A strange man came to our door on Thursday.
It was about 6 pm or so. I was preparing to go for a run and the door buzzer rang. When Gwen opened the door, we were greeted by a middle-aged German man in either a cheap or overly wrinkled suit, possibly both. He was forty-something, pudgy, balding, and stood patiently at the foot of our set of four concrete stairs.
When he saw us behind the opened door, he smiled and started almost immediately yammering in German. He spoke fast and Gwen and I stood there and tried to do the awkward smile, open mouth, subtle hand motion "Sorry but we don't speak German" thing. When that failed, I finally managed to get an "Englisch bitte....ich nich sphreche deutch...." out.
He stopped, looked confused for a moment, and then set about deciding how he was going to get his message to us with the few words of English he knew.
To this day, it remains unclear what in the hell the man wanted.
Unlike most Germans, he didn't speak more than a few words of English, so instead of having any sort of conversation the three of us spent the next couple of moments huddled together trying to communicate in a hand-gesture based, mostly ineffective manner akin to Kevin Costner trying to communciate with the Indians in "Dances With Wolves".
First he pointed into our house. Then he pointed to the street. We had no idea what he was saying. Then he went to a knee, took his small note pad in one hand, showed it to us, and then dragged the pad across one of our concrete stairs so it would accumulate dirt. Turning the pad over, he pointed to the dirt, then pointed back to the street, then back into the house.
We were confused. "Dirt?" we asked.
He looked confused as well - clearly the word "dirt" didn't register with him. I asked him to say it "in Deutshche". He rattled off some more words, one of which was "Schmutz". OK, sounded like dirt.
And then he kept indicating the dirt, the street, and the house. Gwen and I had no idea what the hell it all meant.
"OK, so you want to check the house for something? Check it for...street dirt?"
He didn't understand, but when I gestured inside the house he nodded eagerly.
At this point I sort of feared a salesman. At the same time, I didn't think that door-to-door salesmen even existed in Germany. With the Germans' genuinie dislike for strangers, I couldn't imagine one having much success. What I could imagine was the horrible sneer of incredulous disdain that might form on the face of your typical German at the thought of being disturbed in the home by something so annoying as a salesman. I briefly shuddered at the thought of being on the business-end of one of those imaginary death sneers before re-focusing on the "Street Dirt" guy standing before me.
As my suspicion grew, I asked him point blankly if I had to buy something. I'm not sure how I conveyed this, but somehow I referenced money and asked with a disapproving look if this would cost us something. He seemed to get this and shook his head. My next question was the word, "Free?". He nodded. "Free" was a word he knew. I'm not sure that was a good sign.
Well, whatever he wanted to do, Gwen and I weren't really interested. So we stalled. I had all my running gear on, so I indicated to him that I was just about to go for a run and so this wouldn't be a good time. He paused, collected himself, and then asked "Tomorrow?"
Ugh. We thought it over. Not wanting to be mean to this guy, we stalled and than reluctantly nodded. "Tomorrow."
With that he starting haggling a time. We settled on five the next day and I made a mental note to not be home a lick before five-thirty. I didn't reallly want to deal with this guy again, and I had no interest in seeing if our house was full of "street dirt" or whatever he wanted. I could tell Gwen felt the same way.
And with that the guy seemed satisfied, said good-bye, and turned to leave. We shut the door and discussed what had happened for a moment. We agreed neither of us had any idea what in the hell the guy wanted. He didn't seem like one of the twice-yearly chimney sweep guys who come by. (In Germany they send uniformed chimney-sweeps to your house twice a year to inspect the chimney. I have no idea why, but I've been through it a few times. They always send two guys, and they always have uniforms on and they usually speak English, at least in my experience.) We laughed at the concept of "Street Dirt". Then I went back to the door to go for my run.
As I walked down the steps and prepped my watch to start, the guy was still around, just outside our gate. He had some sort of rolling suitcase with him that wasn't visible when we initially talked to him. Another devious sign. Nodding politely, I smiled at him and then started running the other way (beginning my jog). I made a mental note to see if he just went to the next house or not, but I rounded the corner before he was done fiddling with his case in front of our place.
I didn't really think about him much for a while after that. I think Gwen and I talked about it once more when I got back from my run. I asked her is she saw the guy still walking around the neighborhood or anything. She said she hadn't and that was it.
Then I forgot totally about him until the next day.
I was driving home from work. After a long day after a long week, I was looking forward to getting home, cracking a beer, and firing up a game of Madden. When I pulled onto our street, I neared the house, and then noticed a small red car parked in front where we normally park. No big deal, I thought initially - occasionally people park in front of our house; friends of neighbors, etc. But as I neared the car I suddenly remember the dirt salesman from the day before. Crap! I looked at my clock - it read 5:35 pm. He wouldn't be waiting this long, would he?
As I neared, I looked into the car and sure enough, it was the guy. He looked a little annoyed, and he was studying all the passing cars intently. I realized he had probably been waiting there the full half-hour just to get in our house and probe for street dirt.
I didn't know what to do. I sure as hell didn't want to stop and deal with this guy - I knew that much. So I did the only responsible, adult thing. I drove right on by.
I could feel his eyes on me as I drove by, checking me out like the car in front of me, and I was hoping that with my sunglasses on he didn't realize it was me - the same jerk who had promised to be home by 5 pm that day for his wonderful dirt probing. I tried to look casual and take no interest in anything but the road in front of me. At the end of the street I turned off and went around the block, trying desparately to think about what to do.
I called Gwen, who was still at work, and told her the news with a "The murderer is in the house!" type of alarm, as if it was a tremendously huge deal. We laughed about it, and neither of us knew what to do. I decided to wait him out. I circled the block again, and from the end of the street (the direction I had originally come from) I could see the red car still there. Dammit!
I looked again at the clock. 5:45 pm. On Friday. This guy was persistent. He really wanted to get in there and probe for dirt! I went straight instead of turning onto the street. I knew I could circle the street from afar and keep spying on him as I drove around. (Think of a top down view of large number "8", but all squared out. Our street is the middle dash of the numeral eight. I basically drove around the perimeter and kept peering in at the middle as I drove around.)
I figured I would wait him out, and once he left I would just pull up and park. Well, he decided to leave, alright, only he managed to cross my path as he was doing so. Recognizing his car, I saw him coming right at me as I rounded a corner. Again, I looked straight ahead and paid no mind doing everything short of actively whistling non-chalantly so he could hear it in his car as he passed. I could again feel his eyes on me. I kept going straight, instead of turning down our street, hoping this would throw him, and made one more large lap.
Finally, as I rounded around again, the spot in front of our house was open and so I slowly approached. I feared he had seen me and would be back, so I actually parked a little further down the street (not in front of our house) just in case he drove back by.
Quickly getting out of the car, I ran (literally ran) to the door and went in. A few minutes later , with Madden already on, Gwen called and asked about the guy. I said he was gone, hopefully never to return but I kept waiting for the door buzzer to ring again, signaling his dirt-probing return. (That, or a brick through the window because he knew I was actively avoiding him). Luckily, it didn't happen. We didn't see him either later that night or the rest of this weekend.
But tomorrow is Monday - a work day. And he could be back. Back on the prowl. Back on the streets. I just hope, should he show his face around these parts again, that he walks on by this time, forgetting all about our little old place. Otherwise.... Well, otherwise, I have no idea what the hell could happen.
We still have no idea what he wanted in the first place.
Catch Up
Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffin' blog.
Or writing in this thing for that matter. A lot has happened recently, I haven't written a damn thing lately, yada yada. We've all seen this before. So I'll skip the lamenting over of the how or the why of letting this blog fall into the disarray of idleness (or at least I'll pretend to skip over that part while in reality drawing more attention to it), and simply move on with the catch up, catch all, come back post. Here we go.
Bermuda
-Gwen and I went to George and Cristin's wedding in Bermuda several weeks ago and had a pretty fine time. The island, the company, the setting, the reception, the booze, everything was solid. I had never been to the Carribbean before, and as it turns out, I still have never been to the Carribbean, because Bermuda is located in the Atlantic (you idiot), at roughly the same latitude as North Carolina. Did I know that before this trip? Of course not. Public school geography at its finest, of course.
-We arrived in Bermuda to the tropical atmosphere and when in a place like that its very easy to simply relax. Collars, muscle fibers, and attitudes all loosen - there's something in the air and smiles simply come more easily. What a great place.
-The accent of the dark-skinned locals was odd. Some sort of cross between Jamiacan or Carribbean and British. We had a friendly and uber-chatty taxi driver over to the hotel, and in that 30 minutes I learned more about Bermuda (and that accent) than I did in the rest of my time there.
-Within 20 minutes of landing I started singing the Bermuda part of the song "Cocomo" by the Beach Boys every five minutes, a behavior which I repeated for 72 staight hours while awake, (That seemed to taper off the last couple days of the Bermuda trip - it turns out you CAN sing a song too much) driving everyone insane in the process.
-George and Cristin had organized a golf scramble the day before the wedding, and so on the Friday before the big day I found myself staring 18 holes of golf square in the face for the first time in over four years. I had even't swung a club since Iraq (where one night we hit old driving range balls - which we had dunked in the translucent green fluid of broken chem lights - over the FOB wall one night for no good reason while smoking cigars), and I knew after trying a few practice chips that things could ugly quick.
The good news was that Pete and I shared a cart and were in the same foursome. Pete, much like my old roommate John "Boy" Clemenns, has what I would call the ideal golf temperament. He's impossible to anger - or even frustrate - and this proved to ease the tensions of the entire group of four of us, none of whom were very good. But we had a blast all the same. The course with its hills and ocean vistas was absolutely beautiful as expected, and even though one of the guys paired up with us was an Eagles fan, things still went pretty well. (Only three fist fights)
The other good thing was that this was a par-3, 18-hole course, which was a great way to "welcome" myself back into the game of golf. The first time I ever played golf was during the end of my third-year of med school. My friends Cameron, Jamie, Alexi, and I went out and had ourselves a time. That day was fantastic because my expectations were so low and when a good shot did come up, even better. And as I recall, we all ended up getting sauced and having a world-beating burger (best cheeseburger I've ever had) at a place called "Port of Call" in New Orleans later on to cap off the experience. It was a phenomenal day. And then I got addicted to the damn game.
During my fourth year of medical school I started playing more and more golf. Thanks to Papa Stup, I was equipped with some good clubs and all the proper equipment. I never had lessons, but I just played and played over again, trying to improve along the way. Something happened though, and though I did improve, my progress slowed and that 'slowing' led to dire frustrations. Next thing I knew I was leaving the golf course more stressed and frustrated then when I entered it, and as a result I made a clean break with the game going into residency knowing that my psyche couldn't handle the concept of spending my precious few hours off being even more frustrated and stressed than while at work. And so I stopped golfing.
Fast forward to Bermuda, where my expectations had once again lowered to almost nothing. I ended up having a great time that day, though I didn't play particularly well (my short game was a wreck - which doesn't help much on a par 3 course). After losing three balls on three consecutive holes, I simmered down and things went fairly smoothly. I even got a birdie and a few pars before the day was through. Plus Pete and I got buzzed if not more than buzzed and I recall vividly one time driving the rented cart from one beautiful hole to the next, staring out at the ocean, sipping on a cold beer, turing to Pete and saying, "Pete, I've had worse days in my life." And he agreed.
He and I talked about possibly golfing in Germany, which is supposed to have nice courses, and it might happen. If so, I'm sure I'll have fun for a while, then try and get serious about it, then get pissed when I'm playing consistently and yet not playing as good as Tiger Woods, then I'll probably start throwing clubs and then know its time give it up again. But for now, I'm back in the good stages of having golf as a hobby.
-Other phenomenal things about the Bermuda trip were the obvious. Basically the wedding and party and of course seeing a bunch of old residency peeps again. Good times.
Houston
On Sunday Gwen and I travled back to Texas - where everying is bigger - to celebrate my sister's graduation from college. Unfortunately our luggage was lost while on the way back (we got it the next day), but otherwise our travels went smoothly.
That night, at a party for my sister, I had a serious worlds-colliding experience (probably not unlike a much smaller version of what most people experience when they get married) bringing Gwen into a party which had my family, including extended family, the neighborhood friends, Eryn, and even my old college roommate Eric Hurtado (E-Hurt). After many hours of traveling, it was initially a little overwhelming (easily fixed with a few beers) but regardless turned out to be a pretty good experience.
Eryn stayed with us a few days in Houston. As it always, it was great to see him, and the trip included laughing at old pictures of me (high school varsity jacket pictures with wicked high school pseudo-tude are the best) and riveting games of head-to-head PSP action. Eryn destroyed me in most of these (especially tennis). It turns out he's pretty good at video games.
Gwen, Eryn, my sister and I went on a rain-soaked bike ride around my parent's neighborhood, and all of that ended up in a rousing game of Marco Polo in the pool. Yes, we are all college educated adults.
On the Tuesday, my parents rewarded Eryn for all his years of loyal friendship to me by granting him the chance (opportunity, really) to drive three hours and help my sister move from Waco to Dallas. Yes, he obtained the honor of being involved in a move which was helmed by none other than the legendary Papa Stup. It only cost him about 130 dollars (to change his plane ticket), a small price as compared to the infinite spiritutual reward of having things like the "balance point "explained at length and being around a U-haul with a dead battery in the 90 degree heat which could have potentially caused him to miss his flight.
Now its no secret that my San Diego friends are held in low regard for their moving abilities by my dad. A single incident of Iwan "not paying attention" some time after college cost them all infinite credibility in the area. But I like to think that Eryn made up for this with his uncanny ability to secure things to the inside of the truck with rope. His technique was so solid that it caught Papa Stup's all-seeing eye and Eryn was asked to repeat his rope-wizardry several times. Kudos, friend. Kudos, indeed.
In all seriousness, we appreciate Eryn's help that day, and as always it was great to see him and hang out, even if he did miss seeing the spot in Dallas where Kennedy got shot which we drove to not an hour after dropping him off at the airport.
Since the Trip
Since we've gotten back, things have been busy again. Landstuhl is on level TEN all the time these days thanks to this little operation we have continuing in the middle east. I was on call the whole holiday weekend, and it seems like the summer will only get busier as casualties rise and providers leave the hospital to go to other duty stations. More to follow on this, but it looks I'm in for a busy summer of work up here.
Gwen and I did manage to throw a little BBQ yesterday (Monday) for Memorial Day. Gwen bought a grill and though the weather didn't cooperate it stopped raining long enough for us to grill some meat and enjoy some good company. Gwen is quite the hostess when she tries - I was impressed by her ability to arrange all the things so well for the party, despite being on call all weekend.
And now - some pics. I'll try and stay more caught up on this thing in the future.
My Ernie Els-esque swing...
Three beers in...
Pete and I continue our World Tour of this pose - this time with Pete in full Bermuda Shorts
Looking Stylish...
And Again...
"Bermuda, Bahamas, Come on Pretty Mamma..."
Team Madigan
This one sort of stands on its own...
Or writing in this thing for that matter. A lot has happened recently, I haven't written a damn thing lately, yada yada. We've all seen this before. So I'll skip the lamenting over of the how or the why of letting this blog fall into the disarray of idleness (or at least I'll pretend to skip over that part while in reality drawing more attention to it), and simply move on with the catch up, catch all, come back post. Here we go.
Bermuda
-Gwen and I went to George and Cristin's wedding in Bermuda several weeks ago and had a pretty fine time. The island, the company, the setting, the reception, the booze, everything was solid. I had never been to the Carribbean before, and as it turns out, I still have never been to the Carribbean, because Bermuda is located in the Atlantic (you idiot), at roughly the same latitude as North Carolina. Did I know that before this trip? Of course not. Public school geography at its finest, of course.
-We arrived in Bermuda to the tropical atmosphere and when in a place like that its very easy to simply relax. Collars, muscle fibers, and attitudes all loosen - there's something in the air and smiles simply come more easily. What a great place.
-The accent of the dark-skinned locals was odd. Some sort of cross between Jamiacan or Carribbean and British. We had a friendly and uber-chatty taxi driver over to the hotel, and in that 30 minutes I learned more about Bermuda (and that accent) than I did in the rest of my time there.
-Within 20 minutes of landing I started singing the Bermuda part of the song "Cocomo" by the Beach Boys every five minutes, a behavior which I repeated for 72 staight hours while awake, (That seemed to taper off the last couple days of the Bermuda trip - it turns out you CAN sing a song too much) driving everyone insane in the process.
-George and Cristin had organized a golf scramble the day before the wedding, and so on the Friday before the big day I found myself staring 18 holes of golf square in the face for the first time in over four years. I had even't swung a club since Iraq (where one night we hit old driving range balls - which we had dunked in the translucent green fluid of broken chem lights - over the FOB wall one night for no good reason while smoking cigars), and I knew after trying a few practice chips that things could ugly quick.
The good news was that Pete and I shared a cart and were in the same foursome. Pete, much like my old roommate John "Boy" Clemenns, has what I would call the ideal golf temperament. He's impossible to anger - or even frustrate - and this proved to ease the tensions of the entire group of four of us, none of whom were very good. But we had a blast all the same. The course with its hills and ocean vistas was absolutely beautiful as expected, and even though one of the guys paired up with us was an Eagles fan, things still went pretty well. (Only three fist fights)
The other good thing was that this was a par-3, 18-hole course, which was a great way to "welcome" myself back into the game of golf. The first time I ever played golf was during the end of my third-year of med school. My friends Cameron, Jamie, Alexi, and I went out and had ourselves a time. That day was fantastic because my expectations were so low and when a good shot did come up, even better. And as I recall, we all ended up getting sauced and having a world-beating burger (best cheeseburger I've ever had) at a place called "Port of Call" in New Orleans later on to cap off the experience. It was a phenomenal day. And then I got addicted to the damn game.
During my fourth year of medical school I started playing more and more golf. Thanks to Papa Stup, I was equipped with some good clubs and all the proper equipment. I never had lessons, but I just played and played over again, trying to improve along the way. Something happened though, and though I did improve, my progress slowed and that 'slowing' led to dire frustrations. Next thing I knew I was leaving the golf course more stressed and frustrated then when I entered it, and as a result I made a clean break with the game going into residency knowing that my psyche couldn't handle the concept of spending my precious few hours off being even more frustrated and stressed than while at work. And so I stopped golfing.
Fast forward to Bermuda, where my expectations had once again lowered to almost nothing. I ended up having a great time that day, though I didn't play particularly well (my short game was a wreck - which doesn't help much on a par 3 course). After losing three balls on three consecutive holes, I simmered down and things went fairly smoothly. I even got a birdie and a few pars before the day was through. Plus Pete and I got buzzed if not more than buzzed and I recall vividly one time driving the rented cart from one beautiful hole to the next, staring out at the ocean, sipping on a cold beer, turing to Pete and saying, "Pete, I've had worse days in my life." And he agreed.
He and I talked about possibly golfing in Germany, which is supposed to have nice courses, and it might happen. If so, I'm sure I'll have fun for a while, then try and get serious about it, then get pissed when I'm playing consistently and yet not playing as good as Tiger Woods, then I'll probably start throwing clubs and then know its time give it up again. But for now, I'm back in the good stages of having golf as a hobby.
-Other phenomenal things about the Bermuda trip were the obvious. Basically the wedding and party and of course seeing a bunch of old residency peeps again. Good times.
Houston
On Sunday Gwen and I travled back to Texas - where everying is bigger - to celebrate my sister's graduation from college. Unfortunately our luggage was lost while on the way back (we got it the next day), but otherwise our travels went smoothly.
That night, at a party for my sister, I had a serious worlds-colliding experience (probably not unlike a much smaller version of what most people experience when they get married) bringing Gwen into a party which had my family, including extended family, the neighborhood friends, Eryn, and even my old college roommate Eric Hurtado (E-Hurt). After many hours of traveling, it was initially a little overwhelming (easily fixed with a few beers) but regardless turned out to be a pretty good experience.
Eryn stayed with us a few days in Houston. As it always, it was great to see him, and the trip included laughing at old pictures of me (high school varsity jacket pictures with wicked high school pseudo-tude are the best) and riveting games of head-to-head PSP action. Eryn destroyed me in most of these (especially tennis). It turns out he's pretty good at video games.
Gwen, Eryn, my sister and I went on a rain-soaked bike ride around my parent's neighborhood, and all of that ended up in a rousing game of Marco Polo in the pool. Yes, we are all college educated adults.
On the Tuesday, my parents rewarded Eryn for all his years of loyal friendship to me by granting him the chance (opportunity, really) to drive three hours and help my sister move from Waco to Dallas. Yes, he obtained the honor of being involved in a move which was helmed by none other than the legendary Papa Stup. It only cost him about 130 dollars (to change his plane ticket), a small price as compared to the infinite spiritutual reward of having things like the "balance point "explained at length and being around a U-haul with a dead battery in the 90 degree heat which could have potentially caused him to miss his flight.
Now its no secret that my San Diego friends are held in low regard for their moving abilities by my dad. A single incident of Iwan "not paying attention" some time after college cost them all infinite credibility in the area. But I like to think that Eryn made up for this with his uncanny ability to secure things to the inside of the truck with rope. His technique was so solid that it caught Papa Stup's all-seeing eye and Eryn was asked to repeat his rope-wizardry several times. Kudos, friend. Kudos, indeed.
In all seriousness, we appreciate Eryn's help that day, and as always it was great to see him and hang out, even if he did miss seeing the spot in Dallas where Kennedy got shot which we drove to not an hour after dropping him off at the airport.
Since the Trip
Since we've gotten back, things have been busy again. Landstuhl is on level TEN all the time these days thanks to this little operation we have continuing in the middle east. I was on call the whole holiday weekend, and it seems like the summer will only get busier as casualties rise and providers leave the hospital to go to other duty stations. More to follow on this, but it looks I'm in for a busy summer of work up here.
Gwen and I did manage to throw a little BBQ yesterday (Monday) for Memorial Day. Gwen bought a grill and though the weather didn't cooperate it stopped raining long enough for us to grill some meat and enjoy some good company. Gwen is quite the hostess when she tries - I was impressed by her ability to arrange all the things so well for the party, despite being on call all weekend.
And now - some pics. I'll try and stay more caught up on this thing in the future.
My Ernie Els-esque swing...
Three beers in...
Pete and I continue our World Tour of this pose - this time with Pete in full Bermuda Shorts
Looking Stylish...
And Again...
"Bermuda, Bahamas, Come on Pretty Mamma..."
Team Madigan
This one sort of stands on its own...
Ungrateful Birds
OK, so it's been a while.
Since coming back from our travels, and certainly since my last post, Gwen and I have been decidedly grounded into the grind. Work, come home, maybe work out, eat dinner, watch something, I play Madden (or she plays Final Fantasy), I make chess moves on itsyourturn.com (that's right - I'm playing a lot of email by chess! Its f*cking NUTS!), I obsessively analyze my fantasy baseball team, she plays Puzzle Quest, we go to sleep. Then repeat. Work has kept us both busy.
Our weekends of late have also been dull . Since our run to "The States" (as we jet-settingly call them now) in March, we burned out on traveling a little, and we haven't taken a single trip, or gone anywhere, other than to a little BBQ party about an hour or so away near Frankfurt. It was a little reunion for Gwen and her brothers-in-arms buddies from Iraq, which was cool, but only soaked up one Saturday night. (The party was fun, but possibly even better - for me - was driving back on the Autobahn on a Saturday night to some wicked-sweet Euro-techno radio show which lined up perfectly as we drove through Frankfurt. I was in heaven - Gwen would try and say something to me and I would reply, "Not now, honey - I'm driving at high speeds to Euro-techno," with a smarmy grin on my face. Awesome beyond words. )
In fact, other than the party above, the single most exciting thing we've done is tried to figure out what type of bird seed the local stoic German birds seem to enjoy. In a flash of inspired lawn care, we put up a bird-feeder up in our back yard one day - one easily visible from the window. The first day we loaded it with some generic seed and then glued ourselves eagerly to the window, like five-year-olds staring down a pot of dirt mere minutes after planting a potato plant beneath the top soil and "demanding" it grow right in front of their eyes. For many hours, we watched. And no birds came. We were distraught. So we increased our efforts - after cursing the ungrateful sots - eventually braving a German version of a Home Depot Garden Store (sadly it was a lot like an American Home Depot Garden Store; no black-spandexed employees, no techno - nothing) to buy FIVE different kinds of bird seed and do a little Pepsi/Coke birdseed challenge.
We placed piles of bird seed around our picnic table in separate groups with big stupid grins on our faces. (I felt like I was Wile E. Coyote baiting a trap for the Road Runner.) We also hung a different kind of "string food" up in the tree (it's like a small branch with chewable bird food - or something) near the birdhouse.
Well, again we watched, and were disappointed with the lack of turn out. We again cursed the ungrateful German birds, and things once more degenerated into childish name-calling. And so we sort of gave up. But no sooner after we had done that, the German birds started to surprise us. Once they found the food, things picked up. They checked it out, warily at first, but then more comfortably, told their buddies about it, and finally they made their selections. Most of the smaller finch-type things prefered two specific seed types. And that "string food" thing has become a universal hit - anywhere its located brings in several birds at once - so much so that I envision male birds escorting their lady friends to "the string" for hot dates prior to sassy bird love-making (it is Spring, after all).
And so with the results of our study complete we have loaded up our birdhouse with the "popular" food, slathered the tree with the uber-hip "strings", and tossed the rest out. Now so many birds are here that even the neighborhood cats have taken notice. We've found several cats napping in our yard at times, or better yet stalking under bushes near the house. At this pace, I will soon have the wild natural park - complete with cat-on-bird slaughter - that I have always wanted and so richly deserve. And right outside my own window!
Other than that, there isn't much going on.
I caught Spider-Man 3 recently and was more or less disappointed. Like any Spider-Man movie, I watched with the anticipation of a nervous mother, hoping - just hoping - it wouldn't screw up. Well, Spider-Man 3 screwed up. It tried, but it failed - most noticeably in the middle when Tobey Maguire a.k.a Peter Parker became "dark" because of his new suit. There was a 15-minute sequence involving him prancing around the town that was somewhere between absolutely laugh-out-loud funny (not intentional) and wincinbly bad. Also, in a brilliant stroke of directorial genius, Tobey Maguire pulled his bangs down "when he was being darkly influenced by the symbiote suit". This was ridiculous. He looked like he was trying to fit in with the goth kids on South Park. ("Life is Pain.") It was all very sad, and despite momentary flashes of good old fashioned Spider-Man fun, I found the movie to be a let down.
And now, Gwen and I are off to the States once again. First, its a wedding in Bermuda. Then my a graduation in Texas. More to follow. Hope all is well with all the (patient) readers of this thing.
Out.
Since coming back from our travels, and certainly since my last post, Gwen and I have been decidedly grounded into the grind. Work, come home, maybe work out, eat dinner, watch something, I play Madden (or she plays Final Fantasy), I make chess moves on itsyourturn.com (that's right - I'm playing a lot of email by chess! Its f*cking NUTS!), I obsessively analyze my fantasy baseball team, she plays Puzzle Quest, we go to sleep. Then repeat. Work has kept us both busy.
Our weekends of late have also been dull . Since our run to "The States" (as we jet-settingly call them now) in March, we burned out on traveling a little, and we haven't taken a single trip, or gone anywhere, other than to a little BBQ party about an hour or so away near Frankfurt. It was a little reunion for Gwen and her brothers-in-arms buddies from Iraq, which was cool, but only soaked up one Saturday night. (The party was fun, but possibly even better - for me - was driving back on the Autobahn on a Saturday night to some wicked-sweet Euro-techno radio show which lined up perfectly as we drove through Frankfurt. I was in heaven - Gwen would try and say something to me and I would reply, "Not now, honey - I'm driving at high speeds to Euro-techno," with a smarmy grin on my face. Awesome beyond words. )
In fact, other than the party above, the single most exciting thing we've done is tried to figure out what type of bird seed the local stoic German birds seem to enjoy. In a flash of inspired lawn care, we put up a bird-feeder up in our back yard one day - one easily visible from the window. The first day we loaded it with some generic seed and then glued ourselves eagerly to the window, like five-year-olds staring down a pot of dirt mere minutes after planting a potato plant beneath the top soil and "demanding" it grow right in front of their eyes. For many hours, we watched. And no birds came. We were distraught. So we increased our efforts - after cursing the ungrateful sots - eventually braving a German version of a Home Depot Garden Store (sadly it was a lot like an American Home Depot Garden Store; no black-spandexed employees, no techno - nothing) to buy FIVE different kinds of bird seed and do a little Pepsi/Coke birdseed challenge.
We placed piles of bird seed around our picnic table in separate groups with big stupid grins on our faces. (I felt like I was Wile E. Coyote baiting a trap for the Road Runner.) We also hung a different kind of "string food" up in the tree (it's like a small branch with chewable bird food - or something) near the birdhouse.
Well, again we watched, and were disappointed with the lack of turn out. We again cursed the ungrateful German birds, and things once more degenerated into childish name-calling. And so we sort of gave up. But no sooner after we had done that, the German birds started to surprise us. Once they found the food, things picked up. They checked it out, warily at first, but then more comfortably, told their buddies about it, and finally they made their selections. Most of the smaller finch-type things prefered two specific seed types. And that "string food" thing has become a universal hit - anywhere its located brings in several birds at once - so much so that I envision male birds escorting their lady friends to "the string" for hot dates prior to sassy bird love-making (it is Spring, after all).
And so with the results of our study complete we have loaded up our birdhouse with the "popular" food, slathered the tree with the uber-hip "strings", and tossed the rest out. Now so many birds are here that even the neighborhood cats have taken notice. We've found several cats napping in our yard at times, or better yet stalking under bushes near the house. At this pace, I will soon have the wild natural park - complete with cat-on-bird slaughter - that I have always wanted and so richly deserve. And right outside my own window!
Other than that, there isn't much going on.
I caught Spider-Man 3 recently and was more or less disappointed. Like any Spider-Man movie, I watched with the anticipation of a nervous mother, hoping - just hoping - it wouldn't screw up. Well, Spider-Man 3 screwed up. It tried, but it failed - most noticeably in the middle when Tobey Maguire a.k.a Peter Parker became "dark" because of his new suit. There was a 15-minute sequence involving him prancing around the town that was somewhere between absolutely laugh-out-loud funny (not intentional) and wincinbly bad. Also, in a brilliant stroke of directorial genius, Tobey Maguire pulled his bangs down "when he was being darkly influenced by the symbiote suit". This was ridiculous. He looked like he was trying to fit in with the goth kids on South Park. ("Life is Pain.") It was all very sad, and despite momentary flashes of good old fashioned Spider-Man fun, I found the movie to be a let down.
And now, Gwen and I are off to the States once again. First, its a wedding in Bermuda. Then my a graduation in Texas. More to follow. Hope all is well with all the (patient) readers of this thing.
Out.
Lazy Weekend and Lawn Care Flashbacks...
Gwen and I stayed home last weekend (even though it was a four-day), opting to sleep in and enjoy the mornings at our leisure over getting away and traveling somewhere. It was a good call - nice and relaxing - coffee stretched out over a few hours lounging around, playing video games, checking the internet (and not returning emails) - that sort of thing. The weather has been beautiful here, and I was able to get out and exercise a bit in the sun as well. I've resurrected my running career, having gotten sick of the 5-10 pounds I put on during the months of traveling, not working out, and eating like a pig.
We did yard work, trying to get a handle on our less-than-stellar lawn. Our lawn is not God-awful, just PRETTY awful, but nevertheless I'm sure its a topic of disdainful discussion amongst some of our neighbors, who probably gather around at night, eat schnitzel, drink beer, and scoff at the "Americans" and their "Dummkopf" lawn care. Even the 156 year-old lady who lives next door manages to keep her yard in shape (with help), so I suppose we should at least make SOME effort. (We can't get shown up by Frau Frenzel.)
And so I found myself mowing the lawn last Saturday with an old push-mower while Gwen trimmed some of the hedges and trees with newly bought clippers. The smell of freshly-cut grass always makes me think of three things. One is my allergies, the second is early football season back when I used to play Pop Warner - running laps, stretching on the grass, plastic mouthpieces, etc - and the third (and most poignant of my associations) is all the times I was forced to mow the lawn as a pre-teen and teenager back in New Jersey. Things started with a push mower, and then our lawn care graduated to a rider model. And always, Papa Stup would stand at the edge of the driveway, fists on hips, surveying my somehow inadequate mowing actions, regardless of the implement. He would stare me down, ever-vigilant, and just wait for me to screw up.
OK, it wasn't quite that bad, but still, my dad was a little bit of a lawn tyrant - a man who ran his lawn care precisely, anal-retentively and with an iron fist - with a teenage son as his slave.
One time I remember my parents were headed out somewhere some Saturday afternoon and my dad told me to mow the lawn while they were gone. He warned me not to "take the speed above 3" on the rider mower because somehow the wicked cornering speeds of the lighting-quick "4" and the utterly ludicrous "5" ruined the lawn. Well, they left, and being an apathetic teen who didn't particularly enjoy mowing lawns, I promptly fired the mower up, engaged the throttle to the inconceivable "5" and started mowing like the wind, shaking my head the whole time and thinking "how the hell would he know?". Well, that was a mistake. Sure enough, when Papa Stup got home a few hours later, he knew almost immediately something was amiss. He walked to the edge of the driveway, looking around, scowling. Then he stepped out onto the lawn and damn if he didn't go down to one knee to inspect the grass like a Navajo tracker who's quarry was afoot. Seated in front of the TV, I could see it all out the window. I froze, staring in disbelief, both amazed and horrified. Then my dad frowned, stood up, turned and stormed toward the house. As I recall, things didn't go too well from there.
Ah, memories.
I've been playing a lot of games lately. Madden on the PS2 is the staple, but over the weekend Gwendolyn and I bought "Puzzle Quest" for the PSP and both got promptly hooked on it, even though it cheats and cheats horribly. I've also been playing a lot of chess on itsyourturn.com with a couple of friends - and been generally getting my ass handed to me in the process. Still, I'm enjoying it. Gwen and I also still have our LOTR uber-nerd board game set up and in process, awaiting its resolution.
I also drafted a fantasy baseball team on yahoo which started as a "this will help me casually pass the time until football season" sort of thing but has since morphed into my daily obsession. I haven't followed baseball with any closeness in years. In fact, I only recognized like three players from my draft by name. Now, however, I wake up and go right to the computer. How did my team do? Why is my catcher sucking? How is my pitching staff? What does ESPN say abou this guy? It's addicting. And its worse than football - changes have to be made daily. Anyway, its been a fun thing to do. I recommend it, even if your only lukewarm toward baseball. Just be prepared to obsess and spend some time...
Lastly, Man Room is up and running, but that's a post unto itself.
Tschuss!
We did yard work, trying to get a handle on our less-than-stellar lawn. Our lawn is not God-awful, just PRETTY awful, but nevertheless I'm sure its a topic of disdainful discussion amongst some of our neighbors, who probably gather around at night, eat schnitzel, drink beer, and scoff at the "Americans" and their "Dummkopf" lawn care. Even the 156 year-old lady who lives next door manages to keep her yard in shape (with help), so I suppose we should at least make SOME effort. (We can't get shown up by Frau Frenzel.)
And so I found myself mowing the lawn last Saturday with an old push-mower while Gwen trimmed some of the hedges and trees with newly bought clippers. The smell of freshly-cut grass always makes me think of three things. One is my allergies, the second is early football season back when I used to play Pop Warner - running laps, stretching on the grass, plastic mouthpieces, etc - and the third (and most poignant of my associations) is all the times I was forced to mow the lawn as a pre-teen and teenager back in New Jersey. Things started with a push mower, and then our lawn care graduated to a rider model. And always, Papa Stup would stand at the edge of the driveway, fists on hips, surveying my somehow inadequate mowing actions, regardless of the implement. He would stare me down, ever-vigilant, and just wait for me to screw up.
OK, it wasn't quite that bad, but still, my dad was a little bit of a lawn tyrant - a man who ran his lawn care precisely, anal-retentively and with an iron fist - with a teenage son as his slave.
One time I remember my parents were headed out somewhere some Saturday afternoon and my dad told me to mow the lawn while they were gone. He warned me not to "take the speed above 3" on the rider mower because somehow the wicked cornering speeds of the lighting-quick "4" and the utterly ludicrous "5" ruined the lawn. Well, they left, and being an apathetic teen who didn't particularly enjoy mowing lawns, I promptly fired the mower up, engaged the throttle to the inconceivable "5" and started mowing like the wind, shaking my head the whole time and thinking "how the hell would he know?". Well, that was a mistake. Sure enough, when Papa Stup got home a few hours later, he knew almost immediately something was amiss. He walked to the edge of the driveway, looking around, scowling. Then he stepped out onto the lawn and damn if he didn't go down to one knee to inspect the grass like a Navajo tracker who's quarry was afoot. Seated in front of the TV, I could see it all out the window. I froze, staring in disbelief, both amazed and horrified. Then my dad frowned, stood up, turned and stormed toward the house. As I recall, things didn't go too well from there.
Ah, memories.
I've been playing a lot of games lately. Madden on the PS2 is the staple, but over the weekend Gwendolyn and I bought "Puzzle Quest" for the PSP and both got promptly hooked on it, even though it cheats and cheats horribly. I've also been playing a lot of chess on itsyourturn.com with a couple of friends - and been generally getting my ass handed to me in the process. Still, I'm enjoying it. Gwen and I also still have our LOTR uber-nerd board game set up and in process, awaiting its resolution.
I also drafted a fantasy baseball team on yahoo which started as a "this will help me casually pass the time until football season" sort of thing but has since morphed into my daily obsession. I haven't followed baseball with any closeness in years. In fact, I only recognized like three players from my draft by name. Now, however, I wake up and go right to the computer. How did my team do? Why is my catcher sucking? How is my pitching staff? What does ESPN say abou this guy? It's addicting. And its worse than football - changes have to be made daily. Anyway, its been a fun thing to do. I recommend it, even if your only lukewarm toward baseball. Just be prepared to obsess and spend some time...
Lastly, Man Room is up and running, but that's a post unto itself.
Tschuss!
Yo VIP - Let's Kick it!
So, THIS GUY showed up on the wards at work today.
Landstuhl is funny this way. Everybody who's somebody - and sometimes not even that - comes out - usually on their own publicity campaign - to "visit the troops". We get everybody from some big VIP's (President, staff, senators, generals) to little VIP's (retired no-name sports stars, barely heard of actors, etc) and everything in between (a lot of pro wrestlers, NFL guys). Oftentimes I find this hilarious.
Today I was running around the wards, busy on call. I'm flipping through a chart and in walks this Michael Buffer with a small posse, which includes one toady who's carrying a large blue bag filled with something that turned out to be large red boxing gloves. After introducing himself to the staff, the esteemed Mr. Buffer wandered the halls, visiting the war wounded, and at each room would take out a glove and sign it with his name and "Let's Get Ready to RUMMMBLLE" written clearly on the back of it. (One of my patients showed me his.) I half expected him to start belting out his famous line every time he went into a new room, so that as I worked at the nursing station I would hear his bellow down the hall every three minutes on cue and be left shaking my head. Fortunately (and yet sadly), he did not do this.
I'm not sure how happy these VIP visits make the soldiers feel or not - most of them seem to have a whatever type of attitude. I would imagine most wounded joes would rather have their missing limb back and not have seen Michael Buffer, but I could be wrong. And as for internal medicine patients (much more likely to be the war SICK than the war wounded - or even more likely to be elderly folks having nothing to do with the war), I have no idea how it makes them feel. Oftentimes these VIPs just avoid their rooms all together, probably because it would be awkward if Michael Buffer walked into a room and said "Hey, you're 72 and got pneumonia - LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLEEEEE! Thanks for serving your country, umm, 40 years ago I mean - and here's a glove..." But again, I could be wrong.
From a staff perspective, the VIPs are mostly a nuisance. If its a general (whom I will actively AVOID if I know they are coming) who steps onto the ward, then we all have to stop what we're doing, stand at attention, and pretend to be interested in whatever "rah rah, you're doing great things for your country" monologue they have prepared for that day. Work - or care of the sick and wounded - ironically grinds to a temporary but complete halt while this happens. If its a non-military VIP, then its interesting to get a glance of the person (like when I watched the WWE's Undertaker standing there half-menacingly, half-uncomfortable and mean looking, towering over IV poles) but then the charms fade quickly.
The nursing staff, who suffer far more of these visits then I do (being on the wards all the time), are often outwardly bitter after the VIP's come in and out and slow down everybody's work. Many question if these "VIPs" are really here for the troops - or more for their own publicity agendas.
I suppose in the end, its at most harmless for these guys to come by, and if it does actually lift the spirits of Private Snuffy then I suppose its worth it. And it does make working at Landstuhl a tad more interesting than your average hospital. Nevertheless, I also can't help but wonder if the nurses are right regarding the agendas of such visits.
Thank YOU, Michael Buffer, for making me think about these things today.
Landstuhl is funny this way. Everybody who's somebody - and sometimes not even that - comes out - usually on their own publicity campaign - to "visit the troops". We get everybody from some big VIP's (President, staff, senators, generals) to little VIP's (retired no-name sports stars, barely heard of actors, etc) and everything in between (a lot of pro wrestlers, NFL guys). Oftentimes I find this hilarious.
Today I was running around the wards, busy on call. I'm flipping through a chart and in walks this Michael Buffer with a small posse, which includes one toady who's carrying a large blue bag filled with something that turned out to be large red boxing gloves. After introducing himself to the staff, the esteemed Mr. Buffer wandered the halls, visiting the war wounded, and at each room would take out a glove and sign it with his name and "Let's Get Ready to RUMMMBLLE" written clearly on the back of it. (One of my patients showed me his.) I half expected him to start belting out his famous line every time he went into a new room, so that as I worked at the nursing station I would hear his bellow down the hall every three minutes on cue and be left shaking my head. Fortunately (and yet sadly), he did not do this.
I'm not sure how happy these VIP visits make the soldiers feel or not - most of them seem to have a whatever type of attitude. I would imagine most wounded joes would rather have their missing limb back and not have seen Michael Buffer, but I could be wrong. And as for internal medicine patients (much more likely to be the war SICK than the war wounded - or even more likely to be elderly folks having nothing to do with the war), I have no idea how it makes them feel. Oftentimes these VIPs just avoid their rooms all together, probably because it would be awkward if Michael Buffer walked into a room and said "Hey, you're 72 and got pneumonia - LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLEEEEE! Thanks for serving your country, umm, 40 years ago I mean - and here's a glove..." But again, I could be wrong.
From a staff perspective, the VIPs are mostly a nuisance. If its a general (whom I will actively AVOID if I know they are coming) who steps onto the ward, then we all have to stop what we're doing, stand at attention, and pretend to be interested in whatever "rah rah, you're doing great things for your country" monologue they have prepared for that day. Work - or care of the sick and wounded - ironically grinds to a temporary but complete halt while this happens. If its a non-military VIP, then its interesting to get a glance of the person (like when I watched the WWE's Undertaker standing there half-menacingly, half-uncomfortable and mean looking, towering over IV poles) but then the charms fade quickly.
The nursing staff, who suffer far more of these visits then I do (being on the wards all the time), are often outwardly bitter after the VIP's come in and out and slow down everybody's work. Many question if these "VIPs" are really here for the troops - or more for their own publicity agendas.
I suppose in the end, its at most harmless for these guys to come by, and if it does actually lift the spirits of Private Snuffy then I suppose its worth it. And it does make working at Landstuhl a tad more interesting than your average hospital. Nevertheless, I also can't help but wonder if the nurses are right regarding the agendas of such visits.
Thank YOU, Michael Buffer, for making me think about these things today.
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