I love being back in Texas, but I miss Germany an awful lot. And the reasons are completely antiparallel. I miss hearing German all the time but it's great to hear English all the time. I miss the snow but I'm glad there isn't any snow. And I miss walking all the time, but I like not having to walk all the time.
Yep, it's pretty great to have a car. It's especially great if you're feeling a bit sick or ornery. Just get in and go, and you get there fast. Totally awesome as long as you don't suffer from car trouble.
Especially if you're in the middle of something really important. Like, say, a road in downtown Houston during rush hour.
I was on my way to pick up Yandee from work and had just figured out up from down in that perplexing, tantalizing labyrinth of one-way streets when the gas pedal just gave out from under me and the car felt like it had stopped breathing. Those of you who have ever run out of gas en route will know what I mean. You will also know the feeling that comes after it: a panic to find a safe and VERY close place to put your hungry baby, simultaneous with immense shame at being too cheap to top up at that one place that was three cents too expensive.
I was in the MIDDLE of the street, and completely unable to go anywhere but forward without running anyone over. The car totally gave out with the nose halfway into the intersection. Everyone was honking at me, and the pedestrians were glaring at me like I was in a Bill Murray movie. Sorry guys, I promise I normally pick better spots to BREAK THE FUCK DOWN DO YOU SEE MY HAZARD LIGHTS ON YOU ASS?? I'd rolled down the windows to get some air, and one woman shouted at me helpfully from the sidewalk, "Are you out of gas?" "Yeah, sorry!" I shouted back. She nodded sagely and sat back down at the bus stop.
Eventually a cop rolled up to direct traffic around me, call up a tow truck, and most excellently, add to the light show. I probably would've thought this was cool, but I was too busy feeling like a jerk for running out of gas. The tow truck showed up pretty quick and had to park in the freaking middle of the intersection to engage my beached whale.
He ferried us over to a nearby parking lot to wait for Yandee, and also to switch from grabbing my car's front wheels to the back ones, since it's a rear-wheel drive. I was trying to decide whether it really was just the gas or whether some more sinister force was ruining my bank account, so I tried to turn the car on again - and it dumped about a Coke's worth of gas on the pavement. The check engine light was also on. My car had officially diagnosed itself with inner demons.
Yandee called her dad, who lives in North Houston and Knows about Cars, and he said have the tow truck bring it up there. On the way up I tried to console myself that even though I was probably going to have to pay for more than a tow and gas (namely, a tow, an exorcism, AND the gas my car just sharted in the parking lot), I at least could no longer fault myself.
We got to Yandee's parents' house without event. Her dad checked out the gas lines and found that the clip on the "in" line was loose - the last person to touch it, who was almost certainly the manufacturer more than six years ago, had put the clip on upside down, and over the years it had vibrated loose. He showed me exactly what was up and it was badass. We talked about engine oil for a while and bonded.
Yandee and I drove back to the apartment later, my car's demons in remission, not gone forever but dormant.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Teletubbies
This is gonna be a bit of a weird post, but just read it through to the end. It's important.
My parents are moving, so I was cleaning out my room and trying to get all my crap packed up. At some point in the middle of this process, damaging in and of itself, I came across my old O-Chem lab books.
At this point, my current plan is to go back to school this next year and take a bunch of undergrad chemistry classes (more on that in a forthcoming post), so I paused: should I keep these notebooks? They might be useful reference tools! But almost immediately, I decided to throw those bitches in the trash.
It's like this: if you're taking more chemistry classes, and one day you're doing a lab write up and want to know how you did it in O-Chem, you'd be much better off asking the professor for some previous write-ups from his or her other classes, and not just because you're more likely to be on the mark with his particular standards. It's because if you open those old lab books and look in them for more than a single grade or a bookmark, you'll find yourself in an existential quandary with only one possible conclusion: you, on the couch, eating Cheetos and watching Teletubbies. You forsake your homework and don't get a damn thing done the rest of the day, which puts you in an even worse spot for tomorrow, meaning you'll be even more tempted to look in the O-Chem lab books for help. You wind up in the You-Cheetos-Teletubbies menage-a-trois day after day, watching their creepy plastic faces and listening to their inane trollop talk. Then, one day, you're sitting there in what has become your accustomed fashion, and they get that glowy excitation in their geometric head protrusions and static on their TV tummies. It bounces from one to another, and when it finally stops and the picture becomes clear.... it's you. And you're sucked in, becoming the newest Teletubby, of the largest size. The rest shrink down a size, and the smallest one vanishes. And you don't even care.
Let this be a lesson to us all.
My parents are moving, so I was cleaning out my room and trying to get all my crap packed up. At some point in the middle of this process, damaging in and of itself, I came across my old O-Chem lab books.
At this point, my current plan is to go back to school this next year and take a bunch of undergrad chemistry classes (more on that in a forthcoming post), so I paused: should I keep these notebooks? They might be useful reference tools! But almost immediately, I decided to throw those bitches in the trash.
It's like this: if you're taking more chemistry classes, and one day you're doing a lab write up and want to know how you did it in O-Chem, you'd be much better off asking the professor for some previous write-ups from his or her other classes, and not just because you're more likely to be on the mark with his particular standards. It's because if you open those old lab books and look in them for more than a single grade or a bookmark, you'll find yourself in an existential quandary with only one possible conclusion: you, on the couch, eating Cheetos and watching Teletubbies. You forsake your homework and don't get a damn thing done the rest of the day, which puts you in an even worse spot for tomorrow, meaning you'll be even more tempted to look in the O-Chem lab books for help. You wind up in the You-Cheetos-Teletubbies menage-a-trois day after day, watching their creepy plastic faces and listening to their inane trollop talk. Then, one day, you're sitting there in what has become your accustomed fashion, and they get that glowy excitation in their geometric head protrusions and static on their TV tummies. It bounces from one to another, and when it finally stops and the picture becomes clear.... it's you. And you're sucked in, becoming the newest Teletubby, of the largest size. The rest shrink down a size, and the smallest one vanishes. And you don't even care.
Let this be a lesson to us all.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Internet
The first thing I remember about the Internet was that we had it first around 1997. I don't remember what the hell we did on it then, but once or twice a week we'd crank it up, listen to it dial up the ISP for half an hour or so, then check the email (you have NO new messages!). The first moment when the Internet became really exciting was when the Beanie Baby people put up a website. You could get on there and see how many Beanie Babies there were. Eventually they also developed a message board, which was where I first learned rudimentary Netspeak (ROFLOL!!!!!!!) and how to troll.
Later I realized that the Internet is not just a super super cool thing, to which I am nearly as dependent on as I am on air, but it is in fact a Mystical Portal to the FREAKING WORLD. The first computer my parents had was a Mac, and though I am now a PC, I must admit that the apple is a perfect symbol for the home computer - it is the apple of knowledge. The Internet is a well of knowledge, from which I take a sip every day, often before any other thing. This first sip is followed by a second, then another and another, until I am bloated and sloshy. I then waddle woozily downstairs, my mind spinning and occupied, and lie down on the floor until normalcy resumes. Then I usually microwave a burrito.
This is in America, of course. In Germany there were no burritos.
Later I realized that the Internet is not just a super super cool thing, to which I am nearly as dependent on as I am on air, but it is in fact a Mystical Portal to the FREAKING WORLD. The first computer my parents had was a Mac, and though I am now a PC, I must admit that the apple is a perfect symbol for the home computer - it is the apple of knowledge. The Internet is a well of knowledge, from which I take a sip every day, often before any other thing. This first sip is followed by a second, then another and another, until I am bloated and sloshy. I then waddle woozily downstairs, my mind spinning and occupied, and lie down on the floor until normalcy resumes. Then I usually microwave a burrito.
This is in America, of course. In Germany there were no burritos.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Sean Gets Outed, Part One Million
I went to the store today, because I ran out of juice.
Going to the store in Germany is not terribly different from the US, apart of course from the fact that all of the products are completely unfamiliar and all the labels say is: "BARBARBARzuckerBARBARBARfettBARBARBARhohes-CBARBAR." It really only takes a week or two before one finds a couple of safe labels and begins to develop comforting brand loyalties. Not too bad. The payment process, however, is much more difficult. You have to deal with the cashier speaking German at you, and while you could admit you don't speak a word of their language, because the lady at the counter totally speaks English, who wants to do that. After maybe a month or so, one becomes fairly well acquainted with the few formula of appropriate cashier-customer dialogue, and this difficulty also breaks down into familiarity.
The hardest part of store trips is the line. We Americans are used to waiting in lines that are actually quite a lot longer than the ones here. But we do not experience the intense, crushing pressure seems to build up in a line of only five or six people here. We wait impatiently like everyone else but the British, but unless someone is seriously screwing around at the front of the line, like trying to "return" a half-drunk carton of milk because they suddenly "found out" it was the wrong fucking flavor, we're pretty chill.
This is not the case in the German model. Once you get to the cashier, she's got half of your shit rung up by the time you can say "Hallo," and God help you if your cash isn't in hand ready to pay by the time she's done. You will feel a rapidly escalating sense of panic as the German equivalent of a Care Bear Stare hits you from all angles if you get caught with you hand still in pocket, looking for wallet when she says "Acht Euro fünfundneunzig," or if you give her the wrong amount of money because she said the number backwards. Even if you manage to get the money thing down, you've still got to scoop up all your fuzzily-gathered foragings before they're pushed off the counter by the next guy's. This wasn't a problem while Yandee and I were tag-team shoppers, but I have not managed to do this once alone. The Germans all seem to manage fine, but I've never had the opportunity to watch how they do it because I'm always frantically looking for a tenner while the guy ahead of me magicks his shit into what is presumably a refrigerated Bag of Holding. Probably a Mercedes.
Suffice it to say that I'm a little bit distracted as I wait in line with a bottle of juice and a bag of chips. My mind is on how much this will probably come out to, not the woman behind me. She says something and for a second I figure she's not even talking to me, but then I realize she's looking at me. I have no idea at all what she's just said, but due to context cues, I was able to conclude that she wanted me to move my ass up and put my shit on the conveyor, so she could also put her shit on the conveyor. Luckily I was even able to do this fast enough to cover up that was completely unable to understand her. She even smiled at me understandingly, and I smiled back at her understandingly. Whew, crisis averted!
But then she kept talking to me! I try the understanding smile again, but it's no good this time - apparently it was a question, and not only that, but a question that expects an answer. Shit! I give up.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak German :-(," I say.
"Oh! I asked if you are a physicist," she says.
":-O Yeah I am, how did you know?"
"Well, from the way you look and the way you're dressed, you know, and the things you bought."
I was a little embarrassed but somehow not too surprised that going to the store for a bottle of orange juice and a bag of tortilla chips would peg me as a physicist. It turned out she was a retired psychologist. I immediately started wondering what exactly tortilla chips are loudly proclaiming about my psyche, when I started to feel the Stage I Care-Bear Stare. Fuck, my turn to pay! I rush to get back the necessary force of will and also to whip out some money. In the end, despite having only two purchases, they still almost got pushed off the counter by the psychologist lady's much healthier purchases.
Going to the store in Germany is not terribly different from the US, apart of course from the fact that all of the products are completely unfamiliar and all the labels say is: "BARBARBARzuckerBARBARBARfettBARBARBARhohes-CBARBAR." It really only takes a week or two before one finds a couple of safe labels and begins to develop comforting brand loyalties. Not too bad. The payment process, however, is much more difficult. You have to deal with the cashier speaking German at you, and while you could admit you don't speak a word of their language, because the lady at the counter totally speaks English, who wants to do that. After maybe a month or so, one becomes fairly well acquainted with the few formula of appropriate cashier-customer dialogue, and this difficulty also breaks down into familiarity.
The hardest part of store trips is the line. We Americans are used to waiting in lines that are actually quite a lot longer than the ones here. But we do not experience the intense, crushing pressure seems to build up in a line of only five or six people here. We wait impatiently like everyone else but the British, but unless someone is seriously screwing around at the front of the line, like trying to "return" a half-drunk carton of milk because they suddenly "found out" it was the wrong fucking flavor, we're pretty chill.
This is not the case in the German model. Once you get to the cashier, she's got half of your shit rung up by the time you can say "Hallo," and God help you if your cash isn't in hand ready to pay by the time she's done. You will feel a rapidly escalating sense of panic as the German equivalent of a Care Bear Stare hits you from all angles if you get caught with you hand still in pocket, looking for wallet when she says "Acht Euro fünfundneunzig," or if you give her the wrong amount of money because she said the number backwards. Even if you manage to get the money thing down, you've still got to scoop up all your fuzzily-gathered foragings before they're pushed off the counter by the next guy's. This wasn't a problem while Yandee and I were tag-team shoppers, but I have not managed to do this once alone. The Germans all seem to manage fine, but I've never had the opportunity to watch how they do it because I'm always frantically looking for a tenner while the guy ahead of me magicks his shit into what is presumably a refrigerated Bag of Holding. Probably a Mercedes.
Suffice it to say that I'm a little bit distracted as I wait in line with a bottle of juice and a bag of chips. My mind is on how much this will probably come out to, not the woman behind me. She says something and for a second I figure she's not even talking to me, but then I realize she's looking at me. I have no idea at all what she's just said, but due to context cues, I was able to conclude that she wanted me to move my ass up and put my shit on the conveyor, so she could also put her shit on the conveyor. Luckily I was even able to do this fast enough to cover up that was completely unable to understand her. She even smiled at me understandingly, and I smiled back at her understandingly. Whew, crisis averted!
But then she kept talking to me! I try the understanding smile again, but it's no good this time - apparently it was a question, and not only that, but a question that expects an answer. Shit! I give up.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak German :-(," I say.
"Oh! I asked if you are a physicist," she says.
":-O Yeah I am, how did you know?"
"Well, from the way you look and the way you're dressed, you know, and the things you bought."
I was a little embarrassed but somehow not too surprised that going to the store for a bottle of orange juice and a bag of tortilla chips would peg me as a physicist. It turned out she was a retired psychologist. I immediately started wondering what exactly tortilla chips are loudly proclaiming about my psyche, when I started to feel the Stage I Care-Bear Stare. Fuck, my turn to pay! I rush to get back the necessary force of will and also to whip out some money. In the end, despite having only two purchases, they still almost got pushed off the counter by the psychologist lady's much healthier purchases.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Stonewalling
Here's the problem with the two party system in America:
...when one side loses, the other side thinks it's won.
Maybe it's been this way all along and I just haven't been paying proper attention. But I'm getting pretty frustrated with the stonewalling tactics employed recently in Congress. The whole point of having a congress is to debate and find a middle path, not issue ultimatums. The guys from the other party were ALSO elected by Americans! They are ALSO representatives of the population! It's true you aren't obliged to deal with them, but only because it was assumed that grown-ups paid to argue wouldn't try to give their opponents the Silent Treatment!
So please, Congress, I know character attacks are how you keep your jobs, but think about this: if you all pledged to debate instead of all pledging to be uncompomising, if you can make that integral in both party's policies, no one will get thrown out over it, and you might actually make some headway in, you know, doing your jobs.
 |
| "Guess what America? It's Voting Time!" |
 |
 |
| "You tell me, America - are you satisfied with the job the current government is doing?" |
 |
| ".......*.......*." |
 |
| "Two blinks means no! America has Spoken! Repeal Everything!" |
 |
| "......" |
...when one side loses, the other side thinks it's won.
Maybe it's been this way all along and I just haven't been paying proper attention. But I'm getting pretty frustrated with the stonewalling tactics employed recently in Congress. The whole point of having a congress is to debate and find a middle path, not issue ultimatums. The guys from the other party were ALSO elected by Americans! They are ALSO representatives of the population! It's true you aren't obliged to deal with them, but only because it was assumed that grown-ups paid to argue wouldn't try to give their opponents the Silent Treatment!
So please, Congress, I know character attacks are how you keep your jobs, but think about this: if you all pledged to debate instead of all pledging to be uncompomising, if you can make that integral in both party's policies, no one will get thrown out over it, and you might actually make some headway in, you know, doing your jobs.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Clothes Make the Man, Part Eleventy
I've got this super sweet cowboy hat. It keeps the rain and sun off, does a fair job of keeping light and noise out when I'm staying at hostels, and makes a pretty decent pillow on the airplane. Needless to say, it goes everywhere with me.
I'm not the most stereotypical Texas guy you'll ever meet. Lots of you reading this are thinking "duh," and the rest are probably thinking "ha, really, you told me the only reason you don't ride a horse here is that they wouldn't let you through airport security with it." To those of you in the latter category, it's just the hat, I promise. To all of you, check this out.
Whenever I meet someone outside, we do the whole handshake-a/s/l dance. I'm wearing my hat since I'm outside so when I say I'm from Texas, without fail, my partner says something to the effect, of COURSE you are! can you show my your rifle?
Whenever I meet someone inside, it's usually at a pub, so I've left everything leavable at home to keep from possibly losing it (that can be read many ways, and all are good reasons to leave things at home). In this case, once I say I'm from the land of jerky and jackalopes, people get a little skeptical. By which I mean, they argue I can't possibly originate any closer to Texas than the Netherlands. One dude WOULD NOT believe me that I was even American until I showed him my Texas ID. Come on, guy.
Despite my hat and apparently Dutch accent, however, I have managed to convince the BBC I'm English. Effort and knowledge count... when it really matters!
I'm not the most stereotypical Texas guy you'll ever meet. Lots of you reading this are thinking "duh," and the rest are probably thinking "ha, really, you told me the only reason you don't ride a horse here is that they wouldn't let you through airport security with it." To those of you in the latter category, it's just the hat, I promise. To all of you, check this out.
Whenever I meet someone outside, we do the whole handshake-a/s/l dance. I'm wearing my hat since I'm outside so when I say I'm from Texas, without fail, my partner says something to the effect, of COURSE you are! can you show my your rifle?
Whenever I meet someone inside, it's usually at a pub, so I've left everything leavable at home to keep from possibly losing it (that can be read many ways, and all are good reasons to leave things at home). In this case, once I say I'm from the land of jerky and jackalopes, people get a little skeptical. By which I mean, they argue I can't possibly originate any closer to Texas than the Netherlands. One dude WOULD NOT believe me that I was even American until I showed him my Texas ID. Come on, guy.
Despite my hat and apparently Dutch accent, however, I have managed to convince the BBC I'm English. Effort and knowledge count... when it really matters!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)