The Deputy Assistant for Hair Whipping and Dairy Product Consumption begins the meeting by noting that she will require disbursement of additional funds (€ 1) for the upcoming Charismatic Transportation project (A.K.A the Field Trip.)
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee thanks the Deputy Assistant for her feedback and affirms that an R & D team will look into the matter. She then asks for updates from each unit.
The Vice Chair for Fried Foods and Belated Laundry Folding begins by noting some extant confusion in his department regarding use of the Cast Iron Pans. Is it the smaller one which is only for roasting, and if so, will the Managing Director please define "roasting"?
He also reports that Bed Sheet Replacement and Sanitation was completed at approximately 17:20 Sunday evening.
The Junior President in Charge of Kitty Litter and Chortling notes that, as the Deputy Assistant has yet to return her balloon, the Deputy Assistant will henceforth be referred to as "caca." Or possibly "lulu."
The Deputy Assistant registers an objection to this comment.
The Junior President continues, noting that the Second Undersecretary for Rodent Removal has been bathing in the toilet again.
The Second Undersecretary affirms this last, and adds that any and all household entities resembling mice--including shoestrings, wet sponges and the feet of the Junior President--have been warned to get out of town or face immediate Mexican drug cartel-style retribution.
Duly noted.
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee reports that the Holiday Celebration (i.e. Thanksgiving) will be downsized due to the absence of most of the usual suspects in the greater Vienna area.
She adds that "roasting" shall consist of, but not be limited to, preparation of onions, Grieskoch and pasta re-heats. She further notes all use of said pan is predicated on a mandatory and subsequent hydration process (i.e. "soaking.)
In addition, The Managing Director reports that immediate action is required on the Kitchen and Bathroom Sink Washer Replacement project, the Cellar Clearance and Moldy Furniture Destruction Initiative and the immanent Prague Visitation.
The Vice Chair inquires as to whether immediate action may be postponed until tonight after the Simpsons?
Meeting adjourns.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I recently published my first piece in the Sueddeutsche Zeitung, a well-respected newspaper out of Munich. It ran in Deutsch, after having been translated by one of their best people. This is the first half of the story in English. It's about my last trip to Austin, my hometown. I'll post the second half on Thursday. I hope you like it.
Searching for that Lost Cool Something
The morning after I land in Austin, Texas, I borrow a bike and set off in search of Krautrock. I’ve read that Amon Düül II made some interesting disco jams in the mid-nineteen-seventies, and if there’s one place in the continental US where one can find obscure, thirty-year-old, semi-funky German rock, it’s at Waterloo Records.
And of course, I do find some Amon Düül II, though it’s not the CD I wanted. But then a funny thing happens. I’m looking at a huge wall of CDs by Austin singers and bands. Legendary Texas concert posters hang in various other corners of the store. Suddenly I feel like I’m in a museum. Austin has become a theme park of Cool. It’s Disneyland with tattoos and a wallet chain, a cultural amusement zone. It’s a brand—it’s Underground Town.
I grew up in Austin, one of the most notorious crucibles of cool in the USA. By fifteen, I was acting world-weary because I was listening to Roxy Music. By nineteen, I had discovered punk rock and new wave in Austin clubs. In local record stores, I mined progressively lesser known music, and the cults surrounding bands like Big Star. I learned you have to do some work to find the best music and art. None of this is true today. If anything interesting happens in a music club anywhere in the world tonight, it will be on YouTube tomorrow. MP3 blogs, file-sharing sites like Demonoid, Facebook and MySpace--these are only the best-known ways in which people find out about the latest, coolest thing. These days, unusual, obscure or bizarre music is just a mouse click away. There is no longer any such thing as a local ‘scene’ or underground music.
Or is there? As it happens, neither live music clubs nor independent record stores have disappeared from the planet, though they do all have websites now. Nearly fifty years ago, an inveterate weirdo named Frank Zappa suggested that the “mainstream comes to you, but you have to go to the underground.” So I have returned to Austin to test this perfectly reasonable definition of ‘underground’ (I also want a decent plate of nachos.) I have found a flea market for locally-made electronic instruments like the Autonomous Bassline Generator, and a fourteen piece, orchestral pop group called Mother Falcon, playing at a club called Mohawk.
I’m not looking for the next Nirvana in Austin. Underground scenes are exciting because they shock, then energize you with the thrill of discovery, the feeling that you have come upon something astonishing and utterly unprecedented. Something you can call your own. It’s this sense of discovery I mean to investigate. Even if cool underground stuff “comes” to you from an MP3 blog like Mutant Sounds or Illegal Smoking Robot, is it still possible to discover something fantastic on your own, maybe even in your own home town?
Torchy’s Tacos may be the coolest breakfast taco stand in town. The counter help—whether they are African American, Caucasian, male or female—are uniformly covered with tattoos and swathed in black. The food is innovative, though I’m initially hesitant to try the Dirty Sanchez, or the Fried Avocado Taco.
Handbills and stickers for various species of loud music are strewn around Torchy’s, and I find myself wondering if the girl taking our order knows that the friend I’m here with was once in a local band that did a mean folk-punk Kiss cover. What sort of subterranean streams does she swim in after the sun goes down? It doesn’t matter.
A little more than a year ago, the English artist and amateur sociologist Matt Stokes arrived in Austin to create a conceptual art piece and exhibition about underground music communities. I know because I wrote one of the essays about Austin punk which appeared in the exhibition catalog. His project was called These are the Days, and among other things, Stokes juxtaposed the Austin hardcore punk scene of the early nineteen-eighties with the gutter punk scene here in the present day. The catalog for the show blended photographs from then and now, and it’s hard to tell the difference between the two. In 1983 and in 2008, punks in Austin were tough, cool, sweaty, and committed to an idea, a scene. Perhaps the Texas punk bands of 2008 have more beards. They look like the counter help at Torchy’s. And they look one hundred percent, for real, straight-up underground.
Just above the hole which was once known as Voltaire’s Basement, sits a new coffee shop. The new place is called Halcyon. It’s clean and brightly lit. It has a walk-in humidor. Something about it rings a bell, so I stop there. Voltaire’s was a legendary firetrap, as well as the site of very crazy and wonderful shows by bands like the Dicks and the Butthole Surfers. Halcyon was the name of the shaggy commune where I lived during college. Now one obscure name is transposed onto the site of a dead underground scene. It’s as if all the old words and dreams are still in circulation, only perched at different locations.
As I sip my Thai iced coffee there at Halcyon, I ask the bartender if he knows his basement was once a great punk rock club.
“Oh yeah,” he lies. “I heard about that. What was our Basement like back then?”
“It was fucked up,” I laugh.
“It still is!” he says.
Searching for that Lost Cool Something
The morning after I land in Austin, Texas, I borrow a bike and set off in search of Krautrock. I’ve read that Amon Düül II made some interesting disco jams in the mid-nineteen-seventies, and if there’s one place in the continental US where one can find obscure, thirty-year-old, semi-funky German rock, it’s at Waterloo Records.
And of course, I do find some Amon Düül II, though it’s not the CD I wanted. But then a funny thing happens. I’m looking at a huge wall of CDs by Austin singers and bands. Legendary Texas concert posters hang in various other corners of the store. Suddenly I feel like I’m in a museum. Austin has become a theme park of Cool. It’s Disneyland with tattoos and a wallet chain, a cultural amusement zone. It’s a brand—it’s Underground Town.
I grew up in Austin, one of the most notorious crucibles of cool in the USA. By fifteen, I was acting world-weary because I was listening to Roxy Music. By nineteen, I had discovered punk rock and new wave in Austin clubs. In local record stores, I mined progressively lesser known music, and the cults surrounding bands like Big Star. I learned you have to do some work to find the best music and art. None of this is true today. If anything interesting happens in a music club anywhere in the world tonight, it will be on YouTube tomorrow. MP3 blogs, file-sharing sites like Demonoid, Facebook and MySpace--these are only the best-known ways in which people find out about the latest, coolest thing. These days, unusual, obscure or bizarre music is just a mouse click away. There is no longer any such thing as a local ‘scene’ or underground music.
Or is there? As it happens, neither live music clubs nor independent record stores have disappeared from the planet, though they do all have websites now. Nearly fifty years ago, an inveterate weirdo named Frank Zappa suggested that the “mainstream comes to you, but you have to go to the underground.” So I have returned to Austin to test this perfectly reasonable definition of ‘underground’ (I also want a decent plate of nachos.) I have found a flea market for locally-made electronic instruments like the Autonomous Bassline Generator, and a fourteen piece, orchestral pop group called Mother Falcon, playing at a club called Mohawk.
I’m not looking for the next Nirvana in Austin. Underground scenes are exciting because they shock, then energize you with the thrill of discovery, the feeling that you have come upon something astonishing and utterly unprecedented. Something you can call your own. It’s this sense of discovery I mean to investigate. Even if cool underground stuff “comes” to you from an MP3 blog like Mutant Sounds or Illegal Smoking Robot, is it still possible to discover something fantastic on your own, maybe even in your own home town?
Torchy’s Tacos may be the coolest breakfast taco stand in town. The counter help—whether they are African American, Caucasian, male or female—are uniformly covered with tattoos and swathed in black. The food is innovative, though I’m initially hesitant to try the Dirty Sanchez, or the Fried Avocado Taco.
Handbills and stickers for various species of loud music are strewn around Torchy’s, and I find myself wondering if the girl taking our order knows that the friend I’m here with was once in a local band that did a mean folk-punk Kiss cover. What sort of subterranean streams does she swim in after the sun goes down? It doesn’t matter.
A little more than a year ago, the English artist and amateur sociologist Matt Stokes arrived in Austin to create a conceptual art piece and exhibition about underground music communities. I know because I wrote one of the essays about Austin punk which appeared in the exhibition catalog. His project was called These are the Days, and among other things, Stokes juxtaposed the Austin hardcore punk scene of the early nineteen-eighties with the gutter punk scene here in the present day. The catalog for the show blended photographs from then and now, and it’s hard to tell the difference between the two. In 1983 and in 2008, punks in Austin were tough, cool, sweaty, and committed to an idea, a scene. Perhaps the Texas punk bands of 2008 have more beards. They look like the counter help at Torchy’s. And they look one hundred percent, for real, straight-up underground.
Just above the hole which was once known as Voltaire’s Basement, sits a new coffee shop. The new place is called Halcyon. It’s clean and brightly lit. It has a walk-in humidor. Something about it rings a bell, so I stop there. Voltaire’s was a legendary firetrap, as well as the site of very crazy and wonderful shows by bands like the Dicks and the Butthole Surfers. Halcyon was the name of the shaggy commune where I lived during college. Now one obscure name is transposed onto the site of a dead underground scene. It’s as if all the old words and dreams are still in circulation, only perched at different locations.
As I sip my Thai iced coffee there at Halcyon, I ask the bartender if he knows his basement was once a great punk rock club.
“Oh yeah,” he lies. “I heard about that. What was our Basement like back then?”
“It was fucked up,” I laugh.
“It still is!” he says.
Friday, October 8, 2010
A Real Ring-Tail-Tooter
Gawd, that was a tough month. Or as by brother in Montana would say, 'a hard pull.'
The last four weeks have been so crazy-exhausting-exciting-exhausting. But you wouldn't know about that, would you? Because I've been neglecting this blog again, haven't I?
Well, it started with a complete technological mutiny. Both of my computers stopped speaking to the Internet. Both my computers: kaput! My watch stopped. My phone quit. For one night, even the DVD player went on strike.
This lasted for a little more than three weeks. The turning point was the night I spilled beer on (and in) my laptop. After that, everything started working better. Honestly.
Then I got an assignment from a pretty respected German newspaper, the Süddeutsche Zeitung, which was great! but I wasn't entirely prepared for it. I had to scribble and circle around the subject for a bit, then write it one or two paragraphs at a time, on the subway to work, or in moments stolen from my real job: Father. So I was barely able to write anything else--not even Facebook updates.
Then Adinah did an end run around us and joined the Girl Scouts! And V. got a new kindergarten teacher (who is great, but isn't it always stressful to get to know someone new?) And I had a birthday--my forty-ninth. And even more important, preparations began for V.'s birthday. Then everyone in my department at work got sick just as my boss dumped several new projects in my lap. I had to teach, do all the administrative stuff that normally consumes my days, plus quite a few things that other people usually do, plus create and do a presentation for a Webinar, whatever that is.
Then we got a kitten. A small black and white love cat named Ada. She was rescued from a garbage can in Romania, and brought to a shelter in Vienna, which is where we met her, the little darling. She's the kind of cat who gets her motor running--like, purr city--then melts in your lap.
But when we brought Ada home we got a horrible surprise. Both Adinah and V. were terrified of her. Neither of them has ever lived with a cat (actually Deanie has, back in NYC, but she doesn't remember The Little Guy.) So the kids looked at Ada and saw, not a cuddly, fluffy little Hello Kitty! but a strange, stalking furry Creature, with claws!! On Morning Two, Ada sprung at Deanie's face to play with her hair extension. Adinah shrieked to break glass, fled to her room and hid in her bed.
Meals in the kitchen were impossible--neither girl would dangle their feet from their chairs, because they could see Ada down there, purring. We had to set V. on the breakfast table whenever the kitten said 'Mraow.'
We've always known that V. both loves and fears animals (monkeys, cows, dogs, pretty much everything except caterpillars, whom she does not fear.) But we had no idea Adinah would be so traumatized by a fuzzball from Romania.
So began the long and painful era in our history known as the Katzenintegrationsprojekt, or The Great Coming Together. Many tears were shed, many screams rang out, and several gasps were gasped.
But today, we can look back and say that we have made great strides. Both girls let Ada sit in their laps now. Yelping, hollering and hissy fits are down by 50%.
And it's been a week already.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Why I Work
Some of our friends here don't work because their partner has a job which brings in enough money for the house. Other friends are working in low-paying jobs which they love, but that means they also need "state subsidies"--government benefits--to help pay all the bills.
Back in the States, some of our friends are out of work, and don't want to be, but they don't want to take that Walmart job yet. I can understand that. So they start eating into their savings, if they're lucky enough to have any.
But, speaking as one who's currently lucky enough to have a job, I know that at times I have worked all day, for little or no money, to create something or solve a problem which ultimately seems sorta minor. Sometimes I look back at my day and wonder, 'Is that all I got done?'
That's why I'm wondering 'why?' this morning. Why do we do it? Obviously, most of us big people have to work to pay the bills. But besides that?
I think my parents taught me that one should try to find something one likes to do, then try to get someone to pay you to do that. That is still what I believe, what I tell young people who ask me, 'What should I do?' This idea is underneath my only answer to the work question. We work because we want to. We like it.
I work because I get a kick out of doing something well. When I'm teaching or taking pictures or writing, and it's going well, it's like I'm pushing beyond myself, like a kind of transcendence. I forget time, my body, most everything and I'm just...doing my thing.
Sometimes I go farther. The other night I had to get out of the house. I didn't want to go to the movies, or to the Prater to play pinball. I got out onto the street, started taking pictures, felt the spring air on my skin, and two hours later, I was standing at a train station, staring up at the moon. I had been making photographs, and loving it, but now I just gawped at that moon like a little kid. I felt the pure pleasure of just looking at something sort of mysterious. I was beyond beyond myself. Just being. I wasn't taking pictures and I wasn't working. I was just acutely aware of the beauty of a moment. I was just alive.
It only lasted for a minute. But it was really something.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Variations on a Mall
The girls and I are just back from four days in the the snowiest mountain village I have ever seen, and I will post pictures from that soon. But right now I want to tell everyone in Vienna (and anyone else who can see ORF 2) that a film by my brilliant wife will be showing on Austrian TV tomorrow night, the 7th of February, at 23.05. It's called The Gruen Effect, and it's about Victor Gruen, the inventor of the shopping mall. It's a great, smart, groovy movie and if you watch it you might even learn something! Here's a synopsis, and be sure to tune in tomorrow night!
The Gruen Effect (52 min)
Victor Gruen couldn’t possibly have known how much he would change
the world. The world famous Viennese architect is chiefly remembered
as the inventor of the shopping mall. His “green” ideas spawned cities,
which ultimately became shrines to the Gods of consumption and the
free market. This documentary follows Gruen’s dramatic escape from
Nazi controlled Vienna in 1938, his subsequent adventures in booming
post-war America and finally his return to Vienna in the 1960s as a
committed socialist. The life, work and critical humour of this exceptional
architect serve as a starting point for an examination of the cities in
which we live today. A portrait of a man who, in keeping with the motto
“cars buy nothing”, has had a lasting influence on economics, politics
and, above all, consumers.
Director:Katharina Weingartner and Anette Baldauf
Production:co-production: Wailand Filmproduktion and ORF
Language:german | original version
Format:4:3 Letterbox, 16:9, PAL, HDTV
Length:52 min
Available:worldwide
Friday, August 14, 2009
I'm a Man?
The 9 to 5 people in Vienna--at the tram stop, on the subway--are serious. Expensive shoes, expensive eyeglasses. Briefcases. Combinations of clothes which could be described as "ensembles."
And then there is me. Sneakers. T-shirt. A duct-taped watch band. Holding a mug full of coffee from our kitchen. The mug reads "I (Heart) NY."
I'd like to be well put-together. I have the same style gods the other dudes have--Gregory Peck, Hank Fonda, Clooney--and they're all men who can rock a suit. Heroically. But the truth is, me myself and I more closely resemble a different Hollywood hunk: Woody Allen. And I drive like him too.
But I was flipping through a film encyclopedia last night, and came across a still from Annie Hall: Diane Keaton and the Woodman, in khaki pants and shirts with actual collars, standing and chatting, cocktails in hand, on a Manhattan rooftop. Suddenly I went winsome. 'Even Woody Allen looks more like an adult than I do.'
Was I ever a true grown-up In New York City? I was married, highly-paid, and a responsible cat-owner--in other words, I fit the description of a real man. But did anyone really take me seriously?
Thought the haze, I remember being at Manhattan rooftop parties, Mojito in hand, chatting with important and powerful people, but I know I didn't look as much like a player as Woody Allen does in those trousers. And I've heard plenty of people in my generation say the same thing: "I don't really feel like an adult."
Sometimes I think that since we moved here, and we met our second child, and I've become a manager, I've changed. God knows, by ten p.m. most nights, I'm as tired as an adult.
The conventional wisdom is that some people achieve adulthood, while others have it thrust upon them. I think I've backed into it. Wearing hip hop styles or raver pants is not an option. Long hair, or anything else which covers my eyes, is out. Maybe I've become an adult because I no longer wish to dress like a kid. That would hurt other people more than it would me.
I didn't become responsible so much as discover that it was required of me.
It's also practical: having breakfast with two small but quick-witted kids is just easier if you're sober.
And then there is me. Sneakers. T-shirt. A duct-taped watch band. Holding a mug full of coffee from our kitchen. The mug reads "I (Heart) NY."
I'd like to be well put-together. I have the same style gods the other dudes have--Gregory Peck, Hank Fonda, Clooney--and they're all men who can rock a suit. Heroically. But the truth is, me myself and I more closely resemble a different Hollywood hunk: Woody Allen. And I drive like him too.
But I was flipping through a film encyclopedia last night, and came across a still from Annie Hall: Diane Keaton and the Woodman, in khaki pants and shirts with actual collars, standing and chatting, cocktails in hand, on a Manhattan rooftop. Suddenly I went winsome. 'Even Woody Allen looks more like an adult than I do.'
Was I ever a true grown-up In New York City? I was married, highly-paid, and a responsible cat-owner--in other words, I fit the description of a real man. But did anyone really take me seriously?
Thought the haze, I remember being at Manhattan rooftop parties, Mojito in hand, chatting with important and powerful people, but I know I didn't look as much like a player as Woody Allen does in those trousers. And I've heard plenty of people in my generation say the same thing: "I don't really feel like an adult."
Sometimes I think that since we moved here, and we met our second child, and I've become a manager, I've changed. God knows, by ten p.m. most nights, I'm as tired as an adult.
The conventional wisdom is that some people achieve adulthood, while others have it thrust upon them. I think I've backed into it. Wearing hip hop styles or raver pants is not an option. Long hair, or anything else which covers my eyes, is out. Maybe I've become an adult because I no longer wish to dress like a kid. That would hurt other people more than it would me.
I didn't become responsible so much as discover that it was required of me.
It's also practical: having breakfast with two small but quick-witted kids is just easier if you're sober.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Come and Get it
I'm flying back to the US today. For a little play and a lot of work. For two weeks! It's gonna be great. I must make preparations.
My itinerary is...energetic. I fly from Vienna to Washington, D.C., then three days later to Los Angeles, then three days after that to NYC. Thirty five hours later I take a bus to Boston. Then I fly back to DC, and two days later, I fly back to Vienna.
It's a work trip--I'm flying on someone else's dime--but the detour to NYC is purely personal. So far, my personal plans for the journey have focussed mostly on those thirty-five hours in the big apple. To precise, I've been try to calculate how many meals I can squeeze into my short time in Manhatta, and where I will be taking those meals. These are agonizing calculations. These are what my friend, Monkey, who I will see in Los Angeles, would call "quality problems." The kind of problems I wish I had more often.
In Vienna, your dining options are pretty much Schnitzel or Serbian. In New York, you got your Thai, Indian, Japanese, cracker-fried catfish, fresh bagels with whitefish, and the best goddamn cheeseburger in the world. That last would be at the Corner Bistro, on West 4th and Eighth Avenue. I'll make it there for sure.
My itinerary is...energetic. I fly from Vienna to Washington, D.C., then three days later to Los Angeles, then three days after that to NYC. Thirty five hours later I take a bus to Boston. Then I fly back to DC, and two days later, I fly back to Vienna.
It's a work trip--I'm flying on someone else's dime--but the detour to NYC is purely personal. So far, my personal plans for the journey have focussed mostly on those thirty-five hours in the big apple. To precise, I've been try to calculate how many meals I can squeeze into my short time in Manhatta, and where I will be taking those meals. These are agonizing calculations. These are what my friend, Monkey, who I will see in Los Angeles, would call "quality problems." The kind of problems I wish I had more often.
In Vienna, your dining options are pretty much Schnitzel or Serbian. In New York, you got your Thai, Indian, Japanese, cracker-fried catfish, fresh bagels with whitefish, and the best goddamn cheeseburger in the world. That last would be at the Corner Bistro, on West 4th and Eighth Avenue. I'll make it there for sure.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Top Ten Important facts about the Turkish Cafeteria Across the Street from my Office
1) The breaded, fried fish is good, in a high school cafeteria sort of way.
2) Muslim women do not enter the place, but my female friends, colleagues and bosses (mostly not Muslim) who have eaten there with me have encountered no problems.
3) Cola Turka, like RC, is, meh, okay.
4) Turkish CNN looks, sounds and smells much like Yank CNN.
5) The price of the same lunch seems to fluctuate from day to day, and from customer to customer.
6) I've heard that it's part of a union, and I know there is a mosque upstairs, but I can't be bothered to find out any more about the place--I'm just so happy to have a good place to eat lunch near my job.
7) The men order tea at the counter, but buy their coffee from the coffee vending machine.
8) Many of the Turkish men on the TV have odd haircuts--they look like a cross between a monk and a Beatle.
9) The men kiss each other hello. And that's sort of nice.
Friday, April 3, 2009
*#@!!@#!
This time I mean it: my head is going to explode.
I started this blog as a writing project about how I am 'becoming' European, becoming a parent, and becoming a real live adult person, too. Somewhere along the line, I became a manager who supervises seven or eight people in an office. So I guess I'm also becoming a boss.
Sometimes I feel like I want to crawl under a table and stay there. Sometimes it is too much.
I don't understand how one human can be kind and be a boss at the same time. i don't understand how one can be both a parent and a friend to one's children. I'm not always sure I can be all at the same time a husband, lover, foil, partner and tea-maker for my wife, my Anette.
Sociologists may refer to this as multiplicity, but it feels like spontaneous combustion.
On some days, at least.
maybe that's the answer: let's all be casually schizophrenic. One day we're authority figures, the next, peace-makers and care-givers. On Monday, I'm a mean old daddy, on Tuesday I'm Adinah's overgrown playmate again.
Wouldn't it be easier to just be one person? Is anyone just a Great Dad, or a Good and Wise Boss? Are Hollywood movies the only place where one can find heroes and Perfect Husbands and Hunks with Hearts of Gold? Probably. But, somewhat more seriously, wouldn't it just be easier to always be strict with your staff and with your children? To show no mercy and never let up?
Yes. That would be easier. This is what I will do, from now on. I will be One Man, attending to my interests, missions and needs. I will be Mr. Unilateral. I will know what I want, and exactly when others need to give it to me, I will tell them, and if they don't like it, they can get fucked, man! Everyone will say 'Yes,' and address me as 'Sir.' Fine.
(sigh)
You know what my problem is? I want people to like me, and this is what guides my actions, but I know what I think is right, and this is what guides my thoughts. This is not always such a cozy way to be. People piss me off, but I keep trying to be nice to them. Until suddenly I'm really really not nice to them. I'm patient, gentle and respectful, until they start treating me like a doormat. Suddenly I'm fantasizing about serving someone a milkshake laced with powdered glass.
And...oh.
I've said too much again, haven't I?
I started this blog as a writing project about how I am 'becoming' European, becoming a parent, and becoming a real live adult person, too. Somewhere along the line, I became a manager who supervises seven or eight people in an office. So I guess I'm also becoming a boss.
Sometimes I feel like I want to crawl under a table and stay there. Sometimes it is too much.
I don't understand how one human can be kind and be a boss at the same time. i don't understand how one can be both a parent and a friend to one's children. I'm not always sure I can be all at the same time a husband, lover, foil, partner and tea-maker for my wife, my Anette.
Sociologists may refer to this as multiplicity, but it feels like spontaneous combustion.
On some days, at least.
maybe that's the answer: let's all be casually schizophrenic. One day we're authority figures, the next, peace-makers and care-givers. On Monday, I'm a mean old daddy, on Tuesday I'm Adinah's overgrown playmate again.
Wouldn't it be easier to just be one person? Is anyone just a Great Dad, or a Good and Wise Boss? Are Hollywood movies the only place where one can find heroes and Perfect Husbands and Hunks with Hearts of Gold? Probably. But, somewhat more seriously, wouldn't it just be easier to always be strict with your staff and with your children? To show no mercy and never let up?
Yes. That would be easier. This is what I will do, from now on. I will be One Man, attending to my interests, missions and needs. I will be Mr. Unilateral. I will know what I want, and exactly when others need to give it to me, I will tell them, and if they don't like it, they can get fucked, man! Everyone will say 'Yes,' and address me as 'Sir.' Fine.
(sigh)
You know what my problem is? I want people to like me, and this is what guides my actions, but I know what I think is right, and this is what guides my thoughts. This is not always such a cozy way to be. People piss me off, but I keep trying to be nice to them. Until suddenly I'm really really not nice to them. I'm patient, gentle and respectful, until they start treating me like a doormat. Suddenly I'm fantasizing about serving someone a milkshake laced with powdered glass.
And...oh.
I've said too much again, haven't I?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
couple of photos from the weekend
Who do we want our children to become? Brain surgeons? Presidents? DJs?
What do we hope and pray they will avoid? Drugs? Scientology? A deep-seated fascination with trains, and train schedules?
I have two snapshots in my head from last Sunday:
One: After a pretty but very windy hike, we ended up (again!) in the Austrian-Slovakian border town of Hainburg, with two hours to kill before our train back to Vienna. So we went to the town Cultural Museum and—whoa!—the exhibition was all old synthesizers, Theremins and “Klang Maschine”! I was in heaven, looking at all these scuffed up, ridiculous boxes, from an Ondes Martinet to a Mellotron, which have enlivened the musical stylings of everyone from Emerson, Lake and Palmer to Daft Punk. But I felt a stir of pleasure when Adinah and her friend Teresa grabbed a set of headphones and started twiddling the knobs of a homemade LFO oscillator. ‘She’s making a beat!’ I thought, beaming with pride.
How cool would it be if my daughter became the kind of musician that I love (and wanted to be myself?)
Two: Once we were back in Vienna, Anette, Adinah, V., and I clambered aboard the last streetcar home. But we had to step around three inebriated punks and their gigantic, dirty dogs. One of the pink Mohicans was sprawled across the floor of the train. Then, with much drunken bellowing and stumbling, they all got off. I don’t know if the girls even noticed them, but Anette and I did.
Once we were back home, in the kitchen and making dinner, she mentioned it, and said she hopes neither of our girls ends up like those punks.
I flashed back on my own dyed blue-black, occasionally inebriated days, and thought, ‘Gee, there’s a lot worse things that could happen to our daughters.’ But I took her point.
Mind you, these are just snapshots. And all I have is more questions.
How can you really steer your kids the right way? Can you steer them at all?
I distrust parents who push their kids, and project their own ambitions onto their children. (But I do the same thing.) I’m skeptical that we can groom them to be model citizens, or prevent them from becoming doctors or lawyers.
-
Look, here’s what I want:
1) I want my girls to like themselves.
2) I want them to be okay with being alone (sometimes.)
3) I want them to feel like they can do (almost) anything.
4) I hope they can laugh (at themselves, too.)
5) I hope they will try to do the right thing. Maybe I can teach them something about this, though I may come up short on offering Standard Operating Procedures.
6) I hope they will learn to be kind, be kind, be kind.
Other than that, I have no expectations. Honest.
What do we hope and pray they will avoid? Drugs? Scientology? A deep-seated fascination with trains, and train schedules?
I have two snapshots in my head from last Sunday:
One: After a pretty but very windy hike, we ended up (again!) in the Austrian-Slovakian border town of Hainburg, with two hours to kill before our train back to Vienna. So we went to the town Cultural Museum and—whoa!—the exhibition was all old synthesizers, Theremins and “Klang Maschine”! I was in heaven, looking at all these scuffed up, ridiculous boxes, from an Ondes Martinet to a Mellotron, which have enlivened the musical stylings of everyone from Emerson, Lake and Palmer to Daft Punk. But I felt a stir of pleasure when Adinah and her friend Teresa grabbed a set of headphones and started twiddling the knobs of a homemade LFO oscillator. ‘She’s making a beat!’ I thought, beaming with pride.
How cool would it be if my daughter became the kind of musician that I love (and wanted to be myself?)
Two: Once we were back in Vienna, Anette, Adinah, V., and I clambered aboard the last streetcar home. But we had to step around three inebriated punks and their gigantic, dirty dogs. One of the pink Mohicans was sprawled across the floor of the train. Then, with much drunken bellowing and stumbling, they all got off. I don’t know if the girls even noticed them, but Anette and I did.
Once we were back home, in the kitchen and making dinner, she mentioned it, and said she hopes neither of our girls ends up like those punks.
I flashed back on my own dyed blue-black, occasionally inebriated days, and thought, ‘Gee, there’s a lot worse things that could happen to our daughters.’ But I took her point.
Mind you, these are just snapshots. And all I have is more questions.
How can you really steer your kids the right way? Can you steer them at all?
I distrust parents who push their kids, and project their own ambitions onto their children. (But I do the same thing.) I’m skeptical that we can groom them to be model citizens, or prevent them from becoming doctors or lawyers.
-
Look, here’s what I want:
1) I want my girls to like themselves.
2) I want them to be okay with being alone (sometimes.)
3) I want them to feel like they can do (almost) anything.
4) I hope they can laugh (at themselves, too.)
5) I hope they will try to do the right thing. Maybe I can teach them something about this, though I may come up short on offering Standard Operating Procedures.
6) I hope they will learn to be kind, be kind, be kind.
Other than that, I have no expectations. Honest.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I Didn't Blog Last Night, er, Week
1) I was too tired.
2) I was uncertain about my qualifications to comment upon the human condition.
3) I was in the kitchen, sweeping up peas, bits of rice and small scraps of construction paper.
4) I was exhausted.
5) I had nothing more to add.
6) I'd had enough of staring into computer screens for the day.
7) I needed to watch an educational film on television.
8) I was playing pinball.
9) I was photographing Vienna junkspace.
10) I was beat.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Some Days
Some days you kill the bear. Some days, the bear kills you.
Some days, you get to work, ready to confront that employee who’s been making mistakes. Then that other employee, the really good one, pulls you aside and tells you she’s quitting. And you have to say congratulations, because you know she’s going to a better job, but it’s easier to say, ’Shit, we’re gonna miss you.’ And you have to stop yourself from feeling jealous that she’s going to a better (paying) job. And that doesn’t work.
And then some days--then--you get to meet with the employee who’s been making mistakes. Fun! Because now you have to be very Direct and Clear and....And you do all of that, and it’s only later that your colleague, the only other person who was in the room, tells you, ‘Wow, usually I’m the bad cop.’
Then over lunch, this colleague, an American whom you like very much, tells you that it was 26 years before she realized she would never live in the USA again. And some days, this is just not what you need to hear.
Then some days, you go into a meeting that should take half an hour, but it takes two, and...you...can...feel...your...soul... drifting...into the Van Ryan Belt.
Some days you rush home from work and stop off at the grocery store that isn't so good, because if you go anywhere else, you'll be late and that's not fair to the babysitter.
And you play with the kids and you cook dinner and sometimes the kids are a handful and that's really okay because they're beautiful. But at the dinner table you hang your head and tell your six year old and your two and a half year old that you're exhausted from all the drama.
And you give them their bath and your wife comes home to help put them to bed and that's great. Then some nights your wife leaves again for a class, and you clean up the kitchen and the living room and the bathroom and you cook up that hamburger too because otherwise it'll go bad.
Then another employee SMS's to tell you they're sick and won't be in for the rest of the week. So you call your boss to discuss how to squeeze by without that employee. and you look at your watch and hey, it's nine-thirty p.m.!
And you sit down to watch a silly old tv show.
And some nights, your wife comes home again and the second thing she says is, 'Which supermarket did you go to? These apples are totally rotten!'
And sometimes you lose it. You employ sarcasm, you get angry, you throw up your hands. 'Doesn't she understand what a sad, bad day dad had?' Sometimes you break your own rule. You go to bed mad.
Some days.
Some days, you get to work, ready to confront that employee who’s been making mistakes. Then that other employee, the really good one, pulls you aside and tells you she’s quitting. And you have to say congratulations, because you know she’s going to a better job, but it’s easier to say, ’Shit, we’re gonna miss you.’ And you have to stop yourself from feeling jealous that she’s going to a better (paying) job. And that doesn’t work.
And then some days--then--you get to meet with the employee who’s been making mistakes. Fun! Because now you have to be very Direct and Clear and....And you do all of that, and it’s only later that your colleague, the only other person who was in the room, tells you, ‘Wow, usually I’m the bad cop.’
Then over lunch, this colleague, an American whom you like very much, tells you that it was 26 years before she realized she would never live in the USA again. And some days, this is just not what you need to hear.
Then some days, you go into a meeting that should take half an hour, but it takes two, and...you...can...feel...your...soul... drifting...into the Van Ryan Belt.
Some days you rush home from work and stop off at the grocery store that isn't so good, because if you go anywhere else, you'll be late and that's not fair to the babysitter.
And you play with the kids and you cook dinner and sometimes the kids are a handful and that's really okay because they're beautiful. But at the dinner table you hang your head and tell your six year old and your two and a half year old that you're exhausted from all the drama.
And you give them their bath and your wife comes home to help put them to bed and that's great. Then some nights your wife leaves again for a class, and you clean up the kitchen and the living room and the bathroom and you cook up that hamburger too because otherwise it'll go bad.
Then another employee SMS's to tell you they're sick and won't be in for the rest of the week. So you call your boss to discuss how to squeeze by without that employee. and you look at your watch and hey, it's nine-thirty p.m.!
And you sit down to watch a silly old tv show.
And some nights, your wife comes home again and the second thing she says is, 'Which supermarket did you go to? These apples are totally rotten!'
And sometimes you lose it. You employ sarcasm, you get angry, you throw up your hands. 'Doesn't she understand what a sad, bad day dad had?' Sometimes you break your own rule. You go to bed mad.
Some days.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Between Moments
Last night, I looked at the several thousand photos we took during our holiday in Vorarlberg. Aside from realizing that Adinah's picture of her grandmother and grandfather is better than mine, I saw something else. V. is laffing and goofing off in lots of the pictures, or in a blur of motion and mania, or even displaying her new game face--a real 'Back off, Jack' sort of affair. But in several of the fotos, as in a couple of her kindergarten pictures, V. also looks lost. Sad.
It's surprising. After a year with us, V. seems to be doing great. She's just 2 1/4 years old, climbing up and down stairs easily, going pee pee on the toilet when the mood strikes her, speaking short sentences in German and many words in English. She's even slept through the whole night in the last week! She seems virtually indestructible--healthy and strong. But she's also very sensitive. And scared of lots of things. Especially dogs, cats, cows and horses.
She seems so physically hardy that I think we forget she's also a little girl who got off to a rough start in this world.
To be reminded of this by looking at photographs of her is troubling because of my own family history. I remember a conversation with my mother, in which she remembered a similar incident. Years after all of us boys had left home, she was looking at some family fotos, and came across one of my younger brother sitting on her lap. She told me she looked at the little boy in that picture, and saw a troubled look in his eye. I pricked up my ears. Because in my adult years, my relationship with my younger brother
has been pretty difficult at times. So I worry a bit about this pseudo-predictive power of the camera to capture darker moments between moments. And I worry that somehow V. isn't getting enough from us.
Sometimes, when the four of us are walking down the street, and V. falls behind us, I wonder is she feels left out of our family, left behind the gang of three that was in our house before she got there. I try to think of how I can help her to feel safe with us, how I can let her know it's okay.
Thinking back over this, it sounds to me like I'm searching for a way to fix her so she'll be as healthy and perfect as we all want our children to be. Which is stupid. And presumes she's somehow broken, and not a beautiful complete person already. As if anyone's children (or any of us) are ever sunny and perfect.
Maybe what I'm really asking is, 'How can we can earn her trust?' But that question scares me. Because it sounds like more work than holding her hand and being nice to her as much as possible. I wonder if parents of biological children ever wonder how they can earn their children's trust. Do they just have the kid's trust from the beginning, and only ever have to worry about winning it back if they fuck up?
Or are we all always trying to earn and keep our children's trust?
I guess there's no easy answer, and earning her trust won't happen quickly in any case. But right now, I think these are the right questions to ask. Maybe that's a start.
It's surprising. After a year with us, V. seems to be doing great. She's just 2 1/4 years old, climbing up and down stairs easily, going pee pee on the toilet when the mood strikes her, speaking short sentences in German and many words in English. She's even slept through the whole night in the last week! She seems virtually indestructible--healthy and strong. But she's also very sensitive. And scared of lots of things. Especially dogs, cats, cows and horses.
She seems so physically hardy that I think we forget she's also a little girl who got off to a rough start in this world.
To be reminded of this by looking at photographs of her is troubling because of my own family history. I remember a conversation with my mother, in which she remembered a similar incident. Years after all of us boys had left home, she was looking at some family fotos, and came across one of my younger brother sitting on her lap. She told me she looked at the little boy in that picture, and saw a troubled look in his eye. I pricked up my ears. Because in my adult years, my relationship with my younger brother
has been pretty difficult at times. So I worry a bit about this pseudo-predictive power of the camera to capture darker moments between moments. And I worry that somehow V. isn't getting enough from us.
Sometimes, when the four of us are walking down the street, and V. falls behind us, I wonder is she feels left out of our family, left behind the gang of three that was in our house before she got there. I try to think of how I can help her to feel safe with us, how I can let her know it's okay.
Thinking back over this, it sounds to me like I'm searching for a way to fix her so she'll be as healthy and perfect as we all want our children to be. Which is stupid. And presumes she's somehow broken, and not a beautiful complete person already. As if anyone's children (or any of us) are ever sunny and perfect.
Maybe what I'm really asking is, 'How can we can earn her trust?' But that question scares me. Because it sounds like more work than holding her hand and being nice to her as much as possible. I wonder if parents of biological children ever wonder how they can earn their children's trust. Do they just have the kid's trust from the beginning, and only ever have to worry about winning it back if they fuck up?
Or are we all always trying to earn and keep our children's trust?
I guess there's no easy answer, and earning her trust won't happen quickly in any case. But right now, I think these are the right questions to ask. Maybe that's a start.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Last Night...
Last night, before we got in bed, Anette changed V.'s diaper. But this woke V. up, and so the kid commenced with the screaming. After she settled down, we adults fell asleep, though not before I insisted, muttering, that we have to do something about these nights.
A few hours later, Adinah woke up and came over to our room three times, before Anette told her to get into bed with me. My wife moved to the green couch in the ballroom.
At about 1 a.m., and then again at around three, from the depths of Slumberland, I heard V. erupting again in her crib. It always starts the same way: she wakes up and calls "Mommy!" until one of us mommies wakes up and gives her a bottle of milk, tea or water. But sometimes V. cries out "Nein! NEIN!!" and she is almost...inconsolable. Great torrents of anger and fear exploding out of our baby girl. Sometimes we can talk her down. Sometimes we shout back.
Anette will go to V. three or four times throughout the night. Until they're both exhausted. The screams wake up everyone else all over again. We all get sleep, but no rest.
Sometimes I think Euro Like Me should be called a 'slog'--short for sleep log--because I'm always complaining about our bus station nights. (And I apologize for that, dear reader.) But I honestly don't know when V. will settle down and sleep through the night. When she will finally really feel safe. Somehow she must still be so scared and troubled about the world.
Maybe--likely--her night screaming has something to do with the fact that she's just started kindergarten. She's there Monday through Friday, 9 am to 2 pm, and that must be a long time away from us. Every morning, she tries to be brave and strong when she says goodbye to Anette or me, but her lower lip starts trembling anyway.
Or maybe our life is just too un-routine for her. Some afternoons she's with our babysitter Rosa, sometimes with me, sometimes with Anette's niece. Maybe she just doesn't know who's the real mommy....No, I'm sure she knows.
But, well, Anette and I both have to work. Try explaining that to a two-year old.
She's come a long way in the year that she's been living with us. But I think the night is still very dark and frightening for V. So our house may be unquiet for a while longer.
A few hours later, Adinah woke up and came over to our room three times, before Anette told her to get into bed with me. My wife moved to the green couch in the ballroom.
At about 1 a.m., and then again at around three, from the depths of Slumberland, I heard V. erupting again in her crib. It always starts the same way: she wakes up and calls "Mommy!" until one of us mommies wakes up and gives her a bottle of milk, tea or water. But sometimes V. cries out "Nein! NEIN!!" and she is almost...inconsolable. Great torrents of anger and fear exploding out of our baby girl. Sometimes we can talk her down. Sometimes we shout back.
Anette will go to V. three or four times throughout the night. Until they're both exhausted. The screams wake up everyone else all over again. We all get sleep, but no rest.
Sometimes I think Euro Like Me should be called a 'slog'--short for sleep log--because I'm always complaining about our bus station nights. (And I apologize for that, dear reader.) But I honestly don't know when V. will settle down and sleep through the night. When she will finally really feel safe. Somehow she must still be so scared and troubled about the world.
Maybe--likely--her night screaming has something to do with the fact that she's just started kindergarten. She's there Monday through Friday, 9 am to 2 pm, and that must be a long time away from us. Every morning, she tries to be brave and strong when she says goodbye to Anette or me, but her lower lip starts trembling anyway.
Or maybe our life is just too un-routine for her. Some afternoons she's with our babysitter Rosa, sometimes with me, sometimes with Anette's niece. Maybe she just doesn't know who's the real mommy....No, I'm sure she knows.
But, well, Anette and I both have to work. Try explaining that to a two-year old.
She's come a long way in the year that she's been living with us. But I think the night is still very dark and frightening for V. So our house may be unquiet for a while longer.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
nice work, part 2
Well, yes, that was pretty fucking fun.
Garth Hudson wore black. Black pants, black shirt, black gaucho cowboy hat. Black bomber jacket with "Los Lobos" on the back and "Garth" embroidered on the lapel. He still has long hair and the beard. Says he shaved once. In 1973.
He told me about McKinney's Cotton Pickers, Charles Brown, Sonny Boy Williamson. About playing in bars with chicken wire in front of the stage. He talked about the jazz pianist Art Tatum as if he was an infinitely mysterious alien force.
He even talked about Bob Dylan a bit. He said Dylan worked an Olivetti typewriter like a jazz player taking a solo. He told me that he and Dylan used an Ampex tape recorder to make the Basement Tapes.
He told me about The Band, his band. He said the great and tragic Richard Manuel was the finest "energy" piano player he ever saw, and that Manuel's favorite sandwich was whole grain bread, a sweet red onion, and peanut butter. And he said The Band liked to play "the kind of music that could be performed by guys who wanted to be young forever."
What is it about talking to musicians and hearing stories about the making of great albums that still punches my ticket? I'll probably never know....
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Alone again at the switch
See that frazzled guy on the subway? The one with breakfast stains on his shirt and a torn orange balloon sticking out of his back pocket? The guy furiously checking to make sure he still has the kindergarten phone number stored in his cel because he's worried they'll call him to pick up daughter number two because she's dissolving into a puddle of snotty tears on this, her 8th day of school. Or maybe they'll call him to come pick up daughter number one because she's having another asthma attack? That sneezy guy, whose gaze drifts as he mentally crosses his fingers and hopes his own cold doesn't get any worse? I'm talking about the fella who's counting the minutes till his wife gets back from the USA. Yeah, that's the guy.
Okay, yes, I'm playing this for sympathy, dear reader. It's really not so bad to have the kids alone. Whenever Anette goes away, I set myself into a defensive position, a bunker mentality. It's like I squat down, one kid on each knee, and think, 'Do we really need to leave the house today? Can we eat rice and spinach again? Must I shave?'
Plus, as I have noted before in this very publication, when my wife leaves town, I am Master of all that I Survey. That means that I may leap around the ballroom to the strains of the Pixies' "Bone Machine," while I am stark naked, as my two daughters, fully clothed, gawp at me in bafflement. At least that's what I did this morning.
And I really do have a cold.
So, yeah, strange times around our place.
The girls are amazing and strong when Anette is away: Adinah starts helping out in all sorts of ways, like cooking with me, or occasionally bringing V. a clean shirt when she needs one; V. asks for Anette (and ice cream) frequently, but after I've told her that yes, Mommy will return eventually, and no, we won't be having ice cream in the next few hours, then she just calmly returns to one of her many projects and hobbies.
In short, we're fine. Really. And when Anette returns sometime next week, I'll tell her it was a walk in the park. Then I'll sleep for a week.
Okay, yes, I'm playing this for sympathy, dear reader. It's really not so bad to have the kids alone. Whenever Anette goes away, I set myself into a defensive position, a bunker mentality. It's like I squat down, one kid on each knee, and think, 'Do we really need to leave the house today? Can we eat rice and spinach again? Must I shave?'
Plus, as I have noted before in this very publication, when my wife leaves town, I am Master of all that I Survey. That means that I may leap around the ballroom to the strains of the Pixies' "Bone Machine," while I am stark naked, as my two daughters, fully clothed, gawp at me in bafflement. At least that's what I did this morning.
And I really do have a cold.
So, yeah, strange times around our place.
The girls are amazing and strong when Anette is away: Adinah starts helping out in all sorts of ways, like cooking with me, or occasionally bringing V. a clean shirt when she needs one; V. asks for Anette (and ice cream) frequently, but after I've told her that yes, Mommy will return eventually, and no, we won't be having ice cream in the next few hours, then she just calmly returns to one of her many projects and hobbies.
In short, we're fine. Really. And when Anette returns sometime next week, I'll tell her it was a walk in the park. Then I'll sleep for a week.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
uncommunicado
My website is down. My e-mail is kaput. My posts to this blog are slowing down to one every three or four days. I haven't called my friends in the USA. If there's a gene for staying in touch with the world, I don't have it.
Apparently it's crucial to be wired, plugged in and always posting. I'm not exactly sure when this became part of the social contract, but I know I'm in breach.
I feel a little guilty about it. But only just a little. And less so since my last phone call to my mom. I apologized to her for not calling more often, and I tried to explain that I spend most of the day teaching and administrating people from all over the world at my job, and then I come home, grab the kids, goof off with them for awhile, then cook dinner, then clean up and strap them into bed, and then after that, you can stick a fork in me because I'm done. Talked out, fully-expressed and socialized to a crisp. At the end of the day, I don't have the energy to blab electronically. I'm ready to drink a tall boy and watch It! The Terror From Beyond Space.
This I explained to my mom.
And she said, "You're entitled."
Thanks, Ma.
Apparently it's crucial to be wired, plugged in and always posting. I'm not exactly sure when this became part of the social contract, but I know I'm in breach.
I feel a little guilty about it. But only just a little. And less so since my last phone call to my mom. I apologized to her for not calling more often, and I tried to explain that I spend most of the day teaching and administrating people from all over the world at my job, and then I come home, grab the kids, goof off with them for awhile, then cook dinner, then clean up and strap them into bed, and then after that, you can stick a fork in me because I'm done. Talked out, fully-expressed and socialized to a crisp. At the end of the day, I don't have the energy to blab electronically. I'm ready to drink a tall boy and watch It! The Terror From Beyond Space.
This I explained to my mom.
And she said, "You're entitled."
Thanks, Ma.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
straight lines, clean edges
Back in Vienna, back at work, and tonight, back at the English Cinema Haydn (to see Hancock.) Back in my comfortable little ratpath. Everything where it should be, my desk in order, everyone at home and at the job seemingly satisfied with my performance. I feel...in place.
Which feels...funny. For the last four months, I was on a half-time schedule at work and a half-time schedule as a papa. So in the living room and at the office, everything felt half-done, hurried, hectic. Now after three full days back at the job, I feel like I'm back on top of that game (thank gawd.)
And everyone at home appears to be okay with me being a working guy and not being around so much.
So why do I feel out of step? Why do I feel a little too light on my feet now that I finally have a night off for myself?
Anette was recently reading a book by an American mom, about how American moms do everything for their kids, and then still feel like bad, neglectful parents. I got pretty smug when she told me about it. But now I think I can understand that conflict. As a father, one spends so much time, in one way or another, trying to keep the train on its tracks. Picking up one kid at kindergarten, taking the other one to meet her biological mother. Working a job to pay the bills, picking up the Legos, chopping the vegetables, changing the sheets. I rarely get everything done, so when I do it feels like I must have missed something. Or forgotten to tell Adinah or Anette or V. how much I love them.
Anette is more tireless, and much better at running the trains. I know I've never spent so much time thinking about other people and what I need to do for them. In the first 35 years of my life, I knew love and family was important to me. But I still acted, talked, thought, worked and played for myself. I was Team Blashill.
Now I play for Team Blashill-Baldauf. I guess that still startles me.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Flashback: Sugar C. Jones
(Readers note: the lovable hairdresser who writes Euro Like Me is abroad, so the Blog Drone 2000XdW will be posting a few of his old journal entries for him. So sit back and cool yr. heels: This is a little flashback to the bureaucratic labyrinth behind our big fat international adoption....)
May.14.2003
Sugar C. Jones.
Voice like a tarpit. Lime sherbet polyester pantsuit. Blond middle-aged dreads. But before I actually saw her, I saw her nameplate—itself approximately sixty-five years-old, made of rubber, plastic and glue, like a chipped relic from a film noir movie--sitting amongst the tilting piles of her desk. Sugar C. Jones. But that's Mrs. Jones to you, pal.
In the middle of my paperwork day, as two simple tasks multiplied like a root system, and I realized that, in addition to catching a three A.M. bus to Washington D.C. for a visit to the Ethiopian Embassy and the US State Department, I would also need to send a fax and a Fed Ex package to Texas, make two visits to the New York County Clerk's office, another to the fingerprint crew over at One Police Plaza, set up a last minute rendezvous with our American social worker (whom I would then walk over to a notary to get a signature, another stamp and a seal,) then visit the New York Secretary of State, the Treasury Department, and the Authentication Section of the DC Office of Homeland Security--in the middle of this ratpath without-a-breadcrumb-trail, I found myself sweating from the forehead, perhaps only seconds away from going into a full-body twitch, and staring at yet another paperpusher who was telling me that my documents were not only not in order but that they were pretty much meaningless. And her name was Sugar. Sugar C. Jones.
"You'll have to separate these papers," Sugar was saying, her fingers folding and spindling my delicately bound and sealed adoption dossier, "And you have to get your social worker to notarize this form before I can authenticate it. You'll have to take this other form back to 1 Police Plaza, have one of the three supervisors over there resign it at the bottom, then bring it back to me. And you'll have to separate these papers."
"Wait a second," I sputtered, "Why do I have to go over to the Police Department again--this is an original and official document, and they've already signed it! I was told you would just notarize these papers and then I could take them to--."
"I don't notarize documents, I authenticate them."
"Wha-? I don't, I…?"
"I can only authenticate the notarization of notaries who are qualified with a stamp for New York County to notarize county documents for authentication. This, and this--matter of fact, a lot of these other documents are gonna have to be notarized and authenticated before you take them to the Secretary of State."
"I'm sorry," I whimpered, my head descending into my hands, "Could--could you please be careful with that--we paid a lot of money to have those documents bound like that…."
"Just a minute," Sugar C. Jones said, storming off with my dossier.
For a second, I thought she'd gone to get security. Somewhere back in the dizzy murk of my brain, it was beginning to dawn on me that the pantsuited Mrs. Jones was a steel wall.
She came back with her superviser, a man with a yellowish tie and a haircut and a head that somehow made me think, 'Rutabaga.' "He doesn't want to separate these documents," Sugar was telling this turnip man.
He didn't really tell me anything different, except that if I would go away and get all the necessary stamps and signatories on the relevant papers, then come back again, he and Sugar might be able to authenticate them without cutting the thin peppermint-striped string and paper seals which bound the dossier. Somehow this felt like a détente.
As I gathered up my documents and started for the door, Sugar C. Jones was still shaking her head and croaking, "I've never seen papers tied up in a book like that before."
May.14.2003
Sugar C. Jones.
Voice like a tarpit. Lime sherbet polyester pantsuit. Blond middle-aged dreads. But before I actually saw her, I saw her nameplate—itself approximately sixty-five years-old, made of rubber, plastic and glue, like a chipped relic from a film noir movie--sitting amongst the tilting piles of her desk. Sugar C. Jones. But that's Mrs. Jones to you, pal.
In the middle of my paperwork day, as two simple tasks multiplied like a root system, and I realized that, in addition to catching a three A.M. bus to Washington D.C. for a visit to the Ethiopian Embassy and the US State Department, I would also need to send a fax and a Fed Ex package to Texas, make two visits to the New York County Clerk's office, another to the fingerprint crew over at One Police Plaza, set up a last minute rendezvous with our American social worker (whom I would then walk over to a notary to get a signature, another stamp and a seal,) then visit the New York Secretary of State, the Treasury Department, and the Authentication Section of the DC Office of Homeland Security--in the middle of this ratpath without-a-breadcrumb-trail, I found myself sweating from the forehead, perhaps only seconds away from going into a full-body twitch, and staring at yet another paperpusher who was telling me that my documents were not only not in order but that they were pretty much meaningless. And her name was Sugar. Sugar C. Jones.
"You'll have to separate these papers," Sugar was saying, her fingers folding and spindling my delicately bound and sealed adoption dossier, "And you have to get your social worker to notarize this form before I can authenticate it. You'll have to take this other form back to 1 Police Plaza, have one of the three supervisors over there resign it at the bottom, then bring it back to me. And you'll have to separate these papers."
"Wait a second," I sputtered, "Why do I have to go over to the Police Department again--this is an original and official document, and they've already signed it! I was told you would just notarize these papers and then I could take them to--."
"I don't notarize documents, I authenticate them."
"Wha-? I don't, I…?"
"I can only authenticate the notarization of notaries who are qualified with a stamp for New York County to notarize county documents for authentication. This, and this--matter of fact, a lot of these other documents are gonna have to be notarized and authenticated before you take them to the Secretary of State."
"I'm sorry," I whimpered, my head descending into my hands, "Could--could you please be careful with that--we paid a lot of money to have those documents bound like that…."
"Just a minute," Sugar C. Jones said, storming off with my dossier.
For a second, I thought she'd gone to get security. Somewhere back in the dizzy murk of my brain, it was beginning to dawn on me that the pantsuited Mrs. Jones was a steel wall.
She came back with her superviser, a man with a yellowish tie and a haircut and a head that somehow made me think, 'Rutabaga.' "He doesn't want to separate these documents," Sugar was telling this turnip man.
He didn't really tell me anything different, except that if I would go away and get all the necessary stamps and signatories on the relevant papers, then come back again, he and Sugar might be able to authenticate them without cutting the thin peppermint-striped string and paper seals which bound the dossier. Somehow this felt like a détente.
As I gathered up my documents and started for the door, Sugar C. Jones was still shaking her head and croaking, "I've never seen papers tied up in a book like that before."
Thursday, June 12, 2008
hurtling
Over the course of one hundred and five hours in New York City, I:
Ate sushi twice. Saw my dear friend Simon twice, but did not see his wife and kids. Sold CDs at Academy Records and at the Entertainment Outlet on 14th street. Ate the world's best cheeseburger and fries at the Corner Bistro (4th Street and Eighth Avenue). Had dinner and several cups of coffee with my wonderful neighbor Tina and our sublettors Aras and Amy. Donated eighteen 12" x 12" boxes of books, CDs, graphic novels and a stamp collection to Housing Works, an organization which benefits homeless people with AIDS. Ate amazing El Salvadoran pupusas and drank cold ice tea with tamarind juice. Saw my friend Marty, who showed me the vacant block near the Brooklyn Naval Yard where he will be building a $100 million housing complex (!) Sold two crates of vinyl, a handful of CDs, and a couple of books about monster movies at the Brooklyn Flea. Ate great Thai food in Park Slope. Saw my friend Adrienne, who, much like Al Pacino in Godfather III, wants to get out of her racket (the culture-media complex), but "they keep pulling me back in." Bought two pink "NYC" baseball caps for $18 from a vendor on St. Marks. Ate Mexican food once, and it was too salty, but it was great. Met a new wave promoter I knew in Austin 25 years ago (and sold him Austin new wave vinyl.) Bought a beach umbrella, two laundry baskets and a pack of gum from K-Mart. And slept a total of fifteen hours.
Was it fun? Yes. Do I want to move back to New York City? Not yet.
Ate sushi twice. Saw my dear friend Simon twice, but did not see his wife and kids. Sold CDs at Academy Records and at the Entertainment Outlet on 14th street. Ate the world's best cheeseburger and fries at the Corner Bistro (4th Street and Eighth Avenue). Had dinner and several cups of coffee with my wonderful neighbor Tina and our sublettors Aras and Amy. Donated eighteen 12" x 12" boxes of books, CDs, graphic novels and a stamp collection to Housing Works, an organization which benefits homeless people with AIDS. Ate amazing El Salvadoran pupusas and drank cold ice tea with tamarind juice. Saw my friend Marty, who showed me the vacant block near the Brooklyn Naval Yard where he will be building a $100 million housing complex (!) Sold two crates of vinyl, a handful of CDs, and a couple of books about monster movies at the Brooklyn Flea. Ate great Thai food in Park Slope. Saw my friend Adrienne, who, much like Al Pacino in Godfather III, wants to get out of her racket (the culture-media complex), but "they keep pulling me back in." Bought two pink "NYC" baseball caps for $18 from a vendor on St. Marks. Ate Mexican food once, and it was too salty, but it was great. Met a new wave promoter I knew in Austin 25 years ago (and sold him Austin new wave vinyl.) Bought a beach umbrella, two laundry baskets and a pack of gum from K-Mart. And slept a total of fifteen hours.
Was it fun? Yes. Do I want to move back to New York City? Not yet.
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