Straddling the Rubicon

About twice a year, I have dreams in which I'm able to sing, and to sing wonderfully well. My voice is rich and nimble, and can hit any note in any octave. Plus, the songs are my very own, ones that I have never heard before, neither in my dreams nor in real life.

It's a fabulous feeling: free, unteathered, fully in tune and at ease with the entire world. If I were to compare it to the world of food, the best parallel would be rich, dark, chocolate brownies with nuts. The voice and the songs are simply there, like a plate of brownies, allowing me to savor them at my own leisure. The closest comparable real-world voices that I can think of are Andrea Bocelli and Aretha Franklin, perhaps even a combination of the two.

But then I wake up...and the voice is gone. It stays in that other world. And I find myself lying there with absolutely no musical voice, and even more depressing, no musical talent at all. But I know it was there in my dream world. It was my voice, my capability, my songs--not songs or talent that I was merely imitating. The songs were new, complex, and my music.

Yet, I just can't seem to bring them into this world. They stay in that other world, and they quickly slide back behind all the scenery there, no longer at my disposal, no longer at my reach, gone, gone and fully unretrievable. All I am left with is a set of dry, scratchy vocal cords that have no ability, no memory, no trace of that other world. I ask myself "Where did my voice go?," "Why did it leave me?, "Why is it being denied to me?," "Why has this world hidden the key to it?," "Why can't I bring it over with me?"

OK, now I have done my complaining and wallowed in my own soupy mud of self-pity. And I am left with one clear reality: Most people are like me.

But there are a few who are not. They can carry the ability with them as they step back and forth across that divide. They don't have to leave the key on the other side. They have it squarely in hand both here and there.

Sigh. There's nothing left to do but admire them. And be glad that at least a few of us can bring the two world's together. So hats off to Aretha, Alicia, Jennifer, Andrea, Marvin, Stevie, to name just a few.

Flipfloppers

Time for a few critters from the barrel of topsy-turvy sayings:

Our neighborhood has a peeping Mary.

The worst of the teams victoriously captured last place.

The school of blind sharks fell into a feeling frenzy.

Everyone hopes the new President will send everything spiralling into control.

His failure to pass the bar exam proved to be a downlifting experience.

In other words (see previous sentence), things simply panned in.

The economy unexpectedly went belly down.

She won the fight because she's the only one who chickened in.

The ship loaded with styrofoam sank like a balloon.

He probably would've won if he hadn't tiptoed out of steam.

As my boss always said: "Don't get your hopes down."

Pea-Ventor Wanted

One of my favorite foods is green peas. I also like them with carrots. The green and orange color scheme is half the fun. The combined effect is either very English or very Japanese (read: sushi).

Yet, I am surprised that the fun stops there. There are so many other colors left untapped: blue, red, yellow, indigo, violet, and numerous shades inbetween. This seems like it would be an instant hit on the foods market. Just think, a bowl of peas covering the entire color spectrum. I bet a lot of people would buy them, and not only families with children. I know I would. And I bet all our troops in different parts of the world would enjoy the cheerful, kidlike pleasure of having one corner of their mess hall platter filled with ROYGBIV peas. Some of the more inventive of them would probably even try out their architectural skills with the peas, much as they did with mult-colored building blocks when little kids.

ROYGBIV peas would also stir up memories of Lifesavers and M&Ms. They could even be used in psychological evaluations. Highly regimented personalities would quickly be revealed: They would probably divide the peas up into single-color groups, and the most rigid of these personalities would create pyramids or circles, etc., of the individual groups.

Chaotic personalities would madly mix the entire bowl of peas so that absolutely no pattern of order would be recognizable. And the more chaotic the personality, the more the peas would end up on the table, on the chair, in the drinking glass, and on the floor.

Then there would be all the other personalities that occupy the scale between the above two extremes.

But first someone has to take the step to invent the above idea. I'm to lazy, plus I know too little about botanicals. Anyone out there want to take the next step?

P.S.: Putting a tiny little smiley face on each pea would also be a good idea!

Mr. Curly

Today is a solid winter day. The temperature is slightly fluctuating around the freezing point. The daylight hours are diminishing. Night is here at 4:30 in the afternoon (but I shouldn't complain -- in my last city, Hamburg, it arrives at 3:30 p.m.). Outside, a deep fog is draped over the city. I'm glad I no longer drive because I can't see further than 20 feet down the street. But there is a fascinating side to it all. Everything outside feels soft, and sounds are definitely muted. I suspect that dogs love such a day. I saw a black poodle at the bus stop today. Well, I saw him sometimes. His owner didn't have to keep him on a leash. He was the type that didn't wander far. But he did wander back and forth into the darkness and fog, spending a few moments at his owner's heels before wandering off again to inspect something else. As he wandered into the darkness, I felt a bit of anxiety, worried that he might not find his way back. But he did, every time. Eventually, his owner got on the bus and the dog hopped on afterwards, without needing a word of instruction. In fact, his owner spent all of this time talking to someone else, never even looking at the dog. A very loose, loyal relationship.

A Hird of Werds

puman: cross between a large cat and a homo sapiens

Windoes®: pack of female deer that hit the Microsoft jackpot

jailouts: automobile executives who failed to convince Congress to rescue them

molar bear: a grizzly toothache

sirmometer: instrument that determines whether a fellow merits a noble title

pudgets: middle-age accountants who never set foot in a gym

panholes: asphalt blemishes best filled with fried eggs

emmagration: a 1918 influx of winsome lasses from Great Britain

exformation: stuff you used to know but have now completely forgotten

Wattch: timepiece powerful enough to run your Blackberry for months

Lithiumuania: former East Bloc country where no one ever gets depressed

hendoo: hairstyle popular among Mumbai chickens

goobernatorial campayne: bubbly beverage consumed by peanuts running for public office

E-Mail With a Female

(Absolutely nothing to post today, so I will fill the space with a recent thread that is just as meaningful as all the other posts here. All parties shall, of course, remain a nonny muss. TT)

Yes, Kielbasa and Klebsiella are second cousins once removed. Unfortunately, I do not know where they were removed from, although I suspect that it is Krakow, the King Kapital of all things spelled with a big K. After all, where do you thing Kellogg's Korn FlaKes originated.

My boss was in a very big pissy mood today. But I don't think I was the reason (or at least not all of it). Perhaps she should also eat some KillBossa.

One thing that I have noticed about getting older: all fragments of time (seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years) seem to go by faster and faster. I hardly remember the months of September, October, and November at all. In my head, yesterday is August. I do not know what tomorrow is, even though it may be a big glob of barbequed klebsiella. Oh me, I am going Manik! Stop me! STOP ME!!


From: MissOnymousTo: Thorsten TaylorSent: Thursday, December 4, 2008 12:03:44 AMSubject: Re: it's a wrap!
as far as I know, autoclaves are the way. We have an appropriately grouchy lab tech who wonders in and out of lab grabbing tubes which were put in the wrong bin and waving them in the professor's face. Its very reassuring.

I need access to that Enthaline whathaveyou. gas everything! kill it all!

is Klebsiella related to Kielbasa? Do Germans have Kielbasa, and if they do does it resemble what we call Kielbasa? Some of my most delicious childhood meals involved peppridge farm kielbasa cooked to a rock solid consistancy in a microwave. now that is some tasty stuff.

we found a nice hole in the wall mexican place here. the mexican here is suprisingly bad, i dont know if it is the distance between LA and SF, and they decided to forget how to make good food on the way. but this place is very basic and lovely and I am in love with their pork chimichanga. no walnuts, goat cheese or reduction of anything in site. MMMMMMM

and yet, the guacamole sucks. how sad to be looking forward to the food in bakersfield!


On Wed, Dec 3, 2008 at 2:19 PM, Thorsten Taylor wrote:
Ahhhh, you clinched old Klebsiella! I always loved her. She was a mischievous rascal. BTW, does the micro lab still use autoclaves, or have all of them been replaced by something cool and electronic?

Congrats on finishing all that studying (for now at least). If you are still sick in a week, try putting your intestinal track in the autoclave for 20 minutes. You will never feel better!



From: MissOnymousTo: Thorsten TaylorSent: Wednesday, December 3, 2008 10:49:59 PMSubject: Re: it's a wrap!

they are wonderful, although I am not too sure about your substitutions. I can handle them all, but goat cheese with a tortilla just sounds wrong.

How distressing to come home from a week of enteric bacteriology and come down with a stomach bug.. UGH!

I finished my micriobio papers and had a ball. I am helping everyone in class now, i think i like that part best, making it real and interesting to people.

I got my unknown enteric right too! even though it was a real bugger. Klebsiella pneumoniae and it wouldnt turn red. little bugger.

On Wed, Dec 3, 2008 at 10:08 AM, Thorsten Taylor wrote:
O Mussy Mussy Me!! Why are burritos so sinfully satisfying?? I just ate four, prepared by my one (no longer so) little self. They were wonderful even though I had to substitute refried beans with navy beans, lettuce with cabbage and carrots, and queso de burrito with French goat cheese. Now I shall groan until midnight, at which time I will probably eat another one.

This Month's Top Ten

Justin Timbercat / Fry Me a Liver

Nutty Berry / I Kissed a Squirrel

Tickleback / Hee-hee-hee-HEEEEEEEEE-ROOOOO!

Beehanna / Humbrella

Eminenema / Just Lose It!

Buoyonce / If I Were a Koi

PINKing shears / Sew WHAT?

Lay-Z / Lazy in Love

Stinkin' Shark / Shadow of the (Manta)Ray


Spitney Beers / Oops...I Drank It Again!

Dancers in the Rye

Some things (well, actually, many things, most things) are beyond my comprehension. One of the major ones is the dancing folk in TV travel commercials. No matter which country the spot is advertising, it almost always has somewhere between three to eight people dressed in some sort of traditional garb doing some sort of traditional dance.

Every time I see them, I ask myself: "What does this mean? Where does this come from? Am I the only one in the world that is left totally confused?"

In an attempt to get a grip on this phenomenon, I drew up a list of all the countries that have been running TV travel spots featuring dancing here on German TV. (I'm not listing the countries in any specific order, mainly because I couldn't figure out which criterion I should use to prioritize them. Pirouettes per second? Boot size? Rpm per spin?)

Greece
Turkey
Slovakia
Poland
Hungary
Rumania
Macedonia
Kosovo (yes, Kosovo)
Bosnia-Herznogovenia (sp?)
Mexico
China
Latvia
Croatia
Morocco
Ghana
Angola
South Africa
Azerbaijan
Armenia
Kazakhstan
India
Malaysia
Thailand
Lebanon
Georgia
Brazil
Bulgaria
and I am sure that I missed a few.

All of those spots feature at least a few seconds of traditional folk doing their traditional dance. Jump and spin, jump and spin.

There are two logic-defying aspects to all this dancing. First, are all the folk in all these countries just standing around in their traditional clothes, ready to break forth into spontaneous tangos or waltzes on some unpredictable whim? Second, do all the tourists going to these countries truly expect to see gentle peasants dancing through fields of grain around every bend?

The more I see of these ads, the more convinced I am that all of these countries are relying on the very same ad agency to produce their spots. No matter which country the ad features, out trot the smiley dancers. There's always a bit of traditional folk music in the background (OK, dancing would admittedly not be worth much without music), a scene featuring mountains, a scene featuring a quaint city square, a scene featuring some scrumptious-looking food, a scene featuring an impressive body of water (preferably with boats or (dancing?) wind-surfers speeding along), and, if you are really lucky, yet another quick shot of those happy-happy dancers.

After noticing these similarities, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps none of this dancing actually exists. Instead, the ad agency producing all these ads has a troupe of 20 or so professional dancers on its payroll, and that every time the agency signs a contract to make a spot for another country, it simply picks out several dancers who seem that they would fit the national character of the country and outfits them in some sort of traditional-looking garb (which, in some cases, I suspect has never actually been part of the country's tradition).

This is the point where I become suspicious that all of this may be a giant scam by national tourism offices, and for good reason: Many of the dances in these various ads look suspiciously similar. Granted, a few countries do have some highly distinct dances (India, for example). But then there's the large group of countries where I can't tell one from another. The dancers just seem to be hopping around. Hop, hop, hop.

One ad in particular comes to mind (and, yes, it is you, Azerbaijan): Six diva-looking females dressed in sleek, flowing gowns, each a different, vibrant color rather like a pack of jukebox Lifesavers, are prancing around in a circle out in a field of grain as if they are about to break into a frenzy of wheat ballet or synchronized rye stepping. I can't tell whether they are simply trying to look regal or if they are trying to catch a whiff of freshly baked bread (pumpernickel perhaps?).

Which brings up the question: Is all this dancing part of everyday life in all those countries? Do each country's most model-thin and model-beautiful females stand ready to spring into dance action across the steppes as soon as a tourist is spotted?

Do tourists truly expect this to happen? Is it one of the top five must-see items that they have on their list? Do they demand their money back if they don't see any dancing?

As you can see, there are so many unanswered questions here. I frankly have no hope of getting definitive answers to any of them. In the meantime, I will make myself a pastrami-on-rye sandwich and switch on "Dancing With the Stars."

Dodgers' Game

At work, there's a young guy (maybe 21, 22 years old) who is doing an internship with us. Owing to the prevailing dynamics in our department, he and I have developed a slightly conspiratorial relationship. Our department is run by women, all of them former secretaries who have managed to move up the ladder a bit. Unfortunately, they have brought along a lot of their secretary-like behaviors with them: rote responses to problems, orderliness over substance, a bitchy efficiency that in reality is not very efficient at all. But I should not dwell on that because I do not want to have their jobs. Anyway, these ladies frequently blow their lids at minor things, and they have assumed the attitude that we males in the office must be closely monitored and kept in line or the world as they know it will crumble into tiny, sharp-edged concrete bonbons.

So where is all this leading? Well, the young intern quite regularly screws things up (but only slightly) on our computer and network system. He quickly learned that the ladies in the department would skin him alive if he let them know. So now he very discreetly comes to me for help. In most cases, I know how to fix things. I quietly fix them and subsequently keep my lips sealed about whatever happened. After months of this, the intern and I have now fallen into a pattern of relating to each other with secretive smiles, mischievous eye contact, and subtle ways of discussing matters so that no damaging information falls into the hands of our lady tormentors. There's really no point to this narrative. Just unmitigated delight.

High Desert Babyface

The burro on the slope below
paws the dust to smoke, red and gray,
makes a meal of kaolin, brush.

He's been there for months,
happy, hmmm...so enough,
no fences keeping him in, or out –
the only straw the two of you
share a sip from.

Come, now! Enjoy the sunset.
It's not a punishment.
None of this is, not even the tweezers.
We both know a cactus plucked clean
tightens the talons in this vulture's bed.

High Cushion IQ

Even at the ripe old age of five, I realized that I had a very healthy dread of anything that ends in an "-ing" and involves being on two feet. The most obvious of those are standing, working, cooking, walking, running (no matter whether from or to), cleaning, sweeping, mopping, dusting, hiking, chasing (cows), shopping, repairing (things I broke), etc.

Fortunately, life is full of other -ing activities that do not require standing on two feet: sitting, sleeping, eating, reading, watching (TV), kissing a dog, dozing, napping, thinking, swimming, telephoning, talking, surfing (the web, of course), manipulating (others), telling others what to do, pretending (that I have no faults), dodging (criticism), deflecting (blame), fishing, playing possum, and many more.

Now I am not sure that this proves anything except that just maybe you can get along quite well in life without forcing your feet to obey the laws of gravity. After all, it only makes sense that standing on your own two feet was not meant to be a time-consuming act in life if you consider the fact that God gave almost all of us large and well-padded butts. In other words, he was thoughtful enough to give each of us our own private couch to carry around and to plop down on when we felt the need. Just think about it: When we get tired, we do not stand on our heads; we do not walk on our arms; and we do not paddle around in the dirt belly-down. We sit on our big rear-ends.

Yes, yes, indeed. We sit on our natural upholstery. For hours at a time. And it feels pretty darn good. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't itch. It doesn't get overheated. It doesn't get cold. It simply feels right.

So the next time you find yourself running around from one thing to the next like a purebred ninny, do your IQ a favor: Just sit down.

The Party

With Halloween just around the corner, it's time for all our political leaders in Washington D.C. to start getting their costumes ready. To help them along, here are a few suggestions from me for what would be just the right costume for each of them:

Dick Cheney -> Marilyn Manson

Barack Obama -> Rush Limbaugh

Nancy Pelosi -> The Wicked Witch of the West

Laura Bush -> Missy Elliot

George Bush -> Michelle Obama

John McCain -> Al Sharpton

Cindy McCain -> A Six-Pack of Budweiser

Michelle Obama -> Pink

Lynn Cheney -> Bloody Mary

Larry Craig -> Hansel AND Gretel

Joe Biden -> A Tank of Hot Helium

Sarah Palin -> Big Mama

Donald Rumsfeld -> Napoleon in Exile

Hillary Clinton -> Oprah

Bill Clinton -> Tom Cruise Jumping on a Couch

John Edwards -> Bill Clinton

Elizabeth Edwards -> Hillary Clinton

Condoleeza Rice -> The View

The Bridge to Ready-to-Wear

Now that Ms. Palin has saved us hardworking taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars on that Bridge to Nowhere, we can now put the money to good use by building a few bridges to much more worthwhile destinations. Here are just a few:

The Bridge to Anywhere: This is for taxpayers that find themselves in a situation that makes them want to be anywhere except where they currently find themselves.

The Bridge to Somewhere: This bridge will take you to that pot of gold at the other end of the rainbow.

The Bridge to No-Wear: This bridge will keep your SUV from needing a new set of tires or brake pads.

The Bridge to I'm-Not-Going-There: You can quickly roll up this bridge when someone tries to lure you into a conversation about something you really would rather not discuss.

The Bridge to Big Hair: For all you country music fans, you can get a quick do for a night at the Grand Ol' Opry.

The Bridge to Ready-To-Wear: This bridge will have a J.C. Penney's at one end and a Neiman-Marcus at the other end. Alterations cost extra.

The Bridge to Polar Bear: Since Alaska built this bridge long ago, it doesn't need to redirect those funds to this project.

The Bridge to Customer Care: Yes, you are certainly welcome to take this bridge, but be warned: You will probably have to wait half an hour before the toll operator will help you across.

The Bridge to I Declare!: The next time someone tells you something unbelievable, this bridge will get you to the other side without saying anything committal.

The Bridge to Don't-You-Dare: For those of you with children, you can send them across this bridge when they are about to do something on your forbidden list.

The Bridge to Bartlett Pear: When you get to the other end of this bridge, you will find a large Del Monte plant that can supply you with canned fruit.

The Bridge to No Air: Jordin Sparks will greet you at the other end.

...plus many more equally fine destinations!

The Scary Truth About Ligs, Babama and Gush

As I'm sure you have noticed, the news has recently been full of reports about "pipstick on a lig." Although I'm not completely sure of the story behind this, it's my understanding that Remocrat presidential candidate Orack Babama recently used this phrase during a speech out on the campaign trail. This, in turn, immediately sent Depublicans across the country into an absolute tizzy. They furiously claimed that Mr. Babama was making a not-so-veiled sexist reference to the Depublican Price Vesident candidate Parah Salin (...you know, the lady who is married to Podd Talin and is the mother of a houseful of little liglets named Prack Talin, Pistol Bralin, Pillow Walin, Piper Palin, and Prig Talin).

Anyhow, this supposed reference traced back to the Depublican national presidential convention, during which Ms. Salin proudly let the world know that the only difference between a mockey hom and a tull berrier is pipstick. Ergo, the comment made by Mr. Babama was somehow suggesting that Ms. Salin is a lig.

Now I am quite sure that most of you out there will agree with me that Ms. Salin is indeed not a lig. No, Ms. Salin is far more than a lig: She is the munning rate of Depublican cresidential pandidate McOhn JCain, and her favorite meal is stoose mew.

Of course, as soon as the nation's Depublicans started attacking their Remocratic colleagues about the remark, Mr. Babama and his munning rate, Boe Jiden, came out swinging.

Mr. Jiden took on the tull berrier role for his party. He rather accurately pointed out that Mr. JCain had already used the phrase "pipstick on a lig" at least three times during the presidential primaries, and that the target of at least one of those utterances had been Clillary Hinton (...you know, the lady who had almost stopped Mr. Babama from winning his party's cresidential pandidacy, and is the wife of pormer fresident Clill Binton and the mother of Clelsea Chinton).

And Mr. Jiden furthermore pointed out that if the phrase "pipstick on a lig" applied to anyone, that person was none other than the current Depublican pritting sesident, Beorge Gush. But Mr. Jiden didn't stop there. No indeed. He went on to point out that pritting sesident Beorge Gush would have to share the "pipstick on a lig" title with his own munning rate, Price Vesident Chick Deney.

When I heard this news, I began to get quite worried...not about me, no, but about all the little ligs out there. If you recall, Mr. Deney had just a couple of years earlier (accidentally) shot a cunting hompanion in the face while hird bunting. And there was no law in the country that might prevent Mr. Deney from one fine day deciding he needed to gab his grun and go hig punting.

Yes indeed. This story could possibly come to a very tragic end, because, as it turns out, Gush and Salin both share that same leisure time activity as Deney: hunting! Just think what would happen if all three of them went hig punting together. Would Deney accidentally shoot Gush, and Gush Salin, and Salin Deney????

Oh me! This is all getting so morbid and gruesome. I think everything would turn out much better if all of the candidates and cormer fandidates would just put on a bit of pipstick themselves and simply let a lig be a lig.

Wacky Webster

Here are a few terms and definitions not found in Webster's:

dude – a dud that stole an "e"

boredom – an electric drill with dead batteries

19 – 84's scandalously young spouse

SoHo – a New York lady of the streets who does needlework in her spare time

SoBe – a Miami hymenopteran whose sewing needles leave a nasty sting

logjam – marmalade with a distinctly woody aftertaste

Californigator – a Floridian trapped in Los Angeles

forever – twice as long as twoever

BubbaLand

And here are a few suggested county song titles just waiting for someone to write some nifty lyrics:

You Broke My Heart, And That Ain't the Only Part

My Dog Kisses Sweeter Than You

(Gotta) Truckload of Love

My Fingers Miss Your Keyboard

Ready, Willin', Wailin'

Just Call Me Tammy Teardrops

You Leave Me Droolin', And That Ain't No Foolin'

Petticoat Fever

Hurtin' But Flirtin'

This Old Lock Needs A New Key

Toolbox Full Of Tears

My Trailer's Lookin' To Get Hitched

I May Be Your Mule, But I Ain't No Piece Of Ass

Kept Lady Meets Dandy Pigeon

I see those Neiman Marcus eaves
can tease out the finest of alleles:
tony suit in turquoise and gray,
slim ivory choker, onyx beak,
feet dipped in ancient lizard leather –
worthy of your own berth on HMS Beagle,
perhaps even hatched from Mendel's
most glorious pea.

We watch shoppers below,
their wings snipped
by the same mischievous hand
that slipped them on us.

Irises bright as neon pumpkins
flash into mine – a proposal?

Sorry...I'm bound to this cube
of vanished squabs and husbands.

You look away, north,
ruffle off my bars and balcony.

The sky wins you back.

Mokie See, Mokie Do

A couple of day's ago, I caught a short segment of a TV documentary about monkeys (rhesus monkeys, I think) and I have been thinking about it ever since. The show focused on a troop in which one of the females had a new-born baby, perhaps only a few days old. I will call him "Mokie" here.

Mokie appeared to be a tiny, fragile, wobbly little being -- all arms and legs and a large, big-eyed head. He clung as well as possible to his mother, who was closely and constantly surrounded by other female and young, adolescent monkeys romping and playing.

So far, nothing extraordinary. But then things really got interesting. It soon became apparent that Mokie was one of the most, if not the most, highly coveted monkeys in the troop. His aunts, siblings, and young cousins were intent on having him for themselves, and they kept trying every trick in the Book of Monkey Ruses to get their hands on him.

His aunts were particularly effective. Their favorite ploy involved the monkey social skill of reciprocal grooming. First, Aunt A would sidle up beside Mokie's mother and begin to pick through the fur on her head, neck and shoulders, supposedly to remove any lice, fleas or other parasites embedded there. Since this behavior apparently mandates that the mother monkey then perform the same ritual on Aunt A, Aunt A soon lowered her own head to allow the mother monkey to reciprocate.

This, of course, meant that the mother had to release her grasp of Mokie. At this point, Aunt A or one of the other aunts nearby would subtly put their hands around Mokie and pull him away.

As you would expect, Mokie's mother didn't let this go unnoticed. She quickly grabbed him by his hind legs and started pulling him back toward her.

But Aunt A didn't instantly yield. What resulted was a tug-of-baby between the aunt and the mother. Mokie hung helplessly in mid-air, his big eyes bulging with fear, as the two females tried to win control of him. I guess baby monkeys must be pretty tough, because Mokie never screamed, and he appeared to be almost rubberband-like, indeed exhibiting a high degree of elasticity.

Fortunately, the two grown monkeys seemed to know just how forceful this tugging could become without injuring Mokie. After a few moments, the aunt finally let go, allowing the mother to pull Mokie back to her chest.

This scene repeated itself again and again as the various aunts or adolescent monkeys tried to refine their methods of monkeynapping.

All the while, Mokie seemed fully bewildered by the entire affair. When possible, he tried to escape from all of them, including his mother, as best as he could on his wobbly, new-found legs. But he never got more than a couple of steps away. Either his mother, an aunt, a sibling, or a cousin would quickly grab him up and claim him for their very own, at least until his mother regained possession of him.

As fascinating as all of this was, it brought up an even more intriguing question, namely why exactly did almost every monkey in the troop want to have Mokie for their own? My first thought was simply because he was so cute and adorable. But I quickly discarded that thought. That line of illogic had too many holes in it, with the main one being that I had know idea whether a monkey's idea of cute is the same as a human's.

So I came up with a list of further questions:

Is the monkey in possession of Mokie considered more valuable to the troop as a whole? In other words, do the monkeys try to get hold of Mokie in order to increase their own status within the troop?

Does being in possession of Mokie give the possessor a sense of purpose in life? Hmmm, sort of doubtful, since that would mean that most monkeys out there go around feeling that they have no purpose in life. Having seen troops of monkeys from time to time, I never came away with the impression that they were concerned about their purpose, or lack of it, in life

Does the monkey in possession of Mokie feel more needed or more loved? Who knows. This line of thinking would first seem to suggest that virtually all the monkeys in the troop feel lonely, unneeded, or unloved though fully accepted within the troop. But who knows whether a monkey feels any of these things (even though I personally think they do).

Is the holder of Mokie offered more free food or benefits than she would receive otherwise? Could be, because such treatment would increase that monkey's chances of survival under unfavorable circumstances.

Does the holder simply enjoy the warmth of having another being close up against her? Probably not, since most monkeys already live in warmer climates (the Arctic Monkeys not included).

Do monkeys have a "motherly gene" that automatically compels them to want to be a mother as soon as they see a baby monkey?

Does being in possession of Mokie automatically dissuade the chief male monkey in the troop from wanting to copulate with that female? In other words, does that female want to avoid having sex? Actually, this is plausible, because being a pregnant monkey and then having to care for the baby until it reaches a certain age would certainly put a female monkey under a lot more stress than remaining motherless.

Would a female monkey from Mokie's troop also try to gain possession of a baby monkey from a distant troop? Hmmm. This question brings up all sorts of issues regarding the genetic drive to further only your own genes. Maybe Dr. Leakey could answer this.

Do other animals exhibit the same behavior? Maybe some, but certainly not all of them. Which thus raises the question as to why some animals do and why some animals don't. Or is this really nothing more than my original question above?

Is this behavior the result of some pointless genetic mutation that embedded itself long ago even though it serves no purpose at all? Oh me. This is getting way, way out there. This question feels like it belongs in the same category as questions such as "Why do monkeys exist?" and "Why do humans (and, most disturbingly, myself!) exist?"

What would be the impact on monkey populations if this behavior ceased to exist? Would monkeys eventually vanish from the face of the earth? Or would they somehow become even more prevalent than they already are?

How would monkeys from the troop respond to a human baby or a kitten or a baby anteater or a baby platypus? Restated, do monkeys know just to stick to their own species?

Now I am really confused. Even after all these questions, I am no closer to an answer than when I began. All I can definitely say is this: If I, too, were presented with the opportunity to gain possession of Mokie, I would do so in the blink of an eye. Just don't ask me why.

Oh Venus!

Last night I dreamed I was a French tick.
I crept onto the clay,
found my way down your bodice,
sank my teeth into your bellybutton.
By the time anyone noticed,
I was the size of an olive.
No worry: Gil was there.
He plucked me off,
took me to the lab,
popped me open.
Nostrils wide, hairy and hungry,
he sniffed the red,
lifted a joyous eyebrow,
sampled you with the tip of his tongue.
The next time he hits a close ball,
betcha the boundary will bend outward.

Tiny Fat Dogs on a Lazy Man's Salary

The check-out lady acts like it's my fault
the scanner won't read the turkey's barcode.
"Have you tried bug spray?" I suggest.
She glares.
I smile.
I'm not going to eat the thing anyway.
It's for my two chihuahuas.
They'll stay full an entire week.
I glance at the turkey.
It looks like the rest of us:
Once you take the frocks and head off,
it's hard to tell one from another.
Could be why they're so cheap.

True Grits

While at work, er, I mean at the bus stop today, I tried to think of all the phrases I know containing the word "rice", and to replace "rice" with the word "grits". Here's what I came up with:

Condoleezza Grits, Grits-a-Roni, Sushi Grits, Chinese Grits, Grits Pudding, Fried Grits, Chicken-and-Grits, Grits University, Steamed Grits, Grits Paddy, Wild Grits, Basmati Grits, Anne Grits, Grits and Gravy, Long-Grain Grits, Mahatma Grits, Brown Grits, White Grits, Grits Noodles, Boiled Grits, Puffed Grits, Grits Porridge, Grits Gruel, Parboiled Grits, Minute Grits, Grits Terrace, Grits Plantation, Grits Shortage, Jasmine Grits, Saki Grits, Patna Grits, Black Beans and Grits, Pringles Grits, Grits Pilaf, Spanish Grits, Curried Grits, Creole Grits, Grits Cakes, Edgar Grits Burroughs, Jerry Grits, Grits Krispies...

And there are sure to be more. But I've gotta go back to work, er, get on the bus.

Two-Day Layover

New York leaves me wishing
for more hair on my face, palms, back
to soften the slap, the whips of Brooklyn,
the splash and acid of Lower Manhattan,
the clack whack clack as I travel over
the Williamsburg bridge
on the bottom of the J train.
It strips me to the bone, fries my flesh
no matter how many layers of silk I put on.
This wonderful city wasn't born for me.
It offers no paths
I can herd the cows down
at sunset.
Sure, SoHo has its golden heifers
dressed in jade, in pearls, its lily steers,
but the barns float twenty feet off the ground.
My cows just won't go there.
They beg back to Fort Worth.

scrubbacious

My fascination with low tech is still sailing forward. The latest object of admiration for me is the wash cloth. Yes, a simple household wash cloth, frequently stored on a bathroom shelf. Now there's an object that didn't have to wait for the advent of electricity to get invented.

Which leaves me to wonder, who did invent it and when did they do it? Must've been many millenia ago, perhaps even before we humans first ventured Out of Africa.

So assuming that humans have been around for at least 50,000 years, it is only natural that one of the first ones had an impulse to free themselves of weeks of grime and mud for some special occasion. So what did they use? A leaf (maybe even a fig leaf?)? A squirrel pelt? Or, if they lived near the beach, a freshly scavenged sponge?

Since we don't have any good records of those early years, maybe I should just zoom ahead to somewhere in Egypt around 5000 B.C. Given how inventive those folks were, I'm sure at least one of them must have devoted him- or herself to devising the perfect wash cloth for some finicky and fussy pharoah or pharoah's wife. And I assume that the cloth was made either out of papyrus or cotton or crocodile skin since there was an abundance of all of them down at the river.

Well, whoever first got the patent on wash cloths, I can only thank them. They are such useful things. And not only in the bathtub. They are also perfect for a lot of other tasks. Cleaning the window, wiping the dust off the TV, cleaning up the jar of jelly dropped on the floor, substituting as a handkerchief to blow your nose in, wet and cool to place on your forehead during a spat of nausea, stuffing closed the mice hole in the pantry wall, and so on and so on, the list is virtually endless. Just think what life would be like without them.

round round round x 100000000

High tech is wonderful, even very, very wonderful. I have become so addicted to it that my right hand automatically takes the shape of a mouse when I think about net surfing.

But high tech still has one formidable rival from the low tech world: the electric fan. Amazing how bearable a fan makes life when the weather is hot or the neighbor is loud. It cools down both your skin and your eardrums. Sleep is able to creep back in your bed. Sweat is able to beam up off your skin. And for so less money than a hard disk with keyboard and monitor.

Boris Yeltsin Goes to Burger King

He smiled his way to the front of the line,
ordered a Double Whopper with double cheese
and plopped down at the table across from mine,
directly under happy pictures of him, Kruschev
and Clinton, all of them diehard fans
of big cigars behind closed doors.
He ate the same way he governed:
messy, loud and fully enjoying himself.
A pickle slid down the outside of his hand,
fell onto his left lapel,
next to another recent stain.
The fine print at the counter
said the beef was fresh from a ranch
just outside Saint Petersburg,
but rumor traced it back to
a formerly state-owned boat from Guatemala,
now in unknown hands --
all minor and insignificant details to a man
who was always a master at grasping the big picture
as firmly as the Mir-sized burger
disappearing at Sputnik-like speed
in his soft pink hands.

Sunset Osaka

A ceramic pelican stands by the door,
the sign around its neck:
"Not on the menu."
I pause, amused, again --
glad we never left Hollywood
for a place where umbrellas reign.

"Sushi platter number two," you order,
as if Nanako didn't know.
She nods, polite, respectful,
turns to me, all lips and teeth,
"And for you, movie star!"
She knows who wields the plastic.

Deja-voodoo

When it comes to my health, I've learned at work just to keep my mouth shut -- or at most to say I was struck by the flu, and then immediately to change the subject. Despite that, it's amazing how quickly the two streets named "Concern" and "Stupidity" intersect.

A little background: I'm over 50 years old. I've endured years of hospitalization due to an early childhood accident. And I can be considered within the realm of average intelligence. Plus, over the years, I have learned that I might as well mention the accident immediately when I take a new job just to get it out of the way. Besides, that information usually gives people something tangible to work with when it comes to trying to understand my sometimes weird behavior and to leave me in peace.

So, anytime I miss work because of illness, I just say I had the "flu" (which seems to be the same thing 99% of my colleagues always say about their absences as well).

Yet as soon as I get back to work, the questions start, and in this sequence:
"Are you feeling better?" (Answer: Yes, thanks for asking.)
"Did you go to the doctor." (Answer: Yes (even though I sometimes tell an untruth here, since this answer at least stops 50% of the work populace from continuing the inquisition).

But 50% just keep going:

"What did he say?"

My standard response to this is "It was a she." Yes, I sometimes lie about this as well, but it's a good enough tactic to stop another 50% of the questioners. Which leaves only 25% of the original questioners. So the questions continue:

"Oh. What did she say?"

I pause for a long second and then I say "That I'm now well enough to go back to work." And that stops another 50% of remaining nosies. So now I'm down to 12.5% of the original crowd. But now it start's getting really ridiculous.

"Are you sure?"

I then have to bite my tongue to prevent it from slashing "No. I'm 53 years old. I have absolutely no experience with being ill and going to doctors despite the fact that I spent half my life in hospitals all over North America." Yet, I do grab my tongue just in time and only allow it to say "Yup. Dead sure. But now my greatest worry is catching up on all my work. Just look at my desk."

That strategy knocks out another 50% of the remaining mindless, so now I'm down to ...just a moment, gotta calculate...6.25% of the original. Now these are the ultra-persistent. No game plan seems to knock them off their rails. Instead, they are only getting started, and ready to start feeding me with ever more helpful questions, such as (and I won't bother including my helpless responses since they seem not to work anyway.)

"Listen, I know a very good doctor. Do you want me to give you his name?"
"Did he give you a prescription?"
"What exactly did he prescribe?"
"Gee, that doesn't sound very effective. Did you ask him to give you X?"
"No? Well, my doctor would be glad to see you. Here, let me give you his name, Dr. ABC. After taking X for two days, you will feel much better. Are you sure that you don't want his number?"

At this point, I announce that I have to run to the men's room or to make an urgent phone call. This usually does the trick. No more questions. No more wonder cures. Yet, there's that tiny 0.5% who don't give up, a group I call the "criminally curious".

When I go to work the next day, they soon show up at my desk, full of concern:

"So, did you call Dr. ABC?"

Land of the Giant Chickens

The tunnel feels familiar
but still makes both of us uneasy –
dark, no lights, only wide enough
for single-lane traffic, the kind
that gives you a wait or go signal.

We emerge with all limbs and skulls in place.
When the untempered rays of July invade,
accentuate the grooves in our skin, our gray,
the driver eyes me in the rear-view mirror,
glances over his shoulder at Jumelle,
a smiler from a mother with a foible,
but no lasting gift, for foreign men.

We know the look.

"How long you marry?" he asks.

We grin, first at each other, then him.
"An eternity," we recite in unison.

He keeps silent the rest of the way.

A sign in front of the small building reads
La Tierra De Los Pollos Gigantes
¡Vea las huellas antiguas!

We buy our tickets, go inside.
A six-by-ten-foot plate of Plexiglas
in the middle of the floor covers
a slab of what could be limestone.
Two sets of footprints, a dozen in all,
march along side by side, each the length
of one and a half of my feet: three front toes,
one toward the rear – more archaeopteryx
than avian, I think.

A mural covering the back wall shows a meadow
with a rooster and hen, tall as the wall itself,
crafted in the pastels of a fetal dream.
Two sunrise-gold chicks the size of bean-bag chairs
and identical – at least, I figure, until the onset
of poultry puberty – stand near the hen.
A single eggshell cracked in half
lies beside a nest far in the background.
The rooster looks like he wants to flee,
fatherhood a demand he has no talent for.

Our eyes lock, night skies fooling in their pupils.
None of it seems real –
like most of the other things we've seen
since our hands were pulled apart
on the way out of the womb.

No, No Nessie

There's no doubt. None whatsoever. There IS a Nessie. She's just a very slick character. As soon as she sees the next set of adventurers getting their equipment together to come search for her, she swims to the other end of the lake in the dark, looks left and right, and when all is clear, climbs out of the lake, dashes over the hills, and jumps into the lake on the other side. She then waits there for a few days until all has quieted down on the home front, and she slips back into her main lake ("loch" for you purists).

She's been doing this for centuries. Somehow, no one has caught her in the trick, well, no one but me, and I promised that I wouldn't let the cat out of the bag. But Nessie is not always a lady, and she recently irked me with one of her antics. See, she knows that I walk with a pigeon-toed limp, and one day when she was walking behind me, I spun around quickly and spotted her imitating my walk.

That's just the way she is, all nice to your face and all nasty behind it, sort of a Joan Collins character. Still, I have to hand it to her: Those smarts of hers have enabled her to stay off camera for as long as Kodak has been in business. Except for the occasional "sighting" of course. I take it that you've noticed that none of those are very conclusive. Well, that's another one of her tricks. She stays away far away from the crowds until things start quieting down, and then she pulls her trick. She swipes up one of the numerous boats that have sunk to the bottom of the lake when she has "accidentally bumped" them (her words) and thrown all the passengers into the water (although she denies ever having eaten any of those onlookers).

So she grabs her boat of choice off the bottom, swims with it over to where all the tourists are staring out across the lack. She pushes the boat up out of the water and swims a lap across the lake. As soon as she hears the "OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT???!!!"s from the spectators on shore, she drops the boat and swims off to the other end of the lake, snickering all the way.

Now that you know her tricks, you are probably ready to rush off on an expedition to catch her. Well, forget it. She's had centuries and centuries of experience at being evasive, so she will always be several steps ahead of you no matter what your IQ. And did I mention that her middle name is "Roswell". Figures.

red

the banquet over,
a lone rose on the newlywed's table
opens its petals to the chandelier

the pain of pale blue

I've never given much thought to shoes. To me, they've always been sort of like underwear: you just put 'em on and forget about them, as long as they are black and don't malfunction. And, despite me writing about them here, that's not about to change. But that of course only applies to MY shoes.

When it comes to other people's shoes, however, I am again and again horrified, especially here in Munich. When I lived in Hamburg, people seemed to know how to wear the right shoes, and especially not to wear some confusing color that has nothing to do with the rest of what they have on. Munich women, and some men as well, are Wunderkinder at wearing a dark outfit with white or pastel shoes. The men seem to have a penchant for wearing grey suits with BROWN shoes. It is mind-boggling. Or maybe I should say mind-bloggling. Whatever.

When these uninformed folks happen by, I see nothing but shoes. No legs, no torso, no head. Just shoes, very wrong shoes. It is honestly painful, and all the more so since they seem to be fully oblivious to it all. They just strut right along, happy as they can be in their bad, faulty shoes. It leaves me in despair. Gallons of despair. So many unresolved questions pop into my brain that they trip over each other. How did that person get to be that age and yet never learn about the power of shoes, and particularly the very negative power of the incorrect shoes? Did no one ever tell them the truth? Did they hear truth but simply refuse to ignore it? Do they lack the money to buy the right shoes? Did their mother wear the wrong shoes her entire life as well? Is it a genetic flaw? Is it beyond cure? Is it such a high heel to climb (forgive me)?

Oh me. I just close my eyes and hope for the best, hope that those feet will take those shoes beyond my eyesight by the time I count to 10. Hope that the next pair that comes along fits my eyes.

jungle of lips

the rain has been heavy lately,
drenching me with all the body parts
I've lost through the years,
some tart and seedy as pomegranates

I take off my shirt, wring it out,
tiptoe through whispers
drifting up, down around me,
poisoned dandelions
that can do nothing to me,
do everything to me

before me, behind me,
left, right, overhead, under my feet,
monkey faces tell me all

their long, snaking tongues sip at my air,
lick it out of my nose,
steal away the promise of dust,
my secrets the fruit so ripe in their trees

downsizing

To be honest, I have given up on seeing the big picture. There must surely be people out there who have conquered this challenge, though I'm not sure that I have ever encountered one. If so, they didn't let me know. Perhaps they were just being kind, as they stood by and watched me spin round and round in my own tiny picture, fully aware that I'd never get it even if it were spelled out for me.

So, I've decided to focus on the little picture. Doing so leaves me a lot more content at the end of the day. Just knowing that the four sides I see border in everything I need to concern myself with. Getting out bed in the morning, switching on the TV, deciding whether to drink tea or coffee, showing up at work, sitting at my desk the entire day, coming home, watching some TV after dinner, climbing into bed, switching off the light, dream and snore. There. It's indeed all that simple. No woulda, shoulda, coulda. Just did, did, did.

Cavitatus

My dentist recently introduced me to inter-tooth brushes. I have now become addicted to them. There's something very fundamentally satisfying about the sensation of brushing not only the front and back of my teeth, but the space between as well. I carry the tiny brushes with me everywhere. They are a great way to pass time such as when waiting for the bus (see "No. 144" below) or when waiting for the next sentence here to coagulate inside my brain. The same dentist also introduced me to "Tooth Mousse," which is equally addictive. And I fully rejoice these two inventions. Good to see that very low tech still has a place in this world.

No. 144

O wail. It looks like Marat crumbled again. Mebbe next year. In the meantime...

I've really been enjoying riding the bus lately. Not having driven a vehicle for almost ten years now, I have developed a great liking and appreciation for public transportation. Just sitting there waiting becomes a moment of...hmmm, meditation is not quite the word...but perhaps relaxation and calmness. Maybe the bus will be on time, maybe it won't. Maybe it will show up 30 minutes late. So I just sit there and watch people walk by, study the buildings around me, or close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I could always take a cab if I wanted, but I can never rationalize the expense. Why all the rush? Why not just wait? Wait, wait, and wait. Eventually, the bus does show up, always (unless there's a strike). Learning to wait takes time. It takes reprioritization skills. They take time to master. The more I try to learn them, the further away I get from ever learning them. So I just forget about them, and wait. I close my eyes...and wait.

Advantage Marat

Ahhhhh, the wonderful weeks of Wimbledon are here. This year has turned out to be something special. Venus and Serena are once again facing each other on the world's primiere tennis stage. I concede that the two of them never play their best tennis when competing against one another, but I was beginning to fear that I would never see it happen again. Both of them have now reached the age where most female tennis players start seriously thinking about retirement. Yet, they've pulled it off at least one last time for those of us who have followed their careers from way back when.

And on the men's side, things are shaping up with a few nice twists in the semi-finals. It's no surprise that Federer and Nadal made it this far. It is somewhat of a surprise that Schüttler did, even though his chances of making it into the final are low, low, lower. Then there's that other guy -- Safin. He's probably one of the few men on circuit who could give Federer and Nadal some trouble. Sure, he's erratic. You never know whether he's going to leave the court as a train wreck or as a giant killer. On the few occasions where he manages to get his mind and body on the court at the same time, neither Fed, nor Rafa, nor Joki can get pass him. He's got the game, the skill, the talent, the power, and the height to thump them all. Rarely do all of those parameters fall neatly into place, but when they do, Safin puts on a show that no one else can equal. The Fed-Rafa rivalry is always spellbinding, and I will definitely watch it if the two of them end up in the final. But if Safin can keep it together until the end, me and the entire tennis world will get to see just how amazing a sport it can actually be. Deuce.

Miss September

Thousands of items fit between her toes:
the stem of a marigold (she ignored it),
small chunks of pastrami (didn't stay long),
tufts from a frayed cotton swab (a "What now?" look).

When the other half of the bed came free every morning,
she filled it within seconds, her back against my chest.
I took her paw, wedged my little finger
into the tiny canyon between her toenails.
She soon rewarded me with a full-lung sigh
that gave way to a rough carol of snores to smiles.

Her name had been a truce between "Sugar" and "Scoundrel" –
month of birth the quickest way out of another boxing match.
But the decision now smarts once a year:
months never fall off their carousel –
the terrier with toe space for my heart
only got fourteen rides.

Legume in C#

"What's that smell!?"

Yep. Those were the first words out of my building supe's mouth when I opened the door (he was there to fix my cable TV connection).

"Red cow beans," I told him.

He wrinkled his nose, ignored me and went about his business, which he wrapped up quite hurriedly, probably wanting to escape my apartment and the strong odor emanating from the pot on my stove as quickly as he could.

I'm a big admirer of beans, beans of all varieties, including those that are technically not really beans. Kidney beans. Pinto beans. Black beans. Butterbeans. Navy beans. Lentils. Crowder peas. Ford Hooks. Black Eyed Peas. Field peas. Limas. And whatever else there is.

Seldom do I actually get around to cooking up a pot of beans all the way from dried to table-ready. I normally just buy a can which I open, heat, and eat in five minutes. But there does come the rare moment when I decide to cook a bag of dried beans from start to finish.

I usually put in some onion, garlic, dried chili (the HOT kind), soy sauce, sesame oil, oregano, salt and pepper. It all gets quite involved and takes at least half a day. So you see why I don't do it too often.

Now, unlike my supe, I relish the smell of cooking beans. But I understand where he's coming from. They do fill the air with a slightly heavy, harsh, bitter odor. If you don't know how to disentangle the delicate, rich odors concealed therein, and to focus on each of them like the various notes in a musical chord, you are likely to respond the way my supe did.

My favorite note from the bean chord is the full, woody, oaken-like riff that comes flowing out after the beans have been cooking for at least an hour. There's something incredible rudimentary and solid about it, like thick, rough-hewn, dark-varnished hardwood beams in a hunting lodge. It's sturdy and comforting, beyond any doubt of cracking or breaking.

The absence of sweetness is a blessing. Were any there, it would give the broad richness a cloying, nauseating scent. Fortunately, beans spare me that. They stick to their proven formula and deliver time after time. A pot of beans will never give you disco, Bach, or Elvis. Maybe zydeco is their musical equal. A lot of accordion with smidgens of gospel, blue-grass, and bullfrogs croaking on cypress knees.

"Just How Sick Are You, Mr. Taylor?"

Life in Germany has several benefits that I greatly appreciate: very good public transportation (I don't own a car and don't need or want one), fantastic electronic banking (haven't had to interface with a bank employee for nearly two years), good health care (although this is gradually eroding as the populace grows older and is placing greater burdens on the system).

And then there are the things that I miss (compared to life in California):

a) Good Mexican food. Of course, this one only makes sense since Mexico is not right next door. Fortunately, it makes up for it by offering numerous and wonderful Turkish, Italian, Greek, and even Indian restaurants. Still has a way to go on Asian restaurants, however.

b) The Pacific Ocean and the great beaches it offers. Germany does have the North Sea and the Baltic Sea coastlines, but they are largely different in nature from the Pacific coastline: next to no waves, often pond-like in nature. Cold to very cold for most of the year. Beachline water that is very shallow, allowing you to wade out for quite a ways before you get in over your head.

c) Large drugstores. The drugstores here are very small and can generally be considered pharmacies that sell a few non-prescription items. They don't feature the large and long aisles of everything that you could possibly want so common in American drugstores. There's growing pressure to change this, but at present German law has some tight restrictions on the pharmacy branch.

For example, you will not find any large chains of drugstores here because German law prohibits the large-scale franchising of drugstores. A pharmacy owner may operate at most three different stores. Thus, most pharmacies here are owner-operated. The three drugstores I visit most often (one next to the company where I work, one on the same block as my apartment, and one downtown) have standing room for no more than 10 people at a time. Just as you have to interface with a pharmacist for all prescription items, you also have to do so for most non-prescription health products and sundries. If you want aspirin or ibuprofen, for example, you can't just walk down an aisle that offers a variety of over-the-counter products and select the one you want. You have to tell the pharmacist exactly what you need. The pharmacist (who, by the way, are all very well trained) then asks you several questions to define exactly what your condition is (which, depending on your condition, can be slightly embarrassing since all the other customers waiting for service also get to hear the conversation). Once that is settled, the pharmacist runs into a stockroom behind the counter and fetches a product for you. Unless you know the exact name of the product you want, you get what they bring you. The pharmacist then gives you explicit instructions on how to apply or administer the product as if it were a prescription items.

And then there's the prescription drug aspect. The heavily regulated health care system here (which often falls under the term "socialized medicine") defines exactly which product make each patient may receive. For example, if your doctor writes you a prescription for high blood pressure medication, your health care provider (basically, an HMO) defines exactly which manufacturer of the product is allowed in your case. As there are dozens, if not hundreds, of different manufacturers that operate in Germany, this all gets very complicated. The pharmacist does not simply ask whether you want a name-brand or generic preparation. They, instead, look up your name and insurance number in their computer, which is connected to a national database that defines the exact pharmaceutical manufacturer and product that you are allowed to receive. As there are so many different manufacturers, this of course means that the pharmacy almost never has the exact product that you are allowed to receive. Instead, the pharmacist ends up having to tell you that they can order the product from a giant wholesaler somewhere and that they will have the product in hand either later that day or by the next day. Thus, you invariably find yourself having to make at least two trips to the pharmacy.

Which is good reason to have one that is near where you live or work. Fortunately, this is almost never a problem, because in cities you can find a pharmacy (or two!) on almost every block of every street.

When I first came to Germany, this system irritated me quite a bit. But, after a while, you mostly get used to it. Still, I do miss those giant American drugstores with their long self-service aisles that allow you personally to compare products and prices, and then select the one you want. The service I get here is generally very good, but I always finding myself wondering what else is on those shelves in that secret storeroom in the back and what is the difference in prices. I slightly resent always being forced to place such decisions (even minor ones) in someone else's hands.

Egg White Lies

Nothing more than a few stragglers
of graying snow and you're late again.
I order anyway:
bacon, grits, biscuits, two poachies.

Ten minutes and I'm served
like I had no time to kill:
grits in center, eggs an inch apart at one edge,
bacon and biscuits on a second plate.

I drop a biscuit in the middle of the grits,
lay one strip of bacon opposite the eggs,
one strip each above them.
The waitress gives me a dirty look.

My eyes fall back on the plate.
Round yellow eyes stare at the ceiling,
waiting for my fork to vent their tears.

But I'm in no hurry –
time to test the spillway
of breakfast art and waitress indulgence.

ring-ring

"I'll never make it there on these roads," you say.
"Let's reschedule."

"No problem," I reply,
recalling the last flake
fell a week ago.

Pill-Os

In the past, my head often would not let me fall to sleep. Actually, this happened nearly every night. It started years ago...hmm, now that I think about it, the actual year was 1960. When the lights went out and my head touched the pillow, things at first seemed peaceful. But then some tiny little voice, as naggy and irritating as Woody Allen's, started whining in my cerebrum. Every time I almost fell asleep, that sliced-up little voice would suddenly shout out and jolt me back to the Land of No Sleep. This happened again and again, sometimes all the way till sunup.

I finally sought help. To be honest, I sought help many times, many many times, but it took about 29 years until I found anyone who could shut that damn little voice up.

And the solution proved to be so simple. A tiny little pill. A tiny little white, round pill. It looks like a compact, condensed miniature white couch cushion, no bigger than...well, an Aspirin. But it's not an Aspirin. I tried those things for years. Who are we kidding? That's sort of like trying to stop the Armageddon Meteorite with (sorry) an Aspirin.

So I place that tiny (not-Aspirin) little white round more-than-a-cushion in my palm each night, pitch it into my mouth, swallow it down with (not-bottled) water, and wait. 10, 15, 20 minutes. Ah! There it goes.

Off with the TV. Out with the light. Head down on the pill-o(w). Eyes shut. Count a few sheep (the cool neon-blue ones on a black starry background are my favorite). 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12..13...14.....15.......16..........17...................17..................................

Killer Tomatoes

Ha! And you thought it was just a bad B movie. Well, Hollywood didn't make this one. Someone out there is spraying nasty little (virtually) invisible critters on one of the entire world's major food habits. This could be serious. For decades, even centuries, now, that wonderful round red vegetable (fruit?) has been one of the few things tying all of humanity together. The Israelis eat 'em. The Palestinians eat 'em. The Iranians eat 'em. Nuke-happy American presidents eat 'em. Even Eskimos eat 'em. (Forgive me, I couldn't think of anyone who is a mortal foe of the Eskimos.) They all eat 'em, eat 'em, and eat 'em some more.

My theory: This is all merely a ploy by national politicians to take our collective minds off gas prices. After all, our elected ones know that there is absolutely nothing they can do about gas prices. Prices are up, and they are just going to keep going that way. But the Killer Tomato scare is not so chronic. After all 99.99 % of all tomatoes are actually OK. Plus, the fact that nobody is now eating tomatoes means that produce warehouses are piling up with tomatoes, overflowing with tomatoes, throwing rotting tomatoes away. And the market price for tomatoes is falling through the floor. So, in a couple of weeks, 100% healthy tomatoes will be back on the market, and they will be cheaper than ever. All that money you save when you buy tomatoes will quickly add up to enough to pay for your next gallon of gas. Send your Grats to your Congress(wo)man!

Tor! Tor! Tor!

It could get crazy here tonight. Germany and Turkey are playing each in the semi-final of the European soccer championship. To understand what this means, you need to know that Turks are the second largest nationality in Germany. Some 2.5 to 3 million of them in a total population of 82 million. I'll skip the historical reasons for this and just give you my take on how things currently stand. I've been living here for about 10 years now, and I always get the feeling that the Germans and Turks don't much like each other, yet they would not be able to exist without each other. I'm also not going to try to dissect that one. Personally, I live in a city district with one of the highest percentages of non-Germans. Lots of Africans and Asians of all varieties here. And lots of Turks. I love it. It's an environment I feel completely at home in. Previously, I lived in a district that was comprised largely of upper middle-class Germans. I was miserable. All that sameness and correctness just left me feeling hopeless. There seemed to be no color, no joy. So I moved.

At the moment, I have my apartment window open, as I do every night during the summer. I never watch soccer, but I always know when a goal is scored: Sudden deep male-voiced screams, either of great joy or great disappointment erupt from every apartment building on the block. Then, after half a minute or so, everything is absolutely silent again. It always leaves me feeling safe, as if the world is fully in order and running smoothly. Cold water comes out of the faucet when I turn the COLD knob, and hot water comes out when I turn the HOT knob. The TV remote control works. I can log in and log out from this blog. Sometimes, things just work the way planned.

Cat Swimming

OK. I admit it. I'm a white-collar guy with a blue-collar mind. The bank is constantly beseeching me to invest in some fancy retirement package. But I can't deal with it. All that caution and planning and foresight. It gives me a caged feeling, like a catfish swimming round and round in the fisherman's bucket. The end is gonna come one way or another. It's so crystal clear that someone else is going to skin me that I can't understand why I should do it to myself. I wish I had been a soldier in Alexander the Great's army. Fight and die. With glory. Stay on the road 11 months of the year. No cell phone. No blackberry. No grocery store sushi. Win a war, lose a leg. Those were the days. I just keep swimming, round and round, nervously pulling at my whiskers.

Morning Tea

Five thousand years of drinkable wisdom,
as rusty-clear and timely as the rooster's crow,
catch the shower of tiny white diamonds,
swallow their sparkle,
swell away their points and edges.
Two stirs, no more – a day in its starting blocks
deserves a long breath of unforced physics.
The porcelain, a scant degree shy of hot, takes my hand,
woos a marriage from fingers still miffed
at being torn from blankets and pillows.
My thumb curves upward, at sunrise crawl,
its back tracing the smooth, inner slope of the handle.
Instinct coaxes my chin and eyelids lower
with devilish promises that submission and darkness
are the perfect escorts to exponential pleasure.
The first sip issues a zesty tenor, almost sharp,
a tinge of wild pecan and green persimmon,
enough to jolt my eyes back open.
The ones that follow wander the orchestra,
finally settling on tones of comfort
from the morning's mandolin.
I give the cup half a swirl
just to watch the last few granules spring free,
a moment of play for a wrinkling child of fifty.