Digitally Speaking

After thinking I had put down all that I might need to regarding observations in Central Europe, there was something else I put my finger on that I asked my traveling companion/roommate/girlfriend to corroborate, namely the decided lack of digital plug-in of the general populace. That sentence is one horribly convoluted way of saying we didn't see a lot of people staring at their cell phones. Given my general technological griping here in this interspace, it should come as no surprise I counted this a plus. People were instead actually engaging with one another or, even if they weren't, they were at the least not consulting some device but instead simply enjoying the quiet.

Sure, there were instances of it here and there, like in airports where there were business men making business calls using business terms as they went on their business travel, but even then it was using just the phone operation of the "phone," that part of the handheld device that seems to get less and less use.

The other thing about the bulk of Euros we encountered: they love t-shirts with any and all American words. Phrases that don't make any sense? No big deal, it's got English on it! I think I know where to start out selling my t-shirt line called something like "American Word." It was endearing and disturbing at the same time.

Lord knows I could keep on going on about things such as this, but instead here's just one more American word for you: later.

The Language of Disappearance

Whenever I travel to a place where they speak a language other than English -- a rarity -- the trouble is that the inhabitants of this place speak English. Sure this is in a lot of ways great for me, one not very adept at other languages, but I can't help but think it's also a shame in what it tells us about alternative cultural appreciation here. After all, we don't provide all these other peoples the benefit of speaking their language when they travel to the old US of A. Then again, they wouldn't be learning English if it weren't a business and lifestyle necessity. Alas, such is the cost of globalization, progression, unfication, quotation marks wherever you think I intended them.

At any rate, it's easy for the visitor to cast the wistful eye at foreign places without a full grasp of what it is to actually live there. What I can tell you in my latest visits is that in the Central European cities of Prague, Budapest, and Vienna, people do not run without shirts on. Even sizeable tourist groups from Italy (granted they happened to be teenagers), land of fashion that would attract a skeptical eye in America, do not understand the shirtless runner donning short shorts. I'm still on my quest to discover what it is about this situation that sets so many ill at ease. After all, in Budapest for instance there is no shortage of baths, where same-sex nudity is unquestioned, and in Prague there are ample banners for escort service sex.cz -- not to mention the city being well-known for its technically illegal, but blind eye more than turned and in fact approving of services to improve tourism. Hell in Prague I'm pretty certain I encountered a Brit taking good advantage of such access (I took his photo with a barely obliging woman at 6 in the morning) and in Vienna another Brit seemed to have brought an escort to 9:00am breakfast. But look, by no means should you run without your shirt on. A shame that Freud's no longer over at Berggasse 19 to help come to a precise psychoanalytical conclusion

And now, at this point, it's natural to wonder if the likes of Mozart and Beethoven went without wigs when they were out on long walks (maybe not Beethoven since he was blind) composing the classical music we still listen to today and, if so, whether they were looked upon strangely by peers. After all, "wiggin' out" is derived from the situation of one entering society without one's wig on, hence exposing the true self. Witnessing a person wig out makes people uncomfortable precisely because it exposes true nature and innately we fear the dark inner self.

On that note (a b-flat according to Wolfgang Amadeus), I'm going to head back to reality.

A Summery

Well shit, it looks as if the summer is nearly through, even if fall technically doesn't begin until late September. Calendars aside, the weather has been decidedly fall for some weeks now round these parts. It's a shame because while I'm quite the sweaty beast, one of the benefits of living in a climatic zone that has notable seasonal differences, is those notable seasonal differences. If it's going to be cold as monkey nuts (assuming those are always served chilled, or right out of the freezer), it'd be great to have summer last at least its usual length.

The kind of summer I'm talking about is the kind of summer going on here. Sure it's doofy britpop selling teenage sex but that's not a new phenomenon and at least they're obvious about it with the giant inflatable banana and all. Come to think of it though, the people in that video are primarily wearing slacks and there is many a long sleeve present, so that's not quite the summery heat I'd meant. What a video like that really drives home is that I've been missing one heck of a beach party for probably 17 years now.

The last thing I'll say about the weather is that it allows for those bringing about the return of dressing like these lads not having to worry about looking a slobbery mess.

The boutonnieres, I admit, haven't actually hit yet for regular daily consumption, but I can only imagine it's just a matter of time.

But young folk have reason to dress sharp. After all, they are surely applying to jobs like these. And rather than be discouraged by reviews like this one,  I would think they might be excited by the prospect of a trusted colleague "pour[ing] feces down their throat." I suppose that is what they mean by shit job. It's great to see Bob Bland, CEO respond directly. Honestly though, for being Mr. Bland, it sure sounds like an exciting place to be.

Speaking of exciting places to be, I'm sure we've all got one. Well, at least more exciting than this dark corner of the Internet. Perhaps those Mods above could head to 1996 and drive the limos for Blackstreet. Play on playas.

The Secret

No not Victoria's Secret, that delightful self-help book. The secret is that there is no secret and I don't understand how someone could read that book and not feel cultish, weird, and a bit dirty. But that's just because I have a negative outlook and bring it to that book or so the story might go.

I actually think there is something to having a positive outlook on life, rather than dwelling on the negative, but unfortunately thinking positively about things doesn't actually make them happen. For the privileged folk spewing the fecal matter in this fine piece of print, I suppose this works. Or maybe one day they awaken in their vapid wasteland of a life.

But hey, I'm actually a relatively positive guy or positively a relative guy, I always get those confused. Take today, where I put on my shirt before my pants for about the first time ever and the result was such that I'd tucked only the back of my shirt into my waistband (when really none of it should have been tucked), and meanwhile my fly wasn't done up. Did I freak out? No, I took it in stride, laughed to myself and apologized to the large group of schoolchildren that had to witness it all.

Even with my fly down, my secret wasn't revealed.

Until next time internet, you stay data rich.