David thus wins the spontaneously declared 'fifth Teletubby contest' unless someone submits a better entry.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Witler Winner!
Great shame to David Leland, who was so carried away with my suggestion of a fifth Teletubby that he went out and made up his own image of said Teletubby, complete with his own face as Hitler! Terrible! Look at this:
David thus wins the spontaneously declared 'fifth Teletubby contest' unless someone submits a better entry.
David thus wins the spontaneously declared 'fifth Teletubby contest' unless someone submits a better entry.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Tele Tübbingen
I am back from another enjoyable trip to Tübingen. This one was a lot more intense, since it was mostly a work trip. I had the terrific honor of meeting with Niels Birbaumer for a couple hours to discuss ideas for grant proposals, and was otherwise busy working on that. But, I also got to meet some new people in his lab and hang out with friends from before, mostly the soon-to-be-doctor Femke Nijboer, who seemed freakishly calm and well adjusted for a late stage PhD student.
The train ride was fun and pretty, so much so that the train's speed was almost regrettable. The countryside looked so lush and inviting that I thought - do we really need to tear through this at 3 miles a minute? Would it be so absurd to just stop? Everyone in the train gets off, rolls in the grass, climbs pine trees, wades about the muddy river, and maybe shares some picnic baskets? Yes. Yes, that would be absurd, and would surely incur vicious mocking on this blog, enough to badly demoralize several ducks. But I would also acknowledge it as unique, certainly concordant with the strict tenets of flaneur.
Sunday featured a huge event near the main train station. It is called Hauptbanhof, which coincidentally translates as 'main train station.'
Relevant line from Airplane!:
There's an emergency in the cockpit!
The cockpit?! What is it?
It's a room in the front of the plane where the pilots sit, but that's not important right now.
This exchange plagiarizes Lewis Carroll, but is still funny.
The event was sponsored by a German kids' TV channel called KIKA and included a stage with four dancing Teletubbies. Behind that was a huge screen presenting the ubiquitous Teletubby background - rolling grassy hills with flowers and bunnies, and an occasional segue to a sun with a laughing baby face. I found the background quite peaceful, although the show is meant for kids and teens on acid. I then realized that it was in fact quite well tested with adults: remove the flowers, bunnies, and baby Apollo, and you have the default background of Windows XP. Hm. Perhaps, just as Disneyland is a huge and psychologically brilliant scam to impress happy associations on kids so they forever love Disney, Teletubbies is a secret tool to instill a sense of childlike calm and trust in the Windows background. Indeed, the red Teletubby looks kinda like Bill Gates, and has a nerdy air about him.
While talking with a few people in the crowd, I asked if they were familiar with the fuss that Falwell created a few years ago with his suppository supposition that the purple teletubby (Tinky Winky) is gay. This stemmed from Falwell's view that purple is a gay color and the triangle above his head is a gay symbol. (Oddly, he voiced no suggestion that the name might be a giveaway. Hence we can assume that he considers Tinky Winky an appropriately manly, Christian name.) Indeed, the Germans had heard of this and thought it very funny. I thought it would be even funnier to dress up as a black Teletubby, with a little Hitler moustache and a swastika above my head. What the hell are the other four actors going to do to me? Kick my ass? Dressed up as Teletubbies? And it's safe to assume the typical Teletubby actor doesn't moonlight as a cage fighter. With me wearing a padded costume, I doubt I would get badly injured. Plus I would act quite inconspicuous. Teletubby dancing looks really easy, almost as simple as the dancing you see in most clubs. I could do that, and just throw in the occasional Nazi salute. And maybe the hills in the background would periodically feature a Panzer behind a hill, or replace baby Apollo with Goebels, or show people practicing darts or watching Triumph of the Will. Rather than Tinky Winky, I could be called Tinkolf Adolf or Happy Heil or Dipsy the Inferior Jew. I really think the German government does not adequately appreciate me nor my suggestions. First they blow off my new and improved German language, and now they don't even thank me for my latest idea to subtly popularize their imminent darttrooperblitz. No wonder they keep losing. Perhaps I should approach the French.
The train ride was fun and pretty, so much so that the train's speed was almost regrettable. The countryside looked so lush and inviting that I thought - do we really need to tear through this at 3 miles a minute? Would it be so absurd to just stop? Everyone in the train gets off, rolls in the grass, climbs pine trees, wades about the muddy river, and maybe shares some picnic baskets? Yes. Yes, that would be absurd, and would surely incur vicious mocking on this blog, enough to badly demoralize several ducks. But I would also acknowledge it as unique, certainly concordant with the strict tenets of flaneur.
Sunday featured a huge event near the main train station. It is called Hauptbanhof, which coincidentally translates as 'main train station.'
Relevant line from Airplane!:
There's an emergency in the cockpit!
The cockpit?! What is it?
It's a room in the front of the plane where the pilots sit, but that's not important right now.
This exchange plagiarizes Lewis Carroll, but is still funny.
The event was sponsored by a German kids' TV channel called KIKA and included a stage with four dancing Teletubbies. Behind that was a huge screen presenting the ubiquitous Teletubby background - rolling grassy hills with flowers and bunnies, and an occasional segue to a sun with a laughing baby face. I found the background quite peaceful, although the show is meant for kids and teens on acid. I then realized that it was in fact quite well tested with adults: remove the flowers, bunnies, and baby Apollo, and you have the default background of Windows XP. Hm. Perhaps, just as Disneyland is a huge and psychologically brilliant scam to impress happy associations on kids so they forever love Disney, Teletubbies is a secret tool to instill a sense of childlike calm and trust in the Windows background. Indeed, the red Teletubby looks kinda like Bill Gates, and has a nerdy air about him.
While talking with a few people in the crowd, I asked if they were familiar with the fuss that Falwell created a few years ago with his suppository supposition that the purple teletubby (Tinky Winky) is gay. This stemmed from Falwell's view that purple is a gay color and the triangle above his head is a gay symbol. (Oddly, he voiced no suggestion that the name might be a giveaway. Hence we can assume that he considers Tinky Winky an appropriately manly, Christian name.) Indeed, the Germans had heard of this and thought it very funny. I thought it would be even funnier to dress up as a black Teletubby, with a little Hitler moustache and a swastika above my head. What the hell are the other four actors going to do to me? Kick my ass? Dressed up as Teletubbies? And it's safe to assume the typical Teletubby actor doesn't moonlight as a cage fighter. With me wearing a padded costume, I doubt I would get badly injured. Plus I would act quite inconspicuous. Teletubby dancing looks really easy, almost as simple as the dancing you see in most clubs. I could do that, and just throw in the occasional Nazi salute. And maybe the hills in the background would periodically feature a Panzer behind a hill, or replace baby Apollo with Goebels, or show people practicing darts or watching Triumph of the Will. Rather than Tinky Winky, I could be called Tinkolf Adolf or Happy Heil or Dipsy the Inferior Jew. I really think the German government does not adequately appreciate me nor my suggestions. First they blow off my new and improved German language, and now they don't even thank me for my latest idea to subtly popularize their imminent darttrooperblitz. No wonder they keep losing. Perhaps I should approach the French.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Mock Duck
I am now healed from my various afflictions, and by unserendipitous coincidence I finally have insurance. I am still not totally settled in; no new business cards and my apartment remains in mid renovation. And it's kinda fun that way. The apartment does have running water, a shower, and washing machine, which is much better than before.
The new apartment features a 35 minute commute each way each day. This is about as long as my commute in San Diego, but it is different being a streetcar commuter. If you're lucky, you get a decent seat and can zone out with an article, book, or crossword puzzle. The whole commute is just background buzz to me, since I can't understand anything except the occasional interruption of Spanish or English. I helped a few damsels in distress in both languages, but the problem with meeting foreigners on streetcars is they tend to be stressed and leaving.
My main professional development lately is the utter collapse of NextFest, which wasted about 2 weeks of my work and killed my trip to Cali this summer. I am sufficiently annoyed about this to move on to another topic. We are scheduled to go to Tübingen this week to visit Niels Birbaumer, but this is also uncertain due to a train strike. At the moment, my trip to SD in November remains definite, and there's some chance of San Fran in April 08.
Last Wednesday, I organized the first movie night here for our group at IAT. It went pretty well, about 10 of us showed up. People chipped in for beer and snacks, and we projected movies onto a screen using a projector (called a Beamer here in Germany, unlike any of their cars). I sent out an email and allowed people to vote on movie choices, and then Bernhard and I threw in our two votes to resolve an ugly tie between Airplane and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. The former won, along with Life of Brian. The latter is scheduled for next month's movie night along with Spinal Tap, which I suspect will win the voting. I now reguarly interrupt labbies with 'Surely you can't be serious,' and haggle trivialities.
The weather has remained mercurial, but sunny for the last several days. There is a river near my new apartment and I went there and lay out in the sun. Not bad at all, generally green and pleasant. Ducks are quite prevalent, and loud. After half an hour, I promised one of them that if he did not shut up, I would mock him. Which bird sounds less noble than this braying quack? The bold eagle, cooing dove, or even creative cockatiel sound better. Even the martial rooster emits a cry that, while shrill and annoying, can serve as a useful wake-up call. But ducks always sound like they're mocking, posturing, or complaining. It is unsurprising that the grumpiest cartoon character in both Disney and Warner Brothers is a duck. And lets not forget which species' name is sometimes preceded by Crispy, Roast, or Peking. Bitch.
Though no skunks have quacked at me lately, I shall also mock Pepe LePew, the suave French Warner Brothers skunk that always chased the black cat who somehow got a white stripe on her back. The black cat inevitably fled, and the skunk hopped faggily after with a self satisfied smirk. As a kid, I didn't realize how comically racist Pepe was. What an excoriating assault on Frenchmen! The only French Warner Bros cartoon character skinks horribly, thinks he's incredibly suave but is in fact so repulsive that women flee, seems totally unaware that he stinks, is so stupid he can't distinguish a member of his own species from a cat, utterly disregards rejection, and believes in pursuing resistant women until they succumb from exhaustion.
I made good progress on my latest book, Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain. This book is enjoyable for many reasons, not the least of which is that Twain is happy for a change. He is normally so bitingly, brilliantly bitter that even the least empathetic cringe through his vicious whining. But this was his first major work, when he still manifested some trappings of youthful enthusiasm. He was a bold and curious man, explaining the adventurousness he projects onto characters in his later novels. Reading him humbles my efforts to relay observations from my adventures abroad. At least I can linguistically dominate ducks and skunks.
The new apartment features a 35 minute commute each way each day. This is about as long as my commute in San Diego, but it is different being a streetcar commuter. If you're lucky, you get a decent seat and can zone out with an article, book, or crossword puzzle. The whole commute is just background buzz to me, since I can't understand anything except the occasional interruption of Spanish or English. I helped a few damsels in distress in both languages, but the problem with meeting foreigners on streetcars is they tend to be stressed and leaving.
My main professional development lately is the utter collapse of NextFest, which wasted about 2 weeks of my work and killed my trip to Cali this summer. I am sufficiently annoyed about this to move on to another topic. We are scheduled to go to Tübingen this week to visit Niels Birbaumer, but this is also uncertain due to a train strike. At the moment, my trip to SD in November remains definite, and there's some chance of San Fran in April 08.
Last Wednesday, I organized the first movie night here for our group at IAT. It went pretty well, about 10 of us showed up. People chipped in for beer and snacks, and we projected movies onto a screen using a projector (called a Beamer here in Germany, unlike any of their cars). I sent out an email and allowed people to vote on movie choices, and then Bernhard and I threw in our two votes to resolve an ugly tie between Airplane and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. The former won, along with Life of Brian. The latter is scheduled for next month's movie night along with Spinal Tap, which I suspect will win the voting. I now reguarly interrupt labbies with 'Surely you can't be serious,' and haggle trivialities.
The weather has remained mercurial, but sunny for the last several days. There is a river near my new apartment and I went there and lay out in the sun. Not bad at all, generally green and pleasant. Ducks are quite prevalent, and loud. After half an hour, I promised one of them that if he did not shut up, I would mock him. Which bird sounds less noble than this braying quack? The bold eagle, cooing dove, or even creative cockatiel sound better. Even the martial rooster emits a cry that, while shrill and annoying, can serve as a useful wake-up call. But ducks always sound like they're mocking, posturing, or complaining. It is unsurprising that the grumpiest cartoon character in both Disney and Warner Brothers is a duck. And lets not forget which species' name is sometimes preceded by Crispy, Roast, or Peking. Bitch.
Though no skunks have quacked at me lately, I shall also mock Pepe LePew, the suave French Warner Brothers skunk that always chased the black cat who somehow got a white stripe on her back. The black cat inevitably fled, and the skunk hopped faggily after with a self satisfied smirk. As a kid, I didn't realize how comically racist Pepe was. What an excoriating assault on Frenchmen! The only French Warner Bros cartoon character skinks horribly, thinks he's incredibly suave but is in fact so repulsive that women flee, seems totally unaware that he stinks, is so stupid he can't distinguish a member of his own species from a cat, utterly disregards rejection, and believes in pursuing resistant women until they succumb from exhaustion.
I made good progress on my latest book, Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain. This book is enjoyable for many reasons, not the least of which is that Twain is happy for a change. He is normally so bitingly, brilliantly bitter that even the least empathetic cringe through his vicious whining. But this was his first major work, when he still manifested some trappings of youthful enthusiasm. He was a bold and curious man, explaining the adventurousness he projects onto characters in his later novels. Reading him humbles my efforts to relay observations from my adventures abroad. At least I can linguistically dominate ducks and skunks.
Monday, July 30, 2007
bull wash
Here is an addendum to the Salzburg trip.
During the boat tour, I learned that boats used to transport salt along the river Salzach. Because salt was so valuable, these boats were often attacked by pirates. Hence, the boatmen were armed. Further, they only hired non-swimmers, to prevent them from abandoning their posts. They have a holiday every year to honor the nonswimmers who died during pirate attacks and accidents.
Another tale ... in 1525, the fortress Hohensalzburg was besieged by peasants. The peasants were revolting over their usual petty grievances, probably including insurance, better security, life boats, and paid swim classes for boatmen. The fortressmates were running out of food and were close to surrender. Then the commander had an idea. He marched the last remaining ox around the parapets. That night, they washed that ox and painted him black, and then marched him around again the next day. Oh no, the attackers thought, they have 2 oxen up there! They must have lots of food! They can hold out forever! And so the besiegers dispersed to their lives of 0 vacation days per year and only an 8 hour workday on Sundays. Hence the Salzburgers are now called Stierwashers.
Two tales I heard in Salzburg.
This would not be funny but for efforts to verify it online. I found nothing about the first tale, though I did see a T shirt for sale about the Salzach pirates that seems to corroborate that story. As to the second one, here are some other bloggers' memories.
http://www.vu.union.edu/~bajaja/Germany/Salzburg17March2007/festunghohensalzburg5.html
There was some story of how during some battle the people of Salzburg didn't want to let the enemy know they were starving, so they painted their last ox and paraded it out into the city to make it appear as if they still had livestock.
NO! Now come on, think about this. Wouldn't an unpainted ox convey the same message? If you paraded it through the city, wouldn't some besieger just take your ox, and kill you? Sheesh. Try the tour sober next time. Hint: If you are looking for Oktoberfest in Munich, you're too far south.
http://www.thekua.com/sista/gallery/thumbnails.php?album=6
According to the sign (in around 1525) Salzburg was besieged by the enemy. Despite all efforts to conserve food very soon all that was left was one ox. An idea was born to paint the ox different colours on each side to parade along the fortress parapet to show the enemy that the people of Salzburg were not going to run out of food for a long time. The enemy gave up their fight and Salzburg were free. Ever since the people of Salzburg have been known as "Oxen Washers" (Stierwascher).
What?! What kind of plan is this? You parade the ox around clockwise one day, then counterclockwise the next? Your people are starving! Get with it!
http://www.norseaodyssey.com/Our_Travels/Europe/Austria/Salzburg/salzburg.htm
One of the interesting points is this half brown - half black ox in one of the courtyards. The story goes that sometime around 1525 the fortress was besieged by an enemy army. It lasted long enough that the residents were down to their last ox. Wanting to show their strength, they washed and painted their last ox black on one side, leaving the other side brown. They then paraded the ox along the ramparts, back and forth so the enemy could see they were not near starvation. The enemy was fooled, believing the citizens had enough food to last a very long time and gave up the siege. The residents washed the ox one last time and ever since then the people of Salzburg have been known as the “stierwaschers” or oxen-washers.
No, no, no! Same problem! Just because the statue is half black and half brown, you think it's some kind of chimera like the blackwhite quack from that old Star Trek episode!! Pay attention to the tour guide next time! Or just stay in Amsterdam.
http://hannahefrank.blogspot.com/2006_05_21_archive.html
Apparently an invading army was laying seige to the Hohensalzburg once upon a time. The situation inside the fortress got so bad that they were eventually down to just one ox to eat. To try to convince the seigers that they were doing fine, they paraded this one ox up and down the walls of the fortress, then painted it black and did it again, trying to convince them that they had more to eat than they actually had. The plan worked and the invading army left. Who knew? So now there is a random half-black and half-brown ox inside the Hohensalzburg.
Huh. Aside from misspelling siege, this is mostly correct. No fun.
http://www.francistapon.com/europe/austria.htm
"Let's paint our last cow blue and parade it around the walls so they can see it."
"Sounds stupid, boss...."
"Shut up, you fool! The next day, we wash up the cow and paint it green and show it off."
"What's the point, your worship?"
"You buffoon!! Don't you see!? If we keep that up and keep showing them different colored cows, they'll think we have tons of cows left! Duh!!!"
Believe it or not, just like the bells that ring 12 times at 11, this silly idea worked too. The peasants weren't willing to it stick out through the winter, so they split.
I appreciate the effort at satiric dialog. I wonder how many cows it would take to have a ton of cow. Duh!!!
http://www.ellisnz.com/2005/06/thursday-16-june-2005-salzburg.html
I forgot to explain why "Ox-painters" is the nickname for residents of Salzburg.
The fortress of Hohensalzburg was under seige and although the residents had been conserving food they were down to the last Ox. They were faced with three options:
- Starve,
- Repel the invaders, or
- Surrender.
To show the invaders that they still had plenty of food they paraded the last ox in sight of the enemy. The then painted it another colour, paraded it again. They kept repainted in the ox and parading it until the invaders thought that the foodstocks were still plentiful and they withdrew rather than wait for the Salzburgers to be starved out.
No! They only painted it once. Now, this did seem a weakness of the original story, since two heads (of cattle) are not much better than one. They did not have an unlimited supply of paint, nor potential ox colors, genders, or other identifying parameters.
"Hey, Johannes!"
"Yeah, Gerhardt?"
"Look! It's another ox! He's just coming on to the parapet now!"
"Huh. I guess they got lots of food."
"But this one - he's pink!"
"So?"
"And the one yesterday, and last Thursday - he's the exact same color as the fortress walls!"
"So?"
"And all seventeen of them - they all had that limp in the left foreleg!"
"Yeah?"
"And they're all male!"
"Yeah. Of course. They're all male. We're speaking German."
"Oh yeah."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Let's go home."
I found other blogs that said the siegers were Turks or that the cow was simply washed without repainting.
Moral: When life is at steak, don't be an ox.
During the boat tour, I learned that boats used to transport salt along the river Salzach. Because salt was so valuable, these boats were often attacked by pirates. Hence, the boatmen were armed. Further, they only hired non-swimmers, to prevent them from abandoning their posts. They have a holiday every year to honor the nonswimmers who died during pirate attacks and accidents.
Another tale ... in 1525, the fortress Hohensalzburg was besieged by peasants. The peasants were revolting over their usual petty grievances, probably including insurance, better security, life boats, and paid swim classes for boatmen. The fortressmates were running out of food and were close to surrender. Then the commander had an idea. He marched the last remaining ox around the parapets. That night, they washed that ox and painted him black, and then marched him around again the next day. Oh no, the attackers thought, they have 2 oxen up there! They must have lots of food! They can hold out forever! And so the besiegers dispersed to their lives of 0 vacation days per year and only an 8 hour workday on Sundays. Hence the Salzburgers are now called Stierwashers.
Two tales I heard in Salzburg.
This would not be funny but for efforts to verify it online. I found nothing about the first tale, though I did see a T shirt for sale about the Salzach pirates that seems to corroborate that story. As to the second one, here are some other bloggers' memories.
http://www.vu.union.edu/~bajaja/Germany/Salzburg17March2007/festunghohensalzburg5.html
There was some story of how during some battle the people of Salzburg didn't want to let the enemy know they were starving, so they painted their last ox and paraded it out into the city to make it appear as if they still had livestock.
NO! Now come on, think about this. Wouldn't an unpainted ox convey the same message? If you paraded it through the city, wouldn't some besieger just take your ox, and kill you? Sheesh. Try the tour sober next time. Hint: If you are looking for Oktoberfest in Munich, you're too far south.
http://www.thekua.com/sista/gallery/thumbnails.php?album=6
According to the sign (in around 1525) Salzburg was besieged by the enemy. Despite all efforts to conserve food very soon all that was left was one ox. An idea was born to paint the ox different colours on each side to parade along the fortress parapet to show the enemy that the people of Salzburg were not going to run out of food for a long time. The enemy gave up their fight and Salzburg were free. Ever since the people of Salzburg have been known as "Oxen Washers" (Stierwascher).
What?! What kind of plan is this? You parade the ox around clockwise one day, then counterclockwise the next? Your people are starving! Get with it!
http://www.norseaodyssey.com/Our_Travels/Europe/Austria/Salzburg/salzburg.htm
One of the interesting points is this half brown - half black ox in one of the courtyards. The story goes that sometime around 1525 the fortress was besieged by an enemy army. It lasted long enough that the residents were down to their last ox. Wanting to show their strength, they washed and painted their last ox black on one side, leaving the other side brown. They then paraded the ox along the ramparts, back and forth so the enemy could see they were not near starvation. The enemy was fooled, believing the citizens had enough food to last a very long time and gave up the siege. The residents washed the ox one last time and ever since then the people of Salzburg have been known as the “stierwaschers” or oxen-washers.
No, no, no! Same problem! Just because the statue is half black and half brown, you think it's some kind of chimera like the blackwhite quack from that old Star Trek episode!! Pay attention to the tour guide next time! Or just stay in Amsterdam.
http://hannahefrank.blogspot.com/2006_05_21_archive.html
Apparently an invading army was laying seige to the Hohensalzburg once upon a time. The situation inside the fortress got so bad that they were eventually down to just one ox to eat. To try to convince the seigers that they were doing fine, they paraded this one ox up and down the walls of the fortress, then painted it black and did it again, trying to convince them that they had more to eat than they actually had. The plan worked and the invading army left. Who knew? So now there is a random half-black and half-brown ox inside the Hohensalzburg.
Huh. Aside from misspelling siege, this is mostly correct. No fun.
http://www.francistapon.com/europe/austria.htm
"Let's paint our last cow blue and parade it around the walls so they can see it."
"Sounds stupid, boss...."
"Shut up, you fool! The next day, we wash up the cow and paint it green and show it off."
"What's the point, your worship?"
"You buffoon!! Don't you see!? If we keep that up and keep showing them different colored cows, they'll think we have tons of cows left! Duh!!!"
Believe it or not, just like the bells that ring 12 times at 11, this silly idea worked too. The peasants weren't willing to it stick out through the winter, so they split.
I appreciate the effort at satiric dialog. I wonder how many cows it would take to have a ton of cow. Duh!!!
http://www.ellisnz.com/2005/06/thursday-16-june-2005-salzburg.html
I forgot to explain why "Ox-painters" is the nickname for residents of Salzburg.
The fortress of Hohensalzburg was under seige and although the residents had been conserving food they were down to the last Ox. They were faced with three options:
- Starve,
- Repel the invaders, or
- Surrender.
To show the invaders that they still had plenty of food they paraded the last ox in sight of the enemy. The then painted it another colour, paraded it again. They kept repainted in the ox and parading it until the invaders thought that the foodstocks were still plentiful and they withdrew rather than wait for the Salzburgers to be starved out.
No! They only painted it once. Now, this did seem a weakness of the original story, since two heads (of cattle) are not much better than one. They did not have an unlimited supply of paint, nor potential ox colors, genders, or other identifying parameters.
"Hey, Johannes!"
"Yeah, Gerhardt?"
"Look! It's another ox! He's just coming on to the parapet now!"
"Huh. I guess they got lots of food."
"But this one - he's pink!"
"So?"
"And the one yesterday, and last Thursday - he's the exact same color as the fortress walls!"
"So?"
"And all seventeen of them - they all had that limp in the left foreleg!"
"Yeah?"
"And they're all male!"
"Yeah. Of course. They're all male. We're speaking German."
"Oh yeah."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Let's go home."
I found other blogs that said the siegers were Turks or that the cow was simply washed without repainting.
Moral: When life is at steak, don't be an ox.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Round and round
I ate brunch today at the Alex Cafe, a hip three-level joint near the city center. It had a view of one of the main city squares, which happened to feature a play called the Bremer Musikanten. Imagine that! At the town center of Bremen, 200 meters from the main statue of the Brementown musicians, in an area surrounded by statues of them and giftshops rife with their likeness, the play they choose to present to the public happens to feature this fumbling foursome. The actors wore colorful costumes and did indeed sing very badly. When all four of them sang together, children laughed and clapped while their elders winced.
I could understand very little of the dialog, but it's not a complicated story. The kids seemed to follow it at least as well as I did. I continue to lose to the umlaut onslaught. They are insidious, looking very much like an a, o, or u, but sounding quite different. I was vanquished at the Battle of Chin's Asia Bistro last week, when I was sneak attacked by a stealth umlaut. There I was, sluggish and offguard after dinner, digging through my fortune cookie. The cagey Chinese waiter brought me the check, smiled, and walked away. The lack of a Bitte Shoen should have warned me. I read the fortune cookie, which said that I would have good luck. In German! That is just wrong! You can't have a Chinese fortune in German! Viel glück back at you, bitch! I almost ate one of those. Now gimme a proper American fortune!
Language affects cognition. 2 weeks ago, I was discussing the NextFest plan with my boss. An aggressive and elusive fly bugged us like only flies can. We failed in efforts to ignore it, kill it, or expel it. Out, out, damned spöt!! I referred to the fly as "it," while my boss kept calling it "she." Wow, that's pretty observant, boss, I thought. I can't even identify its gender if it's still. You can do it on the fly! But no, that is just how Germanspeakers think of the world. All flies are female, like all cats and trains. The brain is neutral.
A fourth gender, Satan, should be created for European washing machines. So far, the French, German, and English versions have all proved abysmal. In my old apartment complex, the wash cycle took over 2 hours. I would put in the clothes, pay one Euro, hit start, then start cooking while checking back every few minutes. Inevitably, I would finish my meal, wash the dishes, clean up my apartment, go to the store, read a couple articles, grow old, and die twice before laundry was done. I once sat in the laundry room to study its oddities. It would spin in one direction, then stop for a long time, then reverse direction. many times. The spin cycle takes far longer than American machines, yet gets clothes no drier. Round and round. Stop. dnour dna dnour. Stop. Spin spin spin. Stop. Stop. Pause. Wait for it. Wait. Longer. Wait ..... yup, I'm done. finally. Here ya go - oh! Psych! Nips Nips Nips. Stop. Stop. Don't even get your hopes up. Spin. Spin. Spin. Aaugh! Gimme back my clothes, you vicious little troll! They're way too small for you! Adding to the fun, Germans do not believe in dryers. They are available for sale, but people prefer stringers. You finish drying your clothes, hang them up, wait for a day, (repeat if it rains), then get your crunchy clothes.
I could understand very little of the dialog, but it's not a complicated story. The kids seemed to follow it at least as well as I did. I continue to lose to the umlaut onslaught. They are insidious, looking very much like an a, o, or u, but sounding quite different. I was vanquished at the Battle of Chin's Asia Bistro last week, when I was sneak attacked by a stealth umlaut. There I was, sluggish and offguard after dinner, digging through my fortune cookie. The cagey Chinese waiter brought me the check, smiled, and walked away. The lack of a Bitte Shoen should have warned me. I read the fortune cookie, which said that I would have good luck. In German! That is just wrong! You can't have a Chinese fortune in German! Viel glück back at you, bitch! I almost ate one of those. Now gimme a proper American fortune!
Language affects cognition. 2 weeks ago, I was discussing the NextFest plan with my boss. An aggressive and elusive fly bugged us like only flies can. We failed in efforts to ignore it, kill it, or expel it. Out, out, damned spöt!! I referred to the fly as "it," while my boss kept calling it "she." Wow, that's pretty observant, boss, I thought. I can't even identify its gender if it's still. You can do it on the fly! But no, that is just how Germanspeakers think of the world. All flies are female, like all cats and trains. The brain is neutral.
A fourth gender, Satan, should be created for European washing machines. So far, the French, German, and English versions have all proved abysmal. In my old apartment complex, the wash cycle took over 2 hours. I would put in the clothes, pay one Euro, hit start, then start cooking while checking back every few minutes. Inevitably, I would finish my meal, wash the dishes, clean up my apartment, go to the store, read a couple articles, grow old, and die twice before laundry was done. I once sat in the laundry room to study its oddities. It would spin in one direction, then stop for a long time, then reverse direction. many times. The spin cycle takes far longer than American machines, yet gets clothes no drier. Round and round. Stop. dnour dna dnour. Stop. Spin spin spin. Stop. Stop. Pause. Wait for it. Wait. Longer. Wait ..... yup, I'm done. finally. Here ya go - oh! Psych! Nips Nips Nips. Stop. Stop. Don't even get your hopes up. Spin. Spin. Spin. Aaugh! Gimme back my clothes, you vicious little troll! They're way too small for you! Adding to the fun, Germans do not believe in dryers. They are available for sale, but people prefer stringers. You finish drying your clothes, hang them up, wait for a day, (repeat if it rains), then get your crunchy clothes.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tread and circuses
After extensive paperwork, I managed to wrangle a 1 month membership at the local gym. After over 2 months without a serious workout, I was looking forward to getting back into the swing of things. I showed up at the fitness center and spoke to the gym attendant, who spoke decent english. He scrutinized me, then my paperwork, then me, then my passport, as if he would be shot if I fooled him. But, he's German, and I am used to this (hence bringing my passport to a fucking gym). He asked if I ever took a gym class. Yes, I replied, weight training and gym safety, at College of the Desert. I didn't mention that I was in high school at the time, but recalled the principles: do not lift more than you can handle, stretch a lot, warm up, drink water, follow proper form, etc. He still eyed me as I stretched some more and then began 20 minutes on the treadmill. Felt good. On to free weights. Since I was out of shape, I decided to avoid anything involving weights over my head. Nice, safe bicep curls. I tried curling the bar as a warm up, no problem. The attendant left, so I turned to the guy who seemed most knowledgeable (ie, the biggest), pointed to the bar, and asked, 'This weighs 20, um, ...' I couldn't translate pounds - of course not, I thought, they are on the metric system - so I repeated 20. He nodded. I put on a couple 5 pound weights, felt good. I added a 20 and another 5 to each side. The jolly giant asked if he could use it, I said sure. He grunted through a surprisingly short set, then offered it to me.
'Are you sure you can do this?'
'Yes. Two months ago, I could do this 15 times. It is only 80.'
'You are sure?' I might have been annoyed, but he seemed genuinely concerned. 'Yes,' I repeated as he dropped the dumbbell into my hands. 'I can do this.'
'No. No, you can't,' shrieked my left bicep as my left hand dropped the bar. 'He's right, you know,' added my right bicep unhelpfully, despite managing to maintain a grip. The left side of the bar arced downward. I managed to jump back just in time, since the iron pendulum would have liquified my left foot. The bar clanged loudly, entertaining the entire gym. I stood there, holding a smarterthanmebell in my right hand, confused. The giant gingerly relieved me of the bar. I braced for mockery.
'Are you OK?' he asked.
'Yes,' I lied. In fact, my left bicep and tendon were quite mad at me, plus my lower back and right hip. Nothing requiring medical attention. Estimated repair time, 1 week.
'You should not lift that much.' Note I may be mistranslating, but facial expression, context, and gesticulation go a long way. I had no snappy comeback; what could I say?
'I am sorry. I could lift that 2 months ago.'
The weight room attendant came over and glowered. 'You should not lift so much,' he said in english. 'That is not safe.'
'Thank you.'
'Why do you lift so much?'
'It is only 80 pounds.'
'Those are kilograms.'
Pause.
'Ah.'
Pause.
'You could hurt yourself.'
'Yes. You are right. That was a serious mistake. Thank you.'
'Do you need a doctor?'
'No.' I didn't mention that, due to the horrible Frau Palandt, who I have already stealthily villified twice in earlier blog entries, I have been uninsured for 2 months. Something to ponder when you stub your toe, get nettles, or pull muscles. 'I will go now. I am sorry.'
'Yes. Goodbye.'
While limping back to the lab, I pondered the cognitive science of it all. I knew Germany was on the metric system, and even considered that while trying to translate 'pounds.' Yet I failed to act accordingly. The human brain is exceptional at developing automaticity. If you usually drive home a certain way, and decide while leaving work to go elsewhere that requires a different turn near the end, you often end up at home before realizing you failed to execute a different plan. Had you been driving a completely different route, or been new to that route, that would not have happened. Old habits die hard. It is the price of skill.
For the record, I will never again attempt to curl over 175 pounds.
'Are you sure you can do this?'
'Yes. Two months ago, I could do this 15 times. It is only 80.'
'You are sure?' I might have been annoyed, but he seemed genuinely concerned. 'Yes,' I repeated as he dropped the dumbbell into my hands. 'I can do this.'
'No. No, you can't,' shrieked my left bicep as my left hand dropped the bar. 'He's right, you know,' added my right bicep unhelpfully, despite managing to maintain a grip. The left side of the bar arced downward. I managed to jump back just in time, since the iron pendulum would have liquified my left foot. The bar clanged loudly, entertaining the entire gym. I stood there, holding a smarterthanmebell in my right hand, confused. The giant gingerly relieved me of the bar. I braced for mockery.
'Are you OK?' he asked.
'Yes,' I lied. In fact, my left bicep and tendon were quite mad at me, plus my lower back and right hip. Nothing requiring medical attention. Estimated repair time, 1 week.
'You should not lift that much.' Note I may be mistranslating, but facial expression, context, and gesticulation go a long way. I had no snappy comeback; what could I say?
'I am sorry. I could lift that 2 months ago.'
The weight room attendant came over and glowered. 'You should not lift so much,' he said in english. 'That is not safe.'
'Thank you.'
'Why do you lift so much?'
'It is only 80 pounds.'
'Those are kilograms.'
Pause.
'Ah.'
Pause.
'You could hurt yourself.'
'Yes. You are right. That was a serious mistake. Thank you.'
'Do you need a doctor?'
'No.' I didn't mention that, due to the horrible Frau Palandt, who I have already stealthily villified twice in earlier blog entries, I have been uninsured for 2 months. Something to ponder when you stub your toe, get nettles, or pull muscles. 'I will go now. I am sorry.'
'Yes. Goodbye.'
While limping back to the lab, I pondered the cognitive science of it all. I knew Germany was on the metric system, and even considered that while trying to translate 'pounds.' Yet I failed to act accordingly. The human brain is exceptional at developing automaticity. If you usually drive home a certain way, and decide while leaving work to go elsewhere that requires a different turn near the end, you often end up at home before realizing you failed to execute a different plan. Had you been driving a completely different route, or been new to that route, that would not have happened. Old habits die hard. It is the price of skill.
For the record, I will never again attempt to curl over 175 pounds.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Ode to Joy
It is a whimsical Sunday morning for me. I have been reading 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,' by Jean-Dominique Bauby, a book as well written as its title. Bauby developed locked in syndrome. The former editor of Elle magazine suffered a brainstem stroke that left him unable to communicate except by moving one eyelid. He was cognitively intact, and thus like many patients I have worked with - plenty to say and no way to do so. So I say as my fingers glide gracelessly over this inefficient and unnatural interface, one that my research field will supplement and ultimately replace.
I was reading this book while on the streetcar this morning heading to the lab. It stopped three stops before the university, understandably; who the hell goes to a university at 7 AM on Sunday? I got off, annoyed, then further annoyed that my realization of the gift of a working motor system did not assuage my annoyance. I decided to cut through a pretty park, pondering the human attentional system. Why exactly can't people focus on more things at once? I am supposed to be an expert in this topic, at least from a cog neuro pserpective, and never could answer it. I type, while 'ignoring' other sensory input - the sun slowly climbing the ivy clad brick wall out the window to my right, the faint breeze nudging me through the window, the chair against my body, Bach's Fourth Brandenburg Concerto through my headphones, the cluttered desk around me - yet am aware of it all, and can shift attention there easily, but not while typing. Why not? What limits me? Basal ganglia? Thalamus? Anterior cingulate? Nah. I think it is more of a process than a region. And, like anything else, you can train attention. Why does practice help? Could 60 years of practicing Zen ever be approached, or replicated, by anything a neuroscientist could develop? Clever new therapies, drugs, implanted electrodes, TMS? Answer: no experience nor perspective nor life can be replicated, nor can the processing thereof. Otherwise, yes, but watch them side effects.
So I mused while trying to focus on details of trees, while also composing this blog entry, thinking about a grant app, and pondering which type of tea to make once I got here. Peppermint, I decided. Is that a peppermint plant? Out in the middle of a field in Germany? No, my right leg told me, those are stinging nettles. Pain grabs attention like a leash. Loud cursing escaped before I realized I should not yell. Then I realized I was in the middle of a park, thought further, and indulged in more eloquent cursing in three languages. The act of pondering cursing amused me. Just then, it started to rain. Did I mention I was in the middle of a park? I sprinted toward a tree, stubbing my left toe, and yet my mood had changed dramatically. I sat down under the tree, watched the rain, and laughed. My left toe and right leg hurt no less, but bothered me no more.
'There comes a time when the heaping-up of calamities brings on an uncontrollably nervous laughter - when, after a final blow from fate, we decide to treat it all as a joke.' -- Jean-Dominique Bauby, 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.'
His calamities were of course beyond mine, but it's all relative. Even relativity is relative. Lottery winners are often no happier than others; patients with locked in syndrome, according to Birbaumer's research, are often no less depressed. Hence Dad's old adage: 'Happiness is prior to conditions.' Maslow had his take, which (loosely interpreted) is that satisfaction stems from the ratio of accomplishments divided by goals. This leads to the odd conclusion that one can become happier by setting weaker goals. Oh, how I have tried to do this, and failed. Ambition is my most powerful addiction, a curse and salvation, empowering and inescapable. I can no more sit on my laurels than stinging nettles. I cannot remember being truly relaxed, nor at peace. I see pictures of me as a kid, and I can still see it in my eyes. Happy, sure; peaceful, no. Many things are relaxing - extreme physical exercise, hiking in Colorado and then lounging in the hot springs, the beach, strategic intoxication, friends, family, music, meditation, even work - but there's always something more, crawling under my skin, driving me on. I accept it. One of the most consistent themes in quotes across cultures is to know thyself, and to thine own self be true, and so here I am in the lab on Sunday morning. It is my church, which I attend with the devotion and sincerity of any believer. And I do believe in the power of science and knowledge, and always have. These become even more powerful when tempered with appropriate perspective; knowledge is a path to some knowledge, not the only path to all knowledge. To paraphrase PT Barnum (and gain some narrative closure with my musing on attention): You can understand some things some of the time, but not all things all of the time. George W Bush has a more telling adaptation: “You can fool some of the people all the time, and those are the ones you want to concentrate on.”
Show me a thoroughly satisfied man and I will show you a failure.
I find my greatest pleasure, and so my reward, in the work that precedes what the world calls success. -- Both quotes from Thomas A. Edison.
I was reading this book while on the streetcar this morning heading to the lab. It stopped three stops before the university, understandably; who the hell goes to a university at 7 AM on Sunday? I got off, annoyed, then further annoyed that my realization of the gift of a working motor system did not assuage my annoyance. I decided to cut through a pretty park, pondering the human attentional system. Why exactly can't people focus on more things at once? I am supposed to be an expert in this topic, at least from a cog neuro pserpective, and never could answer it. I type, while 'ignoring' other sensory input - the sun slowly climbing the ivy clad brick wall out the window to my right, the faint breeze nudging me through the window, the chair against my body, Bach's Fourth Brandenburg Concerto through my headphones, the cluttered desk around me - yet am aware of it all, and can shift attention there easily, but not while typing. Why not? What limits me? Basal ganglia? Thalamus? Anterior cingulate? Nah. I think it is more of a process than a region. And, like anything else, you can train attention. Why does practice help? Could 60 years of practicing Zen ever be approached, or replicated, by anything a neuroscientist could develop? Clever new therapies, drugs, implanted electrodes, TMS? Answer: no experience nor perspective nor life can be replicated, nor can the processing thereof. Otherwise, yes, but watch them side effects.
So I mused while trying to focus on details of trees, while also composing this blog entry, thinking about a grant app, and pondering which type of tea to make once I got here. Peppermint, I decided. Is that a peppermint plant? Out in the middle of a field in Germany? No, my right leg told me, those are stinging nettles. Pain grabs attention like a leash. Loud cursing escaped before I realized I should not yell. Then I realized I was in the middle of a park, thought further, and indulged in more eloquent cursing in three languages. The act of pondering cursing amused me. Just then, it started to rain. Did I mention I was in the middle of a park? I sprinted toward a tree, stubbing my left toe, and yet my mood had changed dramatically. I sat down under the tree, watched the rain, and laughed. My left toe and right leg hurt no less, but bothered me no more.
'There comes a time when the heaping-up of calamities brings on an uncontrollably nervous laughter - when, after a final blow from fate, we decide to treat it all as a joke.' -- Jean-Dominique Bauby, 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.'
His calamities were of course beyond mine, but it's all relative. Even relativity is relative. Lottery winners are often no happier than others; patients with locked in syndrome, according to Birbaumer's research, are often no less depressed. Hence Dad's old adage: 'Happiness is prior to conditions.' Maslow had his take, which (loosely interpreted) is that satisfaction stems from the ratio of accomplishments divided by goals. This leads to the odd conclusion that one can become happier by setting weaker goals. Oh, how I have tried to do this, and failed. Ambition is my most powerful addiction, a curse and salvation, empowering and inescapable. I can no more sit on my laurels than stinging nettles. I cannot remember being truly relaxed, nor at peace. I see pictures of me as a kid, and I can still see it in my eyes. Happy, sure; peaceful, no. Many things are relaxing - extreme physical exercise, hiking in Colorado and then lounging in the hot springs, the beach, strategic intoxication, friends, family, music, meditation, even work - but there's always something more, crawling under my skin, driving me on. I accept it. One of the most consistent themes in quotes across cultures is to know thyself, and to thine own self be true, and so here I am in the lab on Sunday morning. It is my church, which I attend with the devotion and sincerity of any believer. And I do believe in the power of science and knowledge, and always have. These become even more powerful when tempered with appropriate perspective; knowledge is a path to some knowledge, not the only path to all knowledge. To paraphrase PT Barnum (and gain some narrative closure with my musing on attention): You can understand some things some of the time, but not all things all of the time. George W Bush has a more telling adaptation: “You can fool some of the people all the time, and those are the ones you want to concentrate on.”
Show me a thoroughly satisfied man and I will show you a failure.
I find my greatest pleasure, and so my reward, in the work that precedes what the world calls success. -- Both quotes from Thomas A. Edison.
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