Dispatches from the tried-many-times-to-be-a-holy-land:
1) OF BEDKNOBS AND BOFFINS: When we last met our intrepid hero, awash in the land of tapas and tinto, he was called "a bit of a boffin" by a British friend´s mum. What, pray tell, do you think a "boffin" is? My attempt for the day: "A boil on the butt of someone caught lying in a coffin." Previous attempts include "fraggles that bother all their fraggle friends", and "puffins that burp and fart the livelong day." Discuss amongst yerselves.
2) ROSES BY ANY OTHER NAME (REALLY SMELL LIKE . . .): Turns out we´ve been lied to - famed Spanish painter Pablo Picasso hasn´t been giving us the full story. In fact, his real name is, á la Español (drumroll, please . . . ) - Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Pavla Juan Nepomuceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisma Trinidad Clito Ruiz y Picasso. See the things you learn between sips of "ther-VEH-tha"? Beat that, Amanda Hugankiss. This reminds me, of course, of that clever phrase, invented by George Carlin, made up of words that no-one, in the history of the world, had ever uttered together before the first time he put them together on stage himself: "Before I go shove this red hot poker up my ass, I´m gonna chop my dick off!" Mewonders if poor Pablo felt that way each time he had to utter his full name in public.
3) MORE FUN WITH WORDS: Words in Spanish continue to entertain. For example, a horno isn´t a pleasant description for teenage boys, but rather, an oven or store to get baked goods, and a fartón is not something you do when no one is looking and blame on a nearby puggle, but rather, a long thin cake from the Valencia region. Better yet, it seems that fartónes comes out of a horno, which is also the best place to get one. Eek.
4) MORE GENDER CONFUSION: Seems gender bending isn´t limited to bodies here, though in my last post, we saw enough of that too. Words are a little slippery here as well: el radio (thing you listen to) can engage in a bit of sly drag as la radio (part of a circle, perhaps if you get it horno enough), while el mano doesn´t even exist, its LA mano (?!), showing that bisexuality remains alive and well in the land of Spanish, um, well, hands (and I remain confused) . . . but then again, this is the land in which masculinity is largely defined by a men who, after strapping their penises carefully to their preferred legs "for protection," put on a vestida de luz (literally, a "suit of light") with more sequins than a 70´s outfit by Elton John, dance around with a cape while pretending they wanna get gored by large, hairy, hulking tons of man-muscle, all while waiting to stick their "swords" in on the sly themselves. Take that, Papa Ernesto (or Ziggy Freuddust and the Analysts from Mars). Hey, I´m still amazed they can´t come up with a better word for pregnancy than embarasada . . .
5) AND OF COURSE, SOME FREUD FOR THE KIDDIES: The German word for "joy" is Freude. Hence uncle Ziggy´s name kinda translates into "Doctor Joy." Would you tell your deepest secrets to a guy with that name? And no, this has nothing to do with Spain.
6) TINTO: You´d figure you´d have sangria galore in southern Spain, no? No such luck. Turns out its way too hot here to keep fresh fruit in the summer, so instead, you make do with tinto de verano (summer´s taint, or something like that . . .), basically red wine mixed with lemon soda. Poor substitute if you ask me (though you´d also figure they´d join the rest of the world and start using air-conditioning and refrigeration), but if you ever find yourself being called a boffin while eating fartóns in a horno . . .
Who could be so twisted as to tempt her wrath by breeding a giant tuna?!?!?!?! What villainy and mayhem! To spit upon the very face of Mother Nature by tampering with her most unholy of craftwork!
So, after a bevy of technical difficulties (which involved needing to circumsize a power adapter with a hacksaw), finally gonna fulfill some of my duties as foreign correspondant here in Spain (great benefits, pay not so much). Sorry if my posts will be a bit long yet unfrequent, as its all about internet access.
Anyway, after about a month of intense study of the local customs, its time to report back on some of my discoveries abouit Spain, according to the following classic fields of study:
1) NAVIGATION: I can now occasionally navigate the lanes of this city on the way to the school each day without getting an unintentional tour of a vareity of alleys and plazas named after people with 12 names (which are only sometimes posted on the streets themselves). I´ve also taken to giving friends directions in the following form, "go to the third plaza you hit after the heladeria near the fifth cathedral, then make two lefts in the first passageway, then ask a nun where the theater is, after which you take two rights . . ."
3) COMMERCE: I can sometimes figure out when a store is gonna be open (its kinda like whac-a-mole - "oh, you´re only open every third friday when its not a saint´s day?"). Heck, you can´t even buy a newspaper here during midday, cause even the kiosk people take siestas. Being off work is like religion here, and in fact, you can sue your boss if they make you work more than 8 hours a given day. Then again, people say they work a full 8 hours here, just split in two by siesta, but I swear, everytime I walk down a street I discover a new store that has its grating up for the first time. Also, I´ve kinda figured out what types of stores sell what types of things, but I can´t tell you how long it took me to figure out where (supermercado? farmacia?) to buy anti-persperant or nail clippers. Let´s just say Duane Reade is not what you get in a typical Spanish tienda, rather, its more like a very busy seeming matron in a tiny space with three things on the shelf, who doesn´t understand why it isn´t obvious that anti-persperant is only sold in stores that are open every second wednesday, which is when EVERYBODY buys their´s . . . (which is most likely the Dia de la Santa Sin Agua del Cuerpo, in which they parade a large bottle of Arid Extra Dry around the city while self-flagellating for all their days of unfreshness . . .)
4) ANIMAL HUSBANDRY: Its is very important not to walk by horses here, because they have flies, and the flies here are truly SPANISH flies, which means once they have decided you are their amigo, they will follow you for blocks . . . I ain´t making this up. Then again, if you could just bottle that . . . Also, beware of Spanish cats. They seem to like screaming while having sex, right under your window, just about all the time. Also, if you´re a pig, get out of Spain, fast, as you are likely to have your leg hanging up, smoked, hoof and all, in a tapas bar realllll soon.
5) HOME ECONOMICS: Rather than go on a diet in Sevilla, turns out Sevilla in the summer IS the diet ("in post-Francoist Spain, diet tries not to eat you!"). That is, July´s only starting but already here by midday its already over 100F, which means you lose your full bodyweight in water just going out to get groceries (specially cause that store wasn´t open anyway). Beer is only served in tiny glasses (caña) cause it´d get warm by the bottom anyway, and its too hot to eat anything more than a few appetizers at a given time (which were originally given away free on little plates put on top of your beer glasses, hence the word tapas). Sevilla is known as "the frying pan of europe", and in fact, it set the record for heat in Europe, 122F. Once you´re hear a week, you learn that walking on the shady side of the street is a matter of self-preservation, and you yearn at all times to be under the large cloth awnings they hang between building to catch as much sun as possible (or to make sure that you can bounce between buildings in the winter). Then again, due to siesta, its not unusual to see kids and grandmas eating dinner together outisde in the plazas at midnight. Go figure. I also like the fact that they generally put the washing machine under the sink, where we have dish-washers. And yes, I really HAVE used a bidet to wash my feet, seeing as I didn´t remember to take enough socks on my trip. I was that guy.
6) REPRODUCTION: ALL the men here set off my gaydar. I´m talking hardcore. All Spanish men wear popped collars, pastel colors, lisp like there´s no tomorrow, wear 3/4 cutoff pants, touch each other all the time, ride on each other´s laps on scooters and bikes, and generally do things that are the sole province of my familia back in the states. Several times while kibitzing with the chicas after class, we´ve chatted about our male teachers and been like, "Ok, he just said he has a WIFE and TWO KIDS?! Is that possible?" I mean, gay marriage is legal here (woohoo! now if only New York can catch up with, um, the land o´Don Quixote . . .), but usually when a guy says they "love Cher" and "sing in a choir", you don´t expect them to start talking about their mujer andhaving constantly gotten in trouble with their teachers in school for chasing the chicas (unless, that is, they´ve gotten real cosy with R.Kelley and Tom Cruise in that big ole closet of theirs). So, as one of my gf´s here recently said, "I´ve just given up trying to tell." Then again, the machismo of the Spanish grandmas waddling up and down the streets with ironclad wills in the noonday heat, with their fans opening and closing like machine guns, seems to be some sort of cosmic compensation. And then there´s Francesco, the one Italian guy in my class, who is a professional footballista (and quite famous back home, from what I can tell), who is avidly hetero, but wears bright melon colored speedos at the beach, buzzes all his body hair, and carefully matches his flip-flops and his t-shirt each day. Confusing is barely the word! My overall assesment is that Spanish guys are overall pretty damn hot, even if I can´t tell who goes in my direction or not. That said, seems that a lot of the openly gay men I´ve run into here seem more the bear type, and I´ve never really considered myself a cub, so, let´s just say I´m still just kinda more confused about men here than back in the states . . .
8) LANGUAGE ARTS: Seems the word España is actually pronounced "an-dah-loo-THEE-yah" (at least to the locals, though I suspect its pronounced "cata-LUN-yah" up north), though some say that they´ve heard of a non-existant place which folks from Madrid pronounce "eh-PAN-ya," but its a myth, having been disproved some time around 1974 (when most other Spanish myths vanished). Also, turns out "spinach" is plural here (me pone espinacas con garbanzos, por favor), but people are singular (la gente). And if you´re pregnant, the proper medical term is you are embarasada (which, it turns out, is procounced "cath-OLIC-ism"). If you wanna say, "that´s a horse of a different color" you say, es el otro pedo (in English, "that´s another fart"), while if you wanna say something is really great, you say es de puta madre (which roughly translates into "that´s of the mother whore/whore´s mother!"). I´ve been warned NOT to mix this up with es LA puta madre, or to say anything about putas and madres outside of Spain, in which things which are the shiz-nite are rather referred to as something like es de buen Papi (fathers being much safer to rave about than mothers in Mexico, it seems) . . .
9) AVIARY: So, a friend of mine at the school here had his "mum" visiting from Bristol, UK. And after a discussion of what I do for a living, she said that I seem to be a bit of a "boffin". Having never been called a "boffin" before, I turn it over to the 2-log crew to determine what a "boffin" actually is.
a) A fraggle who baffles all his fraggle friends,
b) A puffin who burps and farts all the livelong day,
I've decided to become an actuary. As far as I know, every insurance employee is unbelievably cute. In case you're unlike me (hormonal, unemployed, glued to daytime TV), let me give you a rundown of adorable insurance peddlers:
Progressive Flo
Yes, they actually named her "Progressive Flo", I suppose to symbolize that their insurance company is at the bleeding-edge of progress.
She's textbook crazy putty. You know you should keep her distance, because she'd be a high-maintenance disaster, but you're drawn to her like flies to a bug zapper. The more you think about her, the more she keeps flirting with the Vicky Mendoza diagonal on Barney Stinson's crazy-hot graph.
I don't know the first thing about insurance, and I'd never found it interesting before. And yet I know I could sit for hours and let her bubble on endlessly about how I need to buy mortage-backed securities or whatever. And I'm not the only person to theorize about this:
Is it her fabulous comic timing, her over-the-top facial expressions, her cute-as-a-button retro flip? Or is it the slight hint of a bad girl that lies just under the surface? The promise of a tattoo under that checkout girl uniform? The possibility of a motorcycle parked out back? -- Jennifer Mathieu
Even though Progressive doesn’t actually have any “Apple store” style retail outlets, they created one for this lady to work in, just to target the everyman’s “Starbucks Girl” fantasy. You know the one: the girl who you see every day, who—for sixty precious seconds—is concerned only with whatever it is you want, and how she can help you get it. The full-service female who you see every day but don’t really know; making it a guilt-free process to project all of your sexual desires unto her, believing that she’s as eager to please in bed as she is with a price-gun in her hand. -- Ruchador
Erin Esurance
At some point, animators figured out that a few well-sketched lines could drive guys into a frenzy no real woman could achieve. My hunch is that some lonely male animator decided that if he was going to get carpal tunnel syndrome anyway, he may as well get it by bringing his idealized fantasy woman into existence. Then fan art, like above, took over.
But there's more to Erin Esurance than her stunning body and plush lips. She happens to be the perfect incarnation of what a dude hopes a hip, modern feminist will be. She spends her days as a highly capable, butt-kicking, robot-fighting, snowboarding, gun-slinging, fast-driving secret agent, which has something to do with insurance for some reason. And yet every time the thoroughly useless, dim-witted, 6'2" lump of male mediocrity walks into frame, she casts him a flirty glance that says she's ready for fun. Why him, Erin? You can do so much better! This mimbo gets flustered tying his own shoes. And yet that's the beauty of the ad campaign... it gives hope to us useless mimbos that maybe, one day, we can score our own cartoon renaissance woman.
The Geico Gecko
OK, am I the only one who thinks Erin Esurance should get together with the Geico Gecko? Just like the Esurance guy, the gecko is totally useless and boring, so we know he's her type. Plus, he's kind of adorable, cleans up well, and OH MY, that ACCENT!
And unlike Erin, the Gecko actually enjoys talking about the various facets of insurance, and we all know that opposites attract. The Gecko plus Erin. With Flo watching.
If only there was an online utility that settled the timeless MFK question. Aha!
Oh, I would definitely marry progressive because Progressive education, which emphasizes a "hands-on" approach to learning
Oh, I would definitely fuck geico because A dominant figure in GEICO’s history is David Lloyd Kreeger , who became president of the company in 1964 and helped to steer it into a major insurance enterprise
Oh, I would definitely kill esurance because Esurance was founded in 1998 under the name of SiliconSierra Holdings Inc
A couple of Swedish parents have stirred up debate in the country by refusing to reveal whether their two-and-a-half-year-old child is a boy or a girl. Pop’s parents, both 24, made a decision when their baby was born to keep Pop’s sex a secret. Aside from a select few – those who have changed the child’s diaper – nobody knows Pop’s gender; if anyone inquires, Pop’s parents simply say they don’t disclose this information.
“We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mould from the outset,” Pop’s mother said. “It's cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead.”
You know what, I agree. In fact, why stop at gender? What about race? Why should the poor child fall victim to the crude stereotypes applied to Swedes, you know, wearing bikinis despite being cold, liking ABBA and, apparently, being nuttier than banana-nut bread. I suggest covering the kid with a nice coat of paint (greenwashing seems to be hip right now, so go green) so no one will know if he/she is white/black. Add some cool shades and we won't know if he/she is Asian either.
Typical Swede
But wait, why should we even treat the poor creature as human? Stupid Swedish speciests! (try saying that three times fast) I say put the cute little whatsit in a big plastic box, sealed on all sides so no one will know what's lurking inside and treat it with the same respect all God's creatures deserve (wait, why assume the little bugger believes in God?).
But wait again, why do we assume a person or dog deserves more respect than, say, a doorknob? That's just typical organo-centric chauvinism for you. I guess I can't help it, probably because I was raised as a Jewish Israeli human male. I'm so screwed (and screwed up)!
I used to think that I was the kind of person who doesn't have an addictive personality. I've tried smoking, various things, sometimes for a few weeks, and stopped without the slightest difficulty. As some 2loggers know, I am a fan of Maker's Mark, but now have gone without it for more than two months, at times not drinking a single alcoholic beverage for weeks at a stretch. I used to watch a lot of TV when I was young, but for my 3 years as an undergrad I didn't even own one. I love drinking coffee, but have gone without it for weeks on end while I was in the Army. My track record will also show that I am clearly not a sexaholic, rageaholic, or autoerotic-asphixiation-holic. But in the last week I found out that there is one thing I have become dependent on and addicted to - the Internet.
It began late Monday night, when my internet connection suddenly failed. I thought this was a temporary thing and decided to go to sleep, feeling assured that it will be fixed in the morning, but the next day, hoping to check the day's news on the New York Times website, and still no internet. I can wait, I thought, and decided to do some translation work. After a few sentences I need to get an exact definition of some word - no online dictionary. Never mind, I leaf through the massive dictionary in my room and find what I was looking for. A few minutes later I stop again, what would the name of that particular type of tree be in Hebrew? usually I would use Wikipedia, simply moving from the English article to the Hebrew one, but no such luck today. Then I start thinking about some emails I sent out a over the weekend, surely there's something of interest lurking in my inbox. I turn on the radio to hear some news, but it's all local stuff. I miss my streaming WNYC. And what about The New Yorker, and all my friends' blogs, and 2LOG!!! I also wonder what's new on Facebook and Twitter, though to a lesser degree.
I talk to countless clueless ISP representative for hours, they don't know what the problem is. try this, they say, and try that, and install this and uninstall that and nothing works. they finally agree to send a technician over. On Friday. Friday? I ask, but today's Tuesday, how am I supposed to survive till then? That's the earliest we can get someone there. Why? I ask angrily, is your system so fucked up that your technicians are always so damn busy?
As the days advance I get progressively worse. Though I spend most of my time on translation work, which is now much slower, I find myself sneaking out at night with my laptop and parking in front of apartment complexes to steal their wi-fi, just to make sure the world has not ended, and that there aren't any desperate agents waiting to hear back from me (I guess they'd have to be desperate if they're waiting to hear from me). Anyway, I finally got my fix back on Friday, and the first thing I saw on my iGoogle homepage - Michael Jackson is dead. Huh, I thought to myself, I guess they cut off his internet too.
P.S. Don't worry, last week's Car2oon Caption Contest will appear this coming Thursday.
