Highly Specialized

If you thought that 2001 Florida State University Bobble Head you found on eBay was cool (it's not, by the way -- bobble heads are what's wrong with today's youth, that and methamphetamines), check out what this scientist got for his obsessive bidding habits and 20 British pounds: "eBay Insect Fossil is New Species."

If you thought the weirdest part about that article was finding a new species of aphid in a fossil bought for 20 British pounds from a guy in Lithuania through eBay, you didn't read carefully enough. Allow me:

"Dr Harrington sent the specimen to Professor Ole Heie, a fossil aphid expert in Denmark."

Sometimes I feel inadequate for not having studied anything more specific than "English" and "German," but a "fossil aphid expert"? You win, Danish scientist. You win.

One Little Monkey, Fishing In A Stream

I try to find time to blog about non-monkey related issues, but ever since this threat was made clear to me, I can't help but spread the word when new secrets of the monkey revolt are uncovered.

The latest monkey business to fear? Monkey anglers: "Scientists find monkeys who know how to fish." According to a couple of scientists, "'[This behavior is] an indication of how little we know about the species'" and "'If you provide them with an opportunity to get something tasty, they will do their best to get it.'" A species, about which we know very little, willing to do whatever it takes to get something tasty? If you're still willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, maybe you'd better take a look at another skill monkeys have been cultivating in their tree houses:

I bet they're already better cooks than the British.

Oh, and just in case Robochimps with a taste for human meat aren't enough for you, take a look at one last passage from the article: "[Fuentes] said it affirms his belief that their ability to thrive in urban and rural environments from Indonesia to northern Thailand could offer lessons for endangered species." When these lint-pickers pass on cooking lessons to other species, we will be overrun. Our bacon is literally and figuratively fried if we don't act quickly.

Monkey Defense

Recently, I blogged about the gravest yet coolest metallic threat to humanity since Mechagodzilla: Robochimps (small wonder then that "the first Mechagodzilla was created as a weapon of destruction by a race of ape-like aliens, sometimes known as Simians or the Black Hole aliens [emphasis added]"). After the horrifying video and my particularly chilling artist's rendering of the likely fate of the human race, you were all ready to swallow your cyanide pills and take your chances with an angry God.

Well, not ALL of you. Having been burned before by monkey-transmitted diseases, those troopers on the front line in Africa have turned the tables: "Humans Likely Making Chimps Sick."

As very few of you probably know, one of my dreams is to be a zeppelin pilot, which, while ridiculous, is feasible, considering they're still flown near Lake Constance in Germany. In case that isn't enough to convince you, I present another article as Exhibit B: "Could Zeppelins airships soon be gracing our skies again?" Through my staggering powers of deduction, I can tell you that the answer to that question is a resounding "YES." Rather than use my words, I will again resort to an infinitely more useful and amusing crudely drawn explanation:

Too many robochimps, not enough zeppelins?
Problem solved.

Sunny Heidelberg

I found out on Tuesday that Dave, a close friend from college, would be spending Wednesday night in Heidelberg. He's on a 25 day European tour with a busload of Americans, so I suppose Heidelberg was the perfect place for them to stop in Germany. Heidelberg is the ultimate in American, or simply English-speaking, destinations in this country. It seems like it's a beautiful city, but every time I go there it rains on my parade. It rained right as we got there for Walpuergisnacht about a month ago and it rained the entire time I was there on Wednesday.

Dave and the girls were supposed to arrive between 6 and 7 PM, so I got there at 6. I then found out that their bus driver had gotten held up in the matter of a ticket that the company had left unpaid since 1999, so they wouldn't be arriving until 10. We eventually had an awesome night, but before that...well, I did what I could to kill 4 hours alone in Heidelberg, including nursing a drink at a bar and eating dinner very slowly, but I still spent ages wandering or simply twiddling my thumbs in the drizzle.

At one point I was sitting in a square near the old town hall and the Holy Ghost Church, when some strange German man came by, asking in a slurred English, "Are you English?" I replied in the negative, which elicited a, "Oh. You look English." I repeated, "Well, I'm not," which he took as an invitation to sit near me. What he asked next was hilarious in its rudeness and absurdity. But I don't think I should write it.

Since anyone can view this, and in fact I offer it to employers as evidence of my writing skills, I still haven't quite figured out what level of language I should use on this blog. It's not even as if I'm personally using controversial language, I'm simply trying to tell a story, and stories need the facts. But when certain language is involved, people have a hard time looking past it to see the big picture.

I could pull the standard "s***," but I'm not about to censor myself with a line of asterisks because that's about as repressed and immature as it gets. Contrary to popular belief, censoring things only gives them power. You're better off trying to educate people as opposed to "protecting" them by pulling a curtain in front of everything you find morally reprehensible.

On the other hand, it's wise to pick one's battles, and while employers are hopefully impressed by independent and challenging thoughts, I'm not sure it's worth the risk right now. I suppose there's a thin line between "asset" and "liability" in this world, so for now I'll just leave the best part of the story up to your imagination. I still can't tell if this is the right decision: I'd love some feedback on if I should just go ahead and say what happened despite the inclusion of a word that has a long and unfortunate history in America. I need a different perspective on it.

Luckee Mee Follow-Up

Wayne, chief strategist, tireless organizer, and fearless leader of Mother Tongue Ultimate (new homepage eventually here), left an interesting comment on a recent post, "Luckee Me." It was refreshingly concise compared to his post-game speeches (no offense, but unless I'm caught standing between two beautiful girls, I'd rather wrap things up quickly and get a drink of water!), but I'll still cut right to the most important part, regarding Robert Pesch, whom you might remember as one of the best players in Europe:

"Sure he's good to play with; I just wish he'd smile every now and then! :-)"

This comment, combined with my second Mother Tongue tourney from this past weekend, did remind me that while playing with the Mainz experts is like attending a private, prestigious Ultimate University Grad School, playing with a motley crew of middling to excellent Mother Tongue pick-ups is like attending a public, partying Frisbee State U. And I was never one to keep my head in the books at the complete expense of my personal enjoyment.

Case in point: another triumph for personal enjoyment.

Maybe it's my skill level, maybe it's that my last couple unfortunate years of track gave me an aversion to strictly organized team sports (or maybe it's my injured foot right now), but whatever it is, I get more kicks playing in tourneys in the more relaxed MT atmosphere than I do playing in tourneys with the highly focused Mainzers.

That's not to say I don't try to win when I'm with MT or that I don't have fun when I'm with Mainz. But when it comes to certain things, especially leisure time activities, I'm less competitive by nature than some people. And Frisbee is a strange mix of intense training/competition and casual socializing where I lean toward the casual aspect. If it involves throwing a disc around and it happens on a weekend, it still feels like having a picnic or hanging out with friends at the beach.

Maybe I'll get to the point where I'm completely focused on training and winning, but it's more likely I'll continue in this vein, similar to my sister with her various weekend sports, playing as much as I can but more for the camaraderie and cocktails. As I said, I enjoy a fierce struggle and a well-earned win, but it doesn't kill me to lose on the field as long as I'm enjoying the whole experience, which is easier with some groups than with others.

Win The Party

I was at an Ultimate Frisbee tournament in Duesseldorf this weekend with Mother Tongue, the native English-speaking team. The tourney was called either "Splatsch" or "Splash" depending on which sign you walked past, but either way the location was appropriately placed next to a large indoor and outdoor swimming pool.

The weather was terrible on Saturday, but we won a few games and held our own against some high level opponents, including the eventual tournament winners, the German Masters. "Masters" in this case means they're all over 30 years old, which means they might have some aches and pains but they also have a boatload of experience. We, on the other hand, have mostly students, and at this tourney we even had Louis, the 11-and-a-half year old son of another member, Ian, playing. He scored his only point of the tourney against the German Masters, which seemed appropriate. After our 7-4 loss, we asked the Masters to add up their years of experience: 196. In comparison, our team had 70 at most. What can ya do?

Saturday night, after dinner at perhaps the only tasty Mexican restaurant in Germany, a bunch of the team gathered to sample some liquid wares. Some of the Duesseldorf team members were still up since they were hosting the tourney, but most everyone else had gone to bed by midnight for some reason. We had beaten the hosts that morning, but our first game on Sunday at 9:30 was scheduled to be a rematch, which explains why they were so generous when we started calling for free shots. Of course a plan like "let's make them useless for the game tomorrow" isn't hard to pull off when the "victims" are the ones who start demanding unlimited free shots. The best drink of the night was a Jaegermeister-style liquor called "Killepitsch," which as you might notice lends itself to a couple of crude mispronunciations, which as you have already surmised we exploited to the fullest.

As the night continued, Ben, Garrett, and I were the ones from our team clearly enjoying ourselves the most, and eventually were the only ones left. We noticed that there was only one other group of non-hosts still up. It was maddening because couldn't they see that WE were going to win this party? They were sitting around playing some strange card game and not even drinking, yet preventing us from being the last men standing. So we told our host/enabler, Nico, to bring a bottle over there and make them indulge. Allegedly they took a shot each and then accused us of not having done so, and things were just pretty strange, and at some point they left. Awesome, right? No, because then three more guys showed up.

Kyle, an American from Oregon who had played one game with us before some of our other teammates arrived, and two of his regular teammates had been swimming and now they were back, claiming that WE couldn't win the party because THEY were still at the party. After an extended standoff, we got the Duesseldorf hosts to declare us the winners for sticking with it the whole time. But to quell the protests of the other three, we magnanimously offered a final challenge: arm wrestling.

It was agreed, and we faced off at a picnic table. Let's put it this way: they had one guy who was either Danish or Dutch, I forget now although maybe Dutch since Ben kept calling him the Flying Dutchman, and he was the individual champion. He put down all three of us like infants. Unfortunately for him, his two buddies were featherweights even compared to us, and we ended up winning 6-3. PARTY WINNERS.

Our carousing and celebratory dip in the pool was enough to wake the dead, or at least every person camped out in a tent, each of whom knew at 5 AM that we three had won the party. Obviously they were delighted for us.

Then the next day we got destroyed by Duesseldorf. Before you say it, this actually had little to do with their plan of exhausting us since most of the team hadn't fallen for it/embraced it the way Garrett, Ben, and I did. We had plenty of subs and fresh legs and eager beavers. We just couldn't beat the same team twice. Nico spent almost the entire game just slumped in a lawn chair on the sidelines, engaging in some serious schadenfreude, until Ben roared across the field for him to get up and play a freaking point, which he sheepishly did.

It came down to the whistle for the last point, and when Duesseldorf got the frisbee on a turnover, Wayne called an audible, which resulted in everyone on our defense tackling Nico off the field. Annabelle, Ian's 8 year old daughter who was in since we were down 12-2 anyway, stayed on the field, apparently frightening the Duesseldorf team, beause they managed to drop the frisbee even with a seven against one tiny girl situation. We scored the final point, which felt like a victory after our satisfying tactic.

We ended up 13th out of 23 teams, and the announcer graciously reminded those gathered that although we hadn't won the tournament, we had won the party. Sometimes the highlights happen off the field.

Robochimp

You have to see this, if only to prepare for the worst: Monkey's Brain Controls Robot Arm.

The phrase, "Monkeys have been able to control robotic limbs using only their thoughts, scientists report," is simultaneously the RADDEST and most FRIGHTENING thing I've ever heard (and subsequently seen: for some reason I couldn't view the video on the BBC site, so I googled one and believe you me, it will blow your feeble human mind).

If Cyborg Monkeys don't upset and/or excite you, you have no soul. While I support the concept of Cyborg Monkeys with every ounce of my being in theory, this is absolutely not the way to retain our spot at the top of the food chain. Sure, right now maybe they're only "able to use the robot arm to feed themselves treats," but what about when they crave more? What about when one "marshmallow" or a couple of "chunks of fruit" every 20 seconds no longer satisfies them? WHAT THEN?

Oh, I think you know what then:

Then they build little flying saucers and rocket launchers and ENSLAVE us. I always wanted to deliver giant bananas at rocket-point, wearing nothing but chains, to Cyborg Monkeys. Yeah, thanks a lot, science.

Funny Business

There's a clown school in Mainz.

Judging by the home page, they have plans to translate the site into English and some other silly language I've never heard of, "Français," but unfortunately for those of you who can't read German and really want to know more, you'll have to wait until they get their act in gear. Maybe I should offer my translating services.

But if you click around in there, you'll at least get to see some, uh, nice, artsy pictures of, well, clowns. Like so:

I know we've all seen The Simpsons' classic interpretation of clown school, but what do you think clown school is really like? Do they wear the whole outfit every day? If everyone's a class clown, how do you act up and disrupt class: comb your hair, wash your face, and sit quietly with your hand in the air until the teacher calls on you? Do you give your teacher cream pies instead of apples? Does everyone carpool to class? I just can't imagine what kind of atmosphere you'd find at a clown school, but I bet the tests are a joke.

As many of you know from my screennames/email addresses over the years, clowns fascinate me. In theory, clowns, and their predecessors, jesters, are like noble stand-up comedians. All they want to do is make people laugh without hurting anybody except themselves in a Three Stooges kind of way. And yet I'd venture to say that clowns are some of the most feared and hated creatures in our culture today. Think of examples such as Stephen King's It or The Joker. Heck, just think of the mass of bawling kids at a circus if a clown waddles up and makes with the slapstick. You were probably one of those bawling kids; for all I know, you might still be, with your Coulrophobia and "Can't sleep, clown will eat me" protestations.

Clowns can't win. I mean, you try to do somethin' nice for people...what a world, huh? I guess what I'm sayin' is, don't be a fool, don't go to clown school.

No Closure For Young Men

As you may have already gleaned from the bitter title, I watched No Country for Old Men today. Great movie, but man, I thought I was watching the first of a summer blockbuster trilogy the way it ended. At least if this had starred some bulked up bonehead you could to expect a second movie to heighten the agony while boring the crap out of you and a third movie to tie off loose ends, albeit unsatisfactorily. This must be what it felt like when that one playoff game was interrupted by Heidi, assuming the teams in that particular playoff game were literally slaughtering each other.

Which one's creepy and which one's a movie villain?

I suppose that's a mark of great literature, though. There's nothing we intellectual types love more than stories that are wiiide open to interpretation. Gives us plenty of room to force our crackpot theories on people. Stories that end unsatisfactorily are a lot like life, too. Nothing ever gets wrapped up in a neat little package, you never really know the full story because it's ongoing, and

Not Again...

Didn't get to Stockholm this weekend. Not going to say anything more about it for now except to extend my apologies once more to Sam.

I would have had the perfect book for the plane trip though: Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich. I distinctly remember my parents buying me this book in an airport convenience store in Boston back in August 2005. I was preparing to depart for my semester abroad in Freiburg, Germany, and they didn't feel I had enough to read.

This non-fiction book, with the extended title "The Story of Six M.I.T. Students Who Took Vegas for Millions," started off great, diving right into a gripping true story of one Kevin Lewis, an M.I.T. student-cum-card counter. The first few chapters made the first leg of my trip, from Boston to Philadelphia, whiz by, and I was looking forward to finishing during the eight hour slog from Philly to Frankfurt.

If only I had put the book back in my backpack. Instead, I had stored it neatly in the pouch attached to the seat in front of me, and conveniently forgotten it. The plane ate my book. That was nearly three years and a thousand tears ago.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008: Helping Michaela lighten her immense load in preparation for her return to the States, the rest of us were accepting whatever castoffs she pulled out of her bag of tricks. She pulled out a book and declared that it was a gift for me. As I took the light green paperback from her, the bright yellow lettering of the title stirred something in my mind.

Bringing Down the House? I thought. Where have I seen this before?

No way!

For the second time, I tore eagerly into the pages, and just a few minutes ago finished for the first time. It's a great read, even for someone like me who isn't at all interested in gambling or casinos. Now that I've finally closed that cliffhanger in my life, I'll be passing it along to the next unsuspecting soul, and hopefully it won't take them as long as it took me to get through this enjoyable story.

Luckee Me

Having played Ultimate Frisbee since October now, I'm slowly realizing what it means to play here in Mainz. It helps to be talking to Alex about it -- he's been immersed in the Ultimate culture in America for a couple of years, so he knows a lot more about the sport than I do, and that kind of outside experience is useful for seeing how amazing the guys around this area are.

Feldrenner, the top Mainz team, is certainly one of the top teams in Europe, and they've done well when they've played at Worlds too. This is a team that used to run itself ragged on the field, giving everything but never making it to the championships. So they sat back, invented the Isolation strategy to truly minimize their running on offense, and then went on to win about seven of the last ten outdoor German Championships.

Alright, you don't play Ultimate in these parts without hearing some hushed whispers about their achievements. And I had practiced with some of them at the advanced training even though I'm far from advanced. But before yesterday, I had never seen so many of them, nearly all of them, in one place. Hustling around the field or watching from the sidelines, I finally got a real sense of how fortunate I am to even be watching these guys, let alone practicing with them.

Robert Pesch, for example, is arguably the top player in Europe, and he can play with any team in the world if he wants. And I got to scrimmage on his team. When you start playing a new sport, you never expect that during your formative first year you'll be getting training time with some of the best players in the world. That's one of the coolest things I've seen about Ultimate: it's such a fluid, generally informal system that anyone can potentially play with anyone.

Of course it's unlikely these guys were quite as happy to be playing with me as I was to be playing with them -- I had my moments, but I had many more mistakes. Heck, I dropped multiple passes from arguably the top player in Europe. But that's the other coolest thing I've seen about Ultimate: these are genuinely good, supportive people. Am I ready to practice with them? Maybe not. Do they whine and moan and get angry about it? Not at all.

It's really about improving, which means getting as much disc time as possible and with the best people you can, and it's about having fun. I don't try to intrude on their tournaments and there aren't many others at my lower level who go to the advanced training, which means they still get to have their fun and I get the best learning experience I could hope for. Hopefully by the next time I'm in Germany, I'll have gotten my skills up to the point where I can actually join them on the field of organized competition.

One Small Step

My right foot has hurt since frisbee practice almost a month ago. It wasn't completely better by the time I ran the marathon, but I didn't notice my foot hurting during that (well, not hurting in this specific way...marathons hurt in general). Of course the marathon couldn't have helped it anyway. Last week I was reduced to limping around Budapest and Slovakia, trying to compensate for the pain which had returned with a vengeance. This limping only led to the rest of my leg hurting too.

But I went to frisbee Wednesday and Thursday and I was able to practice. I was in pain, especially when trying to switch directions quickly off that foot, but it wasn't as bad as I would have expected, given how it was last week. Then I went to a party with Alex, an Iowan here for three weeks near Wiesbaden. He plays Ultimate and has been coming to the Mainz practices, so we talked to one of the Germans on the team and met up with him at a university party after practice last night. I ended up walking home since I missed my bus by about three minutes, and that 40 minute walk had me cringing again.

I can run and play frisbee at fairly high speed but walking at regular speed kills me. How does that make sense? I feel like I'm stuck in the movie Speed III: Run, Don't Walk.

Eastern Europe...

...is now on display. Go check out pictures from Budapest and then a bunch from Slovakia and Poland. Again, no comprehensive captioning, but some choice commentary here and there, along with the fairly informative album summaries.

If you're a fan, send me a fan, I'm begging you. My room is sweltering facing the afternoon sun in these temperatures. I don't have an oven; the only baking being done in my room is my brain baking in my skull. I can no longer hear myself think, I can only hear my brain brownies reaching the burning point.

Backed Up

So I planned to post the Budapest and Slovakia pictures today, but then I stumbled upon a backlog of pics that needed taking care of. Budapest and Slovakia will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, enjoy pics from my trip to Barcelona with Ben, Sam, Sarah, Rachel, and Taylor (only three months late, it's all goooood) and some pics from Ben's and my jaunt on May 3, up to a couple of towns along the Rhine River, Bacharach and Sankt Goar (pics taken by Ben but on my camera so I did the honors). Because of the sheer numbers, I only put two or three captions in each batch, so the pics will have to speak for themselves. I always forget what stuff actually is anyway, so you'd only end up with more of my insane ramblings.

Speaking of insane ramblings, I have to mention a little incident from my flight home yesterday, before I forget that too. Even though RyanAir flies to and from the tiniest, most out-of-the-way little airports in Europe, I've come to enjoy their flights for a couple of reasons. Due to the hop, skip, and a jump nature, they're always pretty short, and the two Exit rows have a ton of legroom. Despite the free-for-all atmosphere of waiting in line to board and then choosing whatever seats you want, there's always at least one spot left in these rows by the time I get there.

Normally I go directly for an aisle seat on the left on any public transportation, because at least I can periodically stretch my bum right leg out -- also, you're guaranteed one uncontested armrest with an aisle seat, which is worth the occasional thwacking from a drink cart. But in the Exit row I don't even need the aisle because I can stretch both legs out anywhere. I don't know why people haven't caught on to this, but I hope they never do, because these seats are pure gold for a guy my size. As an added bonus, kids aren't allowed to sit in them, so you're guaranteed not to have to deal with any little brats.

You might, however, have to deal with some big brats. An Exit row seat doesn't have the tray table that folds down from the back of the seat in front of it. Instead, the rubber part of the armrest flips open to the left and you pull the tray table out of its little hidey hole. Ain't technology grand?

Well picture my situation: I'm in the middle of three seats, the seat to my left is empty for unknown technical reasons, and there's a German guy sitting in the window seat to my right. Not too bad, at least I've still got one free armrest on my left and he's got one on his right.

I'm ready to exercise the unspoken diplomacy of adjacent seats, trading off control of the middle armrest throughout the flight, when things take a turn for the weird. He's erected the Berlin Wall of Exit row seats: he's flipped up the rubber part of the armrest!

Because the rubber part flips up to the left, he's still able to put his arm on the inner workings while effectively shutting down any access I might have had. For the security of an entire-flight stranglehold on the armrest, this diabolical fiend was willing to sacrifice the shared comfort of the flat, rubber surface.

Well played, stranger. I'm already looking forward to trying it out myself.

See Adam. See Adam Run. Run, Adam, Run.

Got back earlier today from a great trip to Budapest and Slovakia. Still need to get my pics on the comp and post those and give you some highlights, but that should get done tomorrow since I have no school. It's some sort of holiday called "Pfingsten," and while I don't know what on earth it means, I know I like a day off. Cuz I work hard for the money. So hard for it, honey.

But for now, photographic evidence that I competed in the Gutenberg Marathon I bragged about. In fact, this might even be evidence that I completed the half-marathon, since I think these pictures were taken near the finish line: I swear I wasn't making that face until the end when I broke into a dead sprint (it's just an expression -- I was dead, but there was very little recognizable sprinting involved). At least I hope I wasn't making that face for two and a half hours...it would explain why I swallowed so many bugs. Maybe I should just get a pic on here of my bling-bling medal so you know I finished.
But until then, there are a couple more little images if you go to this page and then type my number, 6841, into the field at the top right where it says "Startnummer:" and click "Suche starten." And hey, if you're so inclined, you can order your own prints and place my green, white, and blue, knock-kneed, poofy-haired, gasping exertion on the mantel over the fireplace. Impress your guests with this abstract art.

9th Annual Gutenberg (Half-)Marathon

Let me set the scene:

After a long, fun, tiring weekend, Ben and I meet up with Flo on Saturday night for a drink at Schroeder's, a bar in Mainz. One drink magically, inevitably, turns into more drinks. Like a college boy at a frat party, Flo assesses our susceptibility and, sensing weakness, springs the question:

I have to leave for a class trip tomorrow -- you want to take my place in the Gutenberg Marathon?

Do fish want to hike mountains? Do bunnies want to play cards with lions? Do monkeys want to perform dental work on sharks? Do girls want to cuddle with spiders? Anyone who knows me knows what my answer to such a ridiculous question would be.

As someone who despises running, I'm not suited for a marathon. I had told Flo as much when he asked me the same question about a month ago. I told him the same thing Saturday night. Unfortunately, there was an X-factor: Ben.

Ben's an enabler.

Ben is extremely competitive, especially under the influence. When he found out we had the chance to run a half-marathon, you could practically hear the little bookies in his head start figuring the odds on their adding machines. All of a sudden it was two against one, as Ben was now completely on board with Flo's idea of us doing this.

Well, I hate running, but I hate missing out on new experiences too, and I'm the highly suggestible type, so you can imagine my protestations were as effective as an umbrella against a tsunami.

Once I had caved and we started considering our emergency options such as walking or simply giving up, Ben came up with an even better idea of how we could destroy our bodies: betting that we could beat Flo's time from last year. At stake was a case of beer, and all we had to do was run faster then 2 hours, 45 minutes. So much for emergency options.

So it was decided: I would run as Florian Kaerger while Ben would try to run as Flo's girlfriend, Sandra. I had no problem passing as Flo, but the officials weren't buying Ben's eyelash-fluttering and flirtatious giggling, so he had to run unattached. It wasn't a problem anyway -- that only meant he wouldn't get an official printout of his time at the end.

We got to bed at 3 AM, and all too soon it was 6:30 AM and the alarm clocks were blaring. We slowly got our stuff together and walked sleepily through the city to the Rheingoldhalle, where the whole thing was starting. I checked in, we stretched for five minutes, and eventually we found the starting area. Through it all I was asking myself, "What am I doing?" a question that I couldn't shake even 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes into the race.

But a strange thing happened. I considered the crowds lining the streets, cheering us on; the picturesque Rhine running alongside us; the gorgeous weather; and the thousands of other fools trying to conquer the same 21 kilometer (13.1 mile) half-marathon, just like me. Slowly, as slowly as our pace, but surely, I found myself enjoying the experience. It hurt and there were boring stretches, but it was incredible. I guess that's what they call the Runner's High. I always assumed that was a reference to the drugs someone had to be on to think it's a good idea to run a marathon -- I mean, some people think they can fly, some people think they can run 42 kilometers (26.2 miles) without stopping. But apparently I can run a half-marathon.

And I must say, the banana slices they gave out at water checkpoints along the way were the best bananas I've ever eaten in my life. Best. Bananas. Ever. Seriously, those became my life support, and every time I got to grab a glass of ice cold water and a half a banana, everything was right with the world. Same with the free food they passed out at the end: pretzels, energy bars, and apple slices have never tasted as delicious as they did right then.

Oh, right, I guess I gave away the ending: I finished. 2 hours, 25 minutes, and 24 seconds, baby, good enough to get me...uh, well, 6707th place. But all things considered, I'm more than satisfied. Ben had a little trouble at one point late in the race, stopped, and almost gave up, but he realized how far we'd come and got his ass back in the race and finished too, with a time of about 2 hours, 45 minutes. To his immense credit, he was running in the world's WORST sneakers, completely falling apart, and I have no idea how he did it. He'd have been better off running barefoot.

We got medals for finishing the half-marathon, we'll be getting a case of beer from Flo, we got a magnificent feeling of accomplishment, and we got one majorly strange story out of the deal. And now I can retire from the marathon scene. As one clever soul remarked, there's got to be a better way to get a case of beer.

(We didn't get any pictures unfortunately, but see a bunch here)

Long Weekend

Long weekends are bad for my health.

Wednesday night I went to Heidelberg with some friends to celebrate Walpurgisnacht, which is always the night of April 30 into the next morning, welcoming the month of May. Many countries have some form of Walpurgisnacht, also known as Hexennacht, or Witches' Night, in Germany. Heidelberg is known for its student celebrations, which are on top of a little mountain there, with people filling the rows of an amphitheater and playing with fire, basically -- a huge bonfire, fire breathers, jugglers, dancers, etc.

Hiking up this little mountain is one thing, but we had started our festivities already, and it had rained already, and it was dark already...let's just say it was tricky getting up there, and we're lucky our only real problem was extremely muddy shoes instead of bodies tumbling back down. But after that harrowing experience it was a lot of fun. We stayed all night and left by train at around 7 AM, so when I got back to my apartment at 9 I slept until 5. Gotta put a full work day in, you know.

Then Ben came on Friday evening and we had a late night out at some bars and then a party at the Fachhochschule, sort of a community college. Naturally we slept in on Saturday, almost missing a gorgeous day. But we eventually dragged ourselves out of bed and hopped on a train to Bacharach, where we wandered, played some frisbee, ate, and basically enjoyed the sunshine. After that we continued to St. Goar, where we climbed up to the castle and explored for a while.

Heading home, we met up with Flo at a bar, had a few drinks, stayed up too late again, and soon enough made a momentous, and some would say stupid, decision. I'll get to that next time.

The Power...

Is YOURS! That's what my students learned yesterday at least, when I showed them the first episode of Captain Planet and the Planeteers. I mean, they're learning about the environment, so, right? This is how I learned about saving the earth, and if it's good enough for me, it's good enough for them.

How can you beat lines like "By your powers combined...I am CAPTAIN PLANET!"? (And it's not gratingly redundant like Prince Adam aka He-Man's wail of "By the power of Greyskull...I have the POWER!" You already said power, doofus.) With the way Captain Planet acquired new superpowers, he coulda wailed on Superman in his prime...as long as Supes didn't have smog breath. And check out some of the heavy hitters they got to voice characters on the show: Sting, LeVar Burton, and Whoopi Goldberg! Talk about street cred.

But did my students appreciate it? Pfft, of course not. They had to go tearin' into it, raggin' on the Cap'n's little speedo + half-shirt number, his penchant for lame jokes, even his grass-green flat top-mullet. That was the HEIGHT of environmentally-friendly superhero fashion back in 1990, and if I know fashion, it'll be back soon enough. That kind of style is cyclical, dollface.

One cynic even busted out the million dollar question: "Did this change the way you lived at all?" Dude, I was five when this show came out. So, yes, it changed my life. I'm sure I was brainwashed in some way to appreciate powerful men with mullets and bikinis. That's what saving the environment is about, and when Al Gore realizes that, we'll really be on to something.

Oh, and just in case you fail to watch the episode I linked to, I have to point out that the show's first season ran the year before the Soviet Union fell. When asked by the stupid fire kid from the Bronx if she's Russian, Linka (the wind chick) angrily clarifies: "No. Soviet! Now go avay!" Just the icing on the cake.

Oops, almost forgot! I just found a German version of the intro and, most importantly, the outro (which was arguably the most famous part of the show: the positively classic theme music). Eat it up, world.

A Little Taste Of Home

Robert and I went to a place called American Diner for dinner tonight. Robert is a friend from the frisbee team -- he started playing about the same time I did, and he's good people. He had recommended this diner a while back and, being a real American (hero, GI Joe is theeeeere....if you didn't sing along with that, you're not a child of the '80s.), I figured I should investigate. We finally made it this evening, and the good news is, it's halfway decent.

We sat outside because the weather was so nice, but before leaving I glanced inside. It's got the right touches from what I could see: the proper shiny, silver lining on everything, the distinctive worn, red pleather (or whatever it's made of) booths, and even a jukebox. You'd feel comfortable ordering a malt in there. And they menu hits the proper highs: chicken wings, spare ribs, and a varied selection of specialty burgers, including a Double Header and a Triple Header if you really covet that American waistline. Oh, and lest I forget, they have different All You Can Eat specials throughout the week, for prices that are basically the same as the single servings. They've been doing their homework, yes indeed.

My choice was clear (since there were no All You Can Eat specials on Sundays): the BBQ Burger, with their special home made BBQ sauce. I'm constantly lamenting the lack of proper (or, uh, any) BBQ sauce in Germany, so when I see it I have to try it. Good news: this stuff was passable (I positively gush with praise, don't I? I should work on that). The burger and sauce were quite good, especially since it's been so long since I've had the real stuff. The burgers even come with a little American flag on a toothpick stuck in them. How's that for a finishing touch?

The fries were tasty, too, but I'm not a huge fry guy and there were too many, so Robert finished off mine once he cleaned his plate. As if that wasn't enough to make me doubt my citizenship, there was more. The burgers are pretty big already, but in fact the average-sized couple at the table next to us really pulled out the stops. The guy polished off a Triple Header and even his girlfriend made short work of a Double Header, including all of the fries for both of them. I expected them to stand up and recite the Pledge of Allegiance and then give me a wedgie. Sorry, folks: I let you down.

Other than forcing me to question my American manhood, it was a fun time. The place isn't quite Fuddruckers, but it's one of the best approximations I've seen over here.

Oh, and the demonstration last Wednesday went well, so in case anybody was still wondering, I survived. There was a great turnout, especially for such short notice, and the weather cooperated -- my face even got a tiny bit sunburned. I was one of 20 people involved who had to hold back on the "protesting" aspect and just make sure nothing got out of hand, since this was an organized protest. I had a bright orange vest along with the swell of self-righteousness that a small amount of undeserved power brings.

I'm not sure what will happen with this school situation, but I'll keep ya posted if anything interesting happens.

We're Here, We're Queer, We Don't Want Any More Bears!

If I hold up a sign tomorrow with that slogan on it, do you think the Germans will get the Simpsons reference? Probably not, and then they'll be torn over the message -- "'Queer'? 'bears'? well wait just a minute here." In fact Germans seem to want more polar bears but fewer brown bears. Maybe they just want their bears carefully stored in zoos. Pfft. Ask Poland how bears should be handled: they should have open air enclosures by the side of busy streets in the middle of a city like Warsaw with only a waterless moat separating them from sweet, sweet human flesh. Yes, that exists.

Either way, that's not my point. My point is I'm going to be demonstrating tomorrow with my school, and I'm excited to wave signs around, assuming they give me a sign (they'd be crazy not to -- I bet if I hold up a sign they'll see it from the International Space Station).

The issue, essentially, is this: my school, the Gutenberg Gymnasium, goes from grade 5 to grade 13. Gymnasium is the highest level of school in the German school system for those grades -- it's college track, whereas the other two types are not. As such, most parents want their kids to go to gymnasium, and they're allowed to send their kids to gymnasium if they choose, regardless of any recommendations to the contrary.

Therein lies one problem: the Gutenberg Gymnasium, for example, is designed to take on four new classes each year. For some years now, though I don't know how many years, the school has been over capacity with between five and six new classes coming in each year. I think in return for taking this overflow, my school got a new sport hall (I'd say "gymnasium" but that would get confusing with the name of the school, so I'll stick to the literal German translation) and a sort of auditorium.

Nevertheless, it's easy to see that the school is too full. There aren't enough classrooms, so other rooms not intended for classes have been invaded to make up the difference, and let me tell you, 33 kids in a small room is not ideal.

And now it turns out that -- surprise, surprise -- there is another huge jump in numbers coming. Has the city been preparing by (a) building a new gymnasium, (b) expanding the existing schools, or (c) seeing how far they can spit watermelon seeds? If you picked (a) or (b) then you've never heard of a lumbering mess commonly referred to as "a bureaucracy" (and if you picked (c), I appreciate your cynicism but can't verify it...yet).

So the solution, once again, is to add more classes, particularly to the Gutenberg Gymnasium and one other school. My school is expected to handle seven classes for the next two years, and in return will get some extra classrooms built, or whatever is being vaguely promised. Naturally the teachers, students, and parents are up in arms over this. The most aggravating parts of the deal are that the plan was formed and is close to moving ahead without taking into consideration the voices of the teachers, students, or parents; and that there is still no real plan for the future, meaning there's no way of knowing for sure if this will end after two years. Also, the three directors at the school, who get the only votes for the entire school, said they'll no matter what the teachers, students, and parents think, they'll vote Yes to the plan to have seven classes in return for some additions to the school.

Being the cool-headed negotiator that I am, I suggested a strike. This doesn't affect me, but I'd be so excited to be part of a strike anyway. But that's not allowed: German teachers are state workers, which means that in return for jobs-for-life and good benefits, they don't get any say in what happens. So instead, as I mentioned ages ago at the beginning of this long-winded post, we're demonstrating tomorrow afternoon.

When I was in Freiburg in 2005, I saw but missed out on participating in university student protests against the introduction of tuition. I am not missing out on this protest. I hope I don't get whomped by riot police.

TWO Organs!

That's not the set-up or the punchline to a terrible joke. Actually, that's probably a lie -- somewhere in this world, I have to imagine there's at least one joke involving the exclamation "TWO organs!" But I promise I don't know that joke, and neither is this my attempt at creating a new joke. In fact, two organs is something I experienced on Sunday. Um...okay, it still sounds bad. I'd better just get on with it quickly and try to ignore the numerous puns.

The Mainz College of Music is moving onto the campus of the University of Mainz and they're getting a new organ as part of the deal. They donated their current organ to the Altmuenster church in Mainz, which already had an organ, but a very small one. This donated one is much bigger and nicer, so they moved the old one next to the altar and the donated one is now up above.

On Sunday the church had some special masses to celebrate the advent of two organs; they had a choir and people to play each organ. My supervising teacher, Bettina, and her husband, Gernot, were singing in the choir, which is how I found out about the whole thing. It was a really interesting experience, especially when they did a song that was specifically written for two organs. I'm not sure why you'd ever write a piece of music like that, but then again at the Fulbright conference in Berlin I also saw a guy perform a sweet tuba solo, so I'll just roll with it.

So although I had to go to church for it, it was worth it for some beautiful music and an unusual story. There was even champagne afterwards.

Oh no...I know I promised I wouldn't, but I'm weak. It's just got too much potential for me to not even try:

What's worse than church wine and an organ?
Church champagne and TWO organs!

Sorry you had to witness that. At least we now know for sure there's a joke somewhere in this world involving the exclamation "TWO organs!"

Let this post be ended, and go in peace.

Mainz 05

Mainz 05 is the Mainz soccer team. The 05 stands for 1905, the year they were founded. My friend Flo (link goes to his sport- and surfwear company, No Quality) has gotten me into three of their games so far, including today's. The last time I went, he gave me his normal ticket because he had VIP access. After the game he yanked off his VIP bracelet, and with the aid of some product resembling Post-It Notes, we managed to secure it to my wrist. Secure might not be the right word, since I was afraid to swing that arm when I walked, fearing that the slightest breeze would upset the delicate balance of our scam. Nevertheless, I passed the tight security detail of two women glancing at my bright pink mock-up.

Once inside I let myself relax a little, but I still had to keep adjusting the bracelet so it wouldn't fall off and expose me. If you're wondering at this point what the trouble was worth, VIP means free alcohol and food. It was a heavenly experience soured only slightly by my constant fear of discovery. I limited myself to a couple of bowls of soup and two free beers, as I knew once the booze started flowing more freely I'd let my guard down and the jig would be up. Sorry, now it sounds like I'm complaining about some free food and beer. I'm not complaining, I'm just explaining why I'm not still there.

Today's game was another highlight. The first game I attended I had to leave at halftime and Mainz ended up losing anyway. The second game, the VIP game, Mainz should have won but ended up tying instead. But today, finally, Mainz won, and boy, did they ever win: the final score was 6-1 against Paderborn. Granted, Paderborn is 3rd league and Mainz is 2nd league, and it should have been 6-0 if not for one of the Mainz defenders deciding the game was over even though there were still 15 minutes left, and therefore passing the ball directly to an opponent in front of his own goal. But it was still exhilarating to see Mainz win, and since soccer is normally such a low scoring game, it was awesome to see a blowout. Plus I've learned most of the chants/songs, so I was able to shout myself somewhat hoarse along with the rest of the rowdy crowd. To top it all off, after celebrating with Flo and some other friends afterwards, I have no class tomorrow. I get to sleep in and then search for some cleats for outdoor frisbee.

Mmm...Bucket Of Lard

Alright, gotta take this slowly, ease back into the whole blog thing with small yet delicious nuggets of information. After more than four months off, I obviously need to post something on here. I probably got too ambitious promising to talk in detail about a week-long trip, so I'll try to get back to some more narrowly focused topics so I don't go crazy.

So here's something from Poland. I went with Ben, Kathryn, and Michaela from Thursday, Apr. 10 to Sunday, Apr. 13. We took a train from Berlin to Warsaw, which took about six hours, stayed there for a night and the next day we took a train to Krakow at around 8 PM. It turned out to be a great trip, beautiful cities that really rebounded after the war -- Warsaw in particular, since it was about 96% destroyed, whereas I think Krakow got off easier -- interesting sights, and many lovely people, both in personality and appearance. This was surprising to us and probably is to everyone else who hasn't been, since the stereotypes of destruction, depression, and terrible fashion haunt many of these eastern European countries. It also helped that the weather was gorgeous, much nicer than in Germany during the same period of time.

While we were surprised to see so many really attractive people, we became even more surprised as we ate at more restaurants. Why? Because when every meal includes lard, you expect to see some lardbutts running -- or lumbering -- along. There were no lardbutts, people. Despite finding lard sprinkled liberally on everything we ate, despite eating a leg of pork in an aspic mold (link goes to a definition), despite being served as a starter some slices of bread with a BUCKET of LARD as a spread (link goes to Kathryn's blog post with pictures of Poland, including Polish food if you scroll down), these Poles were not fat. How do they do it?

Maybe they don't sleep much...that's a good way to lose weight, right? While I was in Poland, I had multiple nightmares each night. I rarely dream anymore, whether good or bad, but on at least two nights I had nightmares which I was able to clearly remember. Since I wasn't doing anything else out of the ordinary, I have to assume that what was fueling my night terrors was the addition of large quantities of pure animal fat to my diet. I'm pretty sure the aspic, which was the first night in Warsaw, started this. If you've never had aspic, the definition I linked to won't do it justice. The horror of forcing this thing down my gullet...Ben tried a bite and refused to chew and swallow it, preferring to spit it in a napkin. I couldn't manage all of it, but half was clearly enough to damage my mind. And while the bucket of lard-spread turned out not to taste like anything as far as we could tell, it definitely was one of the least appetizing buckets I've ever seen.

Don't get me wrong -- most of the food we ate was quite delicious, especially pierogies, and I suppose Polish people don't eat this traditional stuff every meal the way we did. Definitely keep an open mind and try stuff, especially since the most hilarious reactions came from people realizing they needed to get the lard out of their mouths NOW. But don't overdo it unless you packed a night light and a teddy bear.

Stalling

I'm already breaking my resolution to post more frequently, especially things like trip details and pictures, but hopefully that'll change in a day or two. It's just that I'm currently writing a "Personal Statement" for a summer job application, and I'm trying to make it as interesting and funny as possible. I might not be either of those things in reality, but I sure will sound like it on paper, gosh darnit! Anyway, I'm saving my creative energies for this application, which leaves very little for blog posts and pics. What's the point of either if I can't slap my special brand of humor on them before I let them run free in the internet?

I should be done soon and then I can resume writing and posting things for your benefit -- unless you're addicted to the internet, at which point I'll just be enabling your addiction, which is not beneficial. Seek professional help. For now, check out this awesome game: Picross. If a child asks you where Picrosses come from, you can explain that when a Sudoku puzzle and a Minesweeper board really love each other, sometimes they express their love physically. Nine months later, out comes Picross, which is a really cool game where you fill in boxes to reveal a pretty picture. Bonus: it can be played on the Wii, too.

And A Happy New Year

Did you make any resolutions? The reason I ask is so I can get a pool going for how long it'll be before you break those resolutions. Tell me quickly, before you gorge yourself on cookie dough! (I'm looking at you, Alena.)

What else is the new year about, other than resolving and then failing to better oneself?

Is it a time for revamping? My room could use some revamping. I swear it gets messier every day. And what's with all this dust? It's as if dust accumulates even when I'm not here. Who's dumping their dust on all my stuff when I'm not here? That's breaking and entering. I'll overlook it if you'll come take your dust back.

Is it a time for rewriting? For a month I'll be writing down the wrong date when signing documents, but I don't usually notice in time to rewrite it.

Is it a time of renewal? I returned everything to the library, so that can't be it. Maybe I should renew my Breakfast Club membership (I was the stuck-up chick).

Is it a time for refreshing? I refresh my inbox far too often as it is. If I checked my apartment mail slot as often as I do my email inbox, the receptionist would demand a restraining order.

Okay, maybe it's just a time for resolving. I resolve to post more often -- no more of this "two weeks of vacation" stuff. If I have to stay home with my internet, rambling insanely about how many dishes I have to wash from my breakfast of granola and yogurt (two) instead of traveling, so be it. Who cares if I have a nice Christmas with relatives and then a fun New Year's in Italy if I'm not here to chronicle it? If every minute detail doesn't end up clogging the blogosphere, how can it even matter? (Clog: fun word, ugly shoe. Clogosphere: fun word, not that spherical.)

It can't. I have failed you, loyal readers (reader?).

But No More!

From now on, expect a direct link-up to my brain. If I think it, it will appear here {mental note: Fraggle Rock...where are they now? Possible: enslaved by Mole Man. Probable: cave-in, no survivors}. If it happens, it will appear here (once I learn to draw everything around me in ASCII pictures: ~(_8o(|) <--That's Homer, for a start. Give it time).

Or maybe a new year means returning to the original plan, which is to give you a quick rundown of some highlights of the last couple of weeks, eventually post some pictures with some absurd captions, and then resume a strict posting schedule of "eh, every other day or so." Of course the more feedback I receive, the more likely I am to post. It's fun for me to know people read this stuff, even if it's not fun for people to read this stuff (I give and I give and it turns out it's all for me. Mwahaha).

Speaking of the original plan, I forgot the step where I still have to feed myself. Turns out the highlights of my trip will have to wait until after I make dinner or maybe even until tomorrowish. I'm a bad man. Using Homer once again, I'll sum up the situation: "Some people never change. Or, they quickly change and then quickly change back." Eat my shorts.