I’m not entirely adjusted to the time change yet—for example, I’m writing this at 9am on a Sunday morning, because I’d run out of interesting things to do online—but that’s in many ways a good thing, because now I act like a properly socialized human being.

There are very many things I miss about Taiwan. Three months for a stay is simply not long enough; I was very much spoiled by my ten months in Germany.

Look at me, obnoxiously talking about my travels as though they were Sunday morning routines.

I’m going to unwind for the next few days, maybe sort some photos, listen to some music, read some blogs. Be with family.

That’s what this time of year is for, after all.

This past weekend I spent in Tainan, a stunningly beautiful coastal city with warm, warm weather. I saw many temples, was cooked dinner by Buddhist monks, and declined an invitation to stay with them overnight so I could participate in the morning prayer. I did manage to stay for the evening prayer, though, which made for an unforgettable experience.

Today I had a written exam, for which I had to write solely in Chinese characters, by hand, with a freaking pen (typing Chinese characters is no long a problem, nor is reading, but writing? that’s another story), and that went quite well. Then this afternoon I had an oral presentation about all the traveling I’ve been doing. I’ve another, similar one on Friday.

I’m going to go out to dinner tonight and take it easy.

Till another time.

A New Zealand judge has made a 9-year-old girl a ward of the court so that her name can be changed from Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii, the country’s national news agency reported Thursday.

I just don’t know what to do about that. I’ve raised my eyebrows and exhaled through pursed lips, I’ve looked off into the distance and shook my head violently in waking from reverie.

I love America.

Further insults to deceny include:

The Registrar General of Births, Deaths and Marriages said in a statement that it had rejected names including Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi — a staple food in Polynesian cuisine — and Sex Fruit.

That’s right, someone has already given “Yeah Detroit” a go. They may have failed, but I shall stand tall on the shoulders of visionary giants.

I have a dream, America.

What’s really frightening, though, is that my mother sent me this article in an e-mail with the subject line “I feel so uncreative.”

It’s only 1am here, but that’s 7am Germany time, so I think I’m going to turn in now.

I will try to blog over the coming days about how bad the beer is here and how weak the currency is and all sorts of other snobbish things.

Well, that confounded charger is till in Vienna, at the place of the dude with whom we stayed. I have no desire whatsoever to contact that individual again (a much longer story, and one I would never go into in public), and I wouldn’t even expect him to actually send it, were I to contact him.

This means I have two weeks left in this country and no cell phone. Amazingly, my dumpy cell phone is one of the only models that the O2 store on Marienplatz, where I work, doesn’t have a charger for in their charging station. A friend had had the bright idea that I’d just charge the phone every day while at work, which would have been bitching. Alack.

So now I’m considering buying another cheapo phone, just to get my through the next two weeks. If I’m going to be doing a lot of traveling, I think it’d be a good idea. Especially so I can keep the Twits flowing.

But in the meantime, those of you who stalk me on Twitter are in for a dolorous dryspell.

Apparently at $40,000 a year, they can’t afford to make their own teaching aides. Then again, it doesn’t seem like they need to. I feel like I just earned a degree, watching this thing.

I’ve posted before about missing my pets, but tonight the longing is especially grave. I found a sweet GIF that shows why animals are so great. And also why they should be trained: to hone their skills in annihilation.

This experience for me was particularly moving because it combined the nostalgia of a looping-GIF with the timeless classicism of a little kid getting rocked.

The comments on the Digg page for it are actually funny enough to warrant reposting here.

• Stay down kid. Just stay down.
• Flawless victory.
• Dogs doing things to kids is sort of old, we see this shit on t.v. We need something more eventful and new like Kids and Badgers.
• Well that’s what you get for fucking around in the water kid.
• What the hell is the damn kid doing running around in a swamp in the first place?

That’s about everything that could ever be said about this gleefully looping slice of life. Oh, how I envy the historians of the future.

In case you didn’t laugh hard enough, please watch the same thing in reverse.

All is right with the world.

Enter my sister. My sister is studying for her doctorate in Large Animal Veterinary at one of the nation’s leading universities for that field. This past week, as part of her coursework (she claims), she got to collect semen from a stallion.

If you’re anything like me, the phrase “collect semen from a stallion” can conjure up a variety of images, from black-and-white microscope slides to frantically dashing down the aisle of a barn in search of a ladder to the hayloft to escape your eager-to-be-collected-from equine pal. Perhaps this retelling of the epic tale, in my sister’s own words, will help you along.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun! They let us do pretty much everything, from making
the artificial vagina, to wrapping the stallions knees (they get to do this so
much that they can get sores on the insides of their knees from the leather
dummy, lol), to washing him off, to leading him up to the dummy, and actually
collecting the semen.

Guess what I got to do??

Put the vag on the penis. WOOOOHOOOOO!! Here’s a picture, taken by someone who
has obviously never worked a digicam before (most of the other pics are even
blurrier). To be honest, I was intimidated. I’ve never worked with stallions,
and marching right up to and GRABBING his tool didn’t seem like the best first
encounter. It went pretty well though… they’re training stallions, so I guess
they’re used to it. heh. And I didn’t spill it back on him like someone else
did, lol.

Well that about explains it. And I suppose it would be teasing to withhold the picture, so here that is, too, you sick fuck.

The story is enriched by the fact that the guy in the hat in the background is my sister’s boyfriend, the luckiest/most miserable man alive.

More explicit pictures will be available once my acquisition of the domain everjackoffahorse.com finishes. Membership subscriptions available.

The older of the two, Fenris (picture left above), was a pound puppy lucky enough to be adopted by an experienced dog breeder who always dreamed of having German Shepherds. His life was pretty much perfect, until my mother acquired a second German Shepherd, whom she named Cairo, and who boasts a damn fine pedigree. Fenris is jealous—undeservedly so, as my mother still coddles him like the gangly dweeb he is. (My mother is great at coddling gangly dweebs.) The following anecdote, narrated by my mother herself, should illustrate the intensity of Fenris’s jealousy.

Saturdays ARE grand. Just got home. Let’s see. I took Fenris because when I was in the yard getting ready to leave with Cairo and Fenris was looking out your window and crying, I stupidly called out “Hier!” to Cairo (since he very much needs the practice). So. Fenris got to come because any dog that comes through a glass window to get to me when I say “Hier!” deserves attention.

Are these guys hardcore or what? In other news, Cairo the runt graduated to a soft sleeve today, and he got to take a pillow prize home with him for training during the week.

If that picture doesn’t make you giggle and shake in adoration of its cuteness, you have a medical problem.

I hope your Saturday was as grand—though hopefully less disastrously eventful.

This is something J posted a while back, and I didn’t know what to say to it. It just is what it is.

Story the First

This video reminds me of so much. (No, my mother is not dead!) But I can remember one time being very young and calling my mother at work after school. I had read in a videogame magazine that a new videogame, a sequel to one of my favorites ever, was being released on that day. I called and begged my mom to take my to the mall when she got home so she could get it for me.

She huffed a bit and made me repeat the surely-frightening-to-a-parent title several times. She said she had a lot of work to clear up, and she might end up having to stay late at the office—again. But she said she’d try.

Several long hours later, my mom comes home, comes in the kitchen door with armfuls of groceries. I ran up to her expectantly, and she said she was too tired that night to go back out. “There are more groceries on the carport.” I wilted in disappointment and moped outside to bring in the groceries.

I made a few trips, then sat in the kitchen while she put things away in the cabinets. She asked whether I was sure I had brought everything in. Annoyed, petulant: “Yes, mom.” She bade me check again. Still nothing. Check again, she said. “Maybe inside the cat tower?”

There was a cat play tower we’d gotten from somewhere out on the porch. We kept it there because sometimes a cat would sneak out late at night, and we didn’t feel like waiting for them to realize what a mistake it was to forsake a cozy home with blankets and beds for a freezing winter night out in the lawn. They could curl up inside the tower and spend the night out of the cold, waiting by the door until we got up the next day.

I reached inside the cat tower—after peeking, to make sure I wouldn’t punch a cat—and there was a plastic bag from Electronics Boutique. (Yes, this was before they changed their name to EB Games.) The game I’d asked for was inside it. I did a collision hug with my mom’s legs while she patted my head and presumably smiled at how easy it can be to make a child’s universe explode in rainbows of joy.

Story the Second

One day, also when I was quite young, I’m at the mall at a toy store, browsing through all the nonsensical things I was absolutely convinced I needed. Actually, I still haven’t shaken the conviction that my life would be better if I had an elaborate chest-harness system which housed several holsters for various Nerf guns, but that’s a different tale.

Near the front of the store, there’s a bargain bin, filled with VHSes like “Cocoon” and old videogames like “Barbie Saves Pets: PETA Edition!” Bear with me here. I’m waving aside the fog of memory and pretty much guessing at what I descry through the swirling mists. But that sounds like a bargain bin game, doesn’t it? So I’m rifling through used SNES games, and I find a jewel not in my collection: Starfox. Oh man I wanted that game so much! But I know how pestering I can be, always clamoring for new games, so I set it back in its slot between some junk titles, and move along.

Before I’m out of range of the bin, though, I espy an attractively colored game box, and pluck it out from the ranks. It looks pretty neat. The color palette matched what my sick, violent mind thought was cool, so I just marvelled the box for a bit.

I flip it over and read the game description, see that it’s a totally lame sidescroller based on some ancient one that ran on an ENIAC or abacus or something. Sucks. I take one last look at the cover, which today I have a lot of trouble believing looked cool to me, then return it to its spot in the white metal wire bin.

About two months later, at Christmas, I get Pitfall for SNES as a gift from my mother. I was stunned, seeing as it was a game I never wanted to play, but it dawned on me that she had seen me poring raptly over the box in the store, only to tamely replace it in the bin without saying a word. She thought this was my favorite game. And no doubt, I did pay more attention to its box than the one of Starfox, which I already knew I wanted.

She was so completely wrong, but she never could have shown me so well how much she loved me if she had been right. I played the game every day for months, and just thought about my mom, and how awesome she is. I don’t think I ever got past level 5.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for everything.

I had some scouting around to do, like hunting down a classroom building in a different part of town. On my way around, I thought, what the hell, and checked at a Deutsche Bank ATM. It worked. There are 3,301€ just chilling in my account right now, aching to be spent on beer. I withdrew only 200€, because, you know, I didn’t want to go crazy or anything.

Sad thing is, the Radioactivity class went till 7:45pm, and all stores in the city close at 8pm. So I didn’t get to do my spending spree to trick out my life tonight, which is probably a good thing, as hopefully I’ll be a little more in control tomorrow. But before I went to the class I was able to pop into the upscale grocery store across the street from our dorm to pick up the necessities, like a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, and a case of Augustiner. I splurged and got Augustiner Edelstof, because, well, I could.

Tonight I live like a king.

Oh, AND MY SISTER WROTE ME A LETTER. I checked my mail when I came home tonight, because I wanted to laugh at overdraft notices from my bank, as the student housing department in Munich has been trying to withdraw our rent for September and October, as well as our housing deposit, but instead all I found was a letter. To me. From my sister.

THANK YOU!

Yes, I took it specifically for my sister. Em, this thing was five bucks. No, I did not devour the whole thing myself. I needed many, many reinforcements.

All is well in Deutschland. And Switzerland evidently knows what’s up, too.

More pics here.

These animals are so cute it makes me shake.

I was hoping to get some photos of her lizards in their new place of residence, but of course we had to head home well before her room was so well set up. Instead, I made friends with her roommates’ cats, one of whom was named Tippy. I had fun calling him “Tipsters Anonymous,” because I like making up stupid names, but I figured he was really called that because the tips of his ears were white.

Then one of Em’s roommates came by and told the story of how she adopted him. Apparently he was vaccinated too young, or for something he shouldn’t have been, and had neurological problems because of it. “Show them how you walk, Tippy.” And she set him down and he crabwalked three paces, then tipped over. She assured the appalled faces around her that he really was named for the ear markings, and the cerebellum damage just made for a strange coincidence. Uh-huh.

Once in Philly, things’ll get a little more interesting, as she lives on the third floor of a crowded house on the southwest edge of University City. Can’t wait to finagle her mattress and box spring up those tight stairways!

I love and hate to see Harrisburg change over time. Driving around today, I argued with mom about how much development had happened, and actually it was even more than I’d thought. I remember green fields absolutely everywhere, and now there are cheap housing developments, full of almost windowless McMansions with a garnish of foliage placed too strategically along the sidewalks no one will use. They don’t even have lawns yet, just mud and the crosshatching of seed nets, maybe some straw strewn about.

It looks like a deformed concept of opulence fell out of the sky and crushed a village.

I had a great day fooling around with Em and Mom, and was reminded of how I’m going to live my life. It was most excellently summarized thus by my most eloquent sibling:

Mom, thanks for tolerating my crazy equine neuroses.

My sister is absolutely spectacular.

In trying to figure out why I’m different, I see a lot of possible answers. The most useful analogy I can come up with is pairing it with how I don’t enjoy dessert, or sweets in general. I’m still not quite sure what that actually means, but I see the two qualities as similar.

Following this line of thought, not liking sweets means I should like their opposite (I should post on the nature of opposition sometime), such as a good beef stew, or pierogies. I do like both these things very much. So what’s an analog of beef stew on the calendar? Probably Thursdays. And indeed, I have nothing against Thursdays.

My father, on the other hand, who understands wine, chocolate, risotto, and just about all else olfactorily pleasing (like soupy chicken!), probably has a different favorite day of the week. And you know what? I accept that he views the world that way.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Tomorrow holds research work on campus, some heavy duty cram sessions with the professor I work for, so we’ll be all caught up before I head off to Germany. (I’ll continue to do research while abroad, as much of what I do is written work, compiling citations and editing diction, and can easily be submitted via e-mail.) After probably two consecutive days of this, I’ll finally head back to Harrisburg, where I’ll stay until I leave.

I did, however, promise Em I’d help her move in over the weekend, which means I will be back in Philly again. Ah well. I’ll get blasted at White Dog one last time this year, I guess—hopefully this time with my cool grad student sister!

I’m gonna see a lot of pecs and glassy-eyed stares before this night is over. Thanks, Em.

At least I’ll get to see a lot of fast-slow-fast King Leonidas action with pseudo-heavy metal drop-D tuned riffs. I like my action movies just like I like my Chevy commercials: with Persians being impaled amid overbearing soteriological motifs.