eat the nondescript, homemade Halloween candy from the Cat Lady down the street than break into a box of old, stale Dots.
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<br />So, <em>les grands faux pas...</em>
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<br />1. In theory, since there are 709476,09837465o97,26435097,63409586.1235 people in my class, they split it up into a lecture and a drill. The lecture is taught by a professor, a luminous and illustrious Yale PhD. When she writes tests, however, her syntax and diction can sometimes be confusing and misleading. (i.e. let's use a word that we've never heard before to write a test question). We have a test tomorrow, and in drill today I raised my hand and said, "Ok, so Gretchen words things kinda strangely... anything we should know how to translate into Normal ahead of time?" I got some polite chuckles and agreement-nods, and the instructor answered my question. I immediately felt guilty for using the professor's first name, so I added, "And I apologize. I should call her Professor **** [names omitted as a result of my pussiness]."
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<br />The drill instructor narrowed his eyes and curtly replied, "Yes, you should."
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<br />So I came out of that one smelling like a rose. A rose in an anal sphincter.
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<br />2. My German teacher was late to class today. After ten minutes past the official starting time, some classmates and I decided our time would be better spent napping and watching DOL and OLTL, classic noon tv favorites. The party of miscreants includes: myself, two other Californians (I thought it was very Berkeley of us to walk out. The girl didn't have a big enough bra to burn, though. oh well.), and a Ms. S. Kim, of Seoul, South Korea. The other Cali people exited the room and went to the left. Ms. Kim and I went to the right, and the boba-binger decided it would be best if we waited for the elevator.
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<br />"But the teacher will soon arrive and see us escaping!" said I.
<br />"He will not!" quoth she.
<br />"Whatever, Margaret Cho," I retorted.
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<br />So we took the elevator, and of course at the bottom was our teacher. grand. He's about 25-26, balding, and from Provo... so this very sweet man looked at us, obviously having been running, and said, "Oh wow, guys I'm so sorry, has everyone already left?" Well, shitcrumpets. "Some people," I said. "Oh," he replied, "well, I guess I'll run up there and teach whoever is still there."
<br />At this point I had myriad options:
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<br />a) I could say, "Yeah, you have fun with that," at which point Ms. Kim and I would have left. But it would've been faster to just grab his head and press his lips to my ass.
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<br />b) We could pretend that we didn't recognize him, and still leave. The next day, say, "Wow, that was you?! You look so different outside the classroom." No.
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<br />c) Running.
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<br />but we chose:
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<br />d) Enjoy a 10-second awkward moment while the teacher realizes that we obviously don't care enough about his class to wait 15 minutes, then we say, "Oh, well, now that you're here, of course we'll stay," and proceed to follow the man up three flights of stairs in silence, all the while looking like two bad seeds being escorted to the principal's office. Also included in this option is arriving <em>back </em>in the class that we had so flamboyantly left 3 minutes earlier, following the teacher and having the class give out a long, "Ooooooooooo" (read: you're in trouble sound).
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<br />3. A delightful-looking violinist had laid out some cookies in a densely populated common area, hoping to attract students to her and her chatter about the Music School Student Organization. I, in my hunger, approached her and decided not to waste time. "Is taking a flyer all I have to do to get a cookie?" I asked, cookie in hand and smiling ever so deliciously, proud of my sarcastic cuteness.
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<br />She was not amused. "No," she said plainly<em>, grabbing the cookie <strong>from my hand</strong>, just inches from my open mouth, and putting it back in the box</em>. Turning to another interested student, she said, "Hi, you want to join MSSO?..." It was clear that I was now finished at the dinner table.
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<br />Ok, so maybe those weren't all textbook faux pas... maybe more of me just being rude and not realizing it. But I felt mighty ashamèd all day. I went and found a dark corner of my apartment to sit in, so I could think about what I'd done. I also said an act of contrition and went to confession. By that I mean I came home and watched Oprah with Kate.
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<br />You know when you were little, and the most mortifying thing in the whole world was being scolded by an adult you didn't know? Yeah, I felt like that.
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<br />So, I resolve to have more class and be conscious of my words and actions from now on. Not everyone warms to me immediately, especially, it seems, when I try to take their confectionary delights without asking. In the meantime, I'll practice using my wheelchair. Both feet are in my mouth, so I need some way to get around.
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<br />Music RIGHT NOW: Louis Prima, <em>I ain't got nobody</em>.<em> </em>He became famous as the voice of King Louis in Disney's 1967 <em>The Jungle Book.</em> At least that's how he became famous to me. When I was five. He scats like a good red-blooded Guido, and so I'm turned on. Excuse me.
<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1096694090228097842004-10-02T05:43:00.000+02:002004-10-02T09:23:52.890+02:00What do you today night?Musique: Philip Glass, <em>The Hours</em> Soundtrack. Fantastic soundtrack for an unbelievable movie. Phil's usually kinda weird, but this one's pretty mainstream-sounding. He's written some unusual stuff, most notably 1998's <em>Koyaanisqatsi</em>, which is the homo word for vagina.
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<br />So, I'm a little worried that mayhaps my limited German experience will not prepare me for my trip to Austria in the Fall. I can't imagine trying to impress a random Helmut or Kurt at the local Disko. Stefan won't be amazed by my being able to explain that my jeans are blue, and Hansel won't melt when I tell him that Frau Schulz has two dogs.
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<br />"I don't like to hike in the mountains," I'll say. "But I want the Bratwurst and, granted, my arm is long."
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<br />Plurals make it fun too. In german, you don't just add an s. Nein Herr. A plural requires some umlauts and random letters that ancient saxons thought were kühl. Or sometimes it's the same. Or sometimes it's just an umlaut, no random letters. Or sometimes I chew the spine of my book in a bitter rage. Watch and be puzzled.
<br /><em>die Mutter</em>=the mother. fine. gotcha.
<br /><em>die Mütter</em>=the mothers. Was der fuck?
<br /><em>das Buch</em>=the book.
<br /><em>die Bücher= </em>the books.
<br /><em>der Arm</em>=the arm
<br /><em>die Arme</em>=the arms.
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<br />German efficiency my ass.
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<br />So I'm more than merely worried about a first date in Vienna. I'm frightened.
<br />"This foods is deliciouses. Whence come the chef assembling my stomach-fillers?"
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<br />or later that evening: "Good night, Michael. Yours eye are like bog of lit. Please, me kiss with your tongues."
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<br />Intriguing too are the compound words. Some of the gems are:
<br /><em>der Tageslichtprojektor</em>=the projector (lit. day's light projector)
<br /><em>die Fahrkartenschalter </em>= the ticket window
<br /><em>die Erziehungswissenschafte </em>=<em> </em>education (as an academic subject)
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<br />German also puts words together that in English don't seem to jive. Translations end up being, well, loose.
<br /><em>Kindertotenlieder, </em>or, Songs on the Death of Children. Not a Bradybunchy language, German.
<br /><em>das Seeleleben</em>, or, soul-life. Poetic, yes. Difficult to ease that one in though.
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<br />"You're a great dancer. Soul-life!"
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<br />Could be fun to play with, I guess. <em>die Erziehungswissenschaftetotenlieder</em>, or, Songs on the Death of Education (as an academic subject).
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<br />Lastly, the seperable prefix verbs. These are quite like reflexive verbs in the romance languages. But not. A simple example:
<br /><em>stehen</em> = to stand
<br /><em>aufstehen= </em>to stand up, to wake up
<br />Straightforward enough, I think. Until you try to make a sentence.
<br />"<em>Ich stehe am 8 Uhr auf</em>." "I wake at 8 o'clock up."
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<br />That could pose problems when I try to get sassy with my new Mann, Jens. It might ruin the moment if I say:
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<br />"You make stand my penis up."
<br />"Let's go homes and sex in every room have. We can clean later the mess up."
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<br />In reality, I do love German. It's a very direct and yet surprisingly poetic language. I'm just a little afraid that if I don't learn more, I'll have to rely on a <em>kommst du hier </em>stare. And I look like I'm getting a colonic when I make that face.
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<br />Ich höre Tchaikovsky's <em>Marche Slave. </em>I felt rully smart today when I mentioned I thought it was such a moving piece, and it certainly evokes the hardships of a slave. It's about Slavs, Carl. Not slaves. <em>Ich bin ein Stupidevalleygirlin.</em>
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<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1096356327991030432004-09-28T08:18:00.000+02:002004-11-23T20:29:15.406+01:00Tonight on MTV, True Life: I'm Lar.Current music: Beethoven, <em>Sonata in c minor, No.8 Op.13, "Pathétique</em>." From the French for "impossible for non-asians."
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<br />Saw IU Opera Theater's <em>La bohème</em> this weekend. The next day, I visited a seretary at the admissions office.
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<br />"Yeah, so hi, my name's Carl. I think you guys made a mistake. You, um, admitted me to this amazing school. I think you might have mixed up my application with that of someone who could someday hope to sing like these people. Hey, no problem. Just a little clerical error. After all, we're only human, right? By the way... [looks at her nametag] Alice, that's a lovely brooch. Ha ha, well tell your husband he has good taste. You have a good day now, y'hear?"
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<br />My blogging hiatus is ended, but please, do not think that my absence was a result of laziness or being oversexed. It was neither of these things. Actually, Harry Potter came over, we played Pretty Pretty Princess, and I won. Naturally. So Potty got all pissy and placed a curse on my computer so that my internet was completely non-functional. So for whatever reason, it began to work again Sunday night, and I finally found some time to sit down with some coffee and English Toffee Temptation (made with real Heath® Bars) and blog. A new verb, perhaps?
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<br />ich bloge/ wir blogen
<br />du blogst / ihr blogt
<br />er blogt / sie blogen
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<br />It's no <em>trabajábamos,</em> but I like it.
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<br />An oversight concerning a previous blog has been brought to my attention, and I seek to remedy this problem immediately. In Non-pretentious-ish, that means <em>I fucked up</em>, <em>here, let me fix it. </em>It seems that the strange company logo references were all but lost on those of you who make your home east of the Rockies. To be freaked out in the same way that my California chums were, simply visit these websites:
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<br /><a href="http://www.best-foods.com">http://www.best-foods.com</a>
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<br /><a href="http://www.dreyers.com">http://www.dreyers.com</a>
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<br /><a href="http://www.carlsjr.com">http://www.carlsjr.com</a>
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<br />A quick jaunt to ugly-land with my AI. I'm very much over our disagreement, but yeah today she was lookin good. An open V-neck t-shirt with a generous amount of chest-acne and hair like a Cuban.
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<br />Whole lotta nasty goin on.
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<br />But now for the real fun of the post. Lar came through for us during his presentation. While my friends and I agree that he was rather tame by Lar standards, he still was golden-tongued enough to fill up a full page on my legal pad. When you read his lines, think of a male Fran Drescher, from the midwest. Some fun samples fer ya:
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<br />[during another lecture on the same day] <strong>Professor</strong>: Ok, we're going to look at some rarely-seen chords. These are like theory porn.
<br /><strong>Class</strong>: [lighthearted guffaws]
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<br />[beat]
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<br /><strong>Lar</strong>: [sexy whistles] Yeah baby!
<br /><em>Down low, too slow, Lar.</em>
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<br /><strong>Professor:</strong> [good-naturedly] Now, everyone needs to heckle Larry during his presentation like he does to me.
<br /><strong>Dan:</strong> I won't heckle ya, Lar.
<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>Wow, thanks! I'd buy you a drink, but it'll have to be a smoothie 'cause I'm underage.
<br /><em>Make mine a Strawberries Wild, Lar!</em>
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<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>[on Gesualdo, the composer who killed his wife] Yeah, so he killed her and the dude she was bangin'.
<br /><em>Eloquently done, Lar. A+.</em>
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<br />His attire: One (1) Battle of the Bands Indiana State Fair T-shirt <em>tucked into </em>one <em>(</em>1) pair of dirty, belt-less jeans. Attached to jeans hung two (2) plumber-style key rings, neither of which had keys.
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<br /><strong>Professor: </strong>See how that note anticipates the finality of the piece?
<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>Yeah, it's like getting to the finish line, then getting kicked in the butt.
<br /><em>Listener: [rubs ass] Ouch, don't you hate those cadences.</em>
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<br /><strong>Professor:<em> </em></strong>Well, you do have an assignment this evening.
<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>[loud flatulence noise]
<br /><em>No need for catillion manners, Lar. It's just theory.</em>
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<br /><em>et le coup de grace:</em>
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<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>Is it a six-four chord?
<br /><strong>Prof: </strong>No.
<br /><strong>Lar: </strong>Damnit! [sotto voce] Way to look stupid, Larry. Great job.
<br /><strong>2nd Lar: </strong>It's ok, you'll get it on the homework.
<br /><strong>Lar:</strong> I hate all the homework crap in this class. [mocking voice, still sotto voce] 5 days a week, homework every night, listen to this here, mark non-chord tones there.
<br /><strong>2nd Lar: </strong>Whatever. Just finish it and you'll be fine.
<br /><em>Inner-voices coming out to play, Lar? Let's save the schizophrenia for after class, ok?</em>
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<br />Ok, ok. I promise after this one there won't be any more scathing <em>ad hominem </em>blogs. I'm not vindictive, I just call 'em as I see 'em. I'm sure that if someone were to blog about me and use my direct quotations, I'd be beat up the next day. By the nerdy girls.
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<br />Music now: Mahler, <em>Symphony 2 in c minor, "Resurrection." </em>Um, I got nothin'. The guy's first name is Gustav, but other than that, not much room for comic analysis.
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<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1095917701643326752004-09-23T06:31:00.000+02:002004-09-23T08:33:42.313+02:00Peck a little, talk a littleMeine Musik jetzt: Tchaikovsky, <em>Sleeping Beauty</em>, <em>Act III.</em> You never saw this part in the Disney movie. This is when the owl from the forest and Malefocent's crow have a conversation over cigarettes.
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<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: You know, Bruce...</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: Yes, Stanley?</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: Um, Stan. [drag]</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: Right. [nervous drag]. Stan.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: Anyways, that Princess might have junk in the trunk [extends wings], but she's too much of a damn prima donna bitch. [long, righteous drag]</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: Omigod, I <em>know</em>! I told her she was completely rude and didn't need to worry about a bra. No need for you to be seen at Vickie's, hun. And her hair, ugh! I mean, am I right?</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">[beat]</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: Uh, whatever. Man, I'd so wanna see her and the witch get it on. [drag] Those fairies can make some cool shit happen, I bet.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: Seriously! With all the candles and the drapery even the Ellen action would be semi-romantic. If you can get into that sort of thing. Me, I'd love a steam bath with spicy scents. [moves closer, blows smoke into OWL's face, attempting to turn him on]</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">[long beat. OWL takes final drag, puts out butt with talon]</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: Look, man. I'm not gay.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: What?! Well, me <em>neither</em>, I mean duh! [snorts. takes drag between snorts]</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Owl: Whatever man. Look, the whole cast knows. It's no big deal. The Prince and the Dragon have had a thing for a few months now. But me, I'm not into crow-jobs. Nothing personal. See ya back on the set. [Exeunt by flying]</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Crow: [visibly deflated] Damn. He had a nice ass.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Horse: You called, sweetie?</span>
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<br />I'd stop here but I have coffee left.
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<br />I only had theory classes today, and so there's no way to even try to make those interesting. HOWEVER! Tomorrow is All-Larry-All-The-Time day.
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<br />Ah, Lar. Big guy, wears a sweaty hat. Percussion major. You know the kind of guy I mean. Not in touch with society too much. Likes Save the Rainforest and Valparaiso Youth Symphony t-shirts. He's not all that special except for that fact that he cracks off jokes that would make us throw our Music Analysis texts at him if they weren't so expensive. Sample:
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<br />Professor: Well, Monteverdi didn't just wake up one morning and say, "I'm going to revolutionize music today."
<br />Lar: Well, of course not. He did the dishes first.
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<br />Oh Lar. Lar, Lar, Lar, Lar, Lar. So we have these huge presentation projects due during the semester, and our Lar's is tomorrow. Larry picked his topic, a composer by the name of Gesualdo, because the latter killed his wife. I don't know if that's really funny "<em>ha-ha</em>," there, Lar. But go ahead. Anyways, I'm planning on scribbling his every word down furiously on my legal pad. Then I can bring it out on a rainy day 40 years from now and smile.
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<br />Ah, Lar. We hardly knew ye.
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<br />Musica ora: Tuba mirum, from Mozart's <em>Requiem</em>. Nothing funny 'bout this one. It's a masterwork. I feel exalted when I listen to it. Like I should be in a robe and have a laurel crown and jump into the phone booth with Bill & Ted.
<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1095831369735188722004-09-22T06:26:00.000+02:002004-09-22T16:54:36.726+02:00Beethoven: Genius, Nymphomaniac, or Both?<blockquote></blockquote><p>Listening to Mozart's <em>Don Giovanni.</em> Thought it was fitting, seeing how this is going to be a sexy post. If the Don's sexual escapades don't cause the boys to knock lamps off the table with their erections, then nothing will.
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<br />First, an oddity!
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<br />Here in the Midwest, there are quite a few companies whose logos look incredibly familiar to those in Cali. BUT! they have different names. Quite different, in fact. See if you can guess the California equivalent to these everyday companies and products! Part of a balanced breakfast.
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<br /><a href="http://www.hellmanns.com/products_mayo.asp"></a><a href="http://www.hellmanns.com/products_mayo.asp">http://www.hellmanns.com/products_mayo.asp</a>
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<br /><a href="http://www.edys.com/main/index.asp?b=105">http://www.edys.com/main/index.asp?b=105</a>
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<br /><a href="http://www.hardees.com/">http://www.hardees.com/</a>
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<br />Très étrange, non? On TV commercials they will sing, "Bring out the Hellman's, and bring out the best," or, "Hardee's: Don't bother me, I'm eating." Then the Twilight Zone theme plays and the camera in front of me spins in really fast circles as I slap my hands to my cheeks and scream.
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<br />Sometimes.
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<br />Ok so the sex!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
<br />Except it's sex and Beethoven, so you might have to pull up some porn to keep yourself going. Sorry.
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<br />First, some background: I'm taking a class this semester called Beethoven and His Era. It's taught by a comp. lit. professor, and is totally outside the music school--so it's a nice way to escape from french augmented 6th chords when I feel the need. In class this evening, the professor [who looks a lot like the Beet himself, what with his huge hair. When he makes an interesting point, he'll nod violently and his hair will be caught in an incredible wave for a good 2 seconds.] Anyways, today we were looking at some of the art that might have influenced the angry man later in life... namely, early romantic paintings. Here are some quick examples if you're not familiar with the period:
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<br />(Just scroll to the bottom and click on the thumbs): <a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/friedrich/">http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/friedrich/</a>
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<br />Ok, so now that you have that kind of tragic landscape image floating around, this was the term that Professor Hertz used to describe the period.
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<br />ahem. <em><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;color:#339999;">Kinky mysticism.</span></em>
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<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;color:#000000;">To me, this describes when people who like Renaissance faires geteth it on. After a trying but invigorating game of Dungeons & Dragons, Lady Trueblood-NappyHaire and her Faire Knight Sir Gallahad the Zitty eat a huge turkey leg and then have an awkward fuck on a twin bed in his parents' house. Sometimes they invite a pixie or two (more, if you're royalty). People like this:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.fairyfashion.de/">http://www.fairyfashion.de/</a> yes. those are real women. and those are real wedding gowns. you're gonna want to check it out after this. </p><p>When I think of "kinky mysticism," I think of S&M costumes like this:</p><p><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/255/1778/320/1.jpg" /></p><p></p><p>whip it, maria. I've been a bad bad boy.</p><p>After sex à la Kinky Mysticism, I'd expect to look like this:</p><p><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/255/1778/320/4.jpg" />
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<br />So, moral of the story! Next time you think a professor has made up a completely insane phrase, think about it. It may be exactly what he means.</p><p>Goodnight, all. And may I never want to post pictures again. Trying to figure that out made this hour and a half blog session way too taxing. </p><p></p><p>Current music, still <em>Don Giovanni.</em> Specifically Donna Alvira's aria <em>Mi tradì. </em>She got it on with the Don and now isn't getting any. In this aria, she sings, "O, how I do so miss the c*ck." But it's Mozart, so in some translations she says "penis."
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<br /></p>Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1095743843377587082004-09-21T06:17:00.000+02:002004-10-09T22:05:31.150+02:00Cheer up, Charlie...Currently escuchando to Shakira, <em>Si te vas.</em>
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<br />Yeah, so remember when I said that most posts would be not so reflective (i.e. take simple event and expand it so that the entire world understands, and can then solve world hunger and animal-prints)? Don't think that's gonna happen...
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<br />It's just not an interesting enough day to day existence, mine. Nothing really gripping or breathtaking or even fart-inducing happens to me regularly. If I spent all my time talking about music school, pushing my glasses farther up my nose and going on about why Strauss is <em>so</em> not the new Mozart, you'd send me anthrax in the mail or something. So humor me. Please. <span style="font-size:78%;">Or he'll hit me again.</span>
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<br />Oh wait <span style="color:#ff0000;">EVENT! </span><span style="color:#000000;">Or rather, cause to detest an Associate Instructor of mine. First, open your minds and imaginations while I describe her. Have a vomit bowl ready. </span>
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<br />Picture, if you will, the nerdiest girl at your high school. The one who didn't have much to say, but at the same time it was obvious she would never a) kill people, or b) have a secret two-in-the-pink-one-in-the-stink sex life that wouldve schocked Sue Johansen. Your basic <em>Magic the Gathering</em>, Babysitter's Club kinda girl. My AI is this girl, only she is the president of the IU Tae Kwon Do club. So she kicks high school girl's ass. That's her basic personality... I shall expand.
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<br />All you really need to know is that she ends her emails with quotations from people like Blaise Pascal and Ronald Reagan. So in my case, an email which ends with "Sorry, but you'll have to take a zero on that assignment" is quickly followed by:
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<br /><span style="color:#33cc00;"><em>I decline utterly to be impartial as between the fire brigade and the fire. -Winston Churchill</em></span>
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<br /><span style="color:#000000;">Dry your eyes, Carl. Winny's comforting words will always be there for you. </span>
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<br />Ok, appearance. She has a body worthy of Roald Dahl. This Oompa-Loompa-looking <em>puta</em> isn't too far off in terms of skin color or dress, either. She's not orange, but has jaundice that makes her look like a botulistic banana. Or a newborn. A really ugly newborn. The color of newborn poo. Her jeans routinely refuse to reach her ankles (but I have to give them credit, the jeans. They do their best to make it around her pubic mound. There's simply not enough material to make it to the floor.) She doesn't volunteer at a hospital, but damned if her shirts don't have little ducks on them as though she's a pediatrician's assistant. If Willy Wonka was her father, than surely a Kentucky Derby mare was mommy. When she smiles, I always get the image of an expansive red sea (her gums) out of which jut 36 or so disproportionately long piers (her teeth). Ooh, and the food that's constantly in her teeth can be the fishermen. Cute! Like a diorama! As a pretty Christmas bow to wrap it all up, she sports a Prince Rupert 'do in dire need of some shampoo and a comb. The only woman on campus with frizzy hair in the winter.
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<br />The picture of beauty.
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<br />I know what you're thinking. "Carl, why so acerbic?! I've rarely (if ever) seen you this cruel. I'm somewhat offended by such a hateful display." And for that I apologize. I must, however, have a way to immaturely displace my anger. I'd smear the good name of Queer if I didn't express my upset self in a shallow and completely unrelated way. Long story short, I made a mistake in signing up for a required one-on-one exam. When I realized my error, I immediately contacted her, apologized, and made myself readily available for a make-up opportunity. Normally, so as not to give the naughty children an easy way out, these one-on-one exams are not made-up (unless your AI happens to have a beating heart, and can recognize an honest mistake). She denied me, citing "an administrative bind," but then went on to say that "it [was] difficult to do, seeing as though I'm so responsible." It's the beginning of the semester. I'll make up for the zero-grade somehow.
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<br />I shake my fist at ye, o black- and stony-hearted one!
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<br /><em><span style="font-family:times new roman;color:#cc33cc;">But bearing what we cannot change and going on with what God has given us, confident there is a destiny, somehow seems to bring a reward we wouldn't exchange for any other. It takes a lot of fire and heat to make a piece of steel. -Ronald Reagan</span></em>
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<br />Current music:<em> </em>Elton John--<em>This Train Don't Stop There Anymore. </em>Elt, we knew you were gay and a druggie before. We still loved you.
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<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1095588527692408512004-09-19T11:25:00.000+02:002004-10-09T22:05:50.643+02:00Not by the hairs of my chesty-chest-chestListening to Edith Piaf, <em>Comme moi. </em>Yeah, I guess no one's surprised that I like boys.
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<br />My days as the Polish Hairless are at an end. Well, that's not really accurate, as I've had a little chin sumpin-sumpin for a while. But this evening, after brushing my teeth, I noticed some seriously unsightly haar doing it's thing above and <em>around</em> my areole.
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<br />I had to act.
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<br />It hurts, plucking your chest. It's not like the eyebrows, where one pluck will be rewarded with 5-6 hairs. Chest plucking is a tedious, arduous exericse. But a colorful one. Chest hairs range in color and tone from <em><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><span style="color:#ffcccc;"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">February Morning </span></strong></span></span></em>to <em><span style="color:#663300;"><strong>Espresso Oscuro </strong></span></em>and everything in between. A particularly painful <em><strong><span style="color:#996633;">Beyoncé</span></strong></em>-colored one was plucked and lo! there was a mole I hadn't yet noticed. Which caused me pause... if I never noticed this mole, this means this hair must have been here for a long time, preventing me from seeing the mole [aka beauty mark]. And sober, clean men removed their shirts and allowed me to do the same. BODY HAIR IS NOT ATTRACTIVE, AND I'VE HAD IT FOR AN INDEFINITE AMOUNT OF TIME! I feel cheated. Had I known that lil' Hairy had been there, I woulda plucked him away with an unbelievable swiftness. But alack and alas, 'twas there all the time--as if saying to me, "you are a phony twink. my friends and i will make short order of your frivolous youth. welcome to bear country." I plucked the bastard away, and I won't deny that I took a small amount of time to admire his remains before getting rid of him.
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<br />This war is far from over. They will return. But my tweezers are prepared to launch the biggest shock and awe campaign ever seen by a human body.
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<br />Oh well. All gone! I am once again as smooth as silk and can, at a moment's notice, be ready for a shirtless white party at Bullwinkle's. [The local deviant bar]. Today was a Saturday. I'm thinking that most of my future posts won't be this reflective, once I have actual events to report.
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<br />Music now is Edith Piaf, <em>La vie en rose.</em> She's like Judy Garland, only French. Well fuck, say I. Why just be gay when you can be <em>pretentious </em>and gay?
<br />Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8374189.post-1095496518118556612004-09-18T10:42:00.001+02:002008-08-05T04:26:10.992+02:00Hoping this doesn't become my Eeyore outlet"Uproarious" - New York Times<br />"I felt 94 again" - AARP Magazine<br />"Forget squirrel hunting, <em>Take off your daisy dukes </em>is the new it-leisure activity" - Kid I met, from Columbus, IN<br /><br />These are just some of the rave reviews I thinked of whilst plopped here on the couch in the Jared apartment. That's right. Jared. As in the Subway guy with the I'm-gon-rock-yo'-world lips and the heart that won't easily forget 2 metric tons. I live in his old apartment. Well, I should say "we," Stephen J. Meyer [hailing from the Land of Cleves], Kate L. Talbert [a St. Lunatic if there ever was one], and myself. I'll use the word "loft," as I'm about to say that I live over a Subway, and "loft" sounds Trumpish and kühl. Anywhat, Jared was kind enough to bequeath us this loft, and we thank him whenever he's on tv with a hearty, "Thanks, Jar!" That is pronounced, of course, in a manner that rhymes with <em>chair,</em> <em>scare, </em>and <em>Susie's ass kinda <strong>flare</strong>s<strong> </strong>out there and prevents her from entering doors easily. </em>I'd include the IPA transcription, since as a music major that's one of the few ways I can shamelessly flaunt some kind of non-Musik skill, but alas blog hast nicht the big E symbol which indicates an open and long vowel. Please don't hit the back button now. I AM VINDICATED BY MY REVIEWS!<br /><br />I'll admit here that I'm spurned on to create/write/poo via computer by two of my most incredibly articulate and sexually active friends back home, Ms. B. Lipschitz and Ms. C. Karpanski. Those of you from Chicago should be ok with the Polack's name. Anywhy, they have some really komische (funny, auf Deutsch) blogs, and I was inspired by them (the blogs, not the Jewish girls). It gives me something to do at night besides downing highballs and random hook-ups at gay.com kids' houses at which I am busy thinking, "Wow, 'Spiro Agnew' really <em>is</em> a crazy name," while making out with... shit, sorry I'm awful with names.<br /><br />I may not always be consistent with my postings. Please forgive me for making you boil with antici<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />[almost]<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />pation.Carlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06819954980558318347noreply@blogger.com2