Literature of The Baltic

I brought with me to Sweden only two books. Both very different in nature, but both quite representative of my station in life. The two books; On The Road by Jack Kerouac, and the owners manual for my BA II Plus Financial Calculator written by Texas Instruments. Now, while this seems like a stupid rant to go on about books and there meaning blah blah blah, it's actually a pretty important part of my life. I left behind roughly 6 boxes of stuff in the states (residing in an undisclosed location due to their top secret and awesome content). 3 of those are filled with books. Therefore, roughly half of what I own is either in hard cover or paperback.

Now, I have been reading both books as of late. Kerouac's I had cracked before, but never was in the right mind set to dig deep into it. I read the first half of it since arriving in Sweden and have decided to go back to the begining and start again...this time I want to highlight the best quote, description, and phrase from each chapter to provide reference points to refer to over the next year or so while I too am 'on the road'. The owners manual for my fin calc has also been a nightly read. I figured it might be a good way to clear the hangover that still lingers from my last job where I could have derived the correct answer to the majority of the 'challenging problems' and 'difficult analyses' by using a combination of my fingers, toes and the surplus ballpoints I kept in my top drawer. Yes, these are the days of our lives.....

Condi Rice I'm Coming For Your Job - Part Three

Last night my plan was to relax. Catch up on some emails and make it an early night as I finally felt sleepy after a week of jet lag. Well, that was all fine and well until a couple of lassies (Annika and Eeve) from Finland and a lad (Primoz) from Slovenia showed up to our flat with a liter of Finlandia and ill intentions.....

We sat around in our kitchen and introduced ourselves. It seems like the German front is multiplying at an alarming rate as everyday there are a couple of new ones that show up out of no where to join in our fun. After the formalities were over we could finally get down to business. It turns out that Viktor is going to be studying in the same program as me. It was great to finally meet someone from my program as I had yet to do so.

I spent most of the evening talking to the two Finns about how great of a time I had in their country and throwing around the half dozen Finnish phrases I know (apparently my pronunciation is great). It seems as though I have seen far more of Finland than they had (and they live there). Their favorite story..... the time the over grown bearded woodsman rubbed goopy peat moss across the back of my naked body at an outdoor smoke sauna.

Anyways, after I was out of embarrassing Finland stories I moved on to the Slovenian lad who is in my program. We talked mainly about Russia and the influence that country has over that entire eastern block region. It seems like what is happening in Georgia could easily be replicated in a handful of eastern countries. While that message was conveyed by a gal I met from Belarus a couple nights ago, the lad I was speaking with this evening went in to much greater detail on the subject. Sparing the history lesson, the basic summary is that such incidents would eventually cause the EU, or more likely, the UN to step in with some sort of intervention (which would ultimately rope us into the middle of the whole shooting match). Is there any chance we can get Bush out of the white house sooner than planned?

Midnight, one, two ish, the festivities were coming to a close. We sent the Finns on their way as well as forced a retreat from the Krauts. At this point my Primoz was going to have to kill a couple of hours before his early morning train left for Helsinborg (city to the north of Lund) at 4:40am. Being the perennial host that I am I invited him to either crash on my couch for a spell or join me for a bit more conversation. We choose the latter.

We talked mainly of our expectations for our studies at Lund. It's amazing how similar him and I are to each other despite our geography. He's very charismatic, forward thinking, excitable, and eager to get going (if I can toot my own horn). His philosophy on market opportunities and technology advancement are identical. If my entire class is similar in mold this will undoubtedly be one of (if not the) most important years of my life, and absolutely accomplish what it is I came to Lund to do.

Since we had so much time we moved away from our expectations for Lund and talked in detail about specific differences in European and American economic systems. After much Q&A from both of us we boiled our entire conversation down to a fundamental difference in legal philosophy. See, in europe the law dictates and outlines what it is a person or entity CAN do. In America our laws dictate what a person or entity CAN NOT do. This may sound like the same thing repeated, but it's not. Think about it. If you come up with a great idea for something you want to do, and you want to move fast on it what is one of the first things you do if you're American? You look to see if there is some law or something somewhere that says you can't do what it is you want to do because of (list the reasons). So, absent of some finding that says you can't do something, you are basically able to interpret that as though you CAN do anything you want that isn't explicitly said otherwise. Take the same idea in Europe. You first go to the law and see if the law says you can do what it is you want to do. If it's something really new and creative the chances of historic law covering the subject are slim. Therefore you have to go ask 'permission' and see if the law can be ammended to allow what it is that you are trying to do, so as to specifically allow you to move on your idea. To phrase it another way you could say that the economic philosophy in America can be summarized as 'it's easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission'. This is a huge difference. It allows the American economy (for better and certainly at times for worse) to move quickly when opportunity strikes. The sub-prime mortgage backed bank credit crunch is a great example of this. So is Sarbanes Oaxley. American markets moving at break neck speed that get out of control and then have to be reeled back in by legislation saying that what ever is going on CAN'T go on anymore. Law is then introduced so the next guy with a similar idea gets his aspirations crushed from the start. Gotta love those free markets!

A Jaguar At The Beach

Ever since my arrival in Lund I've been seeking out a bike. It's one of the reasons I wanted to live in Europe. No more driving. The city is packed with bikes. There literally is a bike for every person. So, being a bike dude as I am I have been jealous of all the fun everyone has been having on their two wheelers. After doing some market research and visiting the local bike shops I concluded several things.

1) Swedish people are far more into fashion that function when it comes to their iron horses.
2) Men and women ride women's' bikes. (Now, it should be noted that I once had a woman's bike in Fort Collins. It was a green retro schwin cruiser. It was one of my favorite rides as it was so easy to get on and off of. A classic 'pub crawl' trolley, but not much good for a long haul.)
3) The bikes here cost a fortune if you are going to buy them new, so you have to hit the secondary market bar none!

I had budgeted $200 for a bike before I left the states. I was hoping that for that price I could get a decent single speed or fixed gear messenger bike. (I've attached a picture below for reference) Similar to the rig I left behind in the states (only this one would have brakes). It was the euro dream for me. I even brought pedals and a cat eye to soup it up. A swanky little 'fixie' that could pedal me to the Tour De' France in July when my program was over. Reality check, since I still don't have a visa, and since I'm doing this whole thing on a shoe string budget, I should probably just let my euro dream ice a bit and get something to get me to and from class (at least until the Swedish government kicks me out of the country). After searching the town it became apparent that if I wanted to own a messenger style single speed I was going to either have to ship it from the states or fly to London and hack one off a delivery boy. Both options seemed expensive.


I happened to catch wind of a bike auction that was happening yesterday on campus. My Manhattan buddy Justin told me about it and we made plans to go. I figured for sure I would find something there that I could pick up for around 500 sek ($85 bucks). We stood patiently in the rain with 7,000,000 other people all waiting for the doors to the 'bike barn' to open. When they did I was heart broken. Everything in the shed was total garbage. Pedals missing, brake cables laying loose, rust on the chains, a sad sad sight I tell you. Justin shared my disappointment and we both walked back to our side of town with our tails between our legs. Later in the evening I received some info on the auction from a gal who stayed to witness the sale. She said people were paying crazy prices for pieces of junk. 700 - 800 sek for bikes that didn't even pedal. I decided my original price point of $200 (1200 sek) was probably closer to market value if I wanted something that I didn't have to tinker with to get on the road.

Despite the lack luster auction, as usual, I had a back up plan. I found a flyer on campus earlier in the day with two offers for bikes for sale. I sent an email to the one lad after the auction disappointment and we agreed to meet this morning to see if we couldn't make a deal. He showed up with the chariot a bit past 11:00. It was a standard issue swedish designed uni-sex bike. I purchased it on the spot for 1000 sek. I negotiated a bike lock and got him to throw in a bag of bananas (no joke) which he just had purchased at the open air market.

As I began to pedal towards home I became more confident in my purchase and felt as though I had found a good deal. That won't however, keep me from listing it at a higher price immediately to see if I can turn a quick buck while the market is HOT! But for now, the bike is mine.

Upon arrival at my place I decided I wanted to take advantage of the beautiful weather in the city today. It has rained every day since I have been here so some sun sounded nice. I decided that I wanted to get out and see the countryside a bit and clear my head from the week that was. I decided to head due west to the sleepy little coastal village of Lomma. I grabbed the bike, filled a water bottle and hit the open road. Now, back home I can ride my racing bike around 30km/hour with little effort. My fixed gear I ride around 20km/hour with the same effort. The journey to Lomma is a 10km trip according to Google maps. That being said, even at a snails pace it shouldn't take more than 40 minutes to get there. Well, that was on my old bikes. I forgot to calculate the weight of this rig into my calculations. An hour and ten minutes later I still had yet to see the ocean. There was a strong head wind blowing right into my face and I was pretty confident I could have ran faster than I was peddaling. Argh!

Anyways, a little while later I finally laid eyes on the ocean. I found a nice little pier to sit on and watch the waves come in. It was a lovely conclusion to a tough journey. I sat on the dock for an hour and read while the wind from the sea blew through my hair (kind of blew through my hair I guess as I haven't showered since Tuesday and it's a bit of a birds nest). While I was sitting there I watched a handful of sail boats come into the harbor, and I even got to see a couple of topless sunbathers (apparently this is the norm in Sweden). Below are some picture of my bike on the pier. Can you spot the bridge to Denmark? How about the spiral tower in Malmo Sweden?

Culinary Adventures In Sweden

With every foreign place comes foreign foods. Sweden of course is no different. So far I've been only able to eat 'finger foods' and things that I can eat straight from the container as our shared kitchen has no pots/pans/silverware/plates/etc and I'm WAY to cheap to go buy any of that stuff for my own use. So, as a result the diet has been a bit repitive and oddly disruptive to my digestive track. There is a small grocer about a block from my front door. It's kind of a gray drab discount type of place that carries only the bare essentials. Since I live on a side of town that's not dominated by students, the store mainly caters to the locals. As a result all the labels and everything are in Swedish. I've made several trips there now, each time seeking out something new, or trying to find something specific that I have a hankering for. My diet to date has been the following:

Breakfast - musli and yogurt (yoghurt)

Lunch - 2 slices of heavy multi grain bread with two slices of cheese and three pieces of lunch meat (unsure of animal due to packaging and limited swedish)

Dinner - not much really. Sometimes I'll have some milk or something, but with my schedule still being really screwed up from the flight I haven't had much of an appetite at night.

The only other thing I have eaten since I got here was a calzone type thing from 7-11 (of all places). As a side note, the 7-11's over here are nothing like the one's we have at home. You can get a gourmet coffee, calzones and freshly baked breads and pastries, fruits, etc. They're basically like bakeries and small grocer marts all in one.

Anyways, I had been wondering why my stomach had been so upset this week. At times I have felt just awful. It really hasn't made any sense. Well, tonight (or this morning, or whatever the hell time it is) in one of my jet lag sleepless nights that have become the norm this week I decided I wanted a little 4am musli. I went to the fridge, grabbed my yoghurt and began pouring in some musli. It was at this point that I thought "gee, maybe I'll read the side of this carton to see if I can make out any of the Swedish", that will be fun I thought. So, thinking to myself...Turkish yogurt huh, wow, this stuff is so much thicker than the yogurt I'm use to. It really sticks to the musli. Then, upon further inspection I read the words kebab and dip sauce followed by 10% fett. I think to myself, hum, 10% fett, I wonder if that means 10% fat? Sure enough....10% fat in my yogurt. Apparently I purchased the stuff that is used in kebab's and gyros. It's basically sour cream. So, looking back on the week I have basically eaten a quart of sour cream with some grain mixed in. Houston, I think we've found our problem.

A Few Changes To The Blog

I've made a few changes to my blog template and layout. I also deleted/added a few 'links of interest'. In an effort to appeal to the masses I removed all advertising. If I've deleted something that you liked (links of interest, etc) or there is something that you think would really add to the blog please comment. I'll either take your suggestions and use them or I'll send the KGB to hunt you and your next of kin like small varmits on a Kentucky farm eventually roasting you over an open fire pit while preparing a delightful chutney to serve as a side dish.

Condi Rice I'm Coming For Your Job - Part Two

One of the primary goals of my time in Lund is to gain some understanding and meet some people from the middle east. I, like almost everyone in the west, have limited perspective on the true identity of these people and know very little about their cultures outside of the negatives that our governments propaganda machine portrays. Their countries are rich in concentrated wealth, their people span a very wide economic moat of haves and have nots, and they occupy a geo-political region of the globe that is absolutely paramount to the rest of the worlds production. What better way to start bridging this divide than to invite Farhad (Iranian) and Jim? (Turkish) over to my apartment for an archived episode of John Stewart's Daily Show.

Now, as a side note, I absolutely love John Stewart. I think he's one of the sharpest minds on television (not to mention that you can watch all of his shows in their entirety on the web which is a huge benefit for someone who lives without a tele).

John has taken a week or so off from his show, so we were forced to watch an older episode. I pulled up the August 6th 2008 episode that featured Sen. Chuck Shumer as the guest. The episode starts off with a back and forth on Obama's and McCain's energy plans, tire pressure gauges, McCain at Sturgis motorcycle rally. Classic Stewart!! The boys seemed to be liking it. As the show progressed the usual topics of war, oil dependancy, foreign policy f-ups by the state department, etc...they were all covered in classic Daily Show fashion. Then, enter Sen. Schumer. The lads really liked this part of the program as they didn't understand why a politician would subject one self to such abuse. I explained the concept of 'softening' a politician and making them appear more humaized. Ah, the beauty of being able to pause the video at any time and explain any questions that come up. Love that internet! The show, as always, ends with a moment of zen. This episodes' ends with McCain standing on a stage at Sturgis fumbling over words about gas prices. He babbles in a circle for a few seconds and then finally spits out what he was aiming at from the begining. This series was met with belly roll laughter from the boys. Jim said, "he sounds about as good as Bush." Farhad replied, "No one's that bad".

Condi Rice I'm Coming For Your Job - Part One

Last night the minature German gal from across the hall invited me to hang out with some of the folks from our floor in the 'common space'. I was pretty busy at the time charting some stuff on yahoo finance, but I accepted the invite anyways and headed to the main room.

Tonights topic: Germany. As I mentioned before there are a number of German kids on my floor, who are here mainly to study the hard sciences (biology and physics). Below is a summation of our conversation and what I learned.....

Musli - a popular grain cereal mix that is commonly eaten for breakfast and snacks throughout Germany. It can contain dried fruit in various proportions, as well as 'exotic' nuts like almonds and cashews. It goes well with yogurt and milk, or can simply be eaten from the palm of your hand like trail mix. It just so happened that I had a bag of the holy oats in my possesion. I retrieved it from my room for critique. Here is what was deduced....I purchased the 30% fruit mix. Apparently this is a mild mix of fruit and is a good beginner musli. They suggested that I slowly work my way down to a 10% mix so to maximize the nutritional value of the mixture by thus removing some of the sugar that is contained in the fruits. "If you feel you need more sugar you can always drink more beer" thanks Hans (pseudo name). The gal also chimed in that if I purchased the paper bags of musli, rather than the plastic, I would be less vulnerable to having a bag blowout where the musli would spill all over the floor. I guess she noticed the current condition of my bag which fell victim to my 'thrashing' when I first opened it.

Slang - I wanted to test drive some of the 'Germanic' phrases that our family has adopted over the years. This was an entertaining exercise. Below are the words/phrases covered and the verdict on each:

Kutzen - means to throw up or vomit. This is a real german verb!!

Kutz simony - means total disbelief, shock (I think). This threw the group for a loop. After many iterations of it and different pronounciations we determined this is not an actual phrase.

Hadda gutz enhiema - means oh my gosh. This again was met with grave stares as the group had no idea what this could possibly be.

So, in conclusion, our family is batting a .333 average which by most standards is good enough to make the bigs. Not too bad.

Ahoy Sweden!

Well I'm finally here. A year's worth of planning has finally come full circle. I arrived in Sweden mid afternoon on Monday. As always, I didn't sleep on the flight from the states and therefore was a bit disorriented upon my arrival. The train from Kobenhavn (as the danes spell it) was filled with fellow grad students and even a couple of families that were relocating their entire tribe to Lund (pronounced looooond). As predicted I had the most luggage out of the bunch, but now that I think about it, I am twice the size of the asian kids that were sharing the train with me, so perhaps in all actuallity we were schleping about the same amount of gear.

Upon exiting the train in Lund I was greeted by a host of mentor's from the university. They promptly signaled a cab for us and took us to the arrival/check in buidling on campus. Check in was a typical Scandinavian cluster-f$%* where everyone kind of stands around and looks at each other with no real help or direction (these were common in Finland and apparently are a fad here as well). After spending 40 minutes in the wrong line I made my way to the correct line: housing! I felt very fortunate that I had already booked a room to rent and had paid for my first month of living. There were probably 20-30 international students waiting for word from a rental agency as to where they might be able to find accomidation. After sigining my contract I was handed my keys. I then was escorted by the hosts to my place.

My place lies on the western (ocean) side of the city. It's actually a little further than I had pictured from the city center and campus. My part of the campus is about as far away from my apartment as it could be. I guess it will be good exercise getting to and fro. The place itself is a bit run down on the outside, but is completely new and modern on the inside. I have a bed, a desk, a couple of book shelves, a couch, my own bathroom (shower) and a floor lamp. Good living!! We have a shared kitchen where we each have a spot in the fridge labeled with our room number, and we have a spot in the freezer labeled the same. My room itself over looks a large center square that has some benches, trees, and bushes. I'd compare it to living on sixth avenue in Manhatten and the view to central park (maybe a bit exagerated).

As for the people in my building I'm slowly introducing myself to them. I only know a couple of their names, but so far everyone seems nice. My immediate neighbors are a russian guy who eats only cheese apparently, an english teacher chick from Greece, a dude and a gal from France, Farhad a lad from Iran, a turkish fella named Jim?, Brett from Berkley, CA, a couple of german dudes that enjoy horror movies and loud rock music (they're at the end of the hall), and Margarita (or Juanita, I can't remember) from Columbia. That's only 2/3 of the people on my floor. The building has 4 floors and their are 4 buildings in our square. Should be able to meet plenty of new people during my stay here. Valkommen!!

Dentist - Behind The Mask

Routine cleaning day at the ole dentist. I wanted to get one more debit from my dental plan before it expired at the end of this month. The dentist (or should I say receptionist) was most accommodating in 'squeezing me in' before my departure this Sunday. I promptly arrived for my appointment a few minutes early. After the usual 'oh it's nice to see you'....'how have you been?'.....'you're moving where?'......'oh that's terrific'....my number was finally up. The hygienist escorted me back to the room. As we moved down the hallway I was taken back when I noticed what I thought to be a spike covered bull whip hanging out from her left pant leg and the outline of a tightly strewn S&M outfit under her Kermit the frog scrubs. I figured this was part of the act and I'd let it go for now.

First things first. Let's check the gums. Whomever invented this procedure had only their gums to worry about as I'm sure the first person they did this test on immediately kicked their teeth out as a 'thank you' for the gum check. The test involves taking a rusted out ole crook of wire attached to an iron handle and smashing it with force into your gums to see how far they pull away from your teeth. You are then scored on a sliding scale from 1-5 (1 being the best and 5 being GUM DISEASE). Each tooth is prodded 6 different times (3 in the front gum, 3 in the back). The scores are then shouted out by the hygienist to a waiting assistant where the numbers are entered into a computerized scoring matrix (simultaneously the same numbers are used by the patients in the waiting area to complete the daily sudoku in the Coloradoan). Once the numbers are entered the assistant leaves and the results are reported. The matrix indicated that "your gums are healthier now than they were a year ago" to which I responded, "great, next time I come in why don't you just have the receptionist bust my face open with a seven iron when I come through the door. Bloodshed will be the same, we can skip the whole poking thing, and we'll all save everyone a little time!"

Next step: pick and clean teeth to prepare for polishing. At this point the assistant is gone and it's just me and the hygienist mono a mono. I'm reminded of the fact that any shout for help will be muffled by the puddle of blood pooling in the back of my throat, and that if I want to leave here outside of a body bag I should just "sit still". I'm handed a 'tube' that has vacum like properties that is to be used to drain my mouth as the assistant rinses blood from my gums while picking at any tarter or plaque. At this point pain has numbed my entire upper body and my face looks like some sort of tribal bush mask used in hunting ceremonies in the Serengeti.

Time to polish and shine. I really don't know why this part of the visit is referred to as a polish. The only thing that gets shined in this ordeal is the blood splatters on the chin bib as the hygienist's latex hands move across them in a circular fashion. "All done!" as she hands me a mirror...."How's it look?".......great if I were a prize fighter and just completed a 10 round draw with the champ. "Terrific! Great!" I mumble.

Enter the doc. After some light chit chat (to which my mouth and continued bleeding didn't allow me to participate in) it was time for the doc to mask up, throw on the latex gloves and take a look inside. As he moved from tooth to tooth not really doing anything I thought to myself, "what exactly am I paying him for". Every time I've ever been to the dentist it's the same routine. Act 1 - Hygienist and assistant punish and torture you with pokes, punches, and mechanical polishers. Act 2- Token male comes in, pokes around a bit, asks about how you're doing personally, tells you your teeth are ok and then gives you a tooth brush and some floss as if to say "I'm sorry you won't be able to eat solid food for a week, but maybe this $0.40 toothbrush and $0.20 travel paste will persuade you to come back in 6 months where we'll trick you out of more of your dental insurance premiums yet again". Today wasn't going to be that easy for the doc though. I needed to know......

"So, doc, I must admit, I like your practice, I think you do a lot for the community, I'll continue to come here when I get back to the states, but I have to know, what the hell is the point of whatever it is you do when you come in to check on us after the cleaning?"

The doc looked at me gasping for breathe! I could hear the hygienist moving in on the scene. The record stopped in the lobby to which came "We've got a live one, GET THE GAS!"

I didn't waiver. I sat there cool and collected. Blood spilling from my mouth as I reared back to defend myself from the initial attack.

Puzzled, the doctor responded, "I don't believe anyone has ever asked me that before".

I knew now that I was done for sure. Kill or be killed. As I made a motion towards the x-ray machine, prepared to pump the evil hygienist full of radiation, the doctor called off the hounds.

"Truth be told, for someone like you, I don't really do too much. You have healthy teeth and no real structural issues". Buttering me up I thought. I'm not taking my eyes off you yet...... "What I'm mainly looking for are small changes in your teeth that may signify larger problems. For example last year when you were in here I noticed no noticeable stains on your teeth. I noted that on your chart because it's something I like to check for, cosmetically and for other health reasons. This time, there was a small dark stain on one of your back molars. I removed it rather easily. I've noted that so we can look at it again next time. Additionally, I wanted to inspect your gums. I see they've improved over last time and I wanted to make a mental note of that. Do you have any other questions?"

I began to relax, satisfied by the response. As my blood pressure returned to normal I felt a little bad about the x-ray gun I had ripped from the wall mount, and the broken over head lamp that I used as a catapult to extend my arsenal's reach. But, as I helped the doctor right the electric patient chair which I had overturned and used to barricade myself in the back corner of the room, a sense of happiness came over me. I felt relieved that the system worked. The doctors job is to take care of and care for their patients. If that comes in the form of an overzealous S&M dominatrix spilling two units of your blood across a carpeted floor on a Friday by repeatedly bashing you in the face with a metal sawzall while laughing hysterically then that's what it takes. Doctor knows best.

Democracy Now!

As you may know I have lived void of television for several years now.  While I'm not morally opposed to the boob tube for it's content and devaluation of the 'American family', I live said life as a protest to the business model of cable and paying for the privilege to have my life periodically interrupted by overly enthusiastic c-list actors and actresses trying to summon my consumption for things like 'the blowout KIA event of the year'!  As part of my divorce from the babble box I have also been insulated from political ads that pepper the fall programing during any election year.  As I sat watching a come to Jesus ad for the 'original Maverick' (McCain), which interrupted last nights Olympics, something quite profound dawned on me.  I have yet to ever vote for a presidential candidate that ended up in the White house.   Now granted, at the ripe age of 27 (I just turned) this will only be my third presidential election that I will have voted in, but none the less, the above observation burns a bit of an apathetic hole in my enthusiasm for the democratic process.  The past two elections, and I'm quite proud to admit this, I voted democrat and can honestly plead the fifth for what happened to our country since.  2000 election my vote aligned with the masses in which Al Gore won the popular vote.  However, thanks to our pals in the electoral college as well as some support from a southern boy named Jeb, GW made his way to Pennsylvania Avenue to begin his reign.  In 2004 the only votes that mattered in that election were those from Ohio in which the Republican party convinced Howard Dean and John Kerry there was no need for an audit.  

"We're quite confident it all worked out the way of the people"- Karl Rove.  

"This is a great day for human rights, health care, education policy, Iraq relations, our continually deployed troops mothers, wives and new born's, the economy, same sex marriages, stem cell research, domestic spending, and the environment."  - Dick Cheney

"Has anyone seen my hat?  No, not that one, the one that I was wearing when I was on my ranch vacationing during 9-11.  Yes, the one that I had on the day I decided it was time for some good ole Texas jihad (pronounced 'gee-had') on those Iraqi's (pronounced: 'e-rack-ees')" - GWB

Enter 2008.  Time for another 'historic' vote.  For me it will be yet another year of my vote not counting.  I will be stationed abroad on the southern shores of Sweden when it comes time to punch my chad.  I'll be voting absentee in a process know informally as the 'if we need your vote we'll send the interns out to the mailbox and they can count them if they get a minute'.  Now, while traditionally this dynamic would have heightened my complacency towards the November circus, this year is different.  I really feel this is the first time in my lifetime where the person I say I want in the white house will end up there (despite my say not being heard). With any luck, enough peers from my generation that have been equally disappointed by their lifetimes politics will turn out to ensure this country finally bucks the trend and can feel as though we have a say in the direction this country is headed.  Now, any chance you all can have that deficit paid off before I get back to US soil? 

Blood Money

I'll preface this tale with an apologetic disclaimer as my poetic theatrics are jaded by the present lack of proteins and glucose in my system. The morning task was to waltz into the local ZLB plasma center, provide documentation, hook my arm up to a machine and 'donate' my sacred fluids for a one time (introductory) wind fall of $40. The process had been explained to me several times and details had been readily available over the last couple of weeks as my sister (who is now a tenant at my home) is currently an employee of ZLB. She made it sound so simple and pure, almost healthy at times. Like picking up an extra shift at a restaurant or perhaps working an hour or so of overtime on a weekend. The true story is this is no place for the timid (or medically uncomfortable).....



The horror started around 8:00 am when I walked over to the center from my home. The place itself is housed in a drab 1980's era strip mall with stereotypical tenants that you would expect in a college town; sandwich shop, phone database call center, tattoo and piercing parlor, kung fu dojo and of course a Starbucks across the street. The receptionist in her over sized white lab coat, small framed glasses, and welcoming grin greeted me at the sign in sheet. At this point I was number 5 in line. I was the only patron that wasn't visibly coming down from their last high. Granted I had a couple vodka and pineapples before bed last night, but these people, man they would wash down cannonballs of ether with such a mix. I began presenting my documentation declaring that I was who I was, that I had an address and wasn't homeless, and that I hadn't had sexual relations with anyone from the remote parts of the amazonian Congo since the early 70's. Define 'relations'......



I returned to my seat (fearful of sticking to it) and waited my turn. The lad to my left with the raiders tattoo and full body under armour outfit had music pouring from his I-pod. Something like that of which 'Iron' Mike use to listen to before he knocked the shit out (or bit some one's ear off) of someone at Ceasers. I fully expected Don King to show up any minute and start waving a flag as the poster propaganda around the lobby made you feel like you truly were helping the greater good with your donation......



Next step in the process. Reading comprehension. At this point the friendly nurse that greeted me was replaced by a maniacal looking heathen that that was forced to speak through a clear filmed welding mask that covered her entire body (maybe it was just her face). She pointed to a printout on the wall and ordered me to 'READ aloud please'. I began, "I fully understand that I will most likely get aids and die a miserable death as a result of my donation today". Apparently I passed the test as she moved on around the counter to the PC where I was to be logged into the global data base of dead beats who sell plasma, cultivate kidneys, and procreate as a form of export tourism. Name please.....



Feeling relieved that I passed the reading comprehension I returned to my seat which was now being occupied by a 110 pound (minimum weight) brunette that was audibly speaking to her significant other about 'hooking up' once she was done with this 'bullshit'. I'll be the first to admit that nothing gets me worked up like a good set of track marks on the small of a broads elbow....



"Jeffrey E?" was shouted from the hallway. It was go time on the compulsory physical that precedes a donors first deposit. The physical was a combination of a warm handshake and a proctological exam into my personal life. Poke here, listen to your heart, piss in a cup (I filled above the line of course) and now I'm going to ask you a few questions. The questions are more of an interrogation if not accusation about having sexual relationships with homosexual men and congoian inhabitants. The only thing that kept my person from tearing up was that the administrator of the exam was the nice nurse from the reception desk and she happened to know my sister. I think she took it easy on me. After repeatedly pleading innocence to the for mentioned accusations I was granted permission to begin triage....



Fransansisco was the nurse in charge of taking my vitals. Get on the scale, let me prick your finger, how about a blood pressure exam, are you sure you're not sleeping with anyone from interior Africa? Tests came back fine and I was allowed to return to my seat.....



"Jeffrey E?" was shouted from the hallway. At this point I'm too frazzled to answer any more questions related to my sexual past and am praying we can get to the needles. Sure enough, I'm escorted down the hallway to the 'floor'. The floor is this sterile lobby of over sized red lounge chairs aimed perfectly at televisions playing the latest Reese Witherspoon smash hit. The only difference between this scene and the chamber at San Quentin is that the butch head mistress roaming this floor could handle Laci Peterson solo whereas it takes a whole team at San Q.....



I'm instructed to sit (my ass) down and not move. Pick which arm I wanted to donate from and remain silent unless my eyes begin rolling back into my head or my heart stops. All the techs are wearing the same clear colored welding shield that the nurse at the front had. The purpose of these remained a mystery, but I'm assuming it's eye protection for the rare instance that a donee causes a scene and they have to reverse the machine thus pumping all his/her blood across the 'floor' like a fire hose on the fourth of July in the bronx. The process is explained to me. Pump my fist when the cuff tightens, relax when the cuff is loose. My blood is to be drained from my body, spun through this tape recorder like contraption at which point all the good stuff is removed from it, and then the left over shit that no one wants is to be pumped back in. Any questions?


The process begins with a series of tubes being taped to my chest. A needle the diameter of my nostril is then thrust into my arm creating an open spigot to drain from. After an initial sample the machine kicks on and begins siphoning my cells. Immediately I can feel life leaving my body. The butch nurse stands directly over me and while flaring her eyebrows like a hooligan about to pounce she asks 'if everything is ok'. You bet, is this all you got!

My body begins fighting a psychological battle between death and life. Is that tingling in my feet suppose to be there? Why in the hell does this machine keep beeping at me....oh god, don't look....Is that my blood running like water through these tubes....I swear that's an air bubble coming through the return tube, it's going to stop my heart cold.....why is everyone looking at me....is it obvious this is my first time...how much more of this stuff are they going to take? Ok, I don't care about the $40, I simply want to live to see another day....don't make a scene...relax, I'm sure that bright pink colored fluid they're pumping back into me is suppose to be that color.

I decide that the only way I'm getting out of here is to relax and try to make sense of this chaotic scene that I'm living. As I scan the room full of hopeless depressants all hooked up to these machines I begin to eavesdrop on their vile conversations. The lad to my left seems to be quite popular with the floor staff. So much so that the head mistress describes a past (hopefully much distant) Halloween costume that consisted of a black g-string, black leather hat and a black vest. She continued to emphasize that 'there was nothing else'. As I swallow the bile that filled my mouth after an unnatural visual of that description I move on to the next conversation. It appears that the lad to my right is engaged in a conversation with another nurse who has this Dr. Jekyll Pippy Longstocking look going on. It appears as though she's planned to go to the Grizzly Rose tonight for the sake of finding someone to supplement her failing (yet three month old) marriage with. If I was that lad I'd return to the Tom Wolfe book in his lap (even if he is only pretending to read it). Fist pump, fist pump....come on you damn machine hurry up!

Now things are getting serious. The canister next to me is over three quarters of the way full and the machine is making a different pitched beep than before. I brave the elements and look over. To my horror, the whole dash board of the thing is flashing red. The lights correspond to the label 'none'. They've finally done it I say to my self, they've sucked all the life right out of me. There's not a single drop of blood left in my being. I slowly come to grips with the fact these will be my last breaths.

Luckily (I use that term loosely) a neo-Nazi looking giant comes to my aid. Dressed in the full outfit with face shield he plays around with the tubing a bit and we're back in business. Apparently there is still some fluid left and they want to make sure they drain me dry. I continue to pump and sit.

Finally, the machine sounds the completion. My body is weakened beyond my wildest expectations and a large urn of piss colored fluid hangs from an electronic scale to my side. The over sized Nazi comes to my aid to remove the tubes from me and bandage me up. I'm encouraged not to smoke within the next hour and not to have a drink or engage in exercise for the next 6 months as it may cause fatal side effects. I'm given a small slip of paper that looks like a receipt from a dollar store. I'm to take the receipt with my PIN number on it to the ATM machine in the lobby at which point I follow the on-screen instructions and my money will appear. I'm hoping that I still have brain function left to complete this normally ordinary task....

I think today marked a historic low in my on-going battles with cash flow. Next time I need a cash infusion and desire the medium to be fluid I'll use Google to find a sperm bank and donate that instead. At least there you get to check out a few pin ups and to the best of my knowledge no ones wearing welding helmets (despite their ironically more useful application at such a place.)

Early Retirement

Today I officially join the 8.8 million (and growing) other people in this great country that don't have a job. I must admit it feels pretty good. I thought to bring closure to my last gig it would be good to share some of the life lessons learned in the trenches.

First lesson: A corporation is built to make money for shareholders. The less they can pay you as an employee the better job they are doing of meeting shareholder expectations. Plain and simple.

Second lesson: You're 'five year career' plan that you spent so much time in creating is only important to you (that is unless you've left a copy of it in the men's' room and the toilet paper dispenser has run out. It may (and even then it's unlikely) garner some attention from 'senior management'.)

Third lesson: No good deed goes unpunished. I think this may be a biblical reference, but I bet those of you in your cubes reading this can come up with two dozen applications for the 'real world'.

Fourth lesson: No matter what job you have there is a 50% chance that you are working too hard. Others in the group are not working at all, but have (and this is no small feat) cut 3 strokes off their handicap since their last employer.

Fifth lesson: Age matters. Mid 20's, smart, respected, voracious reader, natural ability to get people to follow, curious about the world, personable, and creative; go to grad school. Try it again in 5 years.

While I'd like to continue I must admit that my morning yoga class took a bit more out of me than I had anticipated. I think it's best if I grab a short nap before meeting buddies for early afternoon cocktails. So long 9-5!