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.