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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
The missus and I are taking a momentous trip in a few months. We’re traveling to Munich, in Germany, for Oktoberfest.
I’m looking forward to the trip, of course — because, duh, OKTOBERFEST. My liver is already scouring the German real estate ads for a winter haus near a biergarten. But I’m also a little bit apprehensive, for two reasons.
One, we’re going in September. And while ‘Oktober‘ isn’t spelled quite the way I’m used to seeing, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t mean a whole different month in German. I’m trusting my wife that we’re going when there are really Oktoberfestivities happening — but if we get there while everything’s still fermenting and there’s nothing to drink but Reisling wine and Waterbrau, there could be a scene. My liver’s not afraid to smack a frau, is all I’m saying. I’ve seen it happen. It could get ugly.
“I couldn’t fight my way through the alphabet in German, and I can only count to four because my grandfather was a big fan of polka music.”
More troubling, though, is that I don’t know the first scrap of German. I’m told that we’ll be in some pretty touristy areas, and there’s a lot of English spoken, and that it’s not especially hard to get yourself a beer or six in Munich, even if you have to resort to charades.
(I suppose. But I’m only ordering drinks with hand signals as a very last resort. The last time I pointed at some ample-cleavaged foreign girl behind a bar and then down my throat, I got served with a restraining order.
To be fair, that was at a Hooters in Montreal, and the waitress was asking what we wanted for dessert. I’m just saying — misunderstandings happen. And innocent people get blamed.
Also, I never got that bartendress I was trying to order. I just hope they took it off the bill.)
The point is, this will be my third trip out of the country where I may need to rely on my barely-existent linguistic skills. And the first two didn’t go so well. Observe:
#1. France: Several years ago, my wife and I had the opportunity to spend a few days in Paris. We jumped at the chance — despite her somewhat limited French and my… well. I’m good for the occasional ‘bonjour!‘ or ‘ooh la la!‘, but that’s about the extent of my conversational French. So unless I’m talking with a four-year-old child or a deaf mute burlesque dancer, I’m basically useless.
So I spent the whole trip standing behind my wife nodding in agreement with whatever it was she was telling the people around us, whether or not I understood it or was even paying attention.
In other words, the same thing I do here at home. Only in a beret, and with an ‘ooh la la!‘ thrown in every once in a while. To this day, I have no idea what I ate at any of the restaurants, the name or plot of that movie we saw, or why all the staff in that one cafe kept coming over to pat me on the back. Either they were congratulating me on successfully mastering ‘bonjour!‘, or my wife told our waiter I was choking to death.
(Whichever it was, they made me spit bordeaux all over the table. I just hope they took it off the bill.)
So that was France, where I knew I had no chance. As opposed to:
#2. Mexico: A few years later, we got away for a week on the coast south of Cancun. It was again a very touristy area, with little need or pressure to speak the native Espanol.
But I know a little Spanish. I took two years of classes and like to think I retained at least a little bit of what I learned. I’m limited to a handful of verbs, sure — and only in the present tense, like some South of the Border Rain Hombre — but I’m not completely at sea with Spanish. Not like French.
Actually, what I picked up most of all in Spanish class is the inflection. Basically, I can read Spanish — or speak in my limited broken vocabulary — and sound somewhat more authentic than a complete novice. At least, to other non-native speakers. If there’s a lot of ambient noise, especially. Like a rock concert, or a jet turbine. Or if the non-native speaker is a deaf mute burlesque dancer.
That doesn’t mean I know what the hell I’m saying. It just sounds a little ‘Espanoly-er‘ than if, say, Fran Drescher were reciting the same words.
(For that matter, I’d sound a little more ‘Englishy-er’ and ‘humany-er’, too. I’m convinced the woman can communicate with fruit bats and ambulance sirens. But that’s beside the current point.)
I didn’t have a chance to whip out my Spanish skills until our next-to-last day at the hotel. I must have been having a good r-rrrrrrolling day when ordering my first morning margarrrrrrita, because the server looked at me closely and said:
‘Bueno, bueno. Se habla Espanol?‘
And I replied, in Spanish, that I do indeed speak a bit of Spanish, and I apologize for not conversing with him in the native tongue earlier in our visit, but to feel free to talk in whichever language is more comfortable for him going forward.
At least, that’s what I thought I said. When he backed slowly away and said, in over-enunciated English: ‘Ooooo-kay, sir. I’ll go get that drink now,’ I thought maybe I’d accidentally used a phrase more common in European Spanish, or not held a tilde quite long enough.
I discovered later that I’d just said a bunch of complete gibberish. Basically, I told him that if he didn’t get his horse out of my bathtub, my airplane sweatsock constipated Skeletor wedgie.
(Luckily, he didn’t take it the wrong way. But lord only knows what was in that drink he brought me. And I seriously doubt he took it off the bill.)
That was my first — and last — attempt to ‘go native’ while in sunny Mehico.
So now it’s Germany, and I can’t imagine it will go any better. I couldn’t fight my way through the alphabet in German, and I can only count to four because my grandfather was a big fan of polka music. That’s all I’ve got.
My entire experience with the German language boils down to this — when in doubt, exclaim ‘I know NOSSING!‘, and if pressed, try stringing little words together into unwieldy long Frankenbeasts because that seems to be their ‘thing’ in this tongue.
So if I’m in an autoaccidenten, I’ll be sure to have kleenenundervearan, and I can tell the traffikkoppensergeant on the scene that it was the other dumbkopfendouchendrivver‘s fault. I’m sure that will clear the whole situation right up.
And if not, I’ll point to the cop, and then point down my throat. As long as Septemberfestendrinken is going on, maybe I’ll at least get a fresh stein out of the mess. That’s all a boy and his brauenchuggen liver can ask for, really.
Permalink | No CommentsThere’s a dangerous game unfolding this week, and it involves my pants.
I think everyone would agree that it’s best when my pants are in no way the subject of controversy, scandal or undue attention. Sadly, that may not be preventable soon. Avert your eyes, if you must.
Here’s the thing: I’m fortunate enough to have a job where I can wear jeans to the office. And I currently have four pairs of “wearable” jeans.
(I’m also fortunate to have a wife who leaves for work a couple of hours before me, and is therefore unavailable to lend her opinion on what actually constitutes “wearable” on any given day.
Mustard stains smeared across the back of the ass, for instance, are certainly embarrassing. Also, regrettable. And if I’d accidentally sat any more squarely on that plate of hot dogs, I might have lost some type of food-related virginity that I’d prefer not to think too hard about.
But do the stains render the pants “unwearable”? At half past the ass-crack of dawn and late for a staff meeting, I say no. And if the missus is unavailable for comment… well, I guess that’s just how the Oscar Meyer squishes.
I never said I was proud. But it beats wearing slacks to work. I can live with that.)
So, four pairs of “wearable” pants. And some indeterminate number of pairs of “unwearable” pants — most of them rendered so because they’re small enough that if I tried to pull the legs up past my knees, all the bodily material there would shoot up toward my head to compensate. And the last thing I want is to give myself a ‘fatty nose’. Ergo, “unwearable“.
Of course, all of these pants fit at some point. They were in regular rotation in the past, but kept shrinking and shrinking and inexorably shrinking — yes, I know it doesn’t work that way; shaddup, you — until they finally had to be set aside.
But not thrown away, nor donated to Goodwill with the hand-me-aways, nor passed off to someone a little lighter in their Levis. No. There’s a rule to be followed with jeans that used to fit, and now almost fit — in a if-I-only-breathe-twice-per-day sort of way — and aren’t completely tattered or worn.
The rule is, you attempt to put on the jeans. Ten minutes, a failed try and two denim-burned thighs later, you fold the pants, stick them on a hanger in the back of the closet and say, to no one in particular:
‘Ah, I’ll get back into those some day.‘
(Often, the corollary to this rule is to console yourself with a pizza or a large plate of nachos. Because nobody said ‘some day’ was going to be fricking tomorrow. And all that heaving and stretching makes a guy pretty hungry.)
“What I’d appreciate is if Auntie Frida didn’t knit birthday sweaters that look like they were made by a one-eyed drunken seamstress using one macrame needle and a plastic spork”
So, I’ve followed the Rule of Unwearable Pants, more than once, and stuffed some number of pairs into the dark far reaches of the closet. How many pairs? I don’t know. Three? Five? Forty-seven? I only look back there when I need a tie for a wedding or one of the shirts I have to wear when Aunt Frida comes over, because she puts so much thought and effort into her birthday presents and the least I can do is show a little appreciation once in a while.
(Or so I’m told. What I’d appreciate is if Auntie Frida didn’t knit birthday sweaters that look like they were made by a one-eyed drunken seamstress using one macrame needle and a plastic spork.
Forty years I’ve been blowing out those goddamned candles. So far, no luck.)
Anyway, there are a bunch of old teensy jeans in the back of the closet, waiting patiently for me to liposuction myself or come down with consumption or dip my middle-aged ass in the Fountain of Skinny Firm-Cheeked Youth.
(Hopefully, they’re not holding their collective zipper-flied breath.)
Meanwhile, there are four pairs of acceptable (by my standards, anyway) workaday pants. Which leads to a load or two of mid-week laundry to keep a supply available, but otherwise all is well.
Except.
This evening I was going through my freshly-clean laundry and found… five pairs of pants. Not four. FIVE. This leads me to one of two conclusions:
A.) My pants have somehow gotten together and multiplied, bringing a bouncing baby pair of jeans into the world. This seems unlikely on a number of levels. For one, none of my pants have seemed pregnant lately. For that matter, I haven’t noticed anything resembling a uterus in any of the pairs — and I fold my own laundry, so I think I might notice that. I found a dollar bill in a back pocket earlier — but no uterus. So I think the ‘pantsemination’ theory is out, leaving:
2.) One of the ‘too-skinny’ pairs of jeans escaped and jumped the fence into the laundry.
Only I can’t tell which one by looking. And I’m not in the mood to go stuffing myself in each pair to see ‘which one of these things doesn’t belong (wrapped around my ass in polite society)’. So I folded them all, and left them out for wearing, starting first thing tomorrow morning.
In other words, I’m now playing Russian Roulette with my pants.
Maybe Monday’s pants will be good to go — baggy, roomy, maybe even with another dollar in a pocket somewhere. Or maybe they’ll be the shrink-a-dinks, and the EMTs will find me upside down with them around my ankles, dead of a pant-yanking aneurysm.
Or maybe it’ll be Tuesday. I’ll bravely drag myself out the door after cutting off circulation in my legs, and they’ll cut me out of the pants using the ‘fabric scissors of life’ on the sidewalk outside.
How about Wednesday — I’ve got a big meeting on Wednesday; that’d be par for the course. Maybe I’ll manage to scrape the pants on and get to the meeting, then I’ll take half the room out with me as they explode off and we go up in some sort of muffin top mushroom cloud.
Or it could be Thursday, or Friday — there’s no way to tell. I just know that there’s an extra ninety-percent or so of a pair of pants sitting on the bed, ticking like a hip-hugging boot-cut IED. Maybe I’ll survive the discovery, and maybe I won’t.
Sometime this week, there’ll either be a pair of blue jeans shoved waaay back deep in the closet — and maybe shackled down — or I’ll be declared dead of denim-related overexertion. Will it be me or the jeans? Man or pants? Denim or doofus? Only time — and an unsuspecting set of handmade riveted seams — will tell for sure.
But I wouldn’t stand too close to my ass this week. Just in case.
Permalink | No CommentsI’m not what you call an ‘early adopter’ when it comes to technology.
I’m not sure why, really. I like shiny things. I spend most waking hours taking turns glomming myself onto my cell phone, TV or one of several computers. And last I checked, I’m still rocking the testicles, which should compel me to make rash expensive decisions without regard to practicality, compatibility or whether the couch is comfortable to sleep on after my wife sees the bill.
And yet. Something keeps me — with the occasional exception — from rushing out to heave money at the Next Big Gadgety Thing That Will Make Your Life Oh-So-Much Better And Reduce Those Around You To Envious Sniveling Trolls Unfit To Kiss Your Very Boots (Which Can Be Bluetooth-Paired With This Wondrous Device For The Low Low Price Of $179.99, If You Think You’re Stud Enough To Rock It That Incredibly Mondo Hard).
(Maybe I should write copy for these people. I’d buy the thing I just described, and I don’t even know what the hell it is.
I had me at ‘envious sniveling trolls’.)
That’s not to say that I don’t gizmo up the joint. I bought a TiVo — around the time their third generation machines came out. And a Slingbox, when I got a deal online for the old kind to clear out the virtual shelves for the latest and greatest. I even game sometimes on my desktop computer. It’s just older games, to match the previous-gen hardware and leisurely pace I’ve adopted in catching up to 21st-century technology.
Being behind on games is a particular pain in the ass. Some of my friends have consoles, or play fancy new titles on the PC, and I just can’t even talk to them. I feel like a thawed-out caveman — like in that old movie with Brendan Fraser.
(Only with better hair and much less money and I would have totally punched Pauly Shore in the face for being such a douche four minutes after coming to so it would have been a much shorter movie, but otherwise exactly like that.
Only in now-times. And about computer games. Apart from that, the similarities are uncanny.)
I had a painful, aborted conversation just the other day with a couple of guys who game more new-school than I do:
Guy 1: Dude, Mass Effect 2 kicked ass. That was definitely Game of the Year material.
Guy 2: Yeah, it was all right. Red Dead Redemption blew it out of the water, though.
Guy 3: Seriously? I’d rather fire up StarCraft 2, even now. So much more fun to replay.
Me: Hey guys — we talking about games?
Guy 1: *sigh* Yeah. Look, I don’t know if you wanna–
Me: ‘Cause I just starting playing this kick-ass title. I’m barely sleeping playing this thing, man!
Guy 2: Oh, yeah? What you got?
Guy 1: No… don’t encourage him; he’s just–
Me: I’m talking Tetris, man! That shit is tight! Tight! You guys ever play it?
Guy 3: Yeah. Back in 1988, before polygons were invented. Get the hell outta here.
(Okay, it wasn’t really Tetris. That would be ridiculous.
It was Bejeweled. Don’t judge me, man. That shit is tight.)
“There are probably Wii vending machines in 7-11s now, dispensing third and fourth backup Wiis to anyone passing by with a few uncrinkled dollars.”
I’ve learned to accept that I’m behind the curve when it comes to gaming. But I recently realized that I’ve sunk to a new low, a dark and spiky pit from which my gaming cred may never recover.
I don’t have a Wii. I knew this already. Everyone in North America has a Wii, seemingly, except for me. They pass them out on Ellis Island to anyone who forgot to pack one for their trip to the U.S. Small children get Wiis these days instead of lollipops when the doc administers their booster shots. There are probably Wii vending machines in 7-11s now, dispensing third and fourth backup Wiis to anyone passing by with a few uncrinkled dollars.
I’m behind this curve. I know this. That’s not the low point.
Neither is this: My parents have a Wii. These are two people who let their hair down and zoomed into the whole ‘cordless phone’ craze maybe eighteen months ago. They own a cell phone. It makes calls — and nothing else — and it’s turned on only on the six days a year when they’re traveling. I suspect — though I can’t bring myself to ask to confirm it — that they still have an active AOL account. Tech-savvy, I wouldn’t call them. But they own a Wii. Thawed-out caveman’s parents 1, thawed-out caveman 0.
And that’s still not the low point. This is the low point:
My grandmother owns a Wii.
I’ve not only been lapped as a gamer by my own parents, now multiple generations are schooling me with more modern gaming rigs. I fully expect to fly home at Christmas to find sweet little grandma wrapped up in her shawl in the rocking chair — with a Bluetooth headset and an XBox 360, pwning chumps with headshots in Call of Duty 14, or whatever the hell they’re up to now.
Meanwhile, I’ll have graduated to Myst or Grand Theft Auto — the original Grand Theft Auto — and even granny will be all, ‘Dude. It’s a new millennium. Catch up already.‘
She’ll be doing this while pretending she’s some little cartoon chick in a virtual bowling alley surrounded by a bunch of legless twerps that look like they were drawn in crayon by a hyperactive nine-year-old kid. And still she’ll have technology on her side. Which makes it hurt even more.
Still, who knows whether this ‘Wii’ craze will ever really take off? Better to just stay on the sidelines and see how it plays out. Maybe in the meantime, I’ll pick up another, more established system — like a Sega Genesis or SNES. I bet on one of those, you can even play Pong in multiple colors. Now that shit would be TIGHT.
Permalink | 1 Comment(Yesterday was for Bugs & Cranks love, with the bittersweet story of Luis Salazar’s former eyeball in The Cost of Doing Baseball.
And now, look — look with your special eyes — at what’s going on today.)
I wouldn’t have thought that writing technical documentation would be an ‘angry‘ kind of job. Boring, maybe. Soul-sucking and nit-picky and dry, perhaps. But not so much angry.
Apparently, I was wrong.
This afternoon, I was sitting with an analyst in our group who was trying to pull information from a database we keep. He was using a statistical package called ‘R’.
(It’s called ‘R’ because statisticians are evidently intent on making the names of their tools as non-descriptive and web un-searchable as possible. I fully expect the next package to be named ‘4’ or ‘/’ or half a letter ‘K’.
Maybe I should have recognized this ‘angry’ thing before, come of think of it. Remind me not to turn my back on any statisticians wielding sharp pencils in future.)
Anyway, R. I noticed our guy had a web page open to the online documentation, and sat down to have a look. Right at the top of the section was an example query. Every database package in the world has these examples; they’re meant to illustrate how a real-life question would convert to the particular syntax used.
“We’re already doing statistics, for crissakes; our lives are clearly awful enough. Throw us a bone over here.”
So, for example, a lot of packages use examples that have to do with music. They assume that there are data tables with information on artists, CDs, songs and the like, and show how to ask the database pertinent and practical questions like:
“How many CDs were published in a given year?” or
“How many groupies were banged backstage during shows in the East Coast time zone?” or
“Who the fuck put Kenny G in here? Are you people shitting me? Kenny G? Really?“
(That last question has no good answer. This is why computers hate us from the bottoms of their cold heartless motherboards.)
But think about it. These examples could be about anything. They’re pulled out of thin air, and whatever things you can think of with relationships of some type to other things — which is, basically, everything — then that can be your example. And the more familiar and close to home the better — I’ve seen queries about movies and actors, beers and breweries, stores and products, zoos and animals, cars and drivers, breads and butters, Laurels and Hardies, locks stocks and barrels, and you get the idea. These can be literally anything.
So what was the query at the top of this R documentation page?
“select row_names, Murder from arrests where Rape > 30 order by Murder”
Wow. Just wow.
Of all the topics, all the queries, with the entire universe of things to choose from, they chose to answer that urgent pressing question on the tips of all of our tongues:
“Yeah, how many places have there been at least thirty rapes, sorted in descending order of murder rate, pretty please with sugar on top?”
I’m not making this up. It’s out there in black and white. But honestly — wow.
I mean, first of all, it’s pretty grim stuff. Short of penning examples based on genocide or suicide bombers or something, I can’t think of a darker topic for this kind of thing. We’re already doing statistics, for crissakes; our lives are clearly awful enough. Throw us a bone over here.
Secondly — and maybe this is just me — but I have a policy that I never want to be reading any sort of technical documentation and type CTRL-F ‘rape’ and find any results.
(It’s a new policy, which I set immediately after reading the query above. And I’ve never actually searched for ‘rape’ in any documentation I’ve read in the past.
But I’m sure as hell going to do it now. That shit is crazy.)
And finally — greater than? With everything else wrong with this example, they couldn’t at least look for a spot with less than thirty rapes? Come, now. That’s just piling on.
So that’s what I learned today. There are some really angry, disturbed and possibly currently incarcerated people writing documentation for statistical packages.
But at least they can teach you how to query a database. Which probably won’t help much when you’re violated and buried in the crawlspace under their basement stairs. But it’s something, I guess.
Permalink | No Comments(Yesterday was a ZuG day, with Zolton Does Amazon: On the St. Paddy Wagon! going live to the delight of green-wearers, mustard connoisseurs and honorary Irish everywhere.
Or just me, probably. But still — it’s up there. Have a look, if you like. Meanwhile, back at the blog…)
I mentioned recently that I’m in the midst of an athletic dilemma. The “fat old man sports” just aren’t cutting it for me any more, and I’m in the market for something new. There was more to that story — but a bout of mild food poisoning cut me off in the middle. And nearly at the middle, the way it felt. But I made a note to finish the job at some point.
That point is here. The job is now. The story will tell. The circle complete. Before, you were saved by the bell.
(Or more accurately, by the bell pepper, likely cross-contaminated by contact with improperly-stored whatever-animal-is-used-to-make-off-brand-chicken-nuggets. Horses? Tapirs? Voles?
As Krusty would say, “Think smaller. More legs.“)
But now, I’m ready to admit something that I never saw coming:
I’ve been taking yoga classes.
I don’t know what I expected yoga classes to be. But what it isn’t is dart boards and pool halls and pints of beer, for certain. As such, it’s quite the culture shock.
“Basically, they seem to be riding the nonslip mat-tails of traditional yoga and offering something that looks and feels fairly similar, in that you’re asked to stand on one foot for days at a time or throw your leg behind your back and massage your vertebrae with your toes.”
To be fair, what I’ve been taking isn’t “yoga”, exactly. The place says ‘yoga’ in the name, sure, but it comes from an entirely different country and tradition. The exercises are different, the poses are different, the chiropractor that I’ll need after a few more weeks is presumably different. Basically, they seem to be riding the nonslip mat-tails of traditional yoga and offering something that looks and feels fairly similar, in that you’re asked to stand on one foot for days at a time or throw your leg behind your back and massage your vertebrae with your toes. But it’s not “yoga”, per se. I think of it as fauxga.
Whatever you call it, it’s a formidable workout. My wife got me an introductory pass early in the year, and I’ve huffed and groaned my way through fifteen sessions or so. She knows me awfully well by now, and realized that the one place I might stick with is one that’s directly between my office and our place. Out of sight is out of mind — but if I have to actually avert my gaze to avoid seeing the gym on the way home, then there’s a chance I’ll drop in occasionally.
(It would be better if there were a microbrewery between home and the work. But I’ll take what I can get, I suppose.
And it could be worse. If there was a yarn shop on the path home, I’d be sitting here right now stabbing my thumbs with a set of knitting needles, trying to make a tea kettle cozy or some equally ridiculous nonsense. Or practicing my cherry-breasted warbler call, if a birdwatching club moved in down the street. Convenience is a dangerous mistress.)
And so, I’m doing fauxga — once or twice a week. And I feel pretty good; no aches or pains to speak of. The instructors are very good at telling us to ‘just do what you can; don’t over-exert yourself‘. So while the rest of the class is turned upside-down or sucking one of their own knees, I’m free to relax and stretch out. Maybe have a nap. Or eat a sandwich — all that lounging around on the floor is hungry work.
It’s pretty cool to be exercising at least in some similar way to my wife, though. She’s never been much for the team sports I’ve played, but she’s pretty heavy into ‘hot yoga’, which sounds super intense from what she tells me. Evidently, they turn up the thermostat and just smoke the lazy out of you. I wonder whether people just spontaneously combust from all the heat being generated inside and out. You probably get a discount on your next class or something, if that happens.
Now she and I can talk about how things are going at our respective yoga (or fauxga) classes — though frankly, I’m not much help. My classes don’t have too many poses, and I haven’t bothered to learn the names for them. I just sort of look around and contort myself in some way that looks equivalently painful to whatever everyone else is suffering through. Or I have an ice cream bar. You know, if I’m feeling too ‘over-exerted’. Safety first; rules are rules.
So she’ll come home in a ‘sharing’ mood and say something like: “We were holding Camel Pose for so long! I just wanted to take a break in Child’s Pose to regroup for a minute, you know?”
And I don’t know the lingo. My whole deal I’m doing is in another language, and we probably don’t even do Camel Pose, anyway. I don’t even know what kind of camel she’s talking about. I could probably make a hump and spit at people, but if I have to make two humps and retain water for three weeks without peeing it out, then I’m probably going to need a more serious mat or a catheter or something. And meanwhile, she’s just smiling at me, waiting for me to share my class experience. So I do:
“Um… yeah. We were, uh… doing that thing where you sit down and twist sideways — Excruciating Corkscrew Pose, I think it might be called, maybe — and that sucked, for the first five seconds or so. But then I looked down and saw the Slim Jims I brought in my back pocket, so I just ate those in a corner for the rest of class.”
“*sigh* Exactly what kind of yoga are you doing, again?”
“It’s fauxga. Great stuff. Hey, you want a Slim Jim?”
She never wants a Slim Jim. And lately, she doesn’t seem to want to talk about yoga, either. Not sure why, really — maybe all that heat is finally getting to her. Too bad; I thought yoga was supposed to be fun.
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