A Refreshing Summer Treat

So I happened to be in a bar today (escaping from what can only be described as a tempest), and I noticed that next to the bar there was a new age-y kind of a bookstore. Always on the lookout for things that smell nice, I went in, hoping to find some kind of good-smelling resin, balsam, paste, root, leaf or pod to add to my collection. Well, long story short, after asking at least 40 questions about exactly where their frankincense comes from, and if one would really need to burn the myrrh in order to smell it, I left with half a pound of vetiver roots and a quarter pound of patchouli leaves.

I won't go into the patchouli, too much, I will just say that the leaves are a thousand times better than any oil or perfume, much sweeter and camphorous (patchouli was originally used as moth repellant for silk). But I will say that the vetiver is absolutely fantastic. For those of you who don't know what vetiver is, it's a perennial grass native to India. It's mostly used in fragrance (vetiver has an interesting deep, smoky, woody green scent, and it is more than likely in your favorite fragrance) and traditional medicine, but can also be added to drinking water to lend a similarly sweet, smoky, woody green scent and refreshing woody flavor.

And after the surreal weirdness that was my day today, It's really helped me calm down. So that's a plus.

Try some vetiver. You won't be disappointed.

The Gay Bar...

So a few days ago several friends and I were out drinking, and they decided that they wanted to go to a gay bar. I interjected that I was not a big fan of this particular gay bar, as the drinks are watered down, the music tends to be mediocre, and above all, whenever I go there, I am subjected to what can only be described as an endless David Lynch-ian menagerie of unsavory characters. For example:

I. Fat Self-Hating Emo Thing
After spending a more-or-less uneventful evening in said bar, we ducked out into the fresh air, and were promptly ambushed by this pale whale. He plopped down beside us and promptly began to pour his heart out about how lonely he was, how his internship at a hair salon was utterly awful and just sooo stressful. On this note, he proceeded to show us his arms and legs, which were covered with the most varied collection of angry, raised, pink scars (imagine if a man fell into a Wheat Thresher filled with Portugese Man-O-Wars) I have ever seen. He then went on to linger uncomfortably for about half an hour, before roaming off to more sympathetic pastures.

II. Lanky Greaser Bartender & Rotund Libertine Bartender
As far as I can tell, these two aparently live in the bar. The third time I was there, the former spent a long while leering at one of my friends from the shadows, all the while stroking his pompadour and leaning against a beam in what I assume was meant to be a come-hither fashion. I was periodically distracted from observing the former by the latter. A short, egg-shaped kind of a man, he had the general look of something that would (drunkenly) tumble out of a carriage near St. James' Park in the mid 1600's. Sweaty and pink, his hair disheveled from the wig most likely just removed to more adequately facilitate buggery. I say that I was distracted by him, I suppose it would be more apt to say that he repeatedly tried to grab my ass throughout the evening. Despite his size and shape, he is stealthy, and wears mostly black, rendering him invisible except for his pink, glossy face.

III. Thomas
Thomas was similarly round and sweaty. We had not been in the bar more than 5 minutes before he sidled up next to me and began holding court. He told a long winded story about a couple stranded on a desert island which ended abruptly and anticlimactically (I have yet to make sense of it). He continued to speak (slapping the table every second sentence and breaking out into a hoarse, wheezing laugh every time he did so) about nothing in general, before bidding us goodbye and awkwardly lingering for about 20 minutes. Eventually he left, coming back every so often (5 times, we counted) to make additional commentary about something-or-other, bang the table, and be generally unpleasent. We were, however, not alone in our plight, as Thomas repeated this same schtick at every other table within eyeshot throughout the course of the evening.

IV. Dave
I bumped into Dave outside of the bar. I noticed someone speaking english, so I went and said hello, making some kind of joke about not seeing too many Americans at this particular locale. We chatted for a while about the culture shock inherent in moving to Germany, what brought us here, the quirks and foibles of our Host Countrymen, essentially, the stuff Expats usually talk about. I should point out here that I assumed that Dave was a hanger-on, or hadn't noticed that this was a gay bar. He was 40-something, smiley, grey hair neatly combed from left to right, wearing a button-down shirt and a pair of blue jeans. This made it doubly as shocking when he went from talking about his job with the military to mentioning being kicked out of a bar for making out with his boyfriend... So there I am, whiplashingly trying to reconcile Person A with Story B, and I'm wondering if his straight-laced republican appearance is some sort of camouflage, or what- and then he proceeds to tell me about how it made him so mad that he just wanted to kick the guy's head in, you know, really see some blood. Spidey-Sense tingling, I quickly ducked back into the bar. Alarmingly, when we were leaving, we saw Dave making out with what I would describe as a 'male youth of questionable age' in the bathroom.

V. Irritating Musical Theater Lesbian
While I was chatting with Dave, Irritating Musical Theater Lesbian came up to us and asked him if she could have a cigarette. She chatted with him for a while (confusingly, Dave then proceeded to lecherously flirt with her), before turning on me. I'm not sure if she was able to somehow detect my love for Wicked, or if "I had coffee with the girl who plays Elphaba yesterday" is her standard opening gambit. Needless to say, she then proceeded to talk about her love of musicals; her hesitance at seeing We Will Rock You (for fear, I assume of tarnishing the memory of Mr. Mercury); her own blossoming singing career (she's big on YouTube); and her "celebrity connections". I refrained from telling her that most of the cast of Wicked are served coffee by me on a regular basis, and that I had, in fact, just bumped into Fiyero's understudy downstairs in the bar and chatted with him for about half an hour. Eventually, one of my friends noticed my frenzied glances in her direction, and rescued me.

So, having said all that, I was hesitant to tag along. My friends were skeptical, it simply couldn't be as bad as all that they said. On promise of free booze, I caved in and in we went... Well, lo and behold, three hours later (after Thomas' third round), one of them turned to me and said "I guess I see where you're coming from". I wanted to tell her I told you so, but I was drowned out by a hoarse, wheezing laugh.

Reflections on being 20.

So, I've been debating about exactly how to start this blog. I didn't really want to go with the blatantly negative 'another year older, another step closer to the grave' approach, so I've chosen a much more positive spin on it:

I'd like to congratulate myself on surviving two decades. And I'd like to thank my parents for teaching me that the oven is hot; electrical sockets are for plugs, not for fingers; fire is not an indoor activity; Birkenstocks are not to be worn with sandals; and above all, it's O.K. to like and listen to ABBA.

Yeah, it's been a great birthday. I arrived at my parents' home in Milan yesterday afternoon, and promptly crashed on the couch, only to be awakened by my grandfather. This was alarming. Namely because my grandfather lives ten thousand miles away from my parents. After I had ascertained that I was neither dead nor hallucinating, we went and had dinner. I had spaghetti baked into bread (I believe it's called a Starch Party). Today my mother and I went shopping in Milan, which was lovely, except for the fact that the both of us were just the littlest bit edgy having contracted some kind of illness in Germany (swine flu, we assume).
Sidebar: I'd just like to take this moment to laud Furla. And the place that I bought undies today that I can't remember the name of. They're both great.

So that's all well and good. But I also have the feeling that having turned twenty, there's a few things that I should probably have worked out by now. And hence: Birthday resolutions.

I. Establish and stick to a budget. Regardless of how wonderful the 300€ bottle of Jubilation 25 smells.
II. Buy food regularly.
III. Realize that Trappist Ale and Kettle Chips do not constitute "food".
IV. Go to college, the gap year is over.
V. Figure out what I want to do when I grow up, and how I plan to do so.
VI. Find some kind of significant other, romantic interest, or failing that, a shopping buddy (See personal ads below).

So, yeah. I guess I'll get on that...

Growing Up

In seven days I will be twenty years old. Two-Zero. Twenty.

I know, most of you are probably thinking who cares. But I care. I care for several reasons.

I) I am one year closer to legal drinking in the United States.
II) 20 starts with a two rather than a one.

I'm happy about that first one. I mean, I'm not in the country very often, but when I am, I tend to use alcohol to dull the weird reverse culture shock that I experience upon arrival, and this will be much easier if I can do so legally.

And that second one... Well, that's a mixed bag. See, 20 starts with a 2. Not a 1. This means that I am no longer a teenager. Which, in turn, means that I am an adult. On the one hand, this is positive. On the other hand, it is utterly terrifying.

Ride of the Valkyries (Redux)

Have you ever had one of those moments where you can't quite reconcile what you see with reality? I'm not necessarily talking about something supernatural. It could also be something as simple as thinking that you've seen yourself in a crowd, or strong deja vu... The things you know are there, but at the same time probably can't or shouldn't be...

I had one of these moments a few days ago. I was at an American community theater at the time, and the thing that I saw was one of the audience members. I was midway through Beer № 1 when I saw her. It was one of those odd moments where you see something, but it takes a few seconds for it to register. And when she finally clicked, my face went slack, and it took a supreme effort not to drop said beer.

She was terrifying,ly wholesome. Not pleasently wholesome like Carol Brady, but alarmingly wholesome, like the last thing you see after trying to crash the Republican National Convention... Oh hell, I can't describe her.
I tried to take photos, but it was rather difficult to do it candidly... So all I've got are grainy Bigfoot-esque snapshots...

I really feel that that last photo is the pièce de résistance... My God the hair. It was like felted wool. More of a shape than anything else. It accentuated her (big) round and ruddy face quite nicely. And just in case you can't tell, she's wearing those wonderfully designed pants that turn legs into carrots. The shirt was great too, its checked pattern really accentuated really brought out her broad shoulders and generally square torso.

Looking back, I've come to believe that she's not unlike one of the characters of Niel Gaiman's American Gods, a book in which the Old Gods (rendered real by belief and faith, though no longer powerful or godlike) exist here and there throughout the United States, brought there by the folktales, superstitions, and beliefs of the immigrants who know make up the country.
She could easily have been a Valkyrie. A stocky, powerful stump of a woman, she even had the helm... I really wouldn't have been suprised if she had suddenly mounted a horse and began chosing those of us that would die in battle...

My Miracle Illness...

I've been suffering from some kind of odd throat-based ailment for the past couple of days. I had originally thought that it was a cold or something, but now I'm pretty sure that it's tonsillitis. So I've been taking DayMed (German DayQuil) and Dolo Dobendan (a throat lozenge which full of benzocaine (Sidebar: Dobendan has a wonderful array of tablets. Some with actual painkiller in them. They are absolutely wonderful, and have saved my life multiple times). The result being that I can no longer feel pain, and my mouth is numb from OD-ing on topical analgesic. Which is all fine and good, I work with a lot of hot liquids, and tasting my food is pretty unimportant in the long run. I say this because I am fairly certain that the medication that I am taking is screwing with my sense of smell.

And not in the bad, burnt feathers, I might be having a stroke kind of a way. In the good "I can smell the floor cleaner in the hallway, the spilled milk residue all over Starbucks, I know that that guy smokes, and that lady's perfume has way too much ethyl acetate in it for her own good" kind of a way. I went to see A Midsummer Night's Dream tonight, and I could smell the colored hairspray used for the fairies .

I suppose that I should be cautiously optomistic about this, I mean, Hyperosmia could also be a symptom of kidney failure, epilepsy, or cadmium poisoning. All of which would be less than positive. Cadmium poisoning would be such a bummer...

My Hairdresser Wants to Kill Me

I happened to look in the mirror yesterday, and realized that my hair had reached that special length where it stops looking like hair, and slowly takes on the shape of nesting birds.
So I called Toni & Guy, and told them that I needed an appointment. The receptionist said something along the lines of "Ah yes, Mr. Leonetti... You were last here in January, correct?" I cringed audibly. She then told me that the Technician who had done my hair last time had the day off, but that a Top Stylist who had done my hair before was free. I agreed, cheerfully thanked her, and hung up.

I should point out here that said Technician has actually done my hair the last two times that I've gone to Toni & Guy. Namely because I really like the way that she cuts it. It's not that the Top Stylist cuts it poorly or anything, but when he does my hair it always looks great for a few days, and then gets progressively scruffier.

I should also describe the Top Stylist. See, he is no ordinary stylist. He is (I imagine) to hair what Van Gogh is to oil paint. A genius, strange and brooding. More an artist than anything else.
The Top Stylist is thin, wiry is the best word to describe him. He has angular, birdlike facial features; high cheekbones; and dark, thick eyebrows which are, as far as I can tell, permanently furrowed. His face is framed by a dark, Bob Dylan-Frank'n'Furter shock of hair.
His eyes have the piercing intensity most often associated with religious figures and serial killers. Personally, they make me think of Rasputin; staring out of a faded, grainy, 100 year old photo with such bizarre magnitude as to make shivers run down your spine.

So, I get to Toni & Guy, and the Top stylist, in a manner not unlike Count Dracula, bade me welcome, and showed me to my seat. At this point, I'm starting to wonder if something is wrong. His movements seem stiffer than usual, his speech; forced.
Looking back, it reminds me of Sweeney Todd. The Judge comes to collect his ward and future wife; who is, unbeknownst to him, Todd's daughter. Todd, suppressing the urge to kill, attempts to be cordial and pleasant, even singing a little tune to lure the judge into the chair. The audience, of course, sees the strain in his face. The hidden hatred. The glint of the razor in Todd's hand.

I can't help wonder how it looked to the ladies waiting to be shampooed... And more importantly, what I had done to incur his wrath. And then I think: "The Top Stylist cut my hair for at least a year. And then I switched to the Technician... Could he be angry that I switched?" And then I remember that he did give me a bit of a withering stare the last time that the Technician cut my hair... And just to be clear, I'm not implying that he was angry because I had switched. Rather, I think that he was upset that anyone could prefer a Technician over a Top Stylist.
And so I sat there, looking down at my copy of Atrium, gradually growing more certain of my theory, wondering if and when I'm going to get scissored. The Top Stylist is quietly clipping away. Our only communication a series of deft head-jabs; signals to turn my head.

My fists (and sphincter) clenched as the receptionist who had booked my appointment accidentally knocked the Top Stylist's hand towel to the floor , and I thought "this is it. Here comes the scissor. We're both done for!" The Top Stylist's voice raised as he called after her. She turned, and he lobbed it at her, telling her to pay more attention. It caught her in the neck. She was lucky. She was free to escape.

Needless to say, the Top Stylist did not, in fact, slit my throat. He finished the cut with grace and aplomb. After he lazily blow-dried the hair off of my face, he shook my hand and either stormed off or disappeared.

But it was all worth it, I suppose... My hair looks great.

Loan Words

A few weeks ago, I overheard some people talking on the train. I generally try to avoid overhearing casual German conversation, as it is, more often than not boring, mean, or just generally dry. But as fate would have it, I had forgotten my headphones at home, and they were speaking at a volume that made it physically impossible to ignore them.

So they're chatting, and I'm listening. And then one of them uses a word that I've never heard before. It sounded kind of like 'Ammoklauf". So I'm thinking "Ok, klauen is stealing in German, did someone steal ammo? Why is there an 'eff' at the end? Don't they have their own word for ammo?" And then I realized that they were talking about a school shooting that had taken place the day before (proof that you're never safe, not even in Baden-Württemberg). And then it dawned on me. The unknown word was not ammoklauf, but rather amoklauf.
Laufen being German for running, and amok being amok, amoklauf is some kind of Frankenstein hybrid translation of the english phrase to run amok.

And I just sat there thinking "Swing and a miss, Germany. Swing and a miss." See, the Germans have this habit of poorly/sloppily appropriating loan words. Specifically when it comes to English. They just never quite seem to get it right. The amoklauf is a great example. You can't say that someone 'went on an amok run'. It just sounds all wrong and implies the carefree lightheartedness of a fun run.

Another great example, a German will tell you about how exhausted they are by saying that they're Kah-Oh. This, of course being their way of saying K.O., by which they mean knock out... Yes, like a boxer...

Or they will refer to their mobile telephone as a handy. Presumably because it is a rather handy little device, and they all thought that it sounded cool. The downside being when you're chatting with someone and they mention giving someone a handy, and you just sit there and debate whether or not to explain what they just said and why they can never say it anywhere outside of Germany.

I suppose I should try to be more understanding, I mean we have Schadenfreude- or rather shaydenfrood, but come on, at least we make a concerted effort to use it properly.

The Hazards of Love

So,I mentioned that the Decemberists have released a new album entitled The Hazards of Love. I believe I also mentioned that it is, in my humble opinion, their best album to date.

While I'd love to say that The Hazards of Love embodies the Decemberists' typical sumptuous and opulent grandeur, I really can't. It certainly has the richness and depth of storytelling, and the vocal/instrumental prowess that we've all come to expect from Meloy & Co. But the flamboyance of previous albums (Castaways & Cutouts, and The Tain) isn't really there. It's really quite down to earth. Well, for The Decemberists that is...
Which makes sense, really, seeing as how the inspiration for The Hazards of Love came mainly from Meloy's fascination with the British folk revival of the 1960's (And call me crazy, but regardless of subject matter, everything sounds down to earth when sung to a folksy tune. Try it with the Land of the Lost theme or anything from Wicked.
The title itself comes from the 1966 Anne Briggs EP of the same name. Upon seeing that the EP lacked a titular track, Meloy set out to write one himself. The result being the epic 17-track Hazards of Love.

The plot, as I have come to understand it (the album was written to be deliberately vague, focusing on a series of archetypes and their accompanying naratives rather than an explicit plot) is as follows.

Margaret and William are lovers. William, however, was abandoned/drowned at birth, then found and reanimated in the form of a fawn by the Forest Queen (as is wont to happen). The Queen also grants him the ability to become human at night (thought this was worth mentioning, otherwise the next paragraph is really unsettling).

Margaret, realizing that she is pregnant, rides out to find William. She is hindered by the Forest Queen, jealous of William's love for Margaret; and a Rake, who recounts his tale, and promptly abducts Margaret. With the help of the Forest Queen, the Rake crosses a raging river, and absconds to a secluded fortress to do unpleasant things to Margaret. William, meanwhile, attempts to cross said river, knowing full well that he will likely drown while doing so.

I won't spoil the ending, but I'll just say that there are ghosts. and nobody really comes out of it terribly well...

So it's really not lacking in the story-telling department. And musically, well, it's fantastic. Finally deciding that Monty-Pythoning-it isn't the only option, Becky Stark of Lavender Diamond plays the role of Margaret, and My Brightest Diamond's Shara Worden portrays the Forest Queen. While the album draws heavily from its folksy roots, there is also a refreshing dose of synthesizers, and Tom Waitsy percussion thrown in for good measure.

All-in-all, it's a breathtaking masterpiece of an album. Kudos to the Decemberists. And I'm pretty certain that it would make a wonderful musical.

Spring has Sprung: Just A Few Tit Bits...

Spring's Sprung: just a few Tidbits...
I always find that I spend Winter completely devoid of any motivation or creativity. My only big creative undertaking this year was de-gunking the window frames (they look great!)
And now that Spring has sprung, I'm getting all twitchy. I'm blogging more. I feel the need to melt down old shoes, start a collection of WWII Iron Crosses, make paper out of bone meal, frame photos, take photos, create papier-mâché sclptures out of the 3-foot tower of unfinished writing in my closet, paint, draw, sculpt, move house, etc. etc.

Additionally, I've just downloaded the new Decemberists album The Hazards of Love.
I'll just say that it is truly wonderful, and that I'll be writing something a bit more expansive on it in the coming days. But really, it's fantastic.

Also, I'm going to be posting this blog on MySpace again. I looked back on my old MySpace a few days ago, and noticed that people were, in fact, still reading it, so I figured: why the hell not?

Culture Shock, Pure Pathos, and Atheism Reaffirmed

I know that I have asserted that my culture shock days are over, and that I have more or less integrated into the Fatherland; but I am beginning to wonder if culture shock might not be cyclical. Maybe one never truly integrates. Maybe there will always be these moments of incomprehension and terror.
I hope it is not so. I hope that at some point I'll be able to find a place where I feel truly at home. Stuttgart hits near the mark, but it's not quite right. Everything has that slightly through-the-looking-glass-feel of not being entirely as it should.

I bring up culture shock specifically because of something that happened to me recently. I was out and about with several workmates and we decided to go and see a Stuttgart Barista's band play. It was at Zwölfzehn, a place that I suppose is hip... for the Germans. It is very dark, and muggy, with lots of Tiki Kitsch and 20-something-year-olds with horn-rimmed glasses, jaunty press boy caps, and beige clothes. Although I cannot presume to know exactly what is hip in Germany at the moment, the general attitude in Zwölfzehn (a mixture of arrogance, disinterest and ennui) leads me to believe that it is, in fact, very hip. By the time we got there, I was already drunk. Speech slurred but not quite impaired.

As the band started to play I noticed a group of people who did not look like they were there simply to drink lukewarm Becks Gold in a very dark, very moist, very hip bar. They were older, well-dressed, drinking what appeared to be wine (I assume that they smuggled it in). In short, they had "friends of the band" written all over them.
It was only as the set progressed that I realized that what I had originally thought to be a single group of well-wishers was in fact a single group of well-wishers and one weird dude who was standing slightly too-close to them. Retrospectively, it was obvious. They were well dressed, sophisticated, drinking their contraband wine. And he... Well, he was not.

I hadn't really noticed him to start with. The naturally camouflaging colors and materials he wore rendered him almost entirely invisible to me. But as soon as I clearly saw him by the light of the glowing yellow menu on the wall, I was struck with that awful, vertiginous feeling of utter incomprehension that so often accompanies culture shock.

Being drunk, my train of thought went something like:

"What the- Oh Good God! Why? ... (insert 10 seconds of deliberation) Ah, Of course! He's obviously traveled forward through time in an attempt to escape Y2K. That's the only possible reason... Are the 90's in style now? ... Is he just fashion illiterate? This has to be a prank."

Now, you may be asking yourself exactly how he looked. I'll start from the bottom.

He wore immaculate white tennis shoes (so immaculate in fact that I still believe that they had been kept hermetically sealed since their purchase in 1995), khaki pants (pleated, I assume), and the ugliest Christmas at the Lodge (where people are apparently blind) sweater I have ever seen.

Fig. 1.0: Ugly Sweater

It was similar to this. Except worse. I honestly can't find a comparably ugly sweater on the internet. And I've tried. It was something about the pattern, it was sort of like hearing those certain frequencies of sound that make you feel nauseous or cause involuntary dilation of the rectum.

And as for the dude himself: he was short, overweight, had an almost-buzz-cut-like hairdo, rounded baby-like face, big wire-rimmed glasses, and a scraggly little goatee. And there he stood, surrounded by the intolerably hip youth of Stuttgart; Looking like he had just finished up an infomercial for OxiClean.

And as if it wasn't weird enough drinking next to chunky Bill Mays, the guy then proceeded to give the best and most thorough demonstration of how to be the exact opposite of cool that I have ever seen.
First he did the two-handed beer bottle tap. You know, kind of tapping along to the beat, but not really. He then proceeded to awkwardly sway to the music. Then I felt bad for being judgmental, so I went to pee and order another beer.
I came back just in time to see him remove his boxy, brick-like cell phone from it's holster on his belt. I vaguely recall being amazed that these still existed.
Quite luckily, I came back just as the slow and meaningful ballad began playing. And as they are prone to do, people began holding up their lighters and swaying to the music. Bizarro Bill did the same. Or, tried to. He produced a lighter from his pocket, ignited it, and began to sway. He didn't look unlike a Statue of Liberty version of a Bozo Bop Bag, except chunkier, less funny, and more sad.

Fig 2.0: Bozo Bop Bag

And then the lighter went out. He fiddled with it, and it clicked back into action. Then it went out again. And again. And again. In short, he spent the entirety song trying to fix the lighter. He turned the flame up, then down, then tapped it a few times, then clicked it on, prepared to sway, then it would go out agin, and then he repeated the process.

And then, as a sort of finishing blow (I guess), he went to applaud the band, and dropped his mostly-empty beer bottle on the ground, making a noise loud enough to be easily heard above the last song's final chords.

And to be entirely honest, that beer bottle was my exit cue. The whole thing had just become altogether too surreal and sad for me to continue enjoying myself; so I decided to call it a night and head home to burn the one pair of khaki pants that I own(ed).

To be entirely honest, I don't know if this is culture shock, or what. I'm alarmed that this guy has managed to survive the 8ish years since the 90's without even once realizing/being told that he's dreadfully out of fashion. And since I feel that Germany is a culture that really facilitates things like this, I will be adding this to the Culture Shock File.

It is not uncommon to see "people out of time" here. 90's Mom, 60's Bachelor, and 70's Businessman are alive and well in Germany. And you know that is happens solely because no one would dare to say "maybe you should buy some new pants and not have a perm/feathered Hoff Hair" for fear of being too presumptuous/intimate/critical/unwarranted/outspoken etc. etc.

I know, this could, I suppose, happen anywhere. But it didn't happen anywhere, it happened in Germany.

Although I don't really know what to make of this, I think I can now say for certain that my atheism is well-founded, because really and truly, if there were a God, things like this wouldn't happen.

The German Peg Bundy

Despite the fact that I am an American living in Germany, I like to think, having been here a solid 9 years, that my culture shock days are over. There are, however, certain things that still amaze, disorient, upset, and repulse me about my host-countrymen. And although they are sometimes best seen as a study in anthropology more than people, I like to think that in spite of everything, they are truly good at heart.

However, I recently saw something that fell very squarely into the culture shock: upsetting/disorienting category. It's an advertisement for the local public transit's new family ticket. Now, the ad is really quite nicely done. As it should be. I pay 90€ a month for the privelage to ride those trains. And that's only 3 zones... What I'm getting at is that they have ample funds for advertising.



As you see, it's well put together, based on a novel concept, and it catches the eye. It is all things that an ad should be. Sidebar: I really love the framed drawing of a toucan in the background.
But the thing that really gets me is the mother. See, when I first saw this I was in Stuttgart with a friend, and upon seeing it, he remarked on how utterly frightening she looked.
The next day, I was sitting in a train, staring at the ad through the window (as you do when you are too tired/still asleep to read or speak), and I had to admit, she was truly terrifying.



Having woken up enough to move my hands, I proceeded to write this down in my Moleskine.

The German Peg Bundy

She stares out of the ad with such ferocious intensity. It's as if through a series of (most likely) inhumane and painful experiments all the humor and good will has been stripped away. There is no purple leopard print here, there are no bonbons. Just cold, piercingly blue eyes staring out at us, proud and angry.
She is meant to be a the mother; comic, inept, but nonetheless well-meaning.
Here she is a matriarch, a Queen bee more than anything else. Calculating and composed, ethically and morally bankrupt, and devoid of all emotions. She exists only to control the drones.
She would not be out of place in the camps, among the ranks of Jackbooted SS soldiers and starving prisoners. Her empty eyes gleam as she executes an emaciated gypsy, her bangles clinking as she orders them into the communal showers...
And yet, despite the horror and repulsion she exudes, I can not look away. It is as if The Belle Dame sans Merci hath me in thrall... And she wants me to buy a train ticket.

Looking back, I may have been a little bit dramatic (are we suprised?), and yet, I still can't look at that ad without getting a case of the heebie-jeebies...

I Normally Don't Do This...

I generally try to abstain from pop culture in my blog. I like to stick to topics near and dear to me. But I really just have to do this. I can't not do it. I am compelled to do so. It's the feeling I get when I find something utterly bizarre; I have to share it. I can't be the only holder of this information.

"Have you ever seen a pre-1900 goiter?"

"You mean to say that you've never seen the homeless lady in Stuttgart? You know, the one without a face?"

"It's called a rectal prolapse. Care to see?"

"What do you mean you don't know what the symptoms of syphilis are?"

Generally speaking, people don't want to. But I have the feeling that this may be different. See, it's not actually upsetting, it's just really really weird.

So here goes.


Have you seen Joaquin Phoenix on Letterman?

I just saw it, and I loved it. Ever so much.

I mean, first of all, the Allen Ginsberg/Hobo/H&M Model look was just so fantastic. There is something about the juxtaposition of obviously (very) unwashed hair, unkempt multicolored beard, big giant sunglasses, and an all-around chic suit that is truly amazing. It's sort of like what I think Rip Van Winkle might have looked like if he had gone to sleep in 1984. And been a drug dealer.It was amazing.

And then he opened his mouth. It was so awkward. He refered to Paul Shaffer as "Mr. Manaical Laugh" Good Lord. He stuck gum to the bottom of Letterman's desk! A Career in Hip-Hop you say!? I think he said a total of 15 words. And it was a 10 minute interview! You could cut the crazy awkward/nervous/all-around-offputting-ness with a spoon!

I don't think that this is real. It has to be promotion for something. Good Lord.

I can't do it justice so just watch...



Wow...

A Day at the Zoo...

I had the most amazing trip to the zoo today. I originally planned this trip to pick up twenty or so coffee cherries which a zookeeper had set aside for me. I find them to be wonderful visual aids when giving courses, and I really can't pass up an opportunity to see coffee in it's natural state. After picking up the cherries, I decided to spend the rest of the morning in the zoo itself. For those of you not familiar with the general Stuttgart area, it is home to Wilhelma, a truly wonderful botanical/zoological garden, with over 1,000 species of animals, and 5,000 species of plants, it's really quite amazing. They even have llamas. And a family of sloths. Which are really really cute. They live in the botanical gardens. And on top of that, it was built in the 19th century, so the entire park is stunningly beautiful.

So there's that, and then there's the fact that I really love going to the zoo. I find it not only informative and interesting, but it's great for calming down (I should mention here that Wilhema is home to a host of cute/baby animals, including Wilbär, the adorable baby polar bear). There is truly no better way to soothe stress than spending a day looking at baby gorillas in diapers.

So I walked into the park, and was almost immediately accosted by a roving group of peacocks. They were just sort of meandering through the park, like pigeons would in a city, occasionally pecking at cigarette butts and lumps of fallen snow. Now, normally when you go to the zoo, the most you can hope for is that the chimps are in a poop-flinging mood, or that you might get to see something eat something else. But peacock traffic, now that's something special.

Although I did not see any maulings or maimings, what I did see might just be better. The first thing was the tapir, which, as soon as I entered the enclosure, sprang into action (as if it had been waiting for an audience). Violently urinating, defecating, breaking wind, and then happily (almost proudly) chirping. Apparently this is the noise that tapirs make. A high pitched chirping squeak. It was really cute, despite the fresh logs floating around his head.

Moving on from the slimy bear-pigs, I saw the elephants. Now, I've always thought that elephants were boring, wrinkly, droopy, molerat-like things that meander around the zoo without any aim or purpose other than to captivate people in khakis and white sneakers. So I really didn't pay much attention as I went through the elephant house. I stopped briefly and looked at Vilja, the 50-something year old Indian elephant who was quietly hanging out inside. And then I promptly shat my pants when she turned around, looked at me, and then started reaching towards me with her trunk. Long story short, I got to scratch an elephant's trunk (and get some gnarly elephant phlegm on my hand). I was later told by my zoo compatriot that the other zoogoers in the elephant house stopped to watch and/or take photos. I am fairly sure that I am now in at least 10 families' photo albums.

The rest of the trip was likewise enjoyable, but touching an elephant was sort of the highlight of the day. Well, that and this:



This is one of my favorite photos of the day. I really can't tell if the photo does it justice, but we just walked into the rhino house to find this. Apparently he likes to nap in the pool. But it just had this really eerie "there is a dead rhino on this strange, stage-like staircase" feeling to it.

Oh, a juvenile Sumatra Tiger also hissed and tried to pounce at me. I don't think it quite understood the concept of 'heavy steel bars'. Then again maybe it did, I suppose it would then also understand the concept of " Stupid German yuppie meowing and clicking his fingers at the FUCKING SUMATRA TIGER in the hopes that it might glance at him long enough for him to get a good photo with his cell phone" Well, needless to say, the guy leapt what I conservatively estimate to be a yard into the air, before 'calmly' stating "what a great picture" and then running, literally, running away.

So all-in-all, it was quite a fun little trip to the zoo. Some of the other photos from said trip can be found here. And now I think I'm going to go to bed.

Is This Punishment?

I don't exactly know how to explain what has been going on in my life, these past weeks, but I think that it is some kind of punishment. I liken it to a Scary Movie. The naive young couple who move into an old farm house outside of town, and upset some Indian remains while tilling the field begin seeing horrifying spectral visions. Produce begins bleeding, the walls melt, crockery levitates, and light bulbs emit foul odors.

The thing is, I don't know exactly what I've done to be punished with these nightmare visions. Nor does there seem to be any theme linking them.
It started out pretty tame. A trio of morbidly obese men eating meatloaf sandwiches. Not all together horrifying, but enough to alarm and dismay you. Putting you just the slightest bit on edge, like that scene in Jaws where the guy eats an onion like an apple.
Next comes the guy on the bus who spontaneously began emitting the smell of sour milk. I work at a Starbucks, and have experienced the smell many a time when finding a misplaced rag that was used to wipe up spilled milk. And this guy was like an olfactory chameleon because this stink was spot on.
Or the time I got on the bus, sat down, and checked my email, only to then see the elderly lady with what I now know is an open, or compound fracture. For those of you who don't know what this means, I'll tell you. It means that Avalon Leonetti has seen an 80 year old woman's shin bone... In it's natural habitat.

For the most part, I hadn't really thought too much of these curiosities. I figured that since I had stopped smoking, I was just noticing more of the unnatural and the grotesque. That is, until I happened to be walking to my train a few days ago. I had just gotten off of work, and it was already getting dark. The station was filled with youths and drunkards.
And then I saw it. It was perhaps one of the strangest things ever to have coasted across the face of the planet. It simultaneously captivated and horrified me. And made me consider the possibility that I may have been having some kind of an episode.
I remember first seeing it's head. Roughly a foot across at it's widest point, and topped off with a thatch of golden pubic curls, it was Mrs. Potato Head-like, to say the least. It wore a large pair of 70's glasses, and a headband that more or less matched the color of it's tight curls. The features themselves were mostly unremarkable, tortoise-like, wizened and weathered. And just slightly moist-looking. The next thing that I noticed was the arms. They were stunted, stubby, Tyrannosaurus Rex-like. They were what I know to be thalidomide baby arms. And as if the scene at hand wasn't quite surreal enough, she (I think), was riding a tricked-out tricycle, complete with flashing lights and a shiny finish. As if she needed to worry about someone not seeing her.

I was alarmed. To say the least. I debated whether or not to ask the mulleted youth next to me if he too had seen her. I can only assume that she was real, but I cannot quite bring myself to cope with a world where something like that rolls the streets at night. It was like someone telling me that Dracula was real, but that he really wasn't danerous, and just looked deeply upsetting.
So, I really don't know what any of this means, but like I said, I can only assume that I've unwittingly desecrated a burial ground of one kind or another, or unleashed some kind of malevolent ghost. Whatever it is, I can only hope that it stops, although having said that, I really don't think that there is much that could top what I have seen already.

Cigarettes, or the lack thereof...

I would like to take this moment to laude Allen Carr as both a genius and a witch. You see, when I was in Washington in November, I purchased his book The Easy Way to Stop Smoking. My intentions were clear, I would read this book, and never want to touch a cigarette again. Which is, I suppose, why I promptly stored the book under a typewriter in a rarely-used cabinet. As ridiculous (read:pathetic) as it sounds, I was scared shitless that the book might actually work.

I left the book under the typewriter for about three months. But to be entirely honest, smoking was just getting boring. I mean, cigarettes are not like wine, or coffee or food. They tend to taste more or less the same from start to finish, except when you cough or laugh while smoking. Then it tastes even more awful. Like what racism might taste like.
And so, finally, tiring of nicotine, and the cough, and the smell, and the taste, and most of all, the growing lack of other tastes or smells, not to mention that unpleasant leathery texture that lived permanently in my mouth, I cast the typewriter aside, and retrieved the little blue book.

It started with chapter two. In which the author relates his own addiction, when I suddenly thought "hmm, I suppose that I really don't need cigarettes". And the feeling stuck. If it weren't for Carr's instructions to keep smoking until the end of the book, then to ceremoniously stomp out that last butt, and see the world with new eyes, I think I probably would have done so then and there.
That is just how good Allen Carr is. I swear on all that is good, he has sold his soul to someone or something, because his book is truly magical.

I will say this though; despite a completely withdrawal free experience, I sometimes forget that I have stopped smoking. I will get out of a train, or open a window, stand up, sit down, finish eating, wake up, drink coffee, read something, make a phone call, or perform any other number of simple tasks which are now indelibly burned into my mind as 'things to do while smoking', and I will think:

"Hmm, something's missing. Ah, there should be a flaming tube lodged in my mou- Oh wait, no, I stopped doing that didn't I? Hmm... Oh well, I suppose I'm good."

But I don't actively want to smoke. It just seems pointless now. And the advantages of not smoking are wonderful, I truly think I only need breathe half as much as I did a month ago. I can comfortably hold my breath for more than 80 seconds. And my mouth has its own taste. A taste other than ash and smoke. It tastes like a mouth. I had completely forgotten this taste. For as long as I can really remember, my mouth has either tasted like smoke, food, coffee, designer dentifrice, or some mixture of the four. But now it just tastes like mouth.

I do, however, get a weird nostalgic vibe whenever I walk through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Something familiar, something comfortable. What I suppose ex-hippies must feel when they smell pot smoke in their kid's laundry.

In any case, I'm not entirely out of the woods yet. There are still little bits of nicotine floating around in me, and a coating of carcinogenic gunk in my lungs. But I won't start smoking again. That much is clear.

I'd rather take up eating pennies and hair as a habit.

Because I can...

Just to reiterate, I'm still utterly amazed by the fact that I can blog from my tellularcellophone...
Also I got the short end of the stick at the ballet and get to sit next to people that I don't know.

Just checking...

As it happens, I can blog from my phone... I love technology ever so much.

My Newest Obsession

Perfume.

I Love Perfume.

See, this all started while I was in the States. I had ordered Icon, a fragrance by LUSH. It's composed mainly of myrrh resinoid, orange blossom absolute, and sandalwood oil. And I loved it. It was deep, it was spicy, sweet, and had an air of old sophistication about it. I should point out here that I have a tendency to become deeply involved in my hobbies. No, wrong, my obsessions.

So naturally, having seen how wonderful perfume is, in all of it's complexity and beauty, well, I was obsessed with it. On that trip, I bought Myrrhe Ardente, Angel Man,and Black Walnut. That last one I'm not proud of, but it's quality as a scent outweighs it's origins. I also got a few wonderful samples of Chanel's Les Exclusifs. I was in scent heaven. Retrospectively, I may have gone overboard. Angel Man is a fun novelty, treading the line between delicious chocolate toffee and corrosive household cleaner, but when it comes to actually wearing it (in public)... Not likely.

And the obsession has continued from there. For me, perfume is like being in a huge second hand store. Most of it tends to be shit, but every once in a while, you find something invaluably precious. And the majority of mainstream fragrance out there really is awful. It's all fresh and floral, and so incredibly monotonous. And you look and look and look, and there, tucked between the approprately named Flowerbomb and the absolutely inappropriately named Amber and Lavender Cologne is Borneo 1834 in all of it's patchouli-chocolate glory.

I'm only just realizing that this probably is of no interest to anyone but myself, but to hell with it. I am known for nothing if not rambling on for hours on end about my latest obsessions.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and smell my wrist until I feel dizzy and pass out.

British Nazis, and Small Men

So, I'm fairly sure that I'm alone in this sentiment, but I really want to see Valkyrie...
I know, it's got noted Scientologist and small man Tom Cruise playing Claus von Stauffenberg. Which is wrong on just about every possible level, but still. It's got Nazis, and noted british actor Terence Stamp... Not to mention Eddie Izzard, Bill Nighy, Tom Wilkinson, and Kenneth Branagh... How could it be bad? I'm fairly sure that if you were to film Terence Stamp and Bill Nighy playing an 18 hour game of monopoly it would be massively entertaining. Throw Nazis into the mix, it has to be wonderful.
I actually just watched the first six minutes of it on Apple, and it has somewhat dampened my hopes. You have all of these wonderful actors using the standard "Nazi in english-speaking film" accent (read: british), and then you've got Tom Cruise, who manages to pull off a very convincing Tom Cruise accent. And the fact that the first words heard in this accent are actually in German, well, it's a bit jarring. But I've still got high hopes.

*Blows Dust off of Keyboard*

Well, I haven't done this for a while.

It's been amazingly chaotic in Ludwigsburg. So much for a 'quieter, more relaxed store'...
Nonetheless, it's an absolutely beautiful store, lots of dark wood, and tasteful decoration.

It's all very schick, as far as Starbucks goes. So for that I'm thankful.

But other than the unending chaos that is Ludwigsburg, I can't say that too much has been going on. I went to Italy for Christmas, saw my parents and little brother, and the mentally handicapped dog. And learned that said mentally handicapped dog really isn't a big fan of fireworks.
I didn't really do much on New Years' Eve. After being told multiple times that I looked like I was about to die, I decided it might be a good time to catch up on some much needed sleep, before the hallucinations set in. In all fairness, I did look like I was on death's door. Lots of dark circles and jaundiced pallor. But I went to a lovely breakfast the next day. I've come to realize that breakfast is best when served with a lot of champagne, and a heavy dose of ambient ABBA.

And most importantly, I made several New Years' Resolutions.
I)Lose Weight (which really isn't difficult with this level of stress. I realised this morning that I forgot to eat yesterday)
II)Be more responsible, try to fulfill the Role Model portion of my job description.
III)Cut down on my general misanthropy (this has already been a massive failure and has since been removed from the list.

And now I'm going to bed.

Someone Old, Something New

I believe that I've mentioned that I work for Starbucks. I also think that I've mentioned the fact that the particular store in which I work is one of the busiest in the whole of Germany.
Up until very recently, the chaos and stress were a whole lot of fun. I suppose it's always easier to cope with a stressful working environment if you have a team of people who you get along well with, and more importantly, with whom you have a good understanding of how they tick. Quite unfortunately, within the past six months, this team of people has completely evaporated. This isn't to say that I don't like the new people who have joined the team, because for the most part, I really do. But just having such a massive influx of new people really throws the stress factor into sharper relief. Not knowing exactly how the people around you tick makes it just that little bit more difficult to work in a place like Königsbau. It's really quite odd. Starbucks prides itself on a very low employee turnover rate, but Königsbau seems to be the exception. I mean, if I were to print out a list of Königsbau partners from a year ago, and a list from this week, there would only be one name on both lists. Mine. As of last week, I've been in Königsbau the longest. And I've only been there for a year and a bit.
I suppose that the reason for this is that my store is kind of like going out for a night on the town. It can be a whole lot of fun, but the longer it goes, the more tired and inoherent you get. Which is why I'll only be there two more days. After that, I'll be helping to open the (brand spanking) new Ludwigsburg store. It's certainly sad to be leaving the store where I was trained, and started work, and made a lot of great friends, but at the same time, I'm looking foreward to a calmer, newer, cleaner store. I'll be writing more, but the plan is to open the store on the 16th of December, so if you're in the area, drop in and say hello.

Returning to the Fatherland

Well, I'm back in Germany... And thanks to the godawful phenomenon that is jetlag, I've slept about 5 hours in the last 45. I happened to catch my reflection in a mirror yesterday and couldn't help but think that this must be what the actors in Tim Burton's films are put through before they're filmed.
It's really great to be back. That's not to say that being in the States wasn't fun, it most definitely was. Since I've already gone over this far too many times, I'll just bullet point some of the highlights here:

• Getting tipsy with my relatives and singing the German National Anthem (with the lyrics that were banned in 1945)
• Seeing my grandfather get felt up by a drag queen.
• Going to Starbucks' Corporate Ofice
• Seeing the Pike Place Starbucks
• Clover Crafted Coffee
• The Nordstrom fragrance section
• Burgerville
• Seeing Seattle's underground
  
• Seeing an 'authentic' German village
• And of course, seeing all of my wonderful friends and family who put rooves over my head, and were able to cope with the fact that I can't drive, and as such, need to be ferried from place to place like a quadrapelegic.
• Photos can be seen here.

On the note of friends and family, I just need to mention how odd it was to be reminded that said friends and family actually read this. I never really stop to think that there are actually people out there who are interested in what I write. And take such an active interest as to come here and read it. Thank you for that, by the way. I really do appreciate it. And it's nice to know that you find my writing funny and interesting.

It's funny though. Whenever I go back to the States, it always seems that the first week is fairly stressful and culture shocky, but then there's this shift, and I have a great time. This of course, only leaves me with a few days to enjoy my vacation before boarding an aeroplane and doing it over again. Next time I'll have to stay longer.

I Want To Go Home

Over the years, I've had many things yelled at me. Mostly unpleasant, and mostly by the mentally unhinged. Generally, I don't really mind this. I remind myself that I like who I am, and that the person yelling will most likely have a very sad and lonely life (hopefully soaked in something that smells vaguely of urine).
And sometimes the things yelled aren't really all that terrible. Just a few days ago, I was wandering through Seattle, and two people walked past me. I couldn't help but overhear one say to the other "look! It's a fop!" Well, I take pride in my foppishness, so I turned and gave them a little nod.
However, sometimes the things yelled are not quite so positive. Several days ago I was standing outside of our hotel in Seattle, and a bag person on the opposite corner told me in no uncertain terms to "Go Home!" Well, needless to say this took me aback. I'd like to think that the choices I make in presenting myself are, for the most part, fairly inoffensive, and all-together quite pleasing to passersby. I was also taken aback because I was born and raised (partially) in the Pacific Northwest. For the first time in a good four years, I am home. I debated whether or not to make a snide comment, but quickly decided against it, lest I get shivved.
I mention this for several reasons. The main one being that my little sojourn in the US of A is coming to a close. Six more days, and I return to what I've lovingly taken to referring to as the Fatherland. Now, don't get me wrong, my trip has been wonderful. I've seen old friends, visited the birthplace of Starbucks, and descended into an underground city. What more could I ask for? But more and more, as I think about what that hobo said, I can't help but think that the best possible response is "I want to go home..."
Not to say that I don't consider Washington to be a home for me, but I've really realized that it's not 'my home' anymore. I've been in Stuttgart for 7ish years. I have established myself there. I feel comfortable, and I enjoy it there. I don't think that I could ever come back to the United States permanently. It's just too different. Not in a bad way, but different nonetheless. I can't walk down the street without seeing something that alarms, upsets, disturbs, or bewilders me. I've realized that America makes me just the slightest bit anxious. Whenever I'm not in a store, Starbucks, library, restaurant, or hotel, I'm just a little bit out of my comfort zone.
I think that my mother may be right. I've finally gone native.

Culture Shock (Redux)

There's a certain kind of full you get in America. I had two sandwiches and a cookie today (not counting a Grande Pike Place Roast, Grande Guatemala Antigua Medina, Short Thanksgiving Blend, Tall Tanzania Blackburn Estate, and Short Kenya Gichatha-Ini. I love Starbucks. I love Clover), and I'm so full that I can barely move. Albeit, it was a big cookie, but still. There's something about the food here that simply weighs you down.

Needless to say, I'm in the States as I write this. I'm in Seattle this week, and Portland the next. For the most part, I've been trying to avoid eating a lot, as I know that I will blow up like an alarmed puffer fish. But there are just some things I have to indulge in (sourdough bread, salt and vinegar chips, diet mountain dew, red vines, and every single thing that Starbucks has to offer).

Today was sourdough bread and salt & vinegar chips day. This morning I trekked up to the nearest Starbucks with a Clover (the most amazing and innovative coffee machine ever devised which will spark the next coffee revolution, I am sure, that is if the machine itself doesn't ascend to heaven before then), and had a couple of tastings with the endlessly pleasent baristas there.

Afterwards, I went to Safeway, and bought sandwich supplies. An hour later I had to lie down and breathe while being lulled by reruns of Spin City. Oh that nutty Finch...
But the sandwich was really good. Despite the fact that the mustard, pickles, vinegar, and mountain dew contained in the meal seem to have somehow combined to form a chemical compound capable of burning off the first layer of skin in my mouth.

And now I'm contemplating hiking over to Starbucks for a coffee and a bottle of ethicly-friendly water. I'll write more after I've refilled my coffee bladder and done a bit of walking.

Voting... Or the lack thereof.

So, I've come to an important decision recently. And I figured to alleviate the slight amount of guilt that I'm currently feeling about this decision, I've decided to blog about it.

I've decided not to vote in the United States Presidential Election. I know, most of your sphincters are probably clenching in bewildered rage right now. But wait, let me explain.

See, I've been living in Europe since 2001. I arrived in Germany shortly before Sept. 11th, having only lived through a minor and fairly innocuous period of Dubya's term. And since then, I've returned to the United States 3 times. Each time, just for vacation, just to see family and friends. And it's not like I'm being held captive. I'm here of my own free will, and I have no intentions of going back any time soon (except for vacation later this month). I really don't feel that connected to the United States anymore. I lived there, and my family's there, and I'll always hold a special place for it in my heart, but in one way or another, I've made a conscious decision to remove myself from it. It's like me and fast food.
And as such, I really don't feel that I deserve to take part in choosing a new leader for this country. That, and my candidate of choice is no longer in the running (Vote Hillary 2012, by the way). Oh, and I completely disagree with the United States election process.
Really, if Hillary were to have been nominated, I'd be busting my absentee-ballot-toting ass to get to the nearest mailbox. But she's not. Don't get me wrong, There's a good democratic candidate on the one side, and what appears to be a senile, animate wax figure of the knight from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade stuffed with some kind of tallow, and his functionally-retarded hockey mom/pitbull sidekick on the other.

So, yeah. I will not be participating this time around. I know that deep down I'll regret this when said animate wax figure and said retard are elected. But until then, I'm sticking to my guns.

Going Home & Not Smoking

Greetings and Salutations!

I'd like to take this oppurtunity to announce my return to The United States. On the 24th of October, I will be leaving this continent, for the first time since 2005, I might add, and fly to Seattle, with a brief layover in Paris (I say brief, long enough for a stop by the boulangerie for a few croissants and gateaux). I'll be States-side for a couple of weeks, about 5 days in Seattle, then the rest of the time in Portland.

Additionally, I've stopped smoking. Not out of any particular health-related issues, but simply because I value my nose and tongue (they're very useful when one works with coffee). I'm on day three. Yesterday I was edgy, today I bought nicotine gum, and now everything's groovy.

Artifacts, Specimen, and Ephemera Salvaged from the Wonderlands

I believe I've just found the single most wonderful gift ever given. The Wonderland Expedition Kit.
Isn't it just fantastic? I don't have much else to talk about, other than the thick, painful fluid that's been hurling itself out of my lungs all day. But I think that's one of those things that may be best left unsaid.

Coffeeness

That's the name of my new blog. I know, two blogs is just the slightest bit decadent, especially when they're read by a very (and I do mean very) small number of people (and by people I mean relatives and friends).
However, this second blog is going to be all about coffee. Thus cutting down on the amount of Starbucks and Coffee related posts on this fine blog.

So, if you feel the need to learn a bit about coffee, then swing on over to Coffeeness

Starbucks Musings...

I'm not sure what's happened to our guests. At Starbucks, I mean. It seems like I have to ask every second person (no exaggeration) what size they would like. Honestly. Common sense people. I mean, yeah, I can more or less guess what size you want. Fatty wants Grande so as not to overindulge. Male teens want Venti, female teens want Tall. The elderly mostly want short. Etc. Etc. But it's just so so so much easier if you include it in the order.
Second Starbucks point: I'm not exactly sure what this says about humanity, but here we go. A few days ago Premium Hot Chocolate was sold out. We only had one Sold Out magnet, so I slapped it over Premium on the menu board. This, of course, left Hazelnut & Caramel Premium Hot Chocolate visible. I shit you not, no fewer than 10 people came in and said some variety of this:

"Ah, is the premium hot chocolate sold out?"
"Yes, unfortunately."
"Ohh... Well that's alright, I'll take a hazelnut premium hot chocolate."

It is very rare that I am so bewildered and confused that I actually cock my head to the right and squint at someone. I actually started to laugh when the first one asked, thinking (reasonably) that she was pulling my leg. But no. Stone Cold Serious. So yeah. There's that.

Additionally, I've got a week off. Except for two days where I'm doing things. I'm very much looking forward to it.

I wanted to mention a few other things, but I can't remember what...

Oh well...

Hmm?

Just a few things:
Jar is Oval. Sexual Jasmine Aroma.
Jar is Square. Chung Chang: Lady of the Worms.
Jar is For Shampoo.
Visualize Pink, Downy Zephyr Bath: The Bell Vortex.
SOLAR FOAM! I AM CONQUERED!

Courtesy of Babel Fish Translation

A Grim Note

So, I'm at work yesterday. And somehow, everything's gone just a little bit askew, and everyone's just a little bit edgy, and all of the guests are just the slightest bit indignant.

So at one point I thought to myself, alright, I'm going to buy myself a Strawberry Banana Innocent Smoothie, and take a short break. So I go outside, and drink my smoothie. As I'm tilting the bottle upwards to get the last few fruity particles, I can't help but notice that the overhead lighting has thrown writing on the bottom of the bottle into focus.

I squinted a bit, and amid the bits of strawberry and banana and pressed grapes was written:

THE END IS NIGH

I wasn't exactly sure what to make of it. But I decided to laugh, heartily. I should, at this point state that Innocent Smoothies often have little witticisms on their bottoms. Some of my favorites being:

-Split Bottle in Half To Make 2 Hamster Kayaks
-Open Other End To Avoid Fruit Lap
-Remove Bottom Of Bottle To Make Innocent Telescope
-Stop Staring At My Bottom.

I love Innocent. They're wonderful people.

*Wipes Dust Off Of Keyboard*

Well.

So much for regularly updating this blog...

First things first: I'm the District Coffee Master for Baden Württemburg 1.
As of now, I haven't really done much. As I understand it, I'm sort of like the District Coffee Master Elect. Looking back, I can't really say that I would have ever thought that I could manage to be Store Coffee Master, let alone District. I also didn't expect to become such a big convert to the coffee cause. Although with my level of OCD, and the amazing variety and complexity of coffee, it was sort of inevitable. I mean, last week I found myself running to the supermarket during my break to pick up cheddar for a coffee tasting.

FYI, Starbucks is offering a new Black Apron Exclusive: Aged Sumatra Lot #9697 and it may just be one of the best coffees in the world. Allow me to diverge. It has such an amazing aroma. One whiff, and it's like you're in a forest after it's rained. Sort of a peat-y, woody, earthy scent. And the taste, oh my god, it's amazing, it's like being beaten senseless by the most delicious cedar plank ever. And this isn't vague woody notes like in Yukon Blend, this is proper ceder scent. And there's these light spicy notes. Not like cinnamon or clove, but more like rosemary. Simply wonderful. It takes every good quality that Sumatra has, and brings them into sharper focus. If you're near a Starbucks, and you've got a few bucks to spare, I highly suggest stopping in and asking if they're carrying the coffee (Black Apron Exclusives are only carried by select stores, and only once, then never again).

Sorry, I do tend to ramble on a bit.

Anyway, so, yeah. I'm the new District Coffee Master, and I'm planning on doing a celebratory Coffee Seminar. So if you're in Stuttgart, drop me a line. I'm thinking in two weeks time.

Oh, and on a non Starbucks related note. I found the yummiest soap ever. Spice Curls. Love it. Love Lush.

Anyway,

Nozzles and Knobs,

Summer Smells

Seven Days. I have to wait seven days in order to find out the outcome of the District Coffee Master Challenge. I think I did well. I hope I did well. I really really do.

And now I'm sitting on a balcony, and it smells like camping. It's been raining all day, and the air is thick with that summery smell. Hark! Forest Sounds!

I'm going to Heilbronn tomorrow, to do coffee things. I'm quite looking foreward to it. It's my first Starbucks-related trip.

Anyway, I'm off to finish packing,

Coffee, Zombies, and Neglect.

I've really been neglecting this blog lately. It's been a hectic month. I think that September will be a little bit easier. And hopefully I'll be able to blog a bit more.

The District Coffee Master Challenge is this coming Tuesday, and I've been cramming my cranium with coffee. Last night I had a horrible nightmare, the coffee was too finely ground, and was horribly bitter. And then there was a cave with zombies. But I think that's unrelated.

Well, I've got to work, but I'll keep you updated on the challenge.

That Was The Worst REM Concert Ever...

So, I went to work on Sunday, and couldn't help but notice a very large flyer in the center of Stuttgart that said "REM, Sunday August 17th! Stuttgart Schlossplatz!"
Well, I couldn't help but notice also that it was, in fact, the 17th of August, and that my place of work was no fewer than 100 meters from the concert. And there were only four of us working. And I had to supervise the shift...

I hoped that it would be one of those evenings where there's a lot going on up until the concert starts, then, there would be less and less as the concert progresses.

At one point me and another barista were outside, and she said: you know, really, you can see the stage perfectly from right here... Or even better, from our comfy sofas upstairs.

And that's when I shat my pants. There was a line through the door throughout the concert, we couldn't take our breaks, we couldn't smoke, eventually, we all decided that the only thing to do was to laugh about the horrible concert, and the high guests, and to loathe REM with every fiber of our beings. At one point, Losing My Religion starts playing, and one of my coworkers turns to me and says, completely deadpan "Avalon, they're playing our song".

The line did eventually taper off, and I got to go out and see Sweetness Follows. Which was cool.

Then, the concert ended... And we were still open. And where do you think the huge mass of people went afterwards? Yeah, Starbucks. I swear, there were two guys who had smoked what (I assume) was all of their grass, and came in and stared at our muffins for a good 7 minutes, and held up the line while deciding on soy or lactose free steamed-milk for their tea. I don't think I'll ever forget that glazed-over look of utter bewilderment that one of them gave me when I told him we had not only two, but three (actually four) sizes. Yeah, they were fun.

Fucking hippies.

It really was the worst REM concert ever.

Addendum: Earlier that day REM actually came in to our Starbucks, presumably in order to get a pre-concert latte, and the barista on the register was apparently greeted with a breathy
"Are you ready for me?" Which I can only imagine was meant in the sincerest fashion, because really I can't imagine that middle aged, white, balding, bisexual Michael Stipe would, or could, actually say that in the true rock star fashion. And then, to top it off, no one asked them to sign a mug.

Glamor Shots

Ok, they're not really glamor shots, but they're still pretty nifty, if I do say so myself.
Last week, a family friend stopped by and took a few photos of my mom and I, and I thought I would repost them here, as good photos of me are ever so hard to come by. And good photos of me at work are all but nonexistant.




I think that they're cool, and Conny managed not to capture all the flecks and spots of milk, mocha, syrup, and whipped cream on my clothes. Not to say that I'm messy, it's just an occupational hazard at Starbucks.

Good Evening.

I think that this photo adequately represents my feelings at this moment in time. I suppose The Persistence of Memory would have been better. But hey, my drippy photo works too.

Well kids, it's been a busy couple of weeks. I saw an Asian child wearing shoes with squeakers in them, a homophobic man being trashed by elderly Germans and laughed at by youths, and a guy who tried to sell me drugs while I was at work. Other than that, it's just been a lot of work.
And slowly wasting away, according to my mother.
Ugh. I'm still sick. And I've been working far too much in the last week. But at the very least, I'm all pumped full of codeine. I can't feel pain, and I'm fairly sure that I'm weightless.

So that's fun.

*Blows dust off of keyboard*

Oh dear,
it seems I've been neglecting my blog. Albeit, I don't have internet at home, and have been working a lot, and am kind of sick.
And on that note, I've got to go to work.

Italy: Day Whatever...

So I'm going back home today. I've managed to stuff just about all my shit into my suitcase, and now I'm waiting to go the the airport. I've come to realize that there is one thing that I'll definitely miss.

Buffalo Mozzarella.

Honestly, it is such a delicious cheese. It's like regular mozzarella, but so much better.

Other than that, I'm totally looking foreward to going back to Germany.

Welcome to my Ghetto Coffee Kitchen...

So, I work at Starbucks, which pretty much guarantees me access to the highest quality coffee preparation supplies in the world, and the best damned espresso drinks available. Which is nice. And when I'm at home, I generally use a french press, which, if used properly is pretty super as well.

However, this week I am neither at home nor at Starbucks. I am in Italy. As such, I have access to this.


Yeah. These are by no means high quality tools. A Moka Pot and a Metal Pitcher (Foaming Filter Thing not shown). Quite the opposite, actually. The espresso will taste dead and bitter, the milk will taste like salty butter, and its foam will have the consistancy of soap foam. Yeah. That's what I'm working with. And don't get me started on the grinder, which has three settings: Fine, Medium, and Coarse. And I'm not even going to mention the 'Best Before' dates on the coffee. Nonetheless, after one failed attempt, I managed to come up with this.


A Cappuccino. A pretty handsome one at that. And from what I've seen of Italian espresso thus far, it's passable. Bitter and way-too-foamy.

Nonetheless, I'm going to go insert and light my breakfast, and we'll catch up later kids.

Once more, to all you Americans out there,
Happy Fourth,
Keep on fighting for your freedOm, or justIce, or Liberty or whatever.

Happy Fourth! Cue Fanfare!

Happy Fourth of July Kids!
I can't sleep. And I just saw something that kind of upset me. I won't go into it, because I don't want this blog to be one of those blogs where I write faux-candidly on a page which is theoretically accessible by 6.6 billion human beings. But I will just say that I saw something unpleasent. One of those things that will always give you stomach aches. And then I read 1408.

Thanks Stephen King and Unnamed Painful Memory No. 4! For Making My Independence Day Both Painful and Scary!

I've got high hopes though, I think I may get drunk with Canadians later. And there's no better way to celebrate the Holiday. Firearms and a Bald Eagle wouldn't be bad either, actually.

Anyway, I think I'm going to bed. It's 5am, and I've got acid reflux now. Great.

Ducks may be Fucks, but they are by absolutely no means Trucks.

Introspection No. 313

You know, I really think that heaven for me would be a very clean, air conditioned room attatched to a Starbucks and a Body Shop, with a small tailor from 1954 in a box somewhere, and wireless internet. I really don't think I need anything else. A pug would be nice. And an extensive library. But other than that, I think that's all I really need.

Italy: Day Three

You know, my whole day revolves around tea tree oil.

-Moo-

On another note, my grandmother arrived today. It's great to see her, it's been a good three years, I do believe. And with her she brought Arabian Mocha Sanani, Italian Roast, and Yukon Bend. I am so fucking excited. I don't mean to be crass, but I really am so incredibly excited. And on the topic of coffee, I successfully wrestled an Iced Americano out of an Italian barista today. It took some explaining, but it was actually quite enjoyable. I didn't dare ask for an extra shot of espresso... I think her head might have burst. She looked like cold coffee really pushed her to her limit. I won't even mention the Parkinsons-esque tremor that ran through her already jostled form when I didn't add sugar...

On Italy Update related news, this country is slowly driving me insane. I leave on Sunday, but still, the Italian way of life is simply too much for me. Don't get me wrong, it's great to see my family and everything, but these people... I don't understand how they can live like this! Gah!

Anyway, I'm off to bed,

Spats, Hats, and Shiny Tie Tacks.

Italy: Day One.

I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but this country is already testing my patience.

Let me backtrack a little bit. I flew to Milan today. I arrived at the airport at about 9.45, checked in (after some confusion as to which airline I was actually flying with, Swiss, as it happens), had the innards of my Zippo confiscated (but I kept the outer shell, which is really the only important part to me), and went to the gate. The first thing that upset me were a massive menge of Americans (not the fun ones, the militant ones) huddling around the next gate, looking uncomfortable and waiting to get to Atlanta.

I had a nice little chat with the lady at the drink kiosk as to what she had to offer in the way of alcoholic beverages (beer and wine), and settled on an unpleasant red that was no doubt grown, picked, and processed no further than 100km from said kiosk. But it did the trick, I slept all the way to Zürich, and dozed to Milan. A part of me felt a little iffy that I was drinking at 10am, but I consoled myself with the fact that in the past 50 hours I had gotten no more than 4 hours of sleep, and so according to my internal clock, it was actually late at night, and I was more than welcome to enjoy some booze.

Anyway, I arrive at Malpensa, only to find that the luggage from our plane had apparently been rerouted through Narnia, as we all had to wait for at least 40 minutes before the first piece of luggage was manhandled onto the conveyor belt. Rhonda and Zaven were there to pick me up and give me a ride home. I smeared some Tea Tree Oil into my face and tried not to pay attention to the third worldliness of it all.

And since then, I've been here, sleeping for most of the time, and vaguely starting to miss my friends, guinea pigs, job, and coworkers...

More updates to follow.

Like the season?

Boots, think boots.
Despite all previous commentary on my aversion to football, I've just been watchint Germany v. Turkey on television, with some of the most realistic surround sound possible (There's a public viewing within earshot). Hee Hee. No, I won't go into that, anyway, I just wanted to bring up the topic of Winter. No, not the season, the crazy dude.
About a month ago, some guy in a Starbucks Coffee Company T Shirt ran into our store and said to me "Are you the shift supervisor?" Note, he said this in english, in an American accent, so already, my interest was piqued. I told him that no, I wasn't, but that dude over there was. He ran over to him, asked for a sample of our Coffee of the Week, drank it and left. We then heard that he did the same thing at all the other stores in Stuttgart.
Flash forward to last week, when Im flipping through the Internal Newsletter, and see that blah blah from Munich got a visit from Mr. Winter, and took a photo with him. I promptly went home, googled "Winter+Starbucks" and found that Winter is in fact on a mission to visit every Starbucks in the world. You can read his musings at his website. In fact, in his travel log, he has a blurb about Stuttgart, that kind of made me giggle.

First thing I did in Stuttgart after visiting the hauptbahnhof store was to check my e-mail for a message from Wombat's, the hostel in Munich. There was a reply, confirming I could check in late, but no specific time! Grrr... that didn't help. I needed to know if the desk closed or not, and at what time!!! I sent back a reply immediately, and fortunately by the time I reached the fourth store I had received a reply saying the desk doesn't close. A good thing, because that meant I could make it out to Leonberg.

Oops!!! Somehow I missed a store in Stuttgart when I was plotting them, probably because there are two on Koenigstrasse. Fortunately I caught it before I left.

What is Stuttgart known for, anyway?

Plenty of activity all along Koenigstrasse. Lots of people, and thus quite a variety of street performers. Also, an art museum, but it closed at 6:00. For some reason I was itching to take a break from Starbucking and see some paintings.

Felt bad at Leonberg, where the supervisor rather insistently offered me a big mug of coffee in addition to the sample cup she had already given me. I had to explain to her that this was my 9th store and I simply could not handle much more coffee.

Speaking of lots coffee, I expected that I might have to wait for the train back to Stuttgart, and then for the train to Munich, and that might be a long time without a restroom. So I violated my principle and dropped 30 cents into the tip plate outside the restroom at the Leo-Center. I forgot to mention that most of the restrooms at the shopping centers in Germany seemed to have a female attendant parked outside with a tip plate. Some, or maybe most of the time, there was a sign indicated that 30 cents should be paid. On principle, if I saw the sign, I did not use the restroom, because paying to use the restroom is an affront to humanity. So is cleaning a restroom, for that matter--that is no proper job for a true human being.

Well anyway, that's about all I wanted to touch on, so I think I'll call it a night.

Moo.

Oh Dear...

I'm really nervous.
I have a coffee seminar today. It's my first one with guests. Gah. I'm sure it will go ok, and it will certainly be fun, but still, I've got butterflies in my tumbly. And being mildly hungover doesn't exactly help. I spent the whole of yesterday getting gradually drunk and laughing at ugly shoes and what I'm pretty sure was a Magic Eye T-Shirt. It was a great day, but this morning I woke up with that "I feel kind of dizzy and thirsty" hangover. Nothing serious, just a slight "urgh" feeling.
Anyway, I've got to go prepare for my seminar.

Keep your eels electric,

Have you seen my walk-in closet?

You know, I've just realized that I haven't put any photos of my apartment (read: closet) on my blog. The main reason there was that up until recently, my apartment looked like shit. It still kind of does, actually, but it's definitely better than before. It's amazing what a little IKEA, a lot of wallpaper, and a whole lot of love can do.



















So yeah, that's my appartment. Like I said, total closet, but at least it's a pretty, nicely appointed closet.

I could find a new apartment, but, you know, I've already carried that couch up 5 flights of stairs... I don't need to tote it back down.

Vacationing in Shitaly

Good Morning Children!
I say morning, it's 2am, and I have today and tomorrow off. Whoo! And starting next week, I have vacation. Only a week, but still, I'm excited. I'm getting out of Stuttgart. Not that I don't like Stuttgart. Quite the opposite, I love it. A lot more than where I'm going for said vacation, actually. Nothing against Milan, but I just can't deal with the Italianness of it. Their whole Laissez-Faire, do it tomorrow after the Campari's gone attitude. Gah. But I'll be visiting my family, and seeing my grandmother, so I'm quite looking forward to it.

I mean, I can deal with Italians for a week, that's no biggie. The one thing that does upset me is that there are no Starbucks in Italy. None. Not a single one. In terms of the Starbucks world, Italy is the place beyond the edge of the world. It's the place where the souls of the dead aimlessly roam the grey, barren landscape. It's like purgatory, essentially.

Anyway, I think I may go to bed now, it's far too late, and I've got things to do, places to be, and cats to feed.

Early Morning Blog

So, it's 9.30am. And for some reason I've woken up far earlier than I normally do. And having a bit of spare time can only mean: blog time.
I had a couple of topics lined up:

Football is simply not for me.
-
People are shit. And there's a few things I'd like to say to a few of them in terms of being polite, socially concious people and not alienating those around them.
-
Tee hee hee, It's so wonderful!

Well, The second and third are kind of private/inappropriate for a such a public medium, and are probably best kept off of the internet. Or at least off this blog. So I suppose that leaves me with the football topic.

You see, I live in Europe, and they have this game. Played with a ball and some net, and a few pairs of feet. Those of you in Europe are no doubt aware of this game. Those of you from the States may know it as "that thing that Posh Spice's husband does". Yes, it's football. And right now, a bevy of European countries are playing it with each other in order to determine who can play it best. Germany, my host country played yesterday. And won. And as soon as the game ended, throngs of beer-stained humanity came seeping out of the woodwork adorned in flags and chanting 'Deutschland'. Which, for obvious reasons, kind of made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. These people partied all night long. All Because a group of dudes wearing their flag kicked a ball better than the other group of dudes wearing some other flag. I don't want to belittle the game or anything, but I just don't get it. And so we come to the epiphany that I get whenever I'm around sports:

This is Really Not For Me.

I simply can't get behind it. Despite having played football for a coulple of years (or so my parents tell me, I just remember getting a lot of sun one year and having an ugly t shirt) I don't like wearing flags, or getting ass-drunk and screaming my nationality at people. Nor do I like ugly tricolored wigs or football hymns. To be entirely honest, I was really happy seeing a guy in work clothes on the train. I thought to myself: hey, I'm not the only one not getting into it, and by into it I mean drunk. Then he turned the other way, and I saw the German flag painted on his face.

Googling Myself. No, you Pervert, Not Like That.

So, I was bored a while ago, and I typed my name into google. I haven't done this in quite a long time, and was suprised to find that the results were as such:

I) Elect Avalon Leonetti As Overlord Petition
II) Same thing
III) The Avalon Says Moo: Reasons to Date a Barista
IV) The Avalon Says Moo: Behold!

Apparently if one were to try to figure out who I was based on a google search, they would find a 5 year old petition, and a nonsensical blog. So that's fun. I then thought: well hey, I'll type in The Avalon Says Moo, and see what happens there... This happened there:

I) The Avalon Says Moo: Reasons to Date a Barista
II) The Avalon Says Moo: Embarrassing Photo No. 342
III) MySpace.com - The Avalon Says Moo - 19 - Male - Stuttgart, Baden...

These were the main ones. Followed by the profile of a friend of mine. Go figure. The one thing I don't understand is why it's specifically my Reasons to Date a Barista blog that comes up when you look for me online...

Oh well.

T Shirts are Nice.

Ok Kids,
I just found the most wonderful website. It's a T Shirty Thing. For those of you who don't know, I love funny t shirts. I don't wear them (don't go well with my ties), but I absolutely love the concept. And add a nerdy spin to it... Oh dear, I laughed until my face caught on fire.

Anyway, the website is wearscience.com. There's three sections, and they're all absolutely wonderful.

Embarrassing Photo No. 342

So,
I've talked about what a rolly-polly little Kugelmensch I used to be. I'm still a bit meaty and jiggly, but I look massively better than I used to. I have no more than one chin, and I do not need a bra. And just to show you loyal readers how wide I once was, I made this.

Yeah.

Thank God for coffee, stress, cigarettes, and carrying 300 liters of milk up a starcase three times a week.

Ennui & Cottage Cheese

Sweet Jesus I Suck!
At keeping up this blog while simultaneously working full time at odd hours of the night and partying more evenings than not, that is.

And to add to all of that, my internet has not been connected yet. But it will be soon. Then I'll be able to blog from home. And by blog I certainly don't mean look at porn. That would be inappropriate.

Anyway, I just got off work (I think someone told them that I really get off on working obscenely late shifts), and fed Ana's cats (who apparently had forgotten that people also inhabit their domain. Have you ever seen a cat look suprised?). And I'm currently eating an absolutely delicious Rucola-Hüttenkäse Sandwich from Starbucks. And I'm absolutely horrified to discover that Hüttenkäse is the German equivalent of cottage cheese. There's cottage cheese on my Sandwich. And despite the disgust that I feel, that cottage cheese tastes great with onions, tomatoes, Arugula (a.k.a. Rucola, Rugola, Roquette, and Garden Rocket, which, up until recently I had always called Rucola in english. How wrong I was), and wheaty breads.

Arugula is such an ugly word. It sounds like a seizure.

I have such a horrible sense of ennui. Purely in an objective sense. I've been quite tired lately. On friday I went and volunteered at the theater and then went for coffee with Ana and Veronica, and got home at like 1.45. On Saturday me and a couple of coworkers went drinking until 6am. And on Sunday was Marissa's going away party (which was obscenely fun, and I would love to talk about it, but I can't), and on Monday, I had Closing, and afterwards, we sat and chatted until about 1.30am. And tonight, I worked, fed cats, and now it's 2.00am.
I need to buy Carmex, my lips are all dry.

Anyway, that's all I really wanted to go on babbling about. I'll end with a photo of me that my Store Manager took of me.


Yes, I am drunk.

Great Big Hangovers

So I went to go see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels yesterday evening. It was the premiere night, and Ana's parents went to volunteer and watch the show. I did not go to volunteer, I went to lean on things and look beautiful, which I did in the loveliest little H&M ensemble, slate grey jacket and pants, light grey-blue shirt, marigold & powder blue tie, and some nice retro cufflinks. Seen here:



The show was actually great. I loved the movie as a kid, and perhaps that had something to do with it, but it was really performed well. Something was a bit off with the orchestra, a few wonky notes, but after all it was opening night, so I'm sure it'll be fixed.

And afterward, Signor Avalon went boozing. The perfect end to a delightful evening, non?

Balcony Blog

I'm sitting on a balcony, listening to No, Virginia, the new Dresden Dolls album. It's about 11am, and I'm waiting on a French Press of Colombia Narino Supremo. Which was, incidently, the subject of my first Coffee Tasting at Starbucks. And it remains to this day one of my favorites. Coffee never tastes as good at home as it does at Starbucks. The water there is always filtered, and at the perfect temperature for brewing coffee. Which is, incedently betwen 92 and 95 degrees Celcius.
So yeah, I'm a goin' shopping today. Need a new iPod. And some shoes. Hmm, the coffee's not too bad. Water makes all the difference though. And Germany sits on a Pet Semetary of late Cretaceous limestone, so you're essentially drinking the long-since-calcified bones of monsterous reptiles and crustaceans.
But I'm going to the premiere of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels tonight. Ana's in it, and it looks like it's going to be a lot of fun. I always liked the film as a kid. Something about Michael Caine whipping Steve Martin's shins with reeds really gets me.
Yes indeedy, looks like it's going to be a groovy day.

Parisian Dreams & Secret Someones,

A Few Things

Ahoy Hoy!
The last few days have been obscenely busy. And the weather has been disgusting. I think that the humidity's at about 100%. I haven't been able to do much other than slowly lose water weight. Good Lord. Some programme about college life just came on television. I've never seen anything this vapid. Quote:

"Can you get this stain out" Says one scantily clad, airy girl.
"What is it?" Says the other.
"...Uh, it's... yogurt." Replies the first.
"Eww!" The other then proceeds to throw the article of clothing, where it lands on the show's protagonist geek.

I hate the majority of television these days. On the upside, things are either awful or absolutely mind-shatteringly wonderful.

Well, I just wanted to mention a few noteworthy happenings in mein life. The first is something that made me giggle. I was chatting to a colleague of mine, and I said something like "I really don't think that I could be more positive." And he replied "Sure, you constantly smile, but I'm sure that just behind that smile is a shattered and warped soul." To which I laughed heartily.
The other thing is actually a drink. It's kind of like my nifty little BananaChai Frappuccino idea, in that it's loved and loathed in equal measure. It's a Raspberry White Cheesecake Frappucino Blended Cream. You can put anything in a Frappuccino blender. You can blend a golf ball. As such, every now and again, it occurs to us to put cake into the blender. It's delicious. If you'd care to order it, it goes as such:

-Put one piece of Raspberry White Cheesecake into the blender.
-Fill blender with cream base to the first line.
-Add one pump of white mocha
-Add one pump of Raspberry
-Add Venti Ice.
-Blend
-Enjoy the Fuck Out of It.

So that's my two bits for the day. I'll probably post another one tomorrow, as I have the day off, thank the Lord.

Anyway,

Chins up, Trousers Down,

Behold!

Fig. 1.1. Slimy Bear Pig Thing.

Eurovision... Dear Lord, I thought Europeans had taste...

So, I just watched the Eurovision semifinals...
Some of you out there may not know what Eurovision is, for those of you who don't, here's the blurb:

The Eurovision Song Contest (French: Concours Eurovision de la Chanson) is an annual competition held among active member countries of the European Broadcasting Union (EBU).
Each member country submits a song to be performed on live television and then casts votes for the other countries' songs to determine the most popular song in the competition. Each country participates via one of their national EBU-member television stations, whose task it is to select a singer and a song to represent their country in the international competition.The Contest has been broadcast every year since its inauguration in 1956 and is one of the longest-running television programmes in the world. It is also one of the most-watched non-sporting events in the world, with audience figures having been quoted in recent years as anything between 100 million and 600 million internationally. Eurovision has also been broadcast outside Europe to such places as Australia, Canada, Mexico, Egypt, Hong Kong, India, Jordan, New Zealand, South Africa, South Korea, Vietnam, and the United States, despite the fact that these countries do not compete. Since the year 2000, the Contest has also been broadcast over the Internet, with more than 74,000 people in almost 140 countries having watched the 2006 edition online.

Thank you Wikipedia. What the blurb does not say is that the Eurovision song contest is perhaps one of the most horribly campy and utterly tragic international spectacles ever. Viewers are treated to Ukrainian Transvestite Space Matrons, Finnish Heavy Metal Monsters, Spazz-Dancing Violin-Playing Lithuanian Football Fans, Russian Piano-Centaurs, Gay British Air Hosts & Hostesses offering you Hot Nuts, German Country Music, And 75-Year-Old Croatian Men Angrily Rapping.

It is truly one of the most wonderful and awful spectacles ever. I mean hell, it gave us ABBA. And one of the things that I find quite amusing is that the selected singer from each country need only possess a tangential connection to said country. Example: This year's entry from Greece. A female singer, scantily clad, talking about her 'secret combination' (and from the looks of her microskirt, getting dangerously close to revealing said secret combination to the International Viewing Audience).
Ok, so her name is 'Kalomoira'. Sounds pretty Greek-y, eh? Yeah, her name's Marie Carol Sarantis, and was born and grew up in West Hempstead, New York. And on top of that, she's more obnoxious than the entire ensemble cast of My Super Sweet 16. In under 30 seconds, she was able to list her entire credits, including the time (omg) when she worked with Jessica Simpson, LL Cool J, and Jennifer Love Hewitt. All the while managing to be bubblier than boiling water, face twisted into an obscene rictus of uncontrollable elation. Eventually the British commentator cut her off and tried to talk to a Russian guy. Tried... and failed.

I need to find the DVD of this, it was just so utterly bizarre. I can't explain it. Between the broken, shattered English, the senile Eurovision founder making a speech in which she mentioned Serbia being in Bulgaria, and the weird Eastern European woman with men on a leash... yeah, there are no words.

What the fuck...

What the fuck is wrong with Belgium? I was just watching Eurovision, and I saw Belgium's act. It's some kind of fruity, flowery, fever dream of an act. And I've just been informed that the bizzare Belgian fuck is singing in a made-up language, and no, it's not Esperanto.

On My Rise to Power.

That's meant to be semi-ironic. Just so we're clear. But I was talking to a friend of mine today, and the topic of my 8 months at Starbucks. They asked if it was odd that one would, in the period of 8 months rise from Trainee to Store Coffee Master. I thought about it, and said that really the conditions were just right, my own little perfect Reichstag fire of a storm. I then giggled and thought that I was clever.
Anyway, I think that's about all that I wanted to say on that particular topic.

Although I will include a Coffee Master Thought of the Day:
The Black Apron is wonderful. It's slimming, made of a nicer material, and has the Coffee Master Program logo on it. However, it is also black. This is desirable, if one were to work with alot of black ink. However, if one works with alot of dairy products and chocolate, well, the black apron kind of starts to look like a jizz-rag after a few days. Sorry to be so graphic.
Not to say that this is terribly serious, you just have to wash your apron regularly.
And that's always good advice.

Bow to your Coffee Lord! (Kidding)

That's right, I'm officially the Store Coffee Master. I received my black apron today, and plan on flaunting it as of tomorrow.

Just to bring all of you up to speed, the Coffee Master Program is Starbucks' way of fostering general Coffeeness among partners and guests. As such, all Starbucks baristas take the Coffee Master Test once per year to ensure that they're up to snuff. From there, baristas are selected to take place in the Store Coffee Master Challenge. Which determines who will get the swanky black apron. In addition to said swanky apron, The Store Coffee Master deals with all things coffee in their store, including Coffee Seminars, etc. There's more to it, but that's the gist of it.
And as of today, that's what I am. After a rigorous testing process, our District Coffee Master and our District Manager decided that I was best suited, and gave me a congratulatory handshake, and a letter from the Coffee Ambassador. And I giddily smiled and giggled, and almost cried with joy. I wish I could say that that was sarcasm, but I really teared up a little bit. I've looked forward to this for a long time. Not just because of the slimming quality of the apron, but also because I'm incredibly passionate about coffee. I'm not being an ass, or bragging. I really am. If you've heard me talk about coffee, you'll know that I positively light up, and could go on for hours and hours, breaking out numerous diagrams and visual aids to assist in the explanation.

So, ja, I just thought I'd share the news with you.
I'll try to get a photo of me in the fantastic new apron sometime soon.

Coffee Coffee Coffee

Gah,
Store Coffee Master Challenge today. Talk about nervous. Wish me luck!

Good Evening

Morning, actually.
It's Friday, at about 1.44am, and I'm studying for the Coffee Master Challenge. I have the written exam this afternoon. And I'm quite nervous. Oh well. It's not the end of the world, I suppose.

For those of you reading this on My Space, I just uploaded some old photos that I found. They're part of a project that I started in Italy called "Why I hate Italy". It's just a couple of the upsetting and creepy things that can be found in a common Italian household. Including beetles, large translucent maggots in produce, and a Silence of the Lambs-esque basement (empty well and skin-suit not included). There were a few others of house centipedes (makes them sound so cute, doesn't it?) and other local wildlife.

At the end of the day, the photos are mainly black-and-white and pretentious (I used to think I had talent, before realizing that in order to take a good picture, one must have some kind of passion for something in life, as opposed to being a miserable bastard like yours truly).

So that's that. The photos are also on Facebook, I think, under "creepy things in my house" or something similar.

Wish Me Luck!

Social Networking

So, a few days ago I thought that I would redo my MySpace page. Make it look all fresh and pretty for Summer. So I started, picked out a new layout, did all that jazz. But then I thought to myself:

"you know, every one of my internet accounts have 'The Avalon Says Moo' in them somewhere. Except for my damned MySpace page."

See, I had the MySpace before I had the delightful moniker. As such, my MySpace has always been this irritating little tarnish on my otherwise perfect internet presence. Being myself, however, I registered another MySpace account as www.myspace.com/theavalonsaysmoo a while back.

So I started to think that maybe I should switch my MySpace presence over. Of course, there are some downsides. All of my old blog entries will still be on my old page, along with all of the photos that I'll be too lazy to transfer over. And there's also a slight touch of moving away to it. It was my first social network thing (I know how pathetic that sounds) Oh well, that's life, I suppose.

The thing that finally convinced me was that I actively correspond with about 15 of my 105 MySpace friends. And social networking courtesies being what they are, I can't, in all good conscience delete these people. I would feel like a jackass. But still, I've got 93 people cluttering up my page with their bulletins and witty display names. And it's not like I don't like these people, it's just that I don't really have much to say to them. In most cases, I haven't had any real-world interaction with them for a good 5-10 years. And there are a few of these people that I do want to keep in contact with, but that's what Facebook is for.

Well, I think I've rambled on about social networking for long enough, I think.

Chins & Scapulae,

The Day After

Good morning kids.
And this time it actually is morning. 1am, give or take a minute. And the 5th consecutive day of birthdayness has just come to an end. I capped off the festivities with Red Velvet Cake and a B Movie. The B Movie, actually. Plan 9 From Outer Space, Ed Wood's opus. One of those films that is actually so incredibly awful that it transcends into hilarity. So yeah, red velvet cake, B movie, and gin, of course. Lots of gin. All in all, a pretty groovy evening, I have to say. I've been in a bit of a funk all day, unfortunately, but I think that's just the post birthday hangover. Despite only being 19 years old, I honestly have to say that I was a bit anxious about this birthday. I mean, 19 is almost 20. That's a fourth of my expected life. If I'm lucky. Not that I want to be all melodramatic and "Oh, I'm over the hill, call the pallbearers and spellcheck my epitaph", it's not like that, it's just that unpleasent realiyation that I am, in fact, an adult.
It's kind of a big thing, eh?

Well, I'm not exactly sure what else I wanted to say in this blog. Something witty, presumably. It could be the combination of sugar, alcohol, and Ed Wood, but nothing terribly witty comes to mind at the moment.

No, I think I may just go and watch Heroes and doze off on the couch. Sounds like a good way to end the day to me.

A Quickie

I love Qi.

Ramblin' Man

Mornin'!
It's not, actually, but hey, it's a pretty cheerful way to start out a blog, eh?
It's actually about 5pm. I spent 4 hours walking today. I'm quite proud of myself. I was sick this past week, and cabin fever had reached fever pitch, so I thought "Hey, I think I'll go rambling." And so I did. I wandered from my house to Heslach (and did the only thing that one should do when one finds onesself in Heslach: leave Heslach), then to Degerloch, and a few other places of equal boringness. It was quite lovely. Thanks to a mixture of Dr. Pepper and a brand spanking new Playlist composed mainly of Camera Obscura and the Postal Service. At one point Ana's mom called to ask where I was, and I responded "By the goose field in Degerloch" to which she replied "What an interesting place to be..." It's not really, nothing but dandelions and German pastoral scenery.
Nonetheless, it was a lovely walk. And I managed to find one of the bakers that are open on Sunday, so I picked up a pretty yummy pumpkinseedy bready thing. And a bottle of water, for good measure. And away I went

Ana wants her computer back, so that's all I've got for you,

As always,

Chins up, Chaps Assless,

Long Time No Something Something Something...

Morning Kids!

I know that I haven't done this in a while. And I apologize. I really do. Things have been quite busy, what with work and all. But I've got vacation coming up, so you can look forward to a steady(er) flow of bloggery.

God, there's so much to talk about, and I don't know where to start. So, my parents came up last week to wish me a happy early birthday, which was delightful. I really should try to get down to Milan sometime soon. It'd be a nice change of pace. God, it's alarming to think that it's almost my birthday. Christ, I'm almost 19. That's almost 20. Jesus.

Moving swiftly on, I'll be going and seeing Wicked next week. I stand by the fact that as a rule, I despise musicals. The only ones that interest me are the tongue-in-cheek ones (Reefer Madness, Rocky Horror), and the ones that are related to things that I like. That's where Wicked comes in. I've always had a huge hard on for everything Oz related. And combine that with my massive love of retellings of classic tales, well, it's perfect. Other than those three musicals, I can't really- Oh, Sweeney Todd's pretty groovy. But that's because of the subject matter. And the Tim Burtonness of the recent film version. But other than that, I can't really think of any that I enjoy...
Cats drives me up the wall. Phantom of the Opera makes me shit blood, Into the Woods made me hemorrhage internally, and The Lion King scared the living fuck out of me (the monstrous panther-lady-devil-monster. Seriously, Jesus). And the premise of Rent is enough to make my blood boil and eyes burst. I mean come on, it's a bunch of AIDSy deadbeat drug addict 'artistes' who refuse to pay rent to a good friend of theirs who has, in all fairness, cut them more than their fair share of slack.
Ugh. The only reason that P.O.S. succeeded was that the playwright died of a foot-long aortic tear on opening night. Go read the reviews for when it originally opened (the ones that weren't written by the sheep who blindly assumed 'oh, AIDS and drugs, ooooh, and social injustice!!!), they all thought it would play its run and never ever be spoken of ever again, ever ever ever.
Oh, also: nothing against any of these musicals, the medium, as a rule, is not for me.

On another note, I may be going and seeing Joan Baez live in concert next week as well. And that would be absolutely fantastic.

And although this probably interests no one other than myself, I treated myself to my birthday present from me today. A little trip to the Body Shop (newly reopened in Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof). I also got a 'Love Your Body' card, which entitles me to all kinds of discounts, and a birthday present from the Body Shop. I got some delightful Shea Body Scrub, Ginger Anti Dandruff Shampoo, Tea Tree Oil Facial Exfoliator; Bar Soap, and Liquid Hand Wash. And, because my purchase was more than 30 Euro, I got a gift bag with Aloe Soothing Day Cream, Moringa Body Butter, Aqua Lily Eau de Toilette, and, Comically, Mascara. The lady also ticked the 'Frau' box on the registration. So it could be that the people at the Body Shop think that I'm either a woman or a post-op tranny. Go figure.
Oh well, that's all I've got for you today,

Here's To You

(It's a Joan Baez song)

(Nevermind)

I know I haven't posted any blogs recently. I keep meaning to, but I've been rather busy. Between work and sleep, well, there just aren't enough hours in the day to perform this little bit of public masturbation. This will only be a quickie, I have to work in an hour. Ugh, I really don't feel like it today. It's just one of those days, I woke up in an utterly shitty mood, fairly certain that all of the blurry polygons surrounding me wanted to eat my face. And it's only gone downhill from there, actually. The sun's stopped shining, and the birds just look ever more menacing. I really don't want to be nice to people today.

Oh well.

You can expect an actual blog post soon, I plan on writing one about my plans for my future, hold on to your hats.

Long Rambly Blog II

Ahoy hoy kids! It's been a while since I blogged last, I'm sad to say, but I've been working full time, and my free time's mostly spent sleeping. Or huddled in a fetal position while an unending number-station-like string of Starbucks drink orders runs through my head. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, but working in the third busiest Starbucks in Germany does entail a fair amount of stress. Which is good, I suppose, in the long run. I've lost 10kg since September. It's great, I can finally see my cheek bones. The downside, of course, is that being active and cheerful for 8,5 hours a day, 5 days a week does affect you. It's sapping. I touched on this in a previous blog. (See Misanthropy vs. Obligatory Kindness) I really do find it continuously more difficult to walk down the street and think happy thoughts. More often than not, it's an internal monologue of angry, hurtful, and just downright unpleasant commentary. Hmm. It's strange how I only find one of my pens when I lose another. I can't find a fountain pen that I got for Christmas, but I just noticed a fountain pen that I bought in Milan last year on Ana's bedside table. I wonder why I felt it necessary to state that they were fountain pens. fountain pens.
Ugh. I've just felt so out of it this week. It's like somebody had a go at my solar plexus with a razor sharp ice cream scoop. I'm not sure why I went with that metaphor, but I like the image.
Worst Iced Cream Ever.
I just found this on craigslist, and it made me laugh:

"My house has bees. I like them and there is that bee shortage, but we are renters, and eventually, someone will come to kill them. I'd like to give these bees to a beekeeper who will come get them. They don't seem aggressive, they leave the 4 yr old child and the spastic dog alone, and they are just filling the roof with honey (I assume) when they could be making honey for you. I have no bee knowledge, but am very willing to help if needed."

I enjoy the concept of benevolent bees hanging out in this guy's ceiling making honey (he assumes).

A Belated Early Morning Blog.

So, I'm at Starbucks, half an hour early, an hour and a half before it opens. Thank you very much broken alarm clock from the bowels of hell.

But I just found out that I get free WLAN here too. So that's a happy little coincidence.

Today's Saturday, and as such, all hell will break loose in a few hours, and the shambling zombie like creatures will beat down our doors in search of coffee. Or brains and human flesh, whichever.

Today's the first Saturday without names on the cups/mugs, so we'll see how that goes. I'm expecting a lot of 

"to go Venti Premium Hot Chocolate"

*blank confused stares, crickets, and a tumbleweed*

"eine ganz grosse Heisse Schokolade?"

*A solitary frog croaks from the nearby marshes*

"Hmm..."

I mean no disrespect to our guests, but I do feel that a lot of them depend heavily on the fact that their drink will have their name or a name written on it. I mean, in all fairness, if you're expecting the drink t have a name, chances are, you may listen a bit less. Additionally, our drinks are mainly a fusion of English and Italian names, and we are, in fact, in a country where neither of these languages is the mother-tongue.

Well, we'll see.

And I get to leave at 15.30. Which is nice. I don't have to do the afternoon horde.

Addendum:

I left at 16.45, and the whole day was crazy busy. I need to be less optomistic about Saturdays.

Coffee Mouthfeel Doubleplusgood.

So I was just on Starbucks.com, reading up on a few of our coffees, and I saw the page for Colombia Narino El Tambo, and I couldn't help but notice this little description of the coffee's taste:

Walnuts accentuate El Tambo's buttery, smooth mouthfeel. Chocolate (dark and semi-sweet) showcases El Tambo's cocoa-sweet finish. Granola highlights El tambo's spice characteristics. Savory herbs and salt bring out El tambo's complexity.

Which just seems kind of Bog Brother 1984 Newspeak to me. It's the kind of description I would expect to be attatched to either the Big Brother Celebratory Blend, or the Victory Blend.

Anyway, I thought that was pretty amusing.

Misanthropy vs. Oligatory Kindness

Sometimes I do find it difficult to reconcile my deep and pervasive misanthropy with my genuine desire to be a kind and helpful barista. 

Usually I'm able to muster up enough kindness from the cold, barren, and empty depths of my heart to be nice to our guests. I smile, I thank them, and I wish them a good day. Always. Sure, on the inside I may be seething, but I'm professional, and I never let it show.

The downside of this is that I leave work feeling like I have to compensate. I feel that when I'm not working, I dislike people all the more. Whenever I see them meaninglessly meandering through the streets, stinking up the world with their filthy seeping selves (read: whenever I'm in public), I just dislike them all so much. This only extends to strangers. If I see someone I know, I pep up pretty quick, and suddenly I'm full of smiles and sunshine.

Maybe I haven't been getting enough sleep. Or enough zinc.  Zinc's usually key. It's important both for you and for the functioning of the world around you. three thousand of the various types of proteins in your body have zinc in them. A zinc deficiency can lead to anorexia nervosa, studies suggest. Zinc is used in brass. Imagine that. Without zinc, your relatives wouldn't have those statuettes that captivated you when you were a kid. They might still have the porcelain ones, but it's doubtful, as without zinc, neither you nor your grandparents as you know them would exist. As you know them is the key bit there. Without zinc, life might have taken a much diff-Jesus fuck what the hell am I talking about. Did they put pot in my tea?

God, I lost my train of thought-no, that's an understatement, my train of thought went Hindenburg on me there. Wow. I forgot what I was going to say next, but the gist of it is that I really wish I could be more- what's the oposite of a misanthrope? Philanthrope? No. That's Bill Gates. He's a monster. I suppose philanthrope kind of works. It doesn't necessarily refer to money-giving, rather to care for ones fellow man. I say fellow simply as a turn of phrase, I really don't like to be associated with the majority of humanity. They smell and release methane and carbon dioxide. Not a crowd I like to be associated with.

Anyway, I think that's it for me this evening. Oh, I just got the album The Complex by the Blue Man group. It's a great album. I love their collaborations. It seems kind of redundant to play Free Nelson Mandela He's free, and hasn't re-offended. Drop it and leave it alone. 

Omg, I just got to try our new Frappuccino. Oh dear lord, it's enough to make you burst a blood vessel. OOH! New promotional coffee! Awesome! 

BLUCHER! *Horses Whinny*

I think I just saw Cloris Leachman. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure she just wandered by.

On an un-Frau Blücher related note, I got a new haircut today. Thank the Lord for Toni & Guy. If you happen to be located near one, I suggest visiting it. Nice people, lots of Depeche Mode playing, and a whole lot of skill. Anyway, here's the finished product:

It's much better than it was before. I hate it when my hair gets all floppy. But I'm just so lazy, I only go in when I start getting people asking me if I'm a fan of the Beatles.

Reasons to Date a Barista

Ok, so I just recieved this from one of my coworkers, and it made me giggle so much that I almost wet myself. I don't know, maybe you have to be a barista to appreciate it, maybe not. You be the judge.

Reasons to Date a Starbucks Barista

Because we're used to whipped cream.

-

We make everything extra hot.

-

We know how to keep you up in the morning.

-

We won't fall asleep afterwards.

-

We know how to make anyone smile.

-

We initiate conversations.

-

We thank and worship you over and over, even if we know you don't deserve it!

-

Because even if sometimes it may only last ten seconds, you know it's the best damn shot you've ever had...

-

No body grinds like we do.

-

You ALWAYS find Mocha, Whip cream, caramel or some other deleciousness on some part of our body.

-

Give you enough cream so you won't complain.

-

Because we stay fresh for an hour and only need four minutes to re-brew.

-

We will always give you stuff that you LOVE to slurp and swallow.

-

No Matter How Crazy The Request, We Just Say Yes!

-

If we don't give it to you like you want it, we'll keep trying until we make you happy.

-

When we're ready to give it to you, we scream for you no matter how many people are in the room.

-

If giving you what you want is too much for one of us to handle, we'll use our star skills and ask someone else to help.

-

We're all cross trained to work in any position.

-

Free pound a week.

-

Black and green would look great on your floor in the morning.

-

We can use both hands to multitask

-

If you leave dissatisified, we give it to you for free next time.

-

We eliminate the need to do it yourself at home.

Olden Times III

Fashionable Motherfuckers

(1918)

Smoothies. More than you really want to know.

Good Morning Kids!

It's actually late afternoon, but none the less...

So, As of two days ago, I'm officially a full-time Barista. As of Monday I work 40 hours per week. As of now, I fear that this may adversely affect my love of Starbucks. I certainly hope that it does not...

Anyway, I have today off, so I'm hanging out at Starbucks and blogging. I'm in a pretty good mood, so the hordes of children do not put me on edge as they usually do, but they do cause just the slightest bit of negativity.

I've decided recently to try and get healthy. Cut down on my occasional indulgence in a certain oral fixation, drink less coffee, cut down on sugars, and take the train less. So far so good, although I did have a Quatt-Venti-Latte today. But at the least it was nonfat, and I followed it up with one of our Smoothies that contains 22% of the Recommended Daily Allowance of Vitamin C and is equal to two portions of fruit. It is preservative free and contains no juice from concentrate. It also has a very witty little blurb about Rudy Boysen, discoverer of the Boysenberry, which is an integral part of this smoothies' ingredients. Although I do like the smoothies, I always find that they have far too much banana in them. I assume that it's used as filler, and is a great choice, as it is just about as perfect as a fruit can get, but nonetheless, it does lend a slight tang that I feel interferes with the berry-theme of this particular smoothie.

The company that produces the smoothies; Innocent is made up entirely of freaks of topnotch quality. They're utterly crazy. I was going to paraphrase their history, but I'll just copy over the blurb from their website:

"Work hard, play hard. Sure. These days it's more like work hard, go home and eat potato salad. We've always found that there's something about modern living that makes it hard to be healthy. That's why we gave up our jobs over eight years ago and started making innocent smoothies. The idea was to make it easy for people to do themselves some good. And to make it taste nice too. We wanted people to think of innocent drinks as their one healthy habit; like going to the gym, but without the communal shower afterwards

We call them innocent because our drinks are always completely pure, fresh and unadulterated. Anything you ever find in an innocent bottle will always be 100% natural and delicious -and if it isn't, get on the banana phone and make us beg for forgiveness.

In fact, being accountable to our customers is something that is in our blood. In the summer of 1998 when we had developed our first smoothie recipes but were still nervous about giving up our proper jobs, we bought £500 worth of fruit, turned it into smoothies and sold them from a stall at a little music festival in London. We put up a big sign saying 'Do you think we should give up our jobs to make these smoothies?' and put out a bin saying 'YES' and a bin saying 'NO' and asked people to put the empty bottle in the right bin. At the end of the weekend the 'YES' bin was full so we went in the next day and resigned.

Then we had to find a home. And that's when we stumbled across the perfect place - Fruit Towers. It's a lovely little place, somewhere that we can call our own and where everybody's welcome. You'll find Fruit Towers in Shepherds Bush, so do pop by if you're ever in the area."

So there's that... Which doesn't necessarily indicate that these people are unstable, but it's not exactly a stretch to say that they're just a bit odd. I won't go into the fact that they drive cow-vans, and vans that are covered in grass... What I will do is share some of their advertisements with you.

I mean, they go from odd to just plain weird. And that's why I love them. A few weeks ago, I noticed the aforementioned witty blurbs on the side. The one I had at the time was an angry diatribe that went something like "Raspberries and Blackberries, we know them well, almost like brothers. But a boysenberry? ..." It then went on for the rest of a paragraph calling the boysenberry a loafer and a newcomer, before closing with "Give it your all, boysenberry, or hit the road, got it!?" I thought this was hilarious. I like the thought of my smoothie being angry at a berry. 

Olden Times II

Olden Times

So, I have a small collection of old snapshots. Things from the early 1900's, families, wedding photos, decrepit soldiers, busy soiling their bedpans, that sort of thing. Most of these are stuck into my vast and impressive collection of Moleskine notebooks, with witty captions. A few days ago, I got bored, and decided to put them on my computer and share them with you, my loyal blogaudience. So here's the first one; Marge.

Balconies & Blisters

So, a few days back I posted a blog about the Putzabend at Starbucks. What I didn't mention was the fact that after only five minutes of being there, I was severely injured. I was busy taking down one of the large (and somewhat innefectual) umbrellas that we have on our terrace, when it slid down an inch, pinching a section of my admittedly ample hand flesh between the (heavy) umbrella and its stainless steel stand. The result is an almost imperceptible but nonetheless painful-as-fuck bruise on my hand, some bruising of my thumb, and a rather nasty blood blister between my thumb and hand. Ouch. On the plus side, I managed to drain the damn thing. I expected a clot, but no, it was still all gross and bloody. It is still gross and bloody, as the pain is to great to press on it to get all of said nastiness out. But now it's not all gross and bulgy and stuff. Which is nice. 

On a lighter note, today my love of the German people was reaffirmed. I had stepped out onto Ana's balcony 'to take the air', when Ana popped her head out and said that I should be ready to meet Timothy for the Blue Man Group in about ten minutes. She then closed the door behind her-strike that-then closed and locked the door behind her, and went back into her room to watch tv with the door closed. I didn't really notice, until I tried to go back in, that is. At which point I did that thing where you go to nudge a door open with your shoulder and the world is torn asunder for a moment when said door doesn't open. So I knocked. Nope. So I tried to wave at her window. Nope. So I tried knocking again. Nope. So I tried yelling. Nope. So I stepped back, took a deep breath, and noticed the elderly German couple on the street who had paused in their Nordic Walking to watch the spectacle. As I looked down at them, the woman sort of shrugged her shoulders in that kind of "not your day is it hon?" kind of a way. I did the same. Then I kindly shouted that it would be massively helpful for her to ring Ana's doorbell and tell her that her friend was locked on the balcony. And these lovely people did, and I thanked them, and they went on their way, and I went back inside.

And now I'm off to the Blue Man Group.

Whoo!

Read Me!

Hey there kids!

First off, on the title, I couldn't think of anything to title this blog as, so I went with at. There's nothing brilliant or life changing about this blog. Nothing sublime or revolutionary. No character development or plot, and certainly no denouement.

Having said that...

I just finished participating in a top-to-bottom cleaning of the Starbucks where I work. It's sparkling. If you enjoy cleanliness, I suggest you take a stroll down to said Starbucks. And by God, if you spill anything... 

And I have the pleasure of working at 9am tomorrow. Until 17.30. Yay. But after that, I get wednesday and thursday off. Yay!

Well, I think I'm off to bed, I'm tired and smell like Starbucks, Glass Reiniger, & Desinfektionsmittel. 

I could go for a drink.

THE MAPS ARE BLANK!!!

I'm pretty sure that I could save time in my day to day life by hiring some guy to follow me around and take photos of me for my MySpace. I'm also pretty sure that there's no way that I can spin that sentence into a blog. Nope, it just occurred to me, and I typed it in, and now I have no idea where to head with this blog. If the blog were a ship, the captain would be tearing his hair out as he realizes that the maps are nothing but blank sheets with a dot in the middle that says "you are here". I suppose that the edges of the maps would say something like "here there be dragons" or something equally unhelpful, like "Your boat's hull is made out of the same stuff that time-release pills are made of. By the time you read this, it will be mostly dissolved. I hope you said goodbye to your loved ones, because the only place you and your crew are headed to is the sea bed." 

So that's fun. Except that it's not. At all. And once more, no idea where to take this blog. I mean, the sea bed's an option...

I went and saw Sweeney Todd a few days ago. It was fantastic. I despise Musicals, generally speaking, but I loved this one. I was in a bit of a shit mood when I went in, so seeing huge amounts of violence and cannibalism really brightened my day. I'll be seeing it again tomorrow, I think.

Also, and I just realized that I hadn't actually mentioned this in a blog before, I went and saw the Blue Man Group on Sunday. We got very groovy and exclusive tickets to a preview. Second row, dead center, it was awesome. Ana was splattered with Blue Man Chest Vomit. The rest of us were not as lucky.

Anyway, I'm going to stay with the ship while it sinks into the inky black abyss, in the meantime, enjoy some photos of the show. Ugh, bear with me, my interner connection is currently slower than shit. 

I only just realized that you're not experiencing this live, so that last little bit was, in fact, entirely unnecessary. 

On the way to

Outside of

(Admittedly, we all look bizarre, the sun was shining, I had had too much coffee, and Ana was on lookout)

At

(We got ponchos)

(All of Us!)

After

(We Managed to Spot One)

*blurb blurb*

A Long, Rambling Blog.

After months of inferior shaving, I finally broke down and bought one of these multibladed dealies. A four-bladed dealy, actually. Good Lord, have I been missing out. The closeness of the shave is really quite marvelous. 

Unfortunately, the DM was all out of the Wilkinson Sword Quattro for Men. But, I'm not picky, and gender distinctions are, for me, fuzzy, at best. As such, I am the proud owner of a bright pink Wilkinson Sword Quattro for Women. Nonetheless, it's great. My skin hasn't felt this soft in a long time. 

That's just about all I've got for today. Still trying to get healthy. Not eating meat, not indulging in the occasional cigarette, avoiding empty carbs, walking more, keeping hydrated, all of that. 

I have to say, if it weren't for the sense of smugness and pride that I get from trying to better myself, I'd say fuck it and just slowly deevolve into a rollypolly trollmonster that survives solely on KFC, Coke, and Pie. But alas, I don't want to have to spend my time avoiding the terrified screams of the dwellers of the overworld while I scamper out of my hovel to restock on my supply of instant foodmeals.. No, I'd rather have people say "wow, what prominent cheekbones you have, I had never noticed through the flub." Or "You're looking trim!" Not, however to the extent where they then wonder quietly "Is it AIDS?" That's not what I'm going for.

It's just more fulfilling. I'll spend my old age turning into a rollypolly shut-in, I'm sure, so I might as well strive a little bit now.

Post Labels

The fun thing about blogger is that you get post labels. Little keywords that denote themes in the blog. The other fun thing is that you get a list of these post labels. Mine makes me giggle.

All Labels: 

"Entertainment" 10 Fathers 300 33 3am. A: Go Crazy Absinth Accidental Mutilation Accomplishment Insomnia Again with the cancer... air conditioners Allegorical Devices (Literally) Allergic to BLANK. Amusing Names For An American And an all-around good time. and Typhus Angry Guy at the Zoo Anthropomorphic Cheetah-Things Anti-French Sentiments Architecture Aromas Art Augenbrille Avatars Baby it's Cold Outside Bad Poetry. Balloons Ballots Batman Bears Bees Birds Blegh Blind Children Blue People Book Burnings Books Booze Boredom Brand Wars: 1914 Brie Brownies Bush Cabin Fever Casual vs. Formal Cats CCD. Guinea Pigs Chemical Burn Chex Mix Childhood Chris Hanson Christmas Christmas Rape Christopher Street Day Cigarettes Cinemas Clarke Clothes Coat Coffee Coils Coke Colleagues Condoms Corn (Flakes of) Crazies Cremaster Cycle Culling the Fold in 2007 Cunts Cyborg Zombies Dark Ages David Hasselhoff Day of the Dead Canadians Dead Dog Thing Dead Middle-Aged Losers Dean Martin Death Death Proof Decemberists Derek Jacobi Dirty People DM dodo Dogs Domestic Animals Eels Email. Embarrassment Eraser Pigs Ethel Mertz Ethyl EUR Exhibitionism extinction Family Dinner Fascism Fear Fictitious. Filthy Countries and Filthy People Fire First Amendment Rights Fishy Bastards (Fictitious) Flags'n'Foreskins Foodblog Frappucino Dreams Frappucinos Frog Attacks Funk. Future FYI Garbage Gay GIFs Giftmas Gin Time Gingerbread Lattes Goat-Sucker Goiters Golda Golda Meir Good Thai in Stuttgart Graphic Tees Green Cookie Grim Days Guinea H.G. Wells Hair Hall Hangovers Helmullets Hideous Color Schemes Hitler Hot Dog Cake Hudson River School Hyperventilation I'm at a Loss. IB Glasses Iced Cream Ignorant Americans Indian Food Inexplicable Meats Ink Interior Decorating Internet Italians Jackasses Jagger and Co Jesus Josephine Meckseper Sucks Just Wrong Karma Kids in the. Kipling Klaag Knight Rider Kunst Lack of Ledges Lewis Black Lilo Wanders Lincoln Look-Alikes Low Resolution MacBooks Marienplatz Markets Married to the Sea Marshmallow Apparatus Maternal Censorship Meez.com Mexican Wildlife mice Milan Is Dirty Moleskine Mouthgasms Movies Museums Music Muzak My Mother is a Bitch Nazi Frappuccinos Nazis and the Constitution New Holidays No-Ja... No-Kja Nokia Nostalgia numb butt Obligatory Coffee Blogs Obvious Things Old Photos Olden Days Omnipresence Opium Pain Pancione Panic Attacks Pants Parade Parrot Guy Penis Grocery List Penny Farthings Pepper Spray and Home Cooking Period Gastronomy Photography Pigs Plagues Plexiglass Pocketwatches Podcasts Police Pompous Brits Poo Poor Life Choices Popping Corn Portugese Men (Old) Potatoes Pre-Telepathic Times Puddles of Goo Races Around The World Republicans RFN Rocking Rowling Sad Songs and Waltzes Salad Accoutrement Sandwiches Santa Satan Scissors Sea Serpents Sewage Sex Fish Shitty Vacuums Shopping Short Silver Nitrate Siren Sisters Ski Boots Sleep Deprivation Sloths Small Fish Named Marie Smelly Markers Snow Tunnels Songs that Never End Sorry Folks Soviet Shot Puts Spats Specialists Starbucks STDs Stones (Rolling) Stories Strange Strasbourg Stroh Stuttgart Stuttgart West Sumatra Superb Short Stories in Spanish Speak Sushi Swiss Pee Tangential Poo Tea Tesla The The Dead The Joker The Next Ice Age The Oregon Trail There Will Be Blood (But Not Very Much) Ties Toilets Too Damn Early Tourist Shame Trian Strikes Tribes'N'ToK Triffids Trolls Tumblers Tuna Typewriters Ugh Undies Urgh... Vengeful Gods Vintage Waistcoats Weeki Wachee Spring Whales and Such Whores; Painted Wigglesworth Will Ferrell is A Genius Willi Baumeister Years That Nobody Like You Both Suck Youtubs.

There's no commas in between them, so it's more like a conversation with Rain Man than anything else, but it's still fun to peruse. Anyway, that's all from me.

Americans and Confusing Hangovers

So, I'm sitting at (where else) Starbucks. Outide on a Monday evening, and I can't help but notice that there's a rather high number of Americans wandering the streets. In fact, several more just jiggled by. 

But a few minutes ago, a group of them meandered by, and, quite obviously looking for something, were debating amongst themselves. Then I heard one of them say "Go ask the guy with the Mac." They did, and I happily directed them to the "Calwerrick Brow" (The Calwer-Eck Bräu). I wasn't the only one on the streets, and in fact, they had to go around some people to get to me. Is the assumption just that if someone's at Starbucks using a Mac, they must be American?

Who knows. I found it amusing though.

Oh, some more just came out of Starbucks. A couple, both rather rolly-polly people, with a kid. Oh dear, I think they just called the kid-yeah. The kid's name is Caramel. Oh, and now they're smoking at their toddler. Lovely. 

Caramel isn't a people name. It is candy. It's like naming your kid Chocolate. Or Lollypop. It's just wrong. 

On another note, I went out boozing with the Starbucks team last night. Thing is, I drank enough to get me delightfully smashed, and I really didn't get that drunk (I could walk straight, make witty remarks in German, and carry multiple drinks from place to place). And besides sleeping until the afternoon, I felt fine when I woke up. It was pretty fun, and I discovered that if you enjoy gin, there's nothing better than A Gin and Ginger-ale. Talk about delicious.

Anyway, I'm off, 

Eels and Smelly Markers,

Hotmail Sea Serpents, and Starbucks Jazz

Well, I am freezing my taint off. There's an U Bahn strike today, so I've decided to spend my time sitting at a Starbucks, catching up on news, contemplating checking my emails (which, I should mention is something which I find absolutely repellant and terrifying. I don't know why, but everytime I so much as think of Hotmail, I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I just know that if I do check my email, the world will be torn asunder and I will be devoured by angry gods and sea serpents. So I just let it stagnate. As of now, I have somewhere around 800 unread emails in my in box-scratch that-my in cargo container). I doubt I'll get around to that today.
Ahh, the sun's coming out now. I think I may head inside after a while, some seats have opened up, so why not, eh?
It is indeed much warmer inside, but I wish they wouldn't play so much reggae. Every time I hear Belle and Sebastian or Pink Martini, I jump up and make an excited little squeal of delight. Literally. Regardless of whether or not I'm working at the time. It really makes my day. But if I hear one more steel drum or a smooth jazzy refrain, I think I might just poke out my eardrums.

I think they only play the cool alternative music early in the morning or late at night. The days are always stuffed to the brim with Jazz, Reggae, and unnaturally country-esque ballad-type songs. And the occasional depressing bit of Sigur Ros to really pep you up.

All good music, objectively, however, some of it is simply not my cup of tea. Sadly.

A Blog from the Tub, and Too Much Morrissey

I'm in a bathtub.

I'm not bathing, I just sort of felt like hopping in the tub and writing a blog. And may I just say, this is one hell of a comfortable tub. I've had too much coffee today, I've gone past being awake, now I just feel tired and morose. I suppose listening to Morrissey doesn't exactly help. I'm struggling to think of a Smiths-related joke, something along the lines of "Because you know that Every Day's Like Sunday" But at the end of the day, That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore *ba dum bum*. Ohh If I were charged with making a horrible joke, I'd Change My Plea to Guilty. Har har. Ohh, my sides hurt from laughing at my own horrible jokes. Sheila Take a Bow. Nah, even I didn't laugh at that one. Well, Back to the Old House.

On an unrelated note, I'm massively excited. The Blue Man Group premieres on the 28th, and I've got tickets to go see them on the 24th. Whoo! We're in the front row, directly in the middle of said row. We get complimentary ponchos.

Anyway, that's all I've got,

Chins up, Collars down,

And as always,

Oscillate Wildly,

Simply Scrumpy

Good Morning Kids!

How are you today? Great, good to hear. I've got nothing to say, really. With the whole week off, not too much has been going on. Bought some new plates, invigilated an oral exam at BW Bank, drank some Scrumpy Jack Cider, watched some British comedy, and ate a spoon full of cake frosting, which tasted yummers.

Not the most interesting material for a blog. Except for the fact that there is actually a cider called Scrumpy Jack. I think that that is absolutely fantastic.

And now I'm watching a French film called In My Skin, which is simply mesmerizing. And not in that fun spanky way, more in that "Oh Dear Sweet Merciful Lord, She's Eating Her Own Skin" king of a way... Eww, she's eatig her own skin.

Grim Days Kids, Grim Days.

Hey Kids!
Have to say that today's been kind of Grim... As the title of the blog implies. But I did a bit of cleaning, so this is a plus. I think my little closet of an apartment is almost finished. I just need to put up the wallpaper, and the curtains, et voila! It'll be a groovy little phonebox of a joint.

Anyway, I thought I'd present you with something that I did for mon MySpace profile, but which I think is still kind of groovy. May I present Ethyl and Golda:





Aren't they just precious? Except Ethyl, she's still as bitey as a rabid whore with the munchies. Seriously, she bit my finger yesterday, and drew blood. She actually drew blood. Otherwise, they're cute as a set of the cutest bugs you'll ever see in an equally adorable rug.

I'm on holiday this week (read: I'll still be at Starbucks for eight hours on end, but as a guest). I went and saw There Will Be Blood yesterday. Great score, great camerawork, great acting. The plot, you ask? Yeah, not so much. But it was still enjoyable, and I've come away with the moral that if you're an asshole, you'll come to a bad (or maybe just rich and alone) end. Hopefully I'll be able to see National Treasure 2 this week. I know, the first one was ridiculous. And hence the genius of it. It was an overthetop film that knew that it was, in fact, overthetop. And as such, the movie is just a ridiculous adventurey romp (See Indiana Jones).

Whelp, that's all I've got for yee today, oh, except for the suggestion that you all go and watch this rather enjoyable little titbit on the good ol' youtube.

Back to Basics. Sort of.

I'm wearing a tee shirt, jeans, converse, a striped woolly scarf, and a blazer.
I am more casual than I have been in six months. I simply did not have it in me to put on another waistcoat, or to knot another tie. So I threw on a graphic tee that had long-since been resigned to being pyjamas.
And I couldn't help but notice earlier, as I rode the train into Stuttgart that not only did I feel utterly bizarre and oddly dressed, but that I was getting what seemed to me to be odd looks from everyone around me. It really felt like I was getting more weird looks in casual clothes than if I had been decked out in dandy-wear.
I feel kind of like Clark Kent, ready, at the drop of a hat to tear open the tee shirt to reveal a paisley tie, pinstriped waistcoat, and a shiny silver pocketwatch.

Obligatory Holiday Blog No. 348

Well kids, Happy Valentine's Day!
Of course, I'm being sarcastic. I couldn't hate this holiday more. Really, it would take all of my friends and loved ones being brutally massacred on the 14th of February to make me despise this day any more (See the Valentine's Day Massacre). Every time I see a happy couple wander by with roses clasped happily in their happy little hands, I grind my teeth and want to start gouging.
Of course, this is partially due to this being a holiday that I can't take part in. Kind of like my feelings on Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Ramadan, and Black History Month.
Although, I must say that even if I did have someone to share this oh-so-sickeningly-sweet holiday with, I would probably still despise it's utter lack of meaning to the very core of my being.
Having gone off on this particular tangent, I will say that aside from the loathing of lovers, I had quite a lovely day. Too much coffee, to say the least, but a fun day nonetheless.

I'll leave you with a few images of Valentine's Festivity.

nataliedee.com

Plagues, Spats, and Ballots

Tighten your spats and double-tie your scarf,

Here's a blog. Ok, maybe I'm over-estimating the blog. You probably won't have to double tie your scarf. I'm sticking by the spat-tightening though. You can never be too careful kids. Lemme tell ya.

Anyway, this blog is coming to you live from Starbucks, courtesy of T-Mobile.

And having said that, I'm not sure what else to say. It's funny, with the blog I find that I kind of have to work into a groove. Otherwise it just doesn't quite go. 

Hmm, what can I write about...

I opened Yahoo News today and saw that each headline had to do with Death or Republicans. Wait, scratch that. Each headline had to do with Republicans. On the note of American political parties, I just recieved my absentee ballot today. Once I schick that off, I'll be good to go, and I'll be able to say that I did my part in ridding Washington of its nasty little eight-year long STD-like infection.

Of course, I'm voting Hillary. Not that I don't like Obama, but I like the fact that Hillary's got an edge. A president needs that. I can't really see Obama being that much of a hard-ass when it's necessary.

It's freezing out. I hate it how the weather in Stuttgart really seems to enjoy screwing with you. No snow until the day after Christmas. Unseasonably warm weather for two weeks in January, followedby a cold snap that would give an Arctic Hare frostbite. Rain, shine, rain, shine, rain, shine, rain, shine, snow, shine, wind, frogs, fire, rivers of blood...

Ok, maybe not the last couple, but you get the idea.

Well, that's all from me, 

Keep your shirt tucked in and your eyes stuffed with wonder.

My blog's all dusty.

Hey there kids!
I figure I've neglected my blog for long enough. I'm feeling revitalized enough to start cranking these babies out again. Once I clear out all the squatters and feral dogs, that is.

Not too much has been going on, really. I passed the Coffee Master Test, thus proving my extensive knowledge of coffee. Bought a few new waistcoats, got a haircut, had a rather nasty tonsil infection, and most importantly, had extensive surgery and am now, in fact, bionic.

*sproing*

Hiatus

Due to a complete lack of creative juices, I'm taking a bit of a vacation from my blog. A wee little blog hiatus, if you will.

Happy New Year!

Well, it's 2008.

I just realized that I don't have anything else to say about this particular topic.

Urgh..

Urgh.

Happy Giftmas

Welcome to the obligatory Giftmas blog! I'm not going to put any thought into it, I'm just going to repost last year's. It was pretty good, I think. Anyway, I took last week off from blogging. More will be along soon.

May I Be The First, I Hope, To Wish You All A Fruitful, Gainful, and Lucrative Giftmas®!

Some Of You May Already Know About Giftmas®, For Those Of You Who Don't, Here It Is.

Giftmas® Takes Place On December 26, After The Hubbub Of "Christmas" (scoff) Has Died Down.

Giftmas® Is The Natural Evolution Of Christmas, And Sprung Forth From My Realization That I Hadn't Thought Of Jesus For The Whole Of The "Christmas Season" (Scoffs Again).

So, I Decided That The Holiday Should Be Given To He Who So Rightfully Deserves It. The One And Only Santa Claus. Not Saint Nick, Not Father Christmas, Not Der Weihnachtsmann. Santa, The Standardized Red & White Clad, Bearded, Jolly Pear-Shaped Dude Who Was In Fact Designed By The Coca-Cola® Company.

You May Ask "What's The Difference Between Santa And Saint Nick". The Answer Is 'A Hell Of A Lot!' Saint Nick Embodies Charity, And Kindness. The "Christmas Feelings". Santa, On The Other Hand, Stands For Capitalism (He's Practically A Corporate Mascot For Coke®). He Stands For Buying, Spending, And Drinking The Delicious Manna That Is Coca Cola®.

As Such, Giftmas® Itself Is Likewise A Celebration Of Capitalism. A Reaffirmation Of The System That Keeps Third World Countries Serving Us First Worlders. For Those Of You In Third World Countries, Shouldn't You Be Harvesting My Coffee Beans? Seriously, Stop Reading And Harvest My Caffeine Beans. Anyway. Giftmas® Is Also A Time For Denouncing Communism, As Seen Later In The 'Giftmas® Activity Section'.

Giftmas® Activities!

I) The Giftmas® Morning Coke®.
This is an important one. Each member of the family should take a Coke®, and pour half of it into a Coca Cola® collector's cup. The remaining Coke® should be drunk around the breakfast table, while the family discusses their favorite purchases of the year. The Coke® in the cup should then be poured into a single decorative bowl, and left before the Santa Shrine (see Giftmas® Decorations). Depending on the children's behavior, empty out a certain amount of it when the kids aren't looking, if they've been good, empty it all out. If they've been bad, leave it all. Then tell them that if they don't improve their behavior, and buy commercial goods, Santa will leave them a home made gift! At Giftmas®, nothing could be more offensive.

II) The Giftmas® Waste.
It is customary that on Giftmas®, you should waste as much as possible, necessitating the purchase of more of whatever has been wasted.

III) The Giftmas Dinner.
This is more or less the same as Christmas dinner. Except that Coca Cola® must be served, and it is best to prepare Coca Cola® Chicken

IV) Giftmas Night Gifts.
It's customary to open one gift on Giftmas Night. Then, the children should leave out Cookies, home-made works, but store bought is better, and leave them out along side a frosty bottle of Coca Cola®.

Giftmas Decorations!

They're pretty much the same as Christmas, except that there should be lots of images of Santa. Including one main Santa Shrine: a Santa figure; roughly a foot tall, surrounded by poinsettia leaves (red), and white flowers.

And Here's The Original Giftmas Blog!

I like capitalism just fine. Certainly, it may not be the fairest system we've got, but it's lasted, and hasn't collapsed in on itself everytime it's been attempted.
I suppose that my beliefs are based on greed. I want to buy, I want to horde, I want to get the last bag of circus peanuts at the fair, damn it! And so a system in which material goods, and the aquisition thereof is so prominent is perfectly suited to my greed. And I beleive that pretty much everyone else feels similar. They want Stuff.
And there's nothing wrong with that, I mean, it's in our nature as an animal to want to have the most, and the best...It also explains my need to stockpile nuts for winter, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, I bring this up because the Christmas Shopping Season officially starts soon. And I find 'Christmas' to be the best example of capitalism possible. In fact, I think that it wouldn't be going to far to call 'Christmas' a celebration of Capital, and capitalism. Personally, I rarely think of Jesus, no, when 'Christmas' is brought up, my mind jumps right to the Jolly Coca Cola mascot that comes sliding down our chimneys, while visions of dollar signs dance in our heads.

You may notice that I have been using quotations around the word 'Christmas'. The explaination for this is quite simple. I think that the name Christmas has become useless, in that it's no longer celebrating a two thousand year old holy man's birthday. No, it's not appropriate at all, even X-Mas has biblical connotations, so what then can we call this holiday? And this is where we get the lovely phrase:

GIFTMAS®

Yes, this seems extremely appropriate. And, it opens up the market a bit. Christmas only appeals to you if you follow the teachings of Jesus-Based religions, Giftmas, on the other hand, can be celebrated by anyone! Or nearly anyone.

Locked In

I'm locked in a Starbucks right now.

And I thought I'd share a quote from today with you.

"Have you already placed an order with my hyperactive coworker?"

Maybe you had to be there, but it certainly made me laugh.

I'm Afraid I Can't Do That Michael.

OK, so this is my spiteful story of a simple haircut gone terribly awry.

Normally, I go to a Turkish barber. They're nice, they know what they're doing, they have free beverages, and on top of that, they're cheap. Every time I've gone, I've left satisfied, with a radically shorter mane than before.

This time however, I did not have my normal barber. I had an Italian guy. Anyway, after waiting for half an hour while said Italian primped a rather burly man's goatee. Said Italian was likewise sporting one of those chinstrap-goatee things. In retrospect, this should have been a warning.

When finally it came my turn to mount the chair, I said to him in no uncertain terms:

As it is now, but 3 centimeters shorter.

I made it really simple. He then proceeded to moisten my hair and part it down the middle. OK, I thought, everyone's got their method. He then spent 20 minutes primping and trimming my sideburns. And an additional 20 minutes trimming a centimeter from my hair. He then proceeded to style the fuck out of my wildly unchanged do.

I swear, I left that joint looking like David-Fucking Hasselhoff at the peak of his Knight Rider fame.

Seriously, I'm all for artistic licence, but there's a time and a fucking place. And the barber's chair (read: NOT A HAIRDRESSER) is neither said fucking time, nor said fucking place.

Please excuse my profanity, but I'm still kind of enraged. Additionally, I don't want this to sound anti-Italian, although Italian is a quarter of my genetic makeup, and I have lived there for a period of time, so if I were to state any anti-Italian statements, I believe I would be entirely justified. However here, this is not the case. No, his Italianness didn't factor into it, but his love of The Hoff certainly did.

The overall outcome: Damaged: Yes. Beyond Repair: No.

As of now, I've managed to style and spray it back into its normal shape. So, no harm, no foul, I suppose.

Married to the Sea

Whelp, I just called my mom, and she'll be here in ten minutes. I've spent a good four hours in a Starbucks today. Not too shabby...

And now I get to go Christmas shopping. As this is the fourth blog of the day, I have nothing more to say, so I'll share with you a comic.


marriedtothesea.com

Sandwiches & Censors.

OK, Problem solved, I bought a sandwich. Interestingly, I just checked my email, and there were two emails from my mom. The first was asking me to remove one of my blog entries, as it made me look ignorant, and my family reads said blog. As I started gearing up for an indignant reply to said open protest against my first amendment rights, I clicked the second. That one said "thanks for taking the email down".

I checked my indigence, and went to double check. Indeed, the blog is still there. I was puzzled, but then I realized, wait, I compulsively post blog after blog, and so any blog posted earlier than yesterdag will escape the reader's casual glance. Everybody wins, I get to keep my five-line observational blog, and my mom gets to be content with the fact that as far as she knows, said blog is lost in the ether.

Of course, having written this, she'll know better.

And that brings me to my second point: I will not bow to any content-based complaints from anyone. This is my blog. It is my forum for expression of my thoughts and feelings. I do keep it more-or-less clean. That's my style. I don't go on about porn, poop, drugs, death, murder, violence, rape, sodomy, bestiality, or conservative politics.

These topics have a place in this blog, sure. In passing humorous references, never in any earnest.

And that's all I have to say on that topic.

Delicious Fish

I've mentioned before that the Christmas Market's been set up. And with said market comes, of course, fish. Whole fish being cooked on a stick. This is only at one stall, and really doesn't have much to do with the rest of the market, or this blog, but I couldn't think of a title, and that was the first thing that came to mind. Then I had to think up an explanation. It was either the market, or something about sushi.

I could really go for some sushi, actually. My mom's coming in from Italy this afternoon, so maybe we'll go for some. She'd probably prefer Indian or Thai or something. I could go for those too, actually. I shouldn't foodblog when I haven't eaten much today...

Lesson learned. I think I'll buy a Pancione.

It's about an hour later, and I still haven't bought a pancione, but good god in heaven, that calm tea did the trick. I feel so incredibly mellow. I wish I was on a couch. A big comfy velvet couch with tassels. That would be nice. So would opium and laudanum. And a host of Chinamen tendind to my needs.

Yeah, that'd do me pretty well, I must say.

But I think I'll content myself to some passion tea. Mm mm passion.

Hmm

I don't know what the deal is, but I was volunteering at a theater yesterday, and I had a few beers. By few I mean four. Normally, that would give me a little buzz, and nothing more, but damn, I don't know why, or how, but I was off my face for the rest of the evening. I had been shoving myself full of Chex Mix all afternoon, so I don't really think that it was a case of not eating enough. But who knows.

On an entirely unrelated note, I've just discovered the wonderful worl of TAZO tea. My personal favorite is Wild Sweet Orange. Although Calm is pretty tasty as well. It makes a nice change from coffee, and it's certainly helpful with the plague that I've apparently contracted. Maybe plague is too strong, I'll just call it a rather nasty misallignment of the humours.

Found Grocery List No.1

-10 Fr's

-H.G. Wells & Cow

-Napalm

-Swiss Pee (Female)

-Penis

I found this list at a supermarket. This is the rough translation from German.

Let It Something Something Something.

So, first things first, they're playing Christmas music in Starbucks, and it's making me kind of antsy, I must say. But it's kind of Jazzy, so it's not that- Oh god, it's Dean Martin.

What the hell is the deal with the song "Baby, it's Cold Outside"? It's about Dean Martin forcing a woman to stay at his house so that he can take advantage of her. Seriously, the entire song is "I really can't stay" from her, and "Come on woman! You'll stay and you'll like it" from him. I mean, the female voice is referred to by the writer as 'the Mouse', and the male is 'the Wolf'. God, all that's needed is some rohypnol, and the scene is set. And judging by him pushing those drinks on her... Well, I wouldn't be suprised if the Mouse goes home the next morning and attempts to scrub off the 'dirt' in the shower while she weeps openly at having been raped by Dean Martin.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.

Really though, it's fucked up.

Ugh.

Have you met my friend Signor Hangover? We hang out every Saturday morning. Then I drink lots of water and he goes away. But not before punching me in the face and shitting in my hat.

God it's too bright out.

But on the plus side, I've been very productive, I cleaned up the Jewish man cake, packed up the improvised bar, and removed the toilet paper from the graven idol.

So yeah, that's the morning so far. And in two hours, I have to work. Until ten.

Ugh.

Frappuccino Dreams, And Stranger Things.

Guess where I am. If you said anything
but Starbucks, you're unfortunately wrong. In every way, shape, and form. I'm currently enjoying a Wild Sweet Orange tea, with a very promising Cappuccino on standby. I'm really just starting to get into the teas.

Anyway, I was going to blog about something, but I can't remember what exactly. GIve me a while, it'll come back. Hopefully.

Ah, ok. I don't actually remember if I've penned a blog about this yet, but I think that I'm long overdue, if I haven't. This is a little anecdote that I tell from time to time, when the conversation steers towards my work.

It goes a little something like this:

caramel You know, during the first week or two of working at Starbucks, I couldn't help but notice that whenever I closed my eyes, relaxed, or tried to get to sleep, I would suddenly realize that I was listening to a constant internal monologue, that went something like "to go, tall soy cappuccino, to go grande vanilla latte, venti chai tea latte fur Stephan, to go decaf grande caramel macchiato fur Bill." And it would just continue and continue. And then when you would finally get to sleep, you would have weird 'Frappuccino dreams'. Dreams about being on the bar and running out of milk, or beans, or lids. It was really disconcerting. And then, a few weeks ago, I talked to a few of my colleagues, and they said that the same thing happened to them. And that it had been so bad with one of our coworkers that he had gone to see a therapist. It turns out we're not all crazy, or at least if we are, that's not an indicator.

Quag?

I am so incredibly bored. And I don't really want to go wander around Stuttgart for an hour. Although I think that's just what I'm going to do.

Gauloises

The cigarettes that I smoke are not sold in the United States. Gauloises were discontinued in 2003 in the US. Stock lasted until 2004. And the company says that they have no intention of selling the cigarettes in in the US at any time in the future.

Additionally, when I tried to look into this, it became obvious that Gauloises has no website. What the hell, eh?

And why would thy discontinue selling them in the States? Turning their nose up at the notoriously anti-french Amaricans? That actually sounds pretty reasonable. Kind of a "Fuck you and your Freedom Fries too" deal.

Who knows.

But damn, those are some quality kill-sticks.

Bleargh...

God, I feel funky today. Kind of like I didn't wake all the way up. Kind of sloth-y and droopy, and like if I stop concentrating for more than a few seconds, I might collapse into a puddle of flesh colored goo.

But I'm pumping some coffee into me, hoping that it will help.

A Whole Bag of Crazy

You know how there are some places that you just know are going to be absolutely packed with nutbars? The Marienplatz train station is one of these places. In order to get to the center of Stuttgart from Ana's house, I have to get on a train at this particular nexus of crazy. Today it was especially filled with the mentally unbalanced.

I walked into the station, and sat on the bench. To my left was a woman, 60 years old, fairly well dressed, neurotically rocking back and forth. Then, a train arrived, and she got up and left. A woman got off the train, and sat down. She had a kid with her. Looked to be about 6 or 7. The kid immediately proceedes to badger her mother about whether "Our Shit Train Is Coming". That in itself isn't really crazy, but I found it kind of amusing. Meanwhile, a woman sits down to my left, a way down the bench. She proceedes to hum to herself, and to give muffled mumbling commentary on things in the train station. At one point, a train pulled up, and a kid ran up to it, just reaching the door as it had started moving. Then I heard something along the lines of "Awww, poor kid bum bum deeeeeeee woo dee bum bum."

But of course, this is all just build up to the main crazy event. A lumbering 6 foot tall, rotund turkish man walks into the station. The first thing that I notice is the monologue.

"No. Ja. No. Ja. No. Ja. No. Ja. No. Ja. No. Ja."

With each step that he takes, he says "No" or "Ja" alternately. Then he notices the Nokia ad on the wall. And that's perfect for him! The monologue alters:

"Hey, Nokia! It says Nokia. No-Kja. No-Kja. No-Kja. No-Kja. No-Kja."

Then he sits down, after gesturing at the sign, right next to me. Of course. He then proceedes to mumble something, which may have been "have you been shopping?" But judging from what was to come, was more likely something that added up to "You are a woman." See, he then proceeded to suggest to me dying my hair blond, wearing blue contact lenses, getting some jewelery, and wearing gold pants.

I love this city, and all of its crazies.

This is The Only Time This is Ever Going to Happen

I'm going to post a poem. Or something like a poem. It's Angry words arranged into a semblance of a poem.

I Want To Burn A Book.

I Want To See The Pages Curl And Turn To Black.
I Want To Watch Words Wither And Die.
I Want To Hear Its Spine Twist And Crack.
I Want To Smell The Thick, Heady Flames.
I Want To See This Dull, Drab Book Come To Life.
I Want To Watch It Fade.

I Want To Know That This Book Is Gone Forever.
I Want to Wear Kerosene Like Perfume, And Ashes Like Eyeshadow.

I Want To Burn This Author.
I Want To Burn His Words
I Want to Burn His Past.

I Want To Know That He's Gone.

I Want To Burn A Book

It's utter shit, I know, but I just happened to find it tucked away on signor computer, and figured I'd toss it up. And I like the concept of kerosene perfume and ash eyeshadow.

I don't really do poetry, unless it's intended to be humorous or stupid. This is the only case where I've actually put any emotion into composing a poem. And even then, it was hatred for Dickens. Not exactly high literature, I know. But let me tell ya, that's how much I hate Our Mutual Friend. Talk about tedious and long. And boring. And contrived, and blatantly spurting Dickens' views on the class system of the time at the reader.

Ugh, Dickens makes me puke.

I keep Hearing This.

"There are Too Many Starbucks"

I recently heard a comedy piece by one Lewis Black. His topic was the omnipresence of Starbucks in the world. I have to admit, the piece was funny, and Mr. Black has quite the wit, but me being the devoted Starbucks fanatic that I am, I felt the need to make a few points.

Ok, I say points, really, it's point. I have one point.

The multiplicity of Starbucks that you see all around you are completely necessary.
If they weren't, they wouldn't be there. Lets rewind time a few years. Back to the 80's.
Back in the 80's Starbucks was a relatively small operation. They were expanding, but at the end of the day, there really weren't that many, we're talking hundreds, tops. As time passed, Starbucks got more popular, the stores started raking in the dough, capitalizing on the relatively new concept of 'the Espresso Bar'.
Now, if the coffee wasn't quality, and if people didn't want it, would Starbucks have been expanding? No. But as it happens, people did want quality coffee at reasonable prices, and so they went to Starbucks.
The result was that the Starbucks' that existed were relatively busy. So they built more, both the domestic and international market.
Flash forward a few years, Starbucks is no longer a small chain of coffee houses, it is a leading purveyor of quality coffees and teas. And despite this, the coffee houses are still full to capacity. They can't make the latte's fast enough. And they certainly can't provide comfortable seating to their guests, as all the seats are already occupied. So they opened more stores. So they build more stores.

The result? Starbucks across the street from each other. They're there because they're needed.
Look at Germany. Just for background; Starbucks Deutschland has only been in operation for 6 or so years. Just recently, the 114th Starbucks opened in Germany.
The first one in Stuttgart opened in 2004. It was busy as all hell. A year later, a second opened. They were both as busy as all-hell. Last year, a third opened. All still busy. This year, a fourth opened (all of them are within 10 minutes walk of one another), and lo and behold, they weren't so busy. An optimum number of Starbucks has been reached. All of the Starbucks in Stuttgart can comfortably seat their guests, there's quick service, the lines aren't terribly long, all is well. Sure, they get a bit crowded sometimes, but hey, that's life. If the latter three Starbucks hadn't been opened, the first one would be absolute chaos. I dread to even think of the lines in that place. It would be insane. Out the door and down the street.

Ok, rant over. The point is that Starbucks Coffee Houses are only opened when they're needed. It's not all willy-nilly. Sure, it may seem ridiculous to have a Starbucks on all four corners of an intersection, but it's necessary. Do you want to wait 10 minutes for a cappuccino? No. You'd most certainly rather have it in 2.

Whew. I don't know about you, but I feel alot better after that!

Do You Think That One is Better Than The Other?

These were the words of a bible banging nutbar standing in Schlossplatz today. He was speaking to a teenaged Turkish guy who had engaged him in conversation as to whether the Qur'an was valid. I always enjoy listening to these nutbars babble. I have to say, his five minute diatribe about how "God is obviously all-powerful, it says so many times in the bible" was incredibly entertaining.

Sadly, he kind of petered out after a while, and I was forced to wander over to the nearest open WiFi spot that I could find, and blog about it. What Else was I to do? Enjoy some kind of social contact with other tangible humans? I think not!

I really had to debate with myself as to whether or not I should have asked him what his favorite Testament was. Personally, I like the old vengeful god: "Oh, what's that, I told you not to look back at Sodom while it was laid seige, but you did it anyway? Sorry Lot, your wife's a pillar of salt now." I mean, come on, that's pretty bad-ass.

So anyway, here I am, enjoying my Iced Triple Venti Almond Latte, and a Pancione Ruccola (which, I really must recommend, seriously, it's yummers). And on the topic of recommendations, I must say, if you are at all a fan of Coffee, or things like it, go into your nearest Starbucks, and ask for a

Grande One Shot Java-Chip Mocha-Gingerbread-ToffeeNut Frappuccino Blended Cream

It'll rock your day, I promise.

Hmm, I didn't actually think this blog was going to be at all long, but I've certainly managed to stretch it out a fair bit, eh?

Mm mm Espresso.

I don't want this blog to get heavily coffee-centric, but it's kind of difficult to avoid when half of the time I blog from Starbucks. I have today free, and yet I still find myself sitting here, enjoying my latte.

On a majorly unrelated note, I just watched Death Proof last night. In case you haven't seen it, see it. Mr. Tarantino knows how to make a good-ass movie. And a kick-ass soundtrack as well.

Well, Ana and Andrina just got here, so I've gots to go.

A Frappuccino That Would Make You Leave Your Children.

That's what was proposed to me today. Let me walk you through it. One of my colleagues said to me "would you like to try a frappuccino? It's good enough to make you leave your children." Naturally, I said yes. He grabbed a pitcher, filled it with cream base, then with premium hot chocolate, then a couple pumps of hazelnut syrup. Then he took the pitcher into the back office, and took an espresso brownie that had broken in half, and dropped it in. He added the ice and blended it. The result was one of the most wonderful things I've ever had in my mouth. And that's including the time that I ate kangaroo.

Oh my god, if you can, talk your barista into making you one. It's so worth it.

Wow. It can also be done with any of our cakes, apparently.

Earlies. Or Lates.

Welcome to 3am.

I've got nothing much to say, actually. It's been pretty mundane since the last blog. I went to work, had a nice 4 hour shift, dealt with the massive influx of merchandise that came in (seeing as how I am currently gearing up to be the Merchandise Specialist for the Koenigsbau Passagen Starbucks. Personally, I find the whole merch thing pretty fun, lots of unpacking, pricing, organizing, and lamenting the fact that no more 8 ounce signature tumblers have arrived. After that, we went out and got boozey. And I bumped into my shift supervisor and store manager. We had a fun little chat, and I bade them goodnight as I returned to my absinth.

And several hours later, here I be, lulled by the gentle sounds of snooze, and finding myself, of course, wide awake. And so I'm blogging at you, my dear and gentle audience.

Back in the Olden Days

"Bleargh!"

Christmas Panic Attack.

Well, I'm blogging from work. Just to be clear, I'm not actually at work. I'm in another Starbucks, pirating a nearby WLAN signal.

I haven't blogged in a while, so I thought I might as well hop to it.

The topic for today is the Christmas Markets.

They upset me. I'm not sure why, but I happened to find myself wandering through one a while back, and after a good five minutes, I started to feel really tense. I was breathing heavily, and felt dizzy. The scent of baking almonds, chestnuts, caramelized sugar, and bratwurst were not helping. In fact, they were doing the exact opposite. By this point, it had gone beyond breathing heavily, and was starting to near hyperventilation.

I left quickly, and took to sitting on a step with my head tucked firmly on my knees.

I don't know why exactly this happened.

But it was upsetting.

Damn market.

Nothing to Do

Glargh, talk about boredom. I woke up at 9am today. The only thing I've done is watch clips from To Catch a Predator and I, Claudius.

Stimulating, no?

On another note, chemical burn is a bitch. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Beans & Steel

You know, I had the best day today.

At 11 I had an Aroma Labor and a Perfect Pairing. The gist of it is essentially to strengthen our knowledge of coffee (specifically aroma). The aroma part was fun because I was the only one who could identify a scent as Starbucks Espresso Roast, and identify stainless steel polish.

Yes, I have a wonderful nose.

The perfect pairing part was fantastic. We tried about 5 blends, and had to discern which of our tasties go best with it. And, amazingly, and I would have never thought this, but our Sumatra goes absolutely wonderfully with Brie.

All-in-all, it was a wonderful day, and I have a fantastic job.

Domesticated Beasties

I was talking to someone about this today. She was looking at her cat, and had one of those moments where you suddenly grasp how bizarre a concept really is. Hers was essentially that having a house cat isn't much different than having a pet Ocelot, or a Lynx, or to a more extreme extent, a panther or a leopard. And how utterly strange it is that humans have spent thousands of years grooming these animals into something like companions.

And she's right, I mean, if you've ever looked at a cat for an extended period of time, you get the distinct impression that if they were about twice as big, well, you'd be in trouble. And on the other hand, you have the dog. While domestication has bent the will of the cat, it's shattered that of the dog. I mean come on, these things came from Wolves! Of course, if it really comes down to it, both dogs and cats would happily eat your decomposing 40-something, living alone, never married, enjoys-board-games-and-Ziggy-Calenders flesh in order to survive in the one bedroom, one bath, no window, half-a-door apartment in which you've died.

Hangover

Well, I'm hungover.

Thanks to the wonderful combination of Gin, Absinthe, Stroh, and Sambouca. Urgh. I was horizontal before midnight.

And I ended up burning my mouth with the sambuca. But it looked really cool. The pus-y leaking lip blister was totally worth it.

And now I have to work. Until 1am.

Fuckles.

THANK YOU MAC FIRMWARE UPDATE!

My Wireless Works!

Fortunes and Snow.

It's snowing! Or at least it was a while ago. I'm so excited! Every year when it snows, I get all giddy and start to entertain fantasies of being snowed in and having to dig some kind of snow tunnel in order to escape certain death.
I really hope that it stays this cold up until Christmas. There's nothing more depressing than a few days of snow, followed by a bright sunny spell.

On another, kind of bizarre note, I was walking down the street yesterday, and this little man walks directly up to me, and says, in English "You know, I can tell that you're a very lucky man." I did the only thing I could and said "Thank You". Then paused to see exactly what this guy was talking about. Turns out he was a fortune teller. I said that I didn't have any money, and left. All-in-all, it seemed pretty normal, except for the fact that he spoke to me in English. That was odd. I mean, I had been walking down the street, in silence, not looking particularly American.

And then I started to think "Is he going to use his freaky hoodoo powers to make me fall down a well because I didn't let him tell me my fortune? Does he know that I was lying about not having any Money?" So I went and had a Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks (in an attempt to savor what little time I had left before his vengeful Eastern Gods sought their revenge). Nothing really came of it. I had to go to the supermarket twice because I forgot tuna, but I think that was just a brain fart, and not the wrath of a malevolent deity.

Wood & Nuts

Have you ever noticed that when people talk about coffee, tastes which are usually undesirable in a beverage suddenly become an indicator of quality?

I was at a tasting for the new Christmas Blend, and we were going around, giving our first impressions. Someone to the right of me said something along the lines of

"It's quite tasty. Hmm, yeah, tastes like wood and nuts."

They said it in total seriousness, and the comment itself was met with nothing but approval.

Long Time, No Blog

Wow, it's been a long-ass time since I've posted anything here.
I wish I had a better excuse. I mean, I've been working, and I still don't have internet at my little garret.
But still, I've always prided myself on my compulsive blogging, so these past few weeks have been kind of embarrassing for me.

So, it's October, and we all know what that means: Halloween. My absolute favorite holiday, other than Giftmas that is. So naturally, the whole costume thing has been heavy on my mind. I've got a few ideas:

-18th Century Garb

-Middle Aged Woman

-Zombie

-Highwaymen

I'm still deliberating, but I'm kind of leaning towards the first one.

More blogs to come, I promise,

Just A Quickie.

Ok, so Ana and I have been to see the Decemberists twice this week. Once in Frankfurt, and once in Munich. The first time was Monday, I believe. And I had a haircut that morning, as my hair was looking pretty shabby. So I get it trimmed pretty short, and I go off to get ready for the concert. When Ana sees it, she says "You look just like Colin Meloy!"

I disagreed. Her mom didn't.

So we go, and it's awesome. And after the show, some guy comes up to me, and says "I think it's so cool how you look exactly like the singer!" And I had to explain to him that it was by total coincidence that we have similar hair and a penchant for thick-rimmed glasses, and say goodnight.

So we go to the concert yesterday, and once more, it's awesome, even better than before, actually. And after the show, I'm taking my plastic cup back to the bar to get my nice little monetary refund, and the bartender says: "Hey, are you related to the singer? Because you look just like him!" I say no, and say that I have heard that before though. We laugh, and I go away from her.

Later on, outside, we get to meet the band. And Ana and I are standing, talking to Colin Meloy, and this guy walks up to us. I smile at him, then go back to talking. He walks away, and we finish our conversation. As soon as Mr. Meloy walked away, the guy was back.

Keep in mind: At this point Colin is still easily within eyeshot of the guy, walking away.

And I Shit You Not, I Quote

Him: "Hi..."
Me: "Hi!"

Him: "Can I have your autograph..."

(Long Pause)
Me: "...Who am I?"

Him: "Aren't you this singer from the band?"

You'll Never Guess What

As of Sunday, I will officially be employed by the Starbucks Corporation!

I went in and got my aprons and t shirts today, and Sunday's my first day of actual work.

Oh, talk about a dream come true. Now, for those of you who aren't aware of my Starbucks fixation, I have a Starbucks fixation. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. Washington, specifically. So Starbucks was a big part of my childhood. As far back as I can remember, my parents would amble into Starbucks for their coffee, and buy me a green cookie. At the time, they had these big shortbread sugar cookies with green icing. Retrospectively, I think that they were meant for dipping into some kind of beverage, but not for me. The mere thought of soiling one of those delicious green cookies with my drink (hot chocolate, I was like 6) was laughable. Then, one day, they didn't have any green cookies. Seems that a mold-colored confection wasn't exactly the hottest item on the Starbucks shelf. Luckily, I discovered that there was a wide array of delicious treats lying on the shelves. Ohh and don't get me started on when I discovered Chai...

The point is that if I am to exist in a capitalist world, there is no corporate entity that has brought me so much joy and happiness and who I am more than happy to serve.

Enjoy your Coffee,

It's About Time

So, I happened to be in a Starbucks earlier this evening, and I glanced at the shelf with their bags-o-coffee, and I saw their Anniversary Blend. And I thought to myself:

"They Sexied-Up the Mermaid!"

Admittedly, the Starbucks Siren has gotten more attractive with time, I mean, she's gone from


to


A definite improvement.

But that's nothing on the newer, sexier mermaid.

Finally, a hot fishwoman spreading her fins invitingly at me, luring me both with the oppurtunity to sample some lovely coffee, but also to fertilize the eggs that she's just laid.

Hot.

Welcome to the Future!

Ok, so I was bored one day, and was mindlessly scribbling. This is what came out. I think some of them are kind of funny.

Welcome To The Future!

I. We can travel faster than light, but it just makes everyone nauseous.

II. Life spans are longer by hundreds of years, but replacement organs are grown in blind, childlike beings.

III. Menial labor is done by cybernetic beings, but they're the reanimated corpses of your loved ones.

IV. Television is transmitted directly into your brain via high energy EM waves. Leukemia is a bitch.

V. All beds are sleep number beds. There's no downside here, it's just nice.

VI. Cars can fly, but we're running low on coal and oil shale.

VII. Religious disputes have disappeared now that we all worship Xenu.

VIII. We've replaced the now extinct honeybee with more-efficient, genetically engineered hummingbird moths. The new 'honey' is awful.

IX. Men and women are physically equal. The sex is terrifying.

X. Everything is white in the future. Even the blacks.

XII. One word: Zeppelins... Ok, three words: Zeppelins with lasers.

XIII. Trains fly. We call them quaint planes.

XIV. We've used genetic technology to resurrect just about every extinct species. Unfortunately, since there's so little space on Earth, the moon was converted to a nature preserve to house the animals. They called it Jurrasic Park. The legal battle that followed ended in the deaths of 3,000,000 people.

XV. The digital revolution has brought all members of humanity closer in a way never before possible. I hate everyone.

XVI. Everyone has bionic eyes. I use mine to find change in grass, and peep.

XVII. With the advent of fusion power, all of humanity has been guaranteed electricity. Sadly, after a devastating meltdown, the American South has become a sheet of steaming beaded glass. I say sadly, it's not much of a loss, even in this day and age.

Before I Die

Before I Die No. 1

I want to challenge someone to a good, old-fashioned race around the world.
Using only methods available in 1900.

That would be fun.

(Un)Original Content

I've always really enjoyed this story. It's Kipling, and I originally read it in an collection called Supernatural Stories. It's short, and kind of creepy, and an all around good time. I can't come up with original content today, I have to go to work, and clean up after the messy, messy people who go to see The Bourne Ultimatum. Don't know why dirty people go to see this film, but they do.

Anyway, Enjoy.

Bubbling Well Road

LOOK out on a large scale map the place where the Chenab river falls into the Indus fifteen miles or so above the hamlet of Chachuran. Five miles west of Chachuran lies Bubbling Well Road, and the house of the gosain or priest of Arti-goth. It was the priest who showed me the road, but it is no thanks to him that I am able to tell this story.

Five miles west of Chachuran is a patch of the plumed jungle-grass, that turns over in silver when the wind blows, from ten to twenty feet high and from three to four miles square. In the heart of the patch hides the gosain of Bubbling Well Road. The villagers stone him when he peers into the daylight, although he is a priest, and he runs back again as a strayed wolf turns into tall crops. He is a one-eyed man and carries, burnt between his brows, the impress of two copper coins. Some say that he was tortured by a native prince in the old days; for he is so old that he must have been capable of mischief in the days of Runjit Singh. His most pressing need at present is a halter, and the care of the British Government.

These things happened when the jungle-grass was tall; and the villagers of Chachuran told me that a sounder of pig had gone into the Arti-goth patch. To enter jungle-grass is always an unwise proceeding, but I went, partly because I knew nothing of pig-hunting, and partly because the villagers said that the big boar of the sounder owned foot long tushes. Therefore I wished to shoot him, in order to produce the tushes in after years, and say that I had ridden him down in fair chase. I took a gun and went into the hot, close patch, believing that it would be an easy thing to unearth one pig in ten square miles of jungle. Mr. Wardle, the terrier, went with me because he believed that I was incapable of existing for an hour without his advice and countenance. He managed to slip in and out between the grass clumps, but I had to force my way, and in twenty minutes was as completely lost as though I had been in the heart of Central Africa. I did not notice this at first till I had grown wearied of stumbling and pushing through the grass, and Mr. Wardle was beginning to sit down very often and hang out his tongue very far. There was nothing but grass everywhere, and it was impossible to see two yards in any direction. The grass stems held the heat exactly as boiler-tubes do.

In half an hour, when I was devoutly wishing that I had left the big boar alone, I came to a narrow path which seemed to be a compromise between a native foot-path and a pig-run. It was barely six inches wide, but I could sidle along it in comfort. The grass was extremely thick here, and where the path was ill defined it was necessary to crush into the tussocks either with both hands before the face, or to back into it, leaving both hands free to manage the rifle. None the less it was a path, and valuable because it might lead to a place.

At the end of nearly fifty yards of fair way, just when I was preparing to back into an unusually stiff tussock, I missed Mr. Wardle, who for his girth is an unusually frivolous dog and never keeps to heel. I called him three times and said aloud, �Where has the little beast gone to?� Then I stepped backwards several paces, for almost under my feet a deep voice repeated, �Where has the little beast gone?� To appreciate an unseen voice thoroughly you should hear it when you are lost in stifling jungle grass. I called Mr. Wardle again and the underground echo assisted me. At that I ceased calling and listened very attentively, because I thought I heard a man laughing in a peculiarly offensive manner. The heat made me sweat, but the laughter made me shake. There is no earthly need for laughter in high grass. It is indecent, as well as impolite. The chuckling stopped, and I took courage and continued to call till I thought that I had located the echo somewhere behind and below the tussock into which I was preparing to back just before I lost Mr. Wardle. I drove my rifle up to the triggers between the grass-stems in a downward and forward direction. Then I waggled it to and fro, but it did not seem to touch ground on the far side of the tussock as it should have done. Every time that I grunted with the exertion of driving a heavy rifle through thick grass, the grunt was faithfully repeated from below, and when I stopped to wipe my face the sound of low laughter was distinct beyond doubting.

I went into the tussock, face first, an inch at a time, my mouth open and my eyes fine, full, and prominent. When I had overcome the resistance of the grass I found that I was looking straight across a black gap in the ground. That I was actually lying on my chest leaning over the mouth of a well so deep I could scarcely see the water in it.

There were things in the water,�black things,�and the water was as black as pitch with blue scum atop. The laughing sound came from the noise of a little spring, spouting half-way down one side of the well. Sometimes as the black things circled round, the trickle from the spring fell upon their tightly- stretched skins, and then the laughter changed into a sputter of mirth. One thing turned over on its back, as I watched, and drifted round and round the circle of the mossy brickwork with a hand and half an arm held clear of the water in a stiff and horrible flourish, as though it were a very wearied guide paid to exhibit the beauties of the place.

I did not spend more than half-an-hour in creeping round that well and finding the path on the other side. The remainder of the journey I accomplished by feeling every foot of ground in front of me, and crawling like a snail through every tussock. I carried Mr. Wardle in my arms and he licked my nose. He was not frightened in the least, nor was I, but we wished to reach open ground in order to enjoy the view. My knees were loose, and the apple in my throat refused to slide up and down. The path on the far side of the well was a very good one, though boxed in on all sides by grass, and it led me in time to a priest�s hut in the centre of a little clearing. When that priest saw my very white face coming through the grass he howled with terror and embraced my boots; but when I reached the bedstead set outside his door I sat down quickly and Mr. Wardle mounted guard over me. I was not in a condition to take care of myself.

When I awoke I told the priest to lead me into the open, out of the Arti-goth patch and to walk slowly in front of me. Mr. Wardle hates natives, and the priest was more afraid of Mr. Wardle than of me, though we were both angry. He walked very slowly down a narrow little path from his hut. That path crossed three paths, such as the one I had come by in the first instance, and every one of the three headed towards the Bubbling Well. Once when we stopped to draw breath, I heard the Well laughing to itself alone in the thick grass, and only my need for his services prevented my firing both barrels into the priest�s back.

When we came to the open the priest crashed back into cover, and I went to the village of Arti-goth for a drink. It was pleasant to be able to see the horizon all round, as well as the ground underfoot.

The villagers told me that the patch of grass was full of devils and ghosts, all in the service of the priest, and that men and women and children had entered it and had never returned. They said the priest used their livers for purposes of witchcraft. When I asked why they had not told me of this at the outset, they said that they were afraid they would lose their reward for bringing news of the pig.

Before I left I did my best to set the patch alight, but the grass was too green. Some fine summer day, however, if the wind is favourable, a file of old newspapers and a box of matches will make clear the mystery of Bubbling Well Road.

My feet hurt.

Well, I got a job. At a cinema. Which works out nicely, as I get to wake up late, eat free popcorn, and see free movies. The trip's a bit annoying, the cinema's kind of far out. But I do have a few little points of interest about working in a cinema.

-People are pigs. There's something about a cinema that makes any sense of courtesy and cleanliness fly out the window right along with the temporarily suspended disbelief. In the course of a single film, an industrial sized garbage bag's worth of concessions carcasses can be left behind. That's like, 20 pounds of shit.
And you may think: It's the damn children doing it. It's not. It's people between 13 and 25. Why, I don't know, maybe since the prices are so high they feel that they should be cleaned up after. Who knows, they're pigs.

-Those Push Me-Pull You Sucky Turny Vacuum things suck. They suck ass. And they are not meant to cope with huge amounts of spilled popping corn.

-And last, but certainly not least: The Cinema Is Not Clean. Ever.

Guess What!

I'm now the proud owner of two Guinea Pigs! They're just soo cute!


That's their cage, With a bag of Bergwiesen-Heu. That could be 'Hay'. Makes more sense.



That one's named Golda. After the Israeli Prime Minister. Why? Because it's a suitably middle-aged-y name.


That's Ethyl. Why Ethyl? For the same reason as before. And because I really enjoyed Ethel on I Love Lucy. I know, it's usually spelled 'Ethel', but I'm putting a 'y' in God Damn It!



So yeah, there they are, a couple of massively cute guinea pigs!

You Know,

You can never find what you're looking for when you want it. This is especially true when what you're looking for isn't terribly common anyway. Like a color concept sketch of what the finished EUR Quarter of Rome was meant to look like. This is all I've been able to find:

Which is all find and dandy, I suppose, but I could really go for a higher resolution on that baby.

Well, I'll keep looking, worst comes to worst, I'll go back to EUR and buy a coffee table book.

False Alarm, No Guinea Pig.

Sadly, as of yet, I am Guinea Pig-less.

A few days ago, Ana and her boyfriend went to Europa Park. I was free, so I decided to go along for the ride, drop the two off, then go to Strasbourg for a late lunch (traffic's a bitch). After milling around the seemingly oxymoronic Petit France (SIDEBAR: The concept of Petit France actually existing within the borders of France is pretty ridiculous, it's like going to the Chinatown in Peking, the Little Italy in Naples, or the Wee Britain in London. It's ridiculous.), we headed back to Europa Park to Pick Ana and