A Story

Well, I've written a story. I know, I know, I'm a loser, and I'm pretentious, and no one reads my blog anyway so why post it. Well, isn't that exactly the point? I'm in effect publishing this story...and I don't have to worry about the fact that no one will read it!
So, the story. It's loosely based on my experiences as both a convenience store clerk and a resident of a West Philly slum in the summer. However, I think, it is far from autobiographical, as it is pretty absurd. It is obviously informed by "Notes from Undergound," but, I hope, with a comic tone. I'm not sure what else to mention...I know the name of the radio DJ kind of sucks, I'm not good at coming up with names. I also realize that by having the protagonist work at a convenience store in Philly, I am potentially speaking ill of Wawa, which is something I do not want to do. I guess that's about it, enjoy.

Sweating, Underground

It was a hot summer. But then again, every summer in West Philadelphia seems hotter than the one before it. I put off getting an air conditioner every year because the expense seems frivolous, and then there are nights halfway through June where I find myself lying on my filthy bare mattress sweating and cursing and sweating. I wake up dehydrated and still sweating with the sun blaring through the window that has no curtains. Curtains are another frivolous expense. But I never buy the air conditioner or the curtains and so I lie and sweat and curse. Every summer.

In the summer of the year 2007 I worked part time at a convenience store for a while. The pay was poor, the tasks dull, and the people insufferable. Mostly they were uneducated immigrants with little knowledge of English outside the uncanny ability to sing along to the inane soft-rock songs that we were forced to listen to every day. Always it was the same station, “Sunny 104.7.” The DJ was a cheery, irritating automaton named Jackie Brightline who always opened his shows in the summer by saying “Hot enough for ya?!?” I shuddered at the sound of his voice; he sickened me.

When I worked the morning shift I put price tags on the new shipments we received each day, then put the items on shelves. When I worked afternoons, which I preferred, I spent hours in the walk-in cooler, wearing a winter hat and sweatshirt, filling up slots of cokes, diet cokes, lime cokes, diet lime cokes, diet caffeine free sugar free lime vanilla cokes, and also energy drinks. We sold thousands of energy drinks. Ones with or without sugar, with or without caffeine, with things like taurine and guarana in them. They had names like “chaos,” “assault,” and “lo-carb.” The cans seemed to get larger and larger. Twelve ounces of energy no longer satisfied people; they needed sixteen and then twenty-four ounces. It was preposterous.

After my shifts I would buy cans of malt liquor and sit in the park to drink them. I smoked one cigarette after another. I tried to stay away from my stinking apartment as long as I could. The building was owned by a Middle Eastern man named Dilwar Hussain who also operated a pawn shop on the first floor. The room I rented was on the second floor. It was small and empty, sparsely decorated with pictures of women I had cut from magazines. There were five other renters living on that floor with whom I shared a kitchen and a bathroom. They were cab drivers mainly, and they would lounge about the apartment shirtless, wearing cloths draped around their midsections. I saw them washing their clothes in buckets of soapy water, then hanging the clothes all over the apartment, it was disgusting. I never cooked, mainly because I do not like to cook and find it demeaning. But in this apartment it became even more distasteful because of the flies.

I have lived in filthy places for most of my adult life, but I have never seen as many flies as I did in that kitchen in the summer. Swarms of them on every surface, occasionally flying to land on other surfaces, and then still others. Walking to the bathroom I needed to cover my face with my shirt and flap my arms wildly in front of me to keep from inhaling them. They would get in my hair and under my shirt; one even flew into my ear. Lifting the lid off of one of the garbage barrels, hundreds would frantically swarm out into the air. After seconds of frenetic movement they would congregate again on the refrigerator, the stove, the other trash can. I dared to look at the ceiling once and saw entire sections of the white paint colored black by hordes of these disgusting flies. Fortunately they rarely strayed from the kitchen, and my room remained something of a sanctuary.

After the first heat wave of that summer, I walked to a store down the block to buy a large fan. This was the type of store that sold all manner of either obviously stolen or obviously defective products, from obsolete electronic devices to undergarments and aspirin. I found a sizeable fan within my budget and promptly bought it. At home I plugged it in, stripped down to my underpants and sat down in front of it. It was glorious, I felt refreshed, re-energized, prepared to survive the summer. I got up to reach for my cigarettes and tripped on the fan’s cord. It rocked uncertainly back and forth and then fell backwards. And then it was silent. Horrified I picked it up and saw that one of the blades had broken off. No. No. This cannot be happening, I told myself. I screamed obscenities and began kicking it and punching the ground. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. Why? Why? It was over a hundred degrees on the street and my anger only intensified the heat. Car horns and city sounds continued to rage as I screamed and cursed in vain. I fell to the floor, sweating and breathing heavily. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. All I could think was fuck.

* * * * * * * * *

After the incident with the fan, I grew progressively more disdainful of the people and world around me. I insulted bums who asked me for change. At the store I was rude and obnoxious to people constantly. When asked polite questions by my coworkers I offered salty sarcastic responses. And at night I continued to sweat. It was as if each night, lying there sweating was a reminder of what I had lost when the fan broke. I could have saved my money to replace it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. The possibility of breaking another fan, of feeling that excruciating pain, the torment, the agony of it all—no it was not worth it. I’d rather have died of heat exhaustion than risk enduring all that again.

So I would sit in the park with my beer, glaring at the playing children whenever they made eye contact with me. Then I would see them tell their parents and point at me. When the parents turned I offered my most tender smile and waved to suggest my innocence. And the parents would look alarmed, grab their children and scurry away to a different corner of the park to play a different game. When this happened I would finish my beers quickly and leave before the police came.

I stopped bathing completely after a while. Partly because I was so disgusted by the flies in the bathroom and partly to alienate people for no particular reason. I didn’t shave or cut my hair and I began to smell terrible. My greasy, matted hair stuck to my forehead and my facial hair grew longer and more repulsive. It was not full enough to be a proper beard, so it remained patchy and dark and uneven. I noticed my coworkers whispering about me, or sometimes they talked openly, speaking in their native languages to one another and laughing. I could have confronted them but I didn’t see the point. They were so far below me that it did not seem worth it.

My boss began giving me fewer hours each week, gradually at first, maybe because he thought I wouldn’t notice. It didn’t matter. I had more time to sit in the park and drink and glare at children and smile at parents and flea from police. I decided to start alternating which parks I drank in so that if the police were expecting me, they wouldn’t know where I’d be sitting. And the nights got hotter and hotter. By the end of July I was barely working and usually drinking and smelling terrible and always, always sweating.

And Jackie Brightline asking me every time I went into the store if it was hot enough for me.

The songs seemed to get worse, the soft rock softer, the lyrics cornier, the melodies more generic. Finally, on a Friday, I became so disgusted with the music and the heat and the drinking that I vomited all over the counter, the register, even a customer. I fell to the floor with my chest heaving. My boss screamed at me to get out, that he had had it, that I was fired. I didn’t have enough energy to quit. I peeled my store uniform shirt off and dropped it on the floor where I had vomited. I staggered out of the store and bought some beer.

I sat in a park shaking and trying to slow my breathing down. I smoked all of my cigarettes and drank all of my beer. I went to get more and to think of what to do. How could I respond? How had I been fired from a convenience store while so many complete idiots kept their jobs? I had no one to blame but Jackie Brightline. His incessant questioning had driven me insane. It was his fault and no one else’s. I found a payphone and dialed information. They gave me the address of the radio station, and I went home to prepare.

In the ally behind my building I found a splintered piece of wood. I picked it up and swung it. There was enough weight to it to really do some damage, yet it wasn’t too heavy to swing freely. I decided to take a cab to the radio station, fearing that walking down the street with a large piece of wood might arouse suspicion. A block from the station I saw a liquor store and told the driver to pull over. I bought a flask of whiskey and more cigarettes and I approached the station. First, I walked around the perimeter to determine where he might exit after the show. In back of the building was a small parking lot with labeled spaces. Sure enough, Jackie Brightline had the spot closest to the door, and his bright yellow BMW was parked there. I grinned and moved behind some bushes to wait.

An hour went by, then two. I had just finished the flask when I saw him. I had never seen him before, but somehow I knew what he would look like. He was tall and thin, with long and shiny black hair combed back neatly. He wore designer jeans and a button-down shirt with the top two buttons open, revealing some of his chest and a shiny necklace. I hated him more than ever before.

“Hey, Jackie! Over here!” I called to him. He turned, confused, and I swung the piece of wood like a baseball bat. There was a dull thud and then there was blood everywhere. I hit him in the head, across his right cheek, because I am left handed. He fell to the ground, blood pouring from his face. I hit him again; once, twice, three and four and five times. I beat him badly. First I struck his head repeatedly and then his body. I was blind with fury, I only know that I kept swinging and screaming. “Is it hot enough for you, you motherfucker!?!?!” I screamed again and again. I beat him until I was so exhausted that I could hardly raise the piece of wood. His entire face was crushed, he was practically unrecognizable. I dropped the wood and took out a cigarette. I lit it and looked at him, shaking and chest-heaving. “You motherfucker, fucking die. You…motherfucker,” I whispered. I could barely stand. I fell to my knees and took a drag from my cigarette. Then I put it out on what was once his forehead. I heard sirens and knew what was coming.

The first policeman came running at me by himself. I rose to my feet with the weapon back in my hands. I waited until he was close and then ran at him swinging it wildly. I think he shot me, I can’t be sure, but I know that I hit him. The vibration from the blow was so strong that I dropped the wood. The cop fell to the ground bloody and unconscious. I heard gunshots and then felt sharp pains in my chest and back. I grew lightheaded and dropped to my knees again. Then I fell on my back. It hurt to breathe as I lay there, sweating, smiling. I heard more sirens and more voices and then everything seemed slowly to spiral away from me, and then the sweating stopped.

Alert: You've Already Noticed the New Title

So, this is quite embarassing. My mother somehow stumbled upon my blog. She was not pleased with my language at several points, and felt that the whole thing was very offensive and crude, and would most likely result in my Fulbright being revoked and me never getting into graduate school. This seems a bit drastic, but it was incredibly awkward to hear (or, read) my mother using the phrase "getting laid," though she was quoting me. Anyway, for this reason, I have chosen to continue to write the blog under a Pseudonym. So, as you may well have gathered, that Pseudonym is Dalton Ames. Now, for those of you not familiar with Faulkner (did you know that I am familiar with Faulkner), I should explain the name. Dalton Ames is a shady bro who impregnates Caddy Compson, much to the chagrin of her brothers, particularly Quentin. The "man in the red tie" appears later in the novel, in much the same role as Dalton Ames, as a con-artist who plots to steal Jason Compson's money and run off with the young Quentin Compson (Caddy's daughter by Dalton Ames). The names are a bit complicated, multiple Quentins of varying gender, but the point is, I've chosen to name my blog after these two figures. Why? you might ask, would I want to align myself with such obviously "bad" men? Fair question...I'm not really sure. For one thing, my middle name is Dalton, and I quite like it. In another parallel, some of you may be familiar with my epither "the kid in the red hat," as in "oh my god (insert girl's name here), why were you talking to the kid in the red hat?" So, there you have it. Perhaps a longer explanation that necessary, possibly perpetuates negative assumptions about myself, possibly makes me look like kind of an asshole...or maybe just a douchebag. Regardless, I needed a name...and I like this one. So, rock and roll, deal with it.
I had my first day at school today, and it was relatively uneventful. In the morning I went to the town hall to register myself as a resident of Zwonitz, and then to the bank, to open up an account for when all that paper starts rolling in. I then attended two classes, the first 8th grade, and the second 9th. In both classes I simply stood at the board with a map of America and was asked general questions about where I'm from, my favorite sports, my favorite foods, and such. This of course offered me occasion to explain to Germans what a cheesesteak is. I was more than ready to do so, and hopefully one day they will experience the joy of eating one.
Tomorrow is "sport day," and I'm still not entirely clear on what this is and why it happens when it does. Essentially, the whole school goes to a park in the morning and each class runs a race of a couple miles. My job is to stand at one corner of the course and make sure the children run the right way. Should be simple enough, and, if I'm lucky, quite entertaining. However, it's been cold and rainy, and the prospect of standing in the woods in such weather is less than ideal, especially given that I've a bit of a head cold at the moment. But, we shall see.
Other than teaching and being sick, I've been spending a lot of time reading. Specifically, I'm trying to brush up on early English lit, which is my weak point entering GRE subject test season. In the last couple days I've breezed through The Canterbury Tales, Piers Plowman, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Beowulf. I have to say...I am only further reminded of why I avoided reading this stuff in high school, and relished the opportunity to avoid studying it in college. But it is important, I would never deny that, so I guess I can't complain about reading it now.
Well, as my computer begins to slow and I sense a freeze coming on, I guess I'll quite while I'm ahead. Good day.

I Went to Orientation and Now Have a Home

Well, it's been a while since I posted, but I've been just about as busy as I'm going to be at any point over the next 10 months. I'm writing from the bar in an old hotel, which surprisingly has internet. "The Man in Me" by Bob Dylan just came on, which is exciting as this is probably the first good song I've heard played in Germany. Anyway, let me share what I've been up to.
Last Sunday I left for Cologne to attend a three day orienation session for all English Teaching Assistants in Germany. This was largely made up of American Fulbrighters, but there was also a sizeable contingent of British, Irish, and Australian university students, I guess studying education. The session was held outside the city in what seemed like an old abbey or something along those lines. There was a church and a courtyard, then dorms and classrooms in the other buildings. By day, this was like any other orientation session. Big group meetings where we were lectured at with an overwhelming amount of information, followed by insufferable question and answer periods with people asking unbelievably stupid questions. Besides that, we worked in smaller groups with English teachers who gave us advice on teaching and life in Germany. These meetings were helpful and worthwhile. After days full of this "learning" business, we were permitted to get drunk in the courtyard. I found this helpful because it enabled me to meet other like-minded individuals and do some of this networking people are always talking about. I now have friends all over Germany, so on my inevitably boring weekends I'll have various places to go.
When returning from orienation, I was supposed to stay at an apartment at the school secretary's house until I could find my own place. I emailed her to let her know what time I'd be back from Cologne, and expected to be picked up at the train station. Well, I exited the train...looked left...looked right...nobody. Not unlike the first time I arrived in Zwonitz. Somehow, I was not surprised. Depressed, I walked to the town's hotel, got a room, got a beer, and went to sleep.
In the morning I went to the school to figure out what was going on. I was pissed, but I couldn't exactly flip out at them, I have to work there all year. They apologized, apparently things have been hectic, people have been out sick, etc, and they missed my email. But, to make up for it, they did some research and found an apartment for me. They sent me to go look at it, it is right across the street, after all.
So I went over, the first floor is a restaurant and brewery, and then there are vacation apartments above. I met with the landlady, Frau Naumann, and she showed me the place. She apologized that it didn't have a kitchen, only a fridge and microwave. I was dismayed and assumed I wouldn't take the place. But then I walked inside. The front room is about 12 by 12, with hardwood floors and a bar right in the middle. On the shelves behind the bar are dozens of beer glasses of every possible shape and size. I got excited because, if you didn't know, I like to drink beer. Then we entered the living room, which is carpeted and even larger than the front room. It has a wrap-around leather couch, a TV, and more shelves with more exotic beer glasses. Already I was blown away. Then there's the bathroom; the same size as the other rooms, with marble flooring and a massive tub. It is not a conventional shower, which is weird, but it has a detachable shower head, so I guess I'll be hosing myself down. The bedroom is again about 12 by 12, carpeted, and features a king sized bed. Facing that bed, is a wall/closet/mirror. "The entire wall is a mirror? Isn't that an interior decorating trope reserved only for pornography?" you might be asking. Yes, it is. If only there were any chance of me getting laid here (at least until Katy comes in a couple months).
I've got all this for 200 euro a month. Outrageous. No utilities, no contract, I just pay if I want to stay. The lack of a kitchen is a bit of a problem, but I generally stick to sandwiches anyway, so I will probably be able to survive. I have already dropped one notch on my belt, so perhaps I will continue to waste away, but I've been taking multi-vitamins, so I think I should be fine. Needless to say, the turnaround from being left alone at the train station last night to being furnished with this pimped out apartment for next to nothing is cause for celebration. Well, there's no one here to hang out with...so I bought a case of Zwonitzer Pilsner (which is quite tasty) and sat in my living room reading before coming here. Quite a Friday night.
I've also gotten my teaching schedule for the coming semester. I have 9 class periods a week, each 45 minutes, then two after-school conversation sessions which are optional and intended for older kids. I get Fridays off. In other words...this is incredible. If only I weren't horribly alone in a remote place. But, still, I'm pretty pleased, I do have a lot to do regarding studying for the GRE subject test which I am taking in November, and applying to Grad school in general, so I will make good use of the free time.
In any event, the good music here at the bar stopped about an hour ago. I'm tired from my travels, and have little else to report. I shift frequently from being happy and content here to being depressed and lonely. I guess I expected as much. For once my situation involves a nice home and nice shit, but no friends to hang out with. I think back to living in Mod 27A, or 5 Radnor before that...and the filth, and the mayhem...but goddamnit that was fun. This is nice, beautiful even, but not what I would generally think of as fun.
I apologize for this not being funnier/more entertaining, this entry is more of just a reporting of events than anything else. In the coming days I will think of something more riveting to say. For now, tchussi (the super, super gay German expression for "later, brah").

Hallo Aus Zwoenitz

Hello friends. I made it to Zwönitz, at long last. Yesterday sucked, real hard. I flew out of Philly at six on Tuesday night, arrived in Frankfurt on Wednesday morning, and then spent all day on one train after the other, hauling my comically oversized luggage with me. I had two massive suitcases, weighed down by BOOKS, in addition to my backpacks, which were stuffed with duty free CIGARETTES. As you can see, I'm every bit as cool here in Germany as I was in America.
My flight was pretty standard. No legroom, two crying children across the isle from me, awful romantic comedy as the movie, etc. The food was decent though, and I think I got several glasses of wine for free, or at least I didn't pay for them. The guy sitting next to me was very peculiar. He was German, probably mid-20's, and he sat there for the entire flight without doing anything. He just sat there, no headphones, no book; he didn't even sleep. I was obviously raging to some particularly dirty Biscuits sets, so he was probably somewhat weirded out by my head-bobbing and occasional fist-pumping...I also kind of hogged the middle arm rest. Whatever.
The movie. It was "Made of Honor," which I guess is supposed to be a pun, much like "Made in Manhattan" from a few years back. But I don't really see how it works, there is nothing honorable about any character in the movie. I will now provide a brief review.
SPOILER ALERT
So, it begins at Cornell University (ever heard of it?) in the early nineties. Tom, the protagonist, is quite the ladies man, and he's stumbling through a freshman dorm looking for some biddie who he has been defiling. She's not at home, and he instead meets her roommate, the ballsy, quick-talking Hannah. Though Tom throws some game her way, she's way too spunky to fall for it, but she's obviously attracted to him. Fast forward ten years, the two are best friends. Like, such good friends it makes you want to vomit. They shop, eat fancy deserts, and just like totally rage the yuppie NYC lifestyle to the extreme. Tom has made a fortune by inventing the little cardboard sleeves that go on coffee cups, so he doesn't really have to do anything but shoot hoops with his bros (a bigger group of tools I cannot imagine) and be a total gal pal for Hannah. He supposedly gets laid constantly, but he has an extensive list of "rules" about how often he can see these concubines and under what circumstances. His adherance to these rules is so intense, however, that he loses any bro points he earned by getting laid so much.
Hannah abruptly leaves for a month long work trip in Scotland, where she meets a Duke who is the perfect Scottish gentleman. He is a brawny, soft spoken young man set to inherit his family's lucrative Scotch business. He seems to have no flaws, but as a guy, I guess you're supposed to hate him for being so perfect (because Tom is not perfect at all, he's just your average super-rich, handsome, witty Ivy League graduate). In her absence, Tom has decided that what he's been looking for in a woman has actually been right there in front of him the whole time: the extremely attractive, intelligent, carbon copy of himself- Hannah! So when Hannah returns with Colin and asks Tom to be her maid of honor, he has to accept if he wants any chance of sabotaging the wedding and winning her over (I guess this would be the "honor" being punned in the film's title).
One day, Tom and Colin are supposed to hang out so that Colin can become "one of the guys." Tom brings him to the basketball court, the hang out spot for him and his college bros. Tom sees this as an opportunity to upstage Colin, who initially seems bewildered by the sport. After a few minutes, though, Colin realizes that its actually very simple because, standing at about 5'10", Colin can DUNK! And not just dunk, but dunk over people, all people, on every single play, whenever he wants. Well, Tom doesn't like this one bit; his plan has backfired!
Eventually, it comes time for the wedding in Scotland on Colin's family's elegant estate. Tom is running out of time. Yet whenever he tries to get a moment alone with Hannah, the two are interrupted!
Apparently, in Scotland, the ancient tradition is for the husband-to-be to compete in a series of manly athletic competitions with the male maid of honor who is actually in love with the bride (not unlike the final chapter of The Odyssey). These include tug of war, shot put, and so on, all while wearing kilts. Coming into the final event, Tom and Colin are tied! The last competition is throwing a massive log end over end as far as possible. Tom can barely lift it, and his throw goes the wrong direction and lands on someone's car. HA! Tom is crushed, if he had just thrown the log far enough, he could have had Hannah for himself.
Finally the night before the wedding, at Hannah's bachelorette party, Tom kisses her and she kisses him back. The two make out for a solid 5 seconds, making that one hell of an ambiguous kiss. They are again interrupted, but back at the castle that night, in a scene cut DIRECTLY from Wedding Crashers, the two cannot sleep and after contemplatively staring out the window for a while, decide they need to talk. Unfortunately, just as Tom opens his door, a hot, drunken brides maid stumbles in looking for some late night bridal party ass. Hannah walks in a moment later and misconstrues what is going on; to her it seems that Tom is up to his old games, he hasn't matured at all. Tom runs after her but its too late, she wanted to talk about the kiss but now she won't talk to him at all. Distressed, Tom leaves early the next morning.
Colin doesn't seem to wonder why Tom has abruptly decided he can't be in the wedding, after all, what could possibly have happened between two very attractive people who have been best friends for a long time right before one of them gets married? Halfway to the airport, Tom recalls a moment long ago when Hannah told him that he should try saying "I love you" to a person at some point in his life. That's it, he realizes. The cab comes to a halt and Tom locates a pre-saddled horse belonging to a complete stranger who encourages Tom to ride like the wind to stop the wedding.
After a harrowing ride, he arrives at the church just in time. The priest does the whole "if anyone can see why these two should not be married, speak now..." thing, as the horse comes to an abrupt stop, hurling Tom at the church where he crashes through the closed doors. He is knocked unconscious and Hannah comes running to his side. Slowly he comes to and manages to tell her that he loves her. A beautiful moment. Hannah declares that she cannot marry Colin and wants to be with Tom instead. Colin, ever the gentleman, understands and kisses her on the cheek. His quirky grandmother (again ripped off of Wedding Crashers) tells him in an unintelligble Scottish dialect to punch Tom in the face, which he does. But its ok, the two are together at last. I was moved so deeply that I managed to fill my air sickness bag with tears of joy.
My Rating: A-
It was a hell of a movie, but I just didn't like Tom enough to really root for him the way I think the audience is supposed to. Still, this one has laughs at every turn. Furthermore, the movie explores a truly original concept: a ne'rdowell womanizer with a heart of gold is no longer satisfied by a life of getting absurd ass all the time and realizes his super hot best friend has been in love with him all along, so why not just marry her? Deeply conceptualized, artistically driven, and aesthetically awe-inspiring, "Made of Honor" is one of the best films I have seen on an airplane in a very, very long time.

Why was that necessary, you may be asking yourself. Well, I guess it was not. Anyway, I landed in Frankfurt and switched to my train to Leipzig. A couple minutes after this train left the station, I pressed the button to open the bathroom door. I was horrified to see an old lady, pants down, sitting on the toilet. "Jesus!" I shouted before apologizing and averting my eyes. The woman frantically starting pushing buttons, but the door remained open for a good ten seconds before slowly shutting again. When she eventually emerged, I apologized some more, but she seemed totally unconcerned. Luckily, I will not be dealing with any sexual harrassment charges just yet.
After more trains and hauling my shit through more miserable train stations, I arrived in Zwönitz around 9 PM. It was cold, dark, and rainy, and I suddenly realized that I did not know where to find a hotel. Not good. I walked aimlessly down what seemed to be a main street until I found a sign for a bed and breakfast. The lights were all off and there was obviously construction work being done, however. Luckily, and old woman appeared, and told me she was friends with the owners. She came with me to the backdoor, and after a lengthy conversation, I was finally invited inside, where I passed out for twelve hours.
Today I'm going to explore the town and school, there's definitely plenty of excitement to come! Stay tuned.

Introduction

I've heard a lot of talk about "blogs" in recent years, but I've never really thought I was doing anything interesting enough to warrant having one. Furthermore, even if I was doing something interesting, I've always (rightly) assumed that nobody cares. Nevertheless, in anticipation of a year of isolation in the mountains of East Germany, I figured I would start one; I'm going to be up to a lot of really exciting things.
As some of you may know, I have recently been awarded a Fulbright grant in recognition of my seriousness, sacrafice, and generally anti-fun attitude while studying at Boston College. I will be moving to a kleinen Dorf (small town) known as Zwonitz (pronounced Zwernitz). It is basically in the middle of nowhere--but not to worry! The booming metropolis known as Chemnitz is only an hour away by train! Chemnitz was an industrial city before being completely destroyed during the second World War. Until the fal of the Berlin Wall, Chemnitz (re-named 'Karl Marx Stadt') was under Soviet control and, luckily for me, it supposedly still maintains all of the brilliant aesthetic charm of every other former Soviet citiy. I'm not yet sure whether I will live in Chemnitz (which does have a large university in it, presumably making it relatively cool), or in Zwonitz. Mainly, this is because the school I have been assigned to teach at has completely ignored my emails and not offered anything in the way of advice or even basic indications of how many hours a week I will work, what exactly I will be doing, where living accomadations can be found, and so on. As my tone may have indicated thus far, I am feeling slightly bitter about the situation as it stands now. But my father, sensing my bitterness, reminded me that it might not seem like a lot of fun, but when he was my age, he was in the Army, stationed in Korea. Great point, dad. In any event, I fly out on Tuesday the second of September, so I guess I'll just have to wing it.
I suppose that is a satisfactory introductory entry. Basically my goal with this is to keep my many, many friends abreast of my adventures abroad, and to eschew the boredom I am expecting as a result of working minimal hours as a middle school English teacher in a remote location. I assume many of my close friends currently find themselves located in cubicles in front of computers for several hours a day. Well, perfect! Plenty of time to read my senseless ramblings. I suspect that future entries will sound less cynical, but I've been at my parents' house for a total of three days now, and have just about reached the cusp of a complete mental breakdown. Stay tuned for more riveting entries.
In the spirit of new beginnings, I'd like to quote Joyce's closing lines from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man:
"Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."
(Did you know that I've read Joyce?)