Random Thoughts on a Monday
Gentle Reader,
It has been a while since we've corresponded. In the words of Tim Pinkston, "I can correspond with that." Anyway, I thought I would take this time to empty a bit of my brain on paper and see what happens.
As you may know, I have been laid up for the past month following a crash on the Autobahn. Returning from work on the 17th of October (I worked 2 days following a four-week vacation), I was stopped at the end of a traffic jam when some Arschloch rear-ended me going about 50 m.p.h., which is 80 km/h for you metric folks. He did a number on the car, which was totaled (although following a friendly recommendation from the Polizei, I drove the wreck 3 hours and 300 km home that evening), and a number on my spinal column. I have been off work ever since, but am planning to return next week. Physical therapy and lots of painkillers have been keeping me loose.
You would think that this break would give me pause to type a lot of weird shit for this blog. Well, no. The dark days of November are upon us, and as a person who was once diagnosed with S.A.D, or season affective disorder, they are bleak indeed. Do I need to go to the solarium? Perhaps, but just maybe this bit of gloom does me good. Maybe a bit of yearly depression keeps me honest. I do know this: if you are diagnosed with it, stay of the meds! Prozac has a tendency to make you uninteresting.
And as you may also know from my journey to the United States, I had seriously considered bolting from my significant other. I had even packed up a lot of things I considered essential to have shipped to a possible future life in North America. But despite listening fifty times to Paul Simon, I couldn't do it. It wasn't really a case of missing her, if the "her" to whom I am referring is my wife. I missed my beloved Germany. I have been married to an unforgiving bitch called "Germania"ever since the fifth grade. This marriage was performed by proxy by my fifth-grade teacher, Charlotte Smetana, who infused us highly-impressionable youngsters with our racial identities. Although I am technically, by blood, more a Dane than a German, my German last name sealed it for her. And so my own fate was sealed following a good dose of Nazi propaganda and reruns of Hogan's Heroes. We all need our myths. This is nothing, however, compared to the ancestral weirdness of my good friend, Loren Christensen. After years of boasting of his bastard French ancestry (Loren had a certain je ne sais quoi.), and bagging many a babe with his Southern European exoticism, he turns out to just be a quarter Puerto Rican. Si. It's true. Which I guess would still qualify you in the "exotic" category, enabling you to bag farm girls with big forearms at Iowa State University.
Enough banter! I am back and soon to be fully in action. Expect more to come here in the foliage of Yggdrasil.
CRM
It has been a while since we've corresponded. In the words of Tim Pinkston, "I can correspond with that." Anyway, I thought I would take this time to empty a bit of my brain on paper and see what happens.
As you may know, I have been laid up for the past month following a crash on the Autobahn. Returning from work on the 17th of October (I worked 2 days following a four-week vacation), I was stopped at the end of a traffic jam when some Arschloch rear-ended me going about 50 m.p.h., which is 80 km/h for you metric folks. He did a number on the car, which was totaled (although following a friendly recommendation from the Polizei, I drove the wreck 3 hours and 300 km home that evening), and a number on my spinal column. I have been off work ever since, but am planning to return next week. Physical therapy and lots of painkillers have been keeping me loose.
You would think that this break would give me pause to type a lot of weird shit for this blog. Well, no. The dark days of November are upon us, and as a person who was once diagnosed with S.A.D, or season affective disorder, they are bleak indeed. Do I need to go to the solarium? Perhaps, but just maybe this bit of gloom does me good. Maybe a bit of yearly depression keeps me honest. I do know this: if you are diagnosed with it, stay of the meds! Prozac has a tendency to make you uninteresting.
And as you may also know from my journey to the United States, I had seriously considered bolting from my significant other. I had even packed up a lot of things I considered essential to have shipped to a possible future life in North America. But despite listening fifty times to Paul Simon, I couldn't do it. It wasn't really a case of missing her, if the "her" to whom I am referring is my wife. I missed my beloved Germany. I have been married to an unforgiving bitch called "Germania"ever since the fifth grade. This marriage was performed by proxy by my fifth-grade teacher, Charlotte Smetana, who infused us highly-impressionable youngsters with our racial identities. Although I am technically, by blood, more a Dane than a German, my German last name sealed it for her. And so my own fate was sealed following a good dose of Nazi propaganda and reruns of Hogan's Heroes. We all need our myths. This is nothing, however, compared to the ancestral weirdness of my good friend, Loren Christensen. After years of boasting of his bastard French ancestry (Loren had a certain je ne sais quoi.), and bagging many a babe with his Southern European exoticism, he turns out to just be a quarter Puerto Rican. Si. It's true. Which I guess would still qualify you in the "exotic" category, enabling you to bag farm girls with big forearms at Iowa State University.
Enough banter! I am back and soon to be fully in action. Expect more to come here in the foliage of Yggdrasil.
CRM
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