http://avoidwork123.tubmlr.com
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Vampires
Rostam from Vampire Weekend has a side project, which releases July 7th.
http://dscvry.net/
I like electronic music, but the vast vast majority of it is pretentious and at bottom NOT ENTERTAINING. Vampire Weekend is nothing if not entertaining, and I really enjoy that mentality applied to electronic music. The Postal Service with less sentimentality and more fun. There's such a vast world of music these days, and it's so easily accessible and malleable. This is indie music that created by people who enjoy the creations of Timbaland and are happy to admit it. Very fresh.
http://dscvry.net/
I like electronic music, but the vast vast majority of it is pretentious and at bottom NOT ENTERTAINING. Vampire Weekend is nothing if not entertaining, and I really enjoy that mentality applied to electronic music. The Postal Service with less sentimentality and more fun. There's such a vast world of music these days, and it's so easily accessible and malleable. This is indie music that created by people who enjoy the creations of Timbaland and are happy to admit it. Very fresh.
Blogs are cool
Wanted to share with y’all a cool exchange from The Atlantic’s blog world. I read both Sullivan and Coates regularly (I prefer Coates because Sullivan is too angry), and it’s really cool to see a couple of big-time journalist/bloggers have this serious conversation for all the world to see. This is a completely new thing in the world, only possible in the past few years. Good to be alive now.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Day of rest
Breakfast goes only until 10:00 here, so although I was asleep by 10:30 last night, I set an alarm knowing how tired I was. A good thing, as the thick shades and soft sheets kept me asleep until my phone started buzzing at 9:30 this morning. For breakfast there was cereal, eggs, toast, and tomatoes (apparently I could also have had beans, further evidence that the english are an odd lot). Coffee too, the European version of which I have become fond of in my two weeks here. I´m not sure what the difference is, but it seems smoother, less acidic. More pleasant to drink and easier on the stomach too.
After breakfast I went up to the roof patio, which looks out of the whole river valley, green and gold hills divided by highways and railways branching out from Cordoba just a few miles east. One train line, heading straight west to Sevilla 100km distant, runs just a few hundred yards south of where I sit. Far enought not to be distrubing but close enough that I watch each flying by with boyish interest. The high speed "AVE" trains, in particular, make a perculiar whistling noise at full throttle. Some sort of resonence in the rails, I presume.
I read and wrote there until the sun became too bright and hot, retreating first to the shade and then downstairs for a cold bottle of wine. I lay in bed for a time, watching what seemed to be a thousand birds playing in the orange tree outside my window. By 2 o´clock I was pleasantly drunk and, now a bit hungry, wandered out to find some food before everything closed at 3pm. I found a little pizza place, labeled simply "Restaurante," and was pleasantly surprised to get a menu in English! I quickly devoured most of the pepperoni pizza while listening to the colorful banter of the staff and friends up by the bar. Spanish is a very beautiful language, pleasant to listen to even (or perhaps especially) when you don´t understand a word of it.
I walked slowly home then and after such an exhausting morning fell fast asleep for my own siesta. I slept for almost three hours then, bringing my total for the day to 14! Mission one well on its way to being accomplished. After a workout and shower, I switched to a now-open room upstairs to be away from the street noise which had intermittently disturbed me last night. That task complete, I came out to enjoy the evening air on the roof patio. The sun, just short of setting behind the castle above, still shown bright enough to warm by head and neck. I read in just that spot while the town woke up below me. Eventually the sun went down and I put on some music instead, sitting there until the stars came out and then returned to my room for sleep and another busy day on the other side.
After breakfast I went up to the roof patio, which looks out of the whole river valley, green and gold hills divided by highways and railways branching out from Cordoba just a few miles east. One train line, heading straight west to Sevilla 100km distant, runs just a few hundred yards south of where I sit. Far enought not to be distrubing but close enough that I watch each flying by with boyish interest. The high speed "AVE" trains, in particular, make a perculiar whistling noise at full throttle. Some sort of resonence in the rails, I presume.
I read and wrote there until the sun became too bright and hot, retreating first to the shade and then downstairs for a cold bottle of wine. I lay in bed for a time, watching what seemed to be a thousand birds playing in the orange tree outside my window. By 2 o´clock I was pleasantly drunk and, now a bit hungry, wandered out to find some food before everything closed at 3pm. I found a little pizza place, labeled simply "Restaurante," and was pleasantly surprised to get a menu in English! I quickly devoured most of the pepperoni pizza while listening to the colorful banter of the staff and friends up by the bar. Spanish is a very beautiful language, pleasant to listen to even (or perhaps especially) when you don´t understand a word of it.
I walked slowly home then and after such an exhausting morning fell fast asleep for my own siesta. I slept for almost three hours then, bringing my total for the day to 14! Mission one well on its way to being accomplished. After a workout and shower, I switched to a now-open room upstairs to be away from the street noise which had intermittently disturbed me last night. That task complete, I came out to enjoy the evening air on the roof patio. The sun, just short of setting behind the castle above, still shown bright enough to warm by head and neck. I read in just that spot while the town woke up below me. Eventually the sun went down and I put on some music instead, sitting there until the stars came out and then returned to my room for sleep and another busy day on the other side.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Introductions
Al-Mudawar Rural Casa is an unremarkeable stucco building on a quiet side street in Al Modovar del Rio, 25km west of Cordoba, Spain. I opened the engraved and thickly banded metal door into a dim entryway with whitewashed walls, beautiful brown and blue tiled floors, and an arched exit facing a bright central courtyard. My room is simple but equally beautiful. Two twin mattresses are supported by a black wrought iron frame, the bars of the headboard twisting and twinning like snakes and vines. It´s flanked with matching 3-tiered night stands, each topped by small, red-shaded lamps matching perfectly the bright red of the bedspread. Facing is a tall bureau in finely-grained wood matching the brown-tiled floor. Over the bed hangs a finely wrought lamp, which itself hangs below a broad star of David, finely carved in wood stained to match the floor and bureau.
So often in my travels for work, nothing but my pants and shirts leave the suitcase. Unpacking all my tshirts, socks, and even shoes into this many-drawered bureau, knowing I´d be here long enough for the bother, was a surprising pleasure.
After all this, the bathroom is the true beauty. Special attention has been given to the stucco here, with small diamonds pressed into a not-quite-random pattern. The tile rises half-way up the wall, white bordered with deep green in three different styles. The wash stand is tiled in a lighter green. It supports a shining copper spout above a clearly hand-made bowl painted in swirling blue, orange, red, and two shades of green. Above it all hangs another hand-wrought lamp, this one set with finely-etched orange glass.
After a quick shower to wash of the grime of travel (with ample pressure and hot water, thankfully), I set out to find some food. This turned out to be my first encounter with the famous Spanish siesta. The restaurants and shops nearby were almost all closed. I had thought that the siesta lasted from 3pm-5pm, and perhaps that´s true in the cities, but here it is a rather longer affair. The folks of smaller towns prefer, it turns out, to take their ease until 9pm. My attempt to fulfill biological needs thus foiled, I took a bit more circuitious route back to the inn. Perhaps related to the siesta tradition, I found the people immediately very friendly. I had to tell at least three old ladies "no habla español" after they just walked up to be and started talking!
Eventually I made it back to Al-Mudawar, whereupon I decided taht wine was the best option to fill my stomach until the restaurants opened again. This proved pleasantly efficient, although booze as food is a project of diminishing returns. I felt fine (read: drunk) for a while, but eventually the hunger catches up even more fiercely than before. I wandered out of the hotel at about 8:30, hoping that someone might take pity on the confused Americano. Turns out that they´re strict about their siestas. I was allowed to sit down early, even got a beer for my trouble, but no menu was provided until about 10 after 9.
The wait turned out to be well worth it. I started with a gespacho, "Andaloz" style. It was creamier than the usual, luxuriously so, and came initially with no other vegetables at all. To this were added fresh tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and onions, leaving them crisp and tastey. This soup was thoroughly delicious, outshining the main course by a wide margin. The latter was baked cod, drizzled with herbed olive oil and a roasted red sauce (I think). It was good, very good, but was nothing I hadn´t had before, and too rich besides. The soup, on the other hand, was creamy beyond any tomato soup I´d had before while remaining crisp and bright as any salad I can remember.
I enjoyed all of this in the midst of a growing street festival. My table was under almost constant assault from small children, who ran freely down the steep street and from one house to the next, including the restaurant on whose patio I was relaxing. I left the fiesta behind and headed home, thoroughly exhausted and pleasantly full. I fell hard asleep to the cacophony of nightime birds and running children in the street outside my window and the neighborhood all around.
So often in my travels for work, nothing but my pants and shirts leave the suitcase. Unpacking all my tshirts, socks, and even shoes into this many-drawered bureau, knowing I´d be here long enough for the bother, was a surprising pleasure.
After all this, the bathroom is the true beauty. Special attention has been given to the stucco here, with small diamonds pressed into a not-quite-random pattern. The tile rises half-way up the wall, white bordered with deep green in three different styles. The wash stand is tiled in a lighter green. It supports a shining copper spout above a clearly hand-made bowl painted in swirling blue, orange, red, and two shades of green. Above it all hangs another hand-wrought lamp, this one set with finely-etched orange glass.
After a quick shower to wash of the grime of travel (with ample pressure and hot water, thankfully), I set out to find some food. This turned out to be my first encounter with the famous Spanish siesta. The restaurants and shops nearby were almost all closed. I had thought that the siesta lasted from 3pm-5pm, and perhaps that´s true in the cities, but here it is a rather longer affair. The folks of smaller towns prefer, it turns out, to take their ease until 9pm. My attempt to fulfill biological needs thus foiled, I took a bit more circuitious route back to the inn. Perhaps related to the siesta tradition, I found the people immediately very friendly. I had to tell at least three old ladies "no habla español" after they just walked up to be and started talking!
Eventually I made it back to Al-Mudawar, whereupon I decided taht wine was the best option to fill my stomach until the restaurants opened again. This proved pleasantly efficient, although booze as food is a project of diminishing returns. I felt fine (read: drunk) for a while, but eventually the hunger catches up even more fiercely than before. I wandered out of the hotel at about 8:30, hoping that someone might take pity on the confused Americano. Turns out that they´re strict about their siestas. I was allowed to sit down early, even got a beer for my trouble, but no menu was provided until about 10 after 9.
The wait turned out to be well worth it. I started with a gespacho, "Andaloz" style. It was creamier than the usual, luxuriously so, and came initially with no other vegetables at all. To this were added fresh tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and onions, leaving them crisp and tastey. This soup was thoroughly delicious, outshining the main course by a wide margin. The latter was baked cod, drizzled with herbed olive oil and a roasted red sauce (I think). It was good, very good, but was nothing I hadn´t had before, and too rich besides. The soup, on the other hand, was creamy beyond any tomato soup I´d had before while remaining crisp and bright as any salad I can remember.
I enjoyed all of this in the midst of a growing street festival. My table was under almost constant assault from small children, who ran freely down the steep street and from one house to the next, including the restaurant on whose patio I was relaxing. I left the fiesta behind and headed home, thoroughly exhausted and pleasantly full. I fell hard asleep to the cacophony of nightime birds and running children in the street outside my window and the neighborhood all around.
Here at last
I arrived to a cloudy, warm afternoon in Cordoba. Despite repeated assurances to the contrary, from multiple people, I discovered quickly that English skills are almost totally absent here. I had come hoping to rent a moped, but my rudimentary Spanish (¿Donde puedo alquilar una motocicleta?) was unequal to the task. I made my way to the "Mezquita," a very old (9th century) mosque-turned-cathedral (13th century). The old stone and almost deserted streets excited me as I approached the city center, but close in I discovered that the structure was surrounded by a solid ring of hostels, hotels, bars, and restaurants. Charming as some of these appeared, they too had their attendants, in the form of dozens of tour buses and their middle-aged, map-clutching occupants. I had thought I might stay in Cordoba first, but had a backup room reserved in a small town about 20km west, just in case. The tour buses and the bustle they brought steered me quickly to the latter option.
By this time I was growing quite frantic with hunger. A bus would have been the cheaper option at that point, but it meant a long walk back to the train station and an unknown wait. A 30€ taxi fare (which, I might add, was negotiated entirely in Spanish) seemed the better option, so off we went in search of this "Al-Mudawwar Rural Casa."
I saw the town from miles away. It covers the eastern slope of a tall hill. The hill juts south from the main line forming the northern wall of this river valley. The town is capped at the hill´s highest and most southernly by a great medival fortress. It looks out over the broad valley, standing watch, I imagined, for the Moorish invaders from whom this land was reconquered in the 13th centrury. The town´s whitewashed walls and tile roofs fall steeply away below, and it was through these narrow, steep streets that my intrepid cabby navigated for close to 30 minutes. He stopped frequently for directions (having dismissed the printed map I offered with a stream of passionate Spanish and hand-waving), but these seemed to lead away from the target as often as not. Finally, we found the inn. I was so relieved that I attempted to give the cabby a 10€ tip; I think this may have offended him, for he yelled that it was too much and insisted on only the previously agreed upon fare. I did not belabor the point, turning instead to my new home for the week.
By this time I was growing quite frantic with hunger. A bus would have been the cheaper option at that point, but it meant a long walk back to the train station and an unknown wait. A 30€ taxi fare (which, I might add, was negotiated entirely in Spanish) seemed the better option, so off we went in search of this "Al-Mudawwar Rural Casa."
I saw the town from miles away. It covers the eastern slope of a tall hill. The hill juts south from the main line forming the northern wall of this river valley. The town is capped at the hill´s highest and most southernly by a great medival fortress. It looks out over the broad valley, standing watch, I imagined, for the Moorish invaders from whom this land was reconquered in the 13th centrury. The town´s whitewashed walls and tile roofs fall steeply away below, and it was through these narrow, steep streets that my intrepid cabby navigated for close to 30 minutes. He stopped frequently for directions (having dismissed the printed map I offered with a stream of passionate Spanish and hand-waving), but these seemed to lead away from the target as often as not. Finally, we found the inn. I was so relieved that I attempted to give the cabby a 10€ tip; I think this may have offended him, for he yelled that it was too much and insisted on only the previously agreed upon fare. I did not belabor the point, turning instead to my new home for the week.
Tales of the rail
Barcelona was most prominently, this morning, grey and smoggy. From the airport, I boarded a clean, bright, modern commuter train that would put anything in the US to shame. The city we rode through, however, had an almost third world feel to it. Grime and water marks covered brighly colored but architecturally uninspired apartment blocks, butting up to the train tracks with only a narrow strip of rubble and trash in between. I´ve read that Spain has the most ambitious rail infrastructure program in the EU; all well and good, but perhaps there are other matters to which they might divert some small amount of those funds. Not unique though, I hear China´s the same way.
I did enjoy a wonderful dash of humanity at the main rail station this morning. I was waiting in line to purchase my ticket to Cordoba when two guys about my age walked up and asked in Spanish where I was going. Feeling embarassed about my rudimentary skills in their language, I replied with only "Cordoba." They seemed disappointed by this, but after conferring for a moment asked, in English, if that went by way of Madrid. I replied affermatively, and they then offered me, free of charge, an extra ticket to Madrid for the 10:00 AVE (the Spanish high-speed line)! 10 minutes later I had exchanged this for a ticket all the way to Cordoba, saving me a cool 60€. Humanity is good, I think. Especially the spaniards.
After leaving Barcelona we passed for two hours (going, and this is way cool, over 150 mph) through drab, stone strewn hill country. This land had none of the majesty of the mountains I´ve known before, nor the stark beauty of South Dakota´s badlands. This might have been forgiven if there had been much in the way of vegitation, but some peculiar feature of the climate in this corner of the Iberian peninsula must stifle the plants even as it wears the hills down to rubble.
At about 12:30 we made our last stop before Cordoba in the city of Zaragosa. I stepped off the train to admire briefly the very beautiful architecure of the trian station there. America´s inattention to municipal architecture is a sure sign of our decadence and decline. I stood there snapping pictures amid a crowd of party boys chanting something to one among them wearing nothing but a speedo (or briefs, perhaps?) and a head-to-toe coat of gold paint. A Spanish bachelor ritual, perhaps?
We pulled out of the station, under the first blue skies I´d seen thus far, into a different Spain. The crumbling hills drew apart, with wide rolling vallies in between and natural terraces of green and brown up their sides. This is what the American southwest would look like with an extra foot or two of rain each year. So here we are in the Spain I have heard so much about.
I did enjoy a wonderful dash of humanity at the main rail station this morning. I was waiting in line to purchase my ticket to Cordoba when two guys about my age walked up and asked in Spanish where I was going. Feeling embarassed about my rudimentary skills in their language, I replied with only "Cordoba." They seemed disappointed by this, but after conferring for a moment asked, in English, if that went by way of Madrid. I replied affermatively, and they then offered me, free of charge, an extra ticket to Madrid for the 10:00 AVE (the Spanish high-speed line)! 10 minutes later I had exchanged this for a ticket all the way to Cordoba, saving me a cool 60€. Humanity is good, I think. Especially the spaniards.
After leaving Barcelona we passed for two hours (going, and this is way cool, over 150 mph) through drab, stone strewn hill country. This land had none of the majesty of the mountains I´ve known before, nor the stark beauty of South Dakota´s badlands. This might have been forgiven if there had been much in the way of vegitation, but some peculiar feature of the climate in this corner of the Iberian peninsula must stifle the plants even as it wears the hills down to rubble.
At about 12:30 we made our last stop before Cordoba in the city of Zaragosa. I stepped off the train to admire briefly the very beautiful architecure of the trian station there. America´s inattention to municipal architecture is a sure sign of our decadence and decline. I stood there snapping pictures amid a crowd of party boys chanting something to one among them wearing nothing but a speedo (or briefs, perhaps?) and a head-to-toe coat of gold paint. A Spanish bachelor ritual, perhaps?
We pulled out of the station, under the first blue skies I´d seen thus far, into a different Spain. The crumbling hills drew apart, with wide rolling vallies in between and natural terraces of green and brown up their sides. This is what the American southwest would look like with an extra foot or two of rain each year. So here we are in the Spain I have heard so much about.
First impressions of Spain
There is something very meditative about traveling alone. The reaction from so many people this week has been "Alone? You mean without anyone else?" Then they nod in this particular way. I think it´s short for "weird but cool," but maybe that´s just what I want to believe. Traveling alone is lonely, certainly, but there is also something particularly focusing and energizing about throwing yourself into a new place completely on your own. I woke up at 4am this morning, 5 minutes before my alarm, alert and excited for this brand new thing I was about to see and do.
Heavy lids stayed away through the long lines at Schipol and onto the plane. This excitement stayed until about the time they rolled through with the duty-free cart and 2€ tea. I was reading The Prodigal Summer at that moment, and I remember having to read each paragraph 2 or 3 times for the rest of the flight. I wasn´t tired enough (yet) to sleep, but nor was my brain in any position to make sense of such arcane concepts as english syntax.
Then they announced that we would be landing soon, and I swear it was like three shots of espresso (or a stout dose of provigil, if you prefer). I got off the plane to the thick air and smell particular, apparently, to all spanish-speaking countries regardless of longitude and latitude. That, at least, was familiar.
Heavy lids stayed away through the long lines at Schipol and onto the plane. This excitement stayed until about the time they rolled through with the duty-free cart and 2€ tea. I was reading The Prodigal Summer at that moment, and I remember having to read each paragraph 2 or 3 times for the rest of the flight. I wasn´t tired enough (yet) to sleep, but nor was my brain in any position to make sense of such arcane concepts as english syntax.
Then they announced that we would be landing soon, and I swear it was like three shots of espresso (or a stout dose of provigil, if you prefer). I got off the plane to the thick air and smell particular, apparently, to all spanish-speaking countries regardless of longitude and latitude. That, at least, was familiar.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hamsterdam
We're working at a small hospital about 30 minutes from Amsterdam, called "Spaarne Ziekenhuis." For those of you not familiar with the Germanic languages, yes, that does mean "sick house," which for we Americans used to our euphemisms is weird but is the way of things here in this part of the world. Also the way of things is that they are very nice all the time and have holidays like every other week. Today is "Ascension Day" in Holland, which is in celebration of Jesus going back to heaven. This is funny because Holland is like one of the 5 least religious countries in the entire world. Like I said, they like their holidays. I cannot say I blame them, being that we Americans spent the holiday in a windowless room in the sick house, "pushing through to the home stretch," as my boss put it.
I did have free time this weekend, wherein we went to Amsterdam and all that one is supposed to do there. Which mostly involved walking all over the damn place. We also saw the Heineken Experience. This is a museum in theory, but mostly it's just a huge, elaborate advertisement that you walk through. That said, it was pretty cool. Mostly because there's beer involved. Two glasses of beer are included with admission, and we snuck a couple more. Later, Nema convinced us (me, Rachel, and Melissa) to go to creepy sex show "just so we could say we did." This was mostly what you'd expect, gross and expensive out of all proportion to what it was worth. I had previously agreed to a maximum of 15 Euro, but then we got there and it was 25, and I really couldn't refuse at that point. Well anyway, that's checked off the list. By far more exciting was these raspberries I bought at a little shop near the Heineken place. These were 5 euro for well under a pint, which is an insane price, but oh my jesus they were good. There's a picture attached.
We also went on a canal tour and visited a cafe. Both of these were as you'd expect. On Sunday, I went by myself to the Rijksmuseum, which unfortunately was mostly closed for renovation. I did see some cool rembrandts (a small fraction of their collection) and like 2 second-rate vermeers. I should have gone to the van gogh first, now I have to try to squeeze it in tomorrow before I leave for...
Spain! Yes, that's right, I fly to Barcelona on Saturday at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm flying some cheap European airline, so wish me luck. they only allow 5 kilos of carry on, so I will have to be strategic and hope my checked bag makes it through. Assuming all goes according to plan, I'll be taking the AVE (highspeed) train to Cordoba, finding a "pension," and then doing nothing but drink, read, eat, and draw for 6 days. Maybe a day-trip to the ocean. Maybe. First, I need to find a Spanish phrase book. I am going by myself to a small city in a foreign country whose language I don't know. Again, wish me luck.
I did have free time this weekend, wherein we went to Amsterdam and all that one is supposed to do there. Which mostly involved walking all over the damn place. We also saw the Heineken Experience. This is a museum in theory, but mostly it's just a huge, elaborate advertisement that you walk through. That said, it was pretty cool. Mostly because there's beer involved. Two glasses of beer are included with admission, and we snuck a couple more. Later, Nema convinced us (me, Rachel, and Melissa) to go to creepy sex show "just so we could say we did." This was mostly what you'd expect, gross and expensive out of all proportion to what it was worth. I had previously agreed to a maximum of 15 Euro, but then we got there and it was 25, and I really couldn't refuse at that point. Well anyway, that's checked off the list. By far more exciting was these raspberries I bought at a little shop near the Heineken place. These were 5 euro for well under a pint, which is an insane price, but oh my jesus they were good. There's a picture attached.
We also went on a canal tour and visited a cafe. Both of these were as you'd expect. On Sunday, I went by myself to the Rijksmuseum, which unfortunately was mostly closed for renovation. I did see some cool rembrandts (a small fraction of their collection) and like 2 second-rate vermeers. I should have gone to the van gogh first, now I have to try to squeeze it in tomorrow before I leave for...
Spain! Yes, that's right, I fly to Barcelona on Saturday at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm flying some cheap European airline, so wish me luck. they only allow 5 kilos of carry on, so I will have to be strategic and hope my checked bag makes it through. Assuming all goes according to plan, I'll be taking the AVE (highspeed) train to Cordoba, finding a "pension," and then doing nothing but drink, read, eat, and draw for 6 days. Maybe a day-trip to the ocean. Maybe. First, I need to find a Spanish phrase book. I am going by myself to a small city in a foreign country whose language I don't know. Again, wish me luck.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Greetings from the future
Not much to report from the future, except that it's very green here. I think that may have something to do with being below sea level and about 5 miles from the ocean though, rather than the rapidly advancing season. Hard to say what Hoopdorf was like 7 hours ago.
I got on the plane yesterday at 9pm (US Eastern time zone). We all filed on and glowered up at the business class. We become so used to certain luxuries, like upgrades to first class. When I learned that Northwest doesn't upgrade on international flights, I was highly indignant.
Thank god for Ambien. Sat down and popped 15mg of zolpidem while they served our dinner. We had a choice of chicken alfredo pasta and chicken stir fry. Definitely went with the latter, though I can't really account for the name. As the ingredients (sauce, chicken, diced red peppers, and rice) were served in neat, well-defined piles, the "stir" part refers perhaps to the method of consumption? The latter half of the name is equally unaccountable, as hot steam is the only cooking method any of this dish saw. Nevertheless, it was delicious, mostly on account of the sauce, which was a pretty solid imitation on the Three Cup Chicken sauce available at my favorite restaurant Nattspiel.
While waiting for dinner and the arrival of the drug in my brain, I watched the movie Taken. This movie stars Liam Neeson as an ex-CIA "preventer" (reference was made to the standard generically ominous and exciting Beirut) whose teenaged daughter is kidnapped by human traffickers during a trip to Paris (to follow U2 around Europe, of all the dumb reasons). This comes, of course, after her world-wise father agreed only reluctantly to allow his baby to leave the country, after protesting that he knows "how the world really is." A very somber fellow, this Brian. Fortunately, the kidnapping happens while Kimmy (they ladel the diminutive form on thick for extra sentimentality) is on the phone with her father (back in LA). So he gets very angry, flies to Europe, and kills like 327 Albanians. Maybe not the best movie for before bed, but pretty good I'd say. I fought against increasingly leaden eyes through the last 10 minute or so, and fell thoroughly asleep within about 12 seconds of the credits rolling.
Holland is green. Lots and lots of green. Our hotel, a standard issue Courtyard Marriott, is in the middle of a damn park! I can see horses going by out my window! So that's pretty cool. Before we could enjoy that though, a trip to the nearest town was in order. Not much is open on Sundays around here (damn lazy Europeans), but we needed food. So we found the awesome tapas place. Then wandered around a cozy dutch town that I'm sure is like many others. Can't wait to see more.
Now, I must focus on staying awake for 3 more hours. Oy!
Until next time, enjoy some pictures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/joelamartin/Europe09#
I got on the plane yesterday at 9pm (US Eastern time zone). We all filed on and glowered up at the business class. We become so used to certain luxuries, like upgrades to first class. When I learned that Northwest doesn't upgrade on international flights, I was highly indignant.
Thank god for Ambien. Sat down and popped 15mg of zolpidem while they served our dinner. We had a choice of chicken alfredo pasta and chicken stir fry. Definitely went with the latter, though I can't really account for the name. As the ingredients (sauce, chicken, diced red peppers, and rice) were served in neat, well-defined piles, the "stir" part refers perhaps to the method of consumption? The latter half of the name is equally unaccountable, as hot steam is the only cooking method any of this dish saw. Nevertheless, it was delicious, mostly on account of the sauce, which was a pretty solid imitation on the Three Cup Chicken sauce available at my favorite restaurant Nattspiel.
While waiting for dinner and the arrival of the drug in my brain, I watched the movie Taken. This movie stars Liam Neeson as an ex-CIA "preventer" (reference was made to the standard generically ominous and exciting Beirut) whose teenaged daughter is kidnapped by human traffickers during a trip to Paris (to follow U2 around Europe, of all the dumb reasons). This comes, of course, after her world-wise father agreed only reluctantly to allow his baby to leave the country, after protesting that he knows "how the world really is." A very somber fellow, this Brian. Fortunately, the kidnapping happens while Kimmy (they ladel the diminutive form on thick for extra sentimentality) is on the phone with her father (back in LA). So he gets very angry, flies to Europe, and kills like 327 Albanians. Maybe not the best movie for before bed, but pretty good I'd say. I fought against increasingly leaden eyes through the last 10 minute or so, and fell thoroughly asleep within about 12 seconds of the credits rolling.
Holland is green. Lots and lots of green. Our hotel, a standard issue Courtyard Marriott, is in the middle of a damn park! I can see horses going by out my window! So that's pretty cool. Before we could enjoy that though, a trip to the nearest town was in order. Not much is open on Sundays around here (damn lazy Europeans), but we needed food. So we found the awesome tapas place. Then wandered around a cozy dutch town that I'm sure is like many others. Can't wait to see more.
Now, I must focus on staying awake for 3 more hours. Oy!
Until next time, enjoy some pictures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/joelamartin/Europe09#
Friday, April 3, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Crazy brits
Like our own military, the brits tested LSD on their troops back in the 60s. (Incidentally, the CIA also tested LSD on unsuspecting johns at several Los Angeles brothels). The brits recorded the episode for posterity, and here it is for your enjoyment. Much lighter than my last post. I can't wait till this stuff gets legal again. Maybe when I'm 50.
http://www.videosift.com/video/LSD-tested-on-British-Troops
http://www.videosift.com/video/LSD-tested-on-British-Troops
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Riveting, disturbing
Be warned, this is rather disturbing. A first hand account of hypothermia. But riveting if you can stand it.
http://outside.away.com/outside/magazine/0197/9701fefreez.html
http://outside.away.com/outside/magazine/0197/9701fefreez.html
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The mysterious banking crisis unraveled by your friend Joel
Here's how it happened:
Big Fucking Bank (BFB for short) wants to package up mortgages into fancy packages and then sell them.
In order to do this, they divide the mortgages up into bundles of varying risk (called Collateralized Debt Obligations, or CDOs). The "junior" CDOs pay higher returns because they might not get paid back (if the underlying mortgages go sour). The next most "senior" get less return, but will get paid back before the junior. This proceeds up the line till you get to "super-senior" CDOs. These have low returns, but are guaranteed to be paid back.
There's always a risk that a given mortgage won't be paid back though, so BFB needs to keep a certain amount of money on hand, just in case, to pay off the senior bundles.
Or anyway, that's normally what happens. Instead, BFB bought insurance on the super-senior CDOs from a friendly company called AIG. These are called "credit default swaps," CDS for short. This insurance was expensive (so AIG got rich), but not as expensive as just leaving cash laying around as collateral on the CDOs.
Since this was super-senior debt, AIG's risk-management folks happily sold the insurance. Since the chance of having to pay a claim was incredibly low (theoretically), AIG only kept a little money on hand in case the claims went sour.
BFB's guys knew better though. They knew that AIG was deep into this business, so they had a lot of insurance policies on very similar CDOs. They also knew the nature of these super-senior bundles, which is such that they only way they could go sour (i.e. need the insurance) was if there was a broad, nationwide decline in property value. Unfortunately, exactly the same risk applied to all the super-senior CDOs, so if one failed (triggering a claim AIG would have to pay), they would all fail (triggering billions in claims that AIG had no way of paying). Thus not a single CDS had any chance of being paid in the event of a claim.
Nevertheless, the BFB guys had to take out the policies to "prove" that they had their obligations covered. Here's the real genius though. They knew that a broad drop in housing value would trigger all of these insurance policies at once, which would bankrupt AIG. So rather than buy insurance elsewhere (since no one else would sell such garbage) or find other ways to make money (the CDOs were too profitable), BFB hedged by taking massive "short" positions on AIG itself.
During the course of 2008, sure enough, house prices declined nationally. This had two impacts. First, BFB took a massive paper loss on their CDOs, because no one wanted to buy them anymore and the rules of accounting state that securities have to be "marked to market value." As a result, BFB didn't have to pay any taxes on the money it was still making from other activities. Second, AIG, as predicted, was unable to pay off all the suddenly-due CDS claims. So the government steps in and "bails out" AIG, which turns around and gives the money to BFB.
So the end result is that AIG is dead and BFB has the nice cash cushion they avoided in the beginning, along with the profits from short-selling AIG, which by the way they didn't need to pay taxes on because of the "loss" they took on the CDO. And BFB knew this all along.
Ladies and gentlemen, fuck me silly and call me Shirley, we the people just got taken to the cleaners, used and abused, and dare I say raped by a bunch of smart and slimy finance majors. God Bless America.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Dude gets a new asshole
Holy shit, John Stewart tears Jim Cramer (and CNBC even more) a huge new brown eye. Some of this is like Curb Your Enthusiasm-level uncomfortable. Watch clip 3 especially, it's some serious shit. Money quote "I understand you want to make finance entertaining, but it’s not a fucking game."
Part One:
Part Two:
Part Three:
Part One:
Part Two:
Part Three:
Monday, March 2, 2009
What the fuck happened?
Ok, I know this is pretty dry stuff, but this is too important to not post. If you're like me, you've been hearing about this whole credit crisis, and maybe you've had this basic idea of what went wrong. Something like "People got greedy, took on a bunch of risk that was stupid, and then got burned." Maybe a little more detail, maybe a little less. But if you're like me in another respect (less likely), you felt vaguely itchy about not really understanding the whole mess. I mean, the world is fucking ending (I don't actually recommend reading that), and I don't really get why. Until now!
Wired to the rescue. Fucking inspired journalism. Here's what happened.
Wired to the rescue. Fucking inspired journalism. Here's what happened.
Humans: A species on the brink
You know how national geographic and animal planet always have programs with this title? Well it turns out that like 20,000 years ago they could have made one about us. The average population of humans during the pre-Neolithic era (I don't actually know what that means, but it's before 12,000 years ago) was fucking 2,000 adults! throw in some old people and babies and we're at maybe 5,000 worldwide. Holy shit! There are many endangered species with numbers in this range. Granted that we didn't have a huge population of intelligent and selfish super-primates fucking with us. But still.
Oh, and it turns out that this fact explains why babies are adorable.
Oh, and it turns out that this fact explains why babies are adorable.
Resistance is futile
There was a time when I tried to resist Death Cab. K remembers those days fondly. These days, I have to agree with Peter.
Monday, February 23, 2009
A modern evil
Namely, caffeine. Last week, I undertook an experiment. It seemed to me that caffeine was becoming more of a habit (usually in the form of soda or tea) but that it was having an overall negative effect on me. You all know what I'm talking about. I get my fix, feel great for a while, then round about 11am I start feeling like my head is full of silly putty. So I take another hit, feel fine for a couple hours, and then spend my afternoon trying to pretend that I understand the words coming out of other peoples' mouths. The alternative was just to up the ante, but I'm worried about this:
The results are in, and I highly recommend it. Seriously, my life it better without that shit. Now I only drink caffeine after 6 pm (still a useful keep-me-up for the evening, and somehow I don't get the brain-death like I do during the day). Also useful as a laxative, of course.
The results are in, and I highly recommend it. Seriously, my life it better without that shit. Now I only drink caffeine after 6 pm (still a useful keep-me-up for the evening, and somehow I don't get the brain-death like I do during the day). Also useful as a laxative, of course.
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