So Basically, James Joyce Was a Whore.

Recently had what felt like the 564th lecture on James Joyce. What else can I say except screaming internally. Entire generations of scholar’s have grown up to kiss that guy’s spectral ass, singing hymns of praise over Ulysses and Dubliners, mostly because no one ever actually finished Finnigan’s Wake.

And even in the new century, the rightfully deceased Joyce still holds sway over the not-so-peaceable land of literature. He and Yeats are the mighty two towers of Irish literature by which any other author will and shall be measured!

I have problems with this. Number one, his writing is… not that good. It’s mostly rambling about… actually, it’s not about anything, stuff just seems to happen to the protagonist, peppered with Bible quotes and Classical mythology to keep a semblance of interest, and no amount of scholarly research will tell me otherwise, nothing will make this nonsense suddenly worthy of my precious, precious time. Number two, Joyce was the mighty slut before the lord. Don’t you know I am a lady of quality! I shall not indulge in this debased filth! No wonder the future generations consist of degenerates delighting in depraved debauchery if the impeccable institutes of learning make them read masturbatory memoirs of sluts and whores!

Seriously though, he was slutting it up.

Like most Men Who Do Great Things, Joyce’s success depended on someone else doing his laundry, cooking his meals and, dunno, paying all his bills. So in Things Wikipedia Never Told You News: Joyce took the classical route and got hold of numerous patrons, or sponsors. Who were all wealthy. And… female. Basically, he kept finding new sugar mommas.

I guess this also kinda explains why it took him thirty years and two or three children to finally marry his wife. I mean, she wasn’t rich. Far from it, actually. So, you know. He just kept shakin’ what his mama gave him. In the general direction of heaving bosoms with well-filled wallets.

I know, you are saying, “But, but, but! Should we not judge an author by his literary merits? Did not most creative heads in history live a life against all social acceptability? Is it not the rejection of morals-of-the-time put in place by the-powers-that-be that fill the mind with prose? Is it not a truth universally acknowledged that a great mind must needs be unmolested by the day-to-day drudgery as well as pesky norms? Can and should you really judge this literary giant by his social life?”

Yes. Yes, we should.

Now, there’s technically nothing wrong with being a whore for the sake of literature, and no one will disagree with me on that (and if you do, the door of this private prose bordello is over there, get out). Technically, there’s nothing wrong with being a whore, period. But I mean, come on. Can you imagine if James Joyce had been Jane Joyce? Would we still be reading Penelope today or would scholars be more interested in examining Jane’s relationships with her ‘sponsors’? Chances are, we wouldn’t be reading any of her work. Jane would also have never been able to write a masturbation scene in Penelope (which, admittedly, was censored for long years, but wouldn’t you know it, came back) or a visit to a brothel with her as the customer and still have her book published. Never in a million years, or at the very least not in 1922. James Joyce, however? 800 pages of Notes From A Boner, also known as Ulysses in case the joke wasn’t clear. Oh, so you masturbate to a woman on the beach? Okay. Why? Oh, so you don’t like the fact that your wife is having an affair, or you assume she has an affair, but you’ve no problem going to a brothel on what seems to be the regular? Okay. Why? So you and your friend/son substitute/potential gay mate are pissing in the backyard even though it’s been established in the early chapters that you own a perfectly good outhouse? Okay. Why? Did the outhouse fall over somewhere off screen, or…?

Also, what the hell kinda drugs are you on with your frequent hallucinations?

I just wonder how this book became such a classic. No, actually I don’t wonder. It was obviously risqué and daring for the time because it was a complete attention grab, and the fact that it was so difficult to get it published, and that it was censored so heavily and indeed put on the index for years in some countries made for great publicity. Then some of the chronic onanists who got a hold of it, actually made it through the 800 pages, and liked it somehow became scholars of literature and the rest, much like the life of James Joyce, is history.

And now there are people meandering through Dublin, wide-eyed and delirious as if someone had dropped a copy of Finnegan’s Wake on their heads, every June 16. Wonder if they also visit the brothel, though.

There are two kinds of people. Those that have read Ulysses and those that haven’t and those who gave up halfway through, and those who have problems with numbers. And then there’s those weirdos who have to bite their fist so as not to yell “‘TIS PITY HE’S A WHORE!” through a lecture hall.

Not that I ever did that or anything.

Bah, sick of Joyce. Let’s talk about Yeats. Wanna hear a Yeats joke? Why was Yeats sad? Because his Maud was Gonne! Ba-dum-TSS!

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Rant Day! Things That Had Me Going Round the Bend, Sep 5-12

Item 1: I don’t understand construction workers, like they just randomly fuck off for a week, then come back to start hammering at 50 minute intervals between 7 and 11 a.m. What. Are. You Doing?!

Item 2: So a potential supervisor for my thesis blew me off and now I have to find another candidate, but because uni doesn’t start until October no one can be fucking reached. This dealt a critical blow to my motivation, so I think I’ll just abandon all research for the moment and binge watch Elementary.

Item 3: I watched so much Doctor Who over the last few months I’m starting to feel surfeited by it, so now I have to go on a Doctor Who break and binge watch Elementary.

Item 4: I just found out Sleeping Beauty is Boyfriend’s favourite Disney princess and I find his lack of taste disturbing. Like why, that bitch was just lying around for an hour while four fairies were fucking around with her fate and three of them dealt the useless prince some epics! Cheaters!

Item 5: Boyfriend still hasn’t discovered the cats.

Item 6: I got another compliment… I think. Is it a compliment when the parcel delivery guy tells you you are becoming ever more slimmer? I mean, I guess it’s a compliment, so I waved it off with an “Nah, I’m just wearing ever larger sweaters” and proceeded to overthink, so I had to binge watch Elementary to calm myself.

Item 7: Because I’m still waiting for a call back for that job interview I had my life is at a standstill. I can’t sign up for courses or anything until I hear from them because if they do hire me I’ll be busy every afternoon and I have to plan around that and arrrgh! Just tell me already!

Item 8: So after spending half the week in a virtual coma, somehow on Friday night 1:30 a.m. I was suddenly feeling awake, alert, and ready to be productive. Trouble is, what kind of productive activity can you do at 1:30 a.m. that won’t wake the entire house? I settled on cleaning the bathroom. Yep. What the hell, brain? Couldn’t we just binge watch Elementary?

Item 9: I feel like I’m getting a cold. Yep, it’s officially autumn. We’re also expecting 28°C on Monday.

Item 10: Tampons cost too damn much. Why can’t I get them for free? I didn’t choose the uterus life, the uterus life chose me!

Item 10.1.: Yes, middle-aged woman, I am in the drug store buying tampons. Just tampons. I’m not hiding them in between other items because I literally only need tampons. Stop giving me the judgy stare or I’ll judge you on your choice of hair dye and body lotion. Also, old man, stop looking embarrassed. You’re buying ten bottles of the same shampoo. Yes, I counted. I can think of a very good reason to buy tampons. I can’t think of a very good reason to buy ten bottles of the same shampoo that’s not even on sale. Do you have a horse tucked away somewhere that needs a wash?

Item 11: Am I on my period? Are you really asking me that? I started my day by waking up in a pool of blood, is that how you want me to end yours?

In not-so-complainy news: I’m celebrating my period anniversary this week… by having my period. Do you know how rarely this happens and how beautiful it is when it finally syncs up with the date? I also realised I could hypothetically also be the mother of a teenager had I gotten pregnant at eleven. This thought is scary.

…what do you mean, that’s weird? Who doesn’t celebrate their period anniversary?

P.s.: Did you know that in order to get rid of the uterine lining during your period your body produces more testosterone and progesterone? That means during those days your hormonal make-up is as close to that of a man as it’s ever going to get naturally. By implication, this means of course a man’s hormonal make-up is like he’s on a super hulk period 24/7. Stuff to think about next time you catch a man crying over a sports game! (Give him a snickers and tell him he’s pretty.)

On the Importance of Tubers, or Bring on the Potatoes, Ma!

Okay, first of all, anyone on a low-carb diet proceed with caution, this ain’t gonna be no cake walk. Also, never slice an apple with the same knife you used to slice lemons and garlic. Don’t ask questions, just trust me on this.

Anyway, on to the post. Once upon a time I was a lot smaller. I also was the picky eater from hell. My mom is still not fully recovered. Every family gathering the conversation somehow turns to me (Curse Of The Only Child) and mom launches in a long-winded report about my past self’s eating habits.

Yes, I didn’t like vegetables. There’s actually a proper evolutionary reason why many small children don’t like vegetables, especially not the leafy green ones. Once upon another time, when humans were roaming the planet without a fixed address and so did the bears, human children were basically free range, running around, head filled with nonsense, and you know how small children are, sticking absolutely everything into their mouths? Yeah, children’s aversion to bitter tastes, like vegetables and other plants, is because of that, so the little fuckers don’t accidentally inhale the poison ivy and the belladonna. This is Mother Nature’s way of making sure your kids ain’t poisoning themselves while you’re trying to fend off the cave bear, or really large stag, or disgruntled salmon.

So I didn’t like vegetables as a kid because evolution. I also didn’t like things with weird textures, like mushy stuff, probably also because evolution, and definitely because my gag reflex is the stuff of legends. I also didn’t like anything that smelled weird, or sounded weird, or plain looked weird. Basically, my food options were very limited and mom, mighty wielder of pan and wooden spoon, was about ready to throw me out the window at meal times. I mean, sometimes you just have to be older to like stuff, you know? Like I didn’t like Star Wars until my early twenties even though I’ve seen it as a kid, and it took me a long time to appreciate Star Trek. Hell, I didn’t get the point of Golden Girls until last December! And it’s the same with food. Did I eat strawberries as a kid? Nope, too sour. Did I like that weird melty French cheese? Nope, that’s weird. Did I eat my mom’s amazeballs Bolognese sauce? Hell to the no. Did all of that change? Yes ma’am, it sure did.

Aaaanyway, so traditional Austrian cuisine is a) ransacked, borrowed and stolen from neighbouring countries and b) extremely fatty. Mom was on a never-ending quest to lose weight, so we rarely had any of the fried stuff. Mom liked Italian and Greek food, so we had lots of that, while mom was stretching every food item with finely chopped zucchini or carrots, desperately trying to get some vitamins into my uncooperative body. There was only one thing she couldn’t ever go wrong with, and that was potatoes.

Can we take a moment to appreciate the humble potato? You can cook them, fry them, bake them, gratinate them, vodka-nate them. Get it together, every other vegetable!

Potatoes were a staple food in our family because it was the one thing everyone ate, and you’d think it’d be pretty easy to find something everyone likes in a household of three, Chrissakes. The way I liked them best was as Bratkartoffeln, for which I just found out that no English word exists. Mom always made them after mom’s godmother’s hundred year old recipe.

Story time! Way back in the day when people still had governesses, my mom’s godmother was a governess in Morocco to some French bigshot. Imagine it like Casablanca, only without the spy stuff. Anyway, the Godmother used to make the kids this kind of meal, real simple, just cook some potatoes, peel them, slice them about half a centimetre thick and fry them in a tablespoonful of olive oil until they’re nice and brown, then let them chill on paper towels to drain any excess oil. Glass of milk to go with it and BOOM, lunch! I don’t even know what’s so great about it, I mean it’s literally just potatoes, but it’s so good! This was also one of the first things I learned to cook when I was a little kid, seven I think, I remember how mom used to say you know they’re ready for eating when you hear them sing. It’s just the water evaporating that makes a tiny high-pitched noise, but yeah, it sounds maybe a bit like singing.

Or screams of agony, depending on your level of childhood morbidity.

It’s also no wonder that recipe survived fro a hundred years, any idiot could remember that. Exhibit A continues typing.

Still, we couldn’t have Bratkartoffeln every day, at least not without mom pulling her hair out, so every time we did have it, it was the Best Day Ever. Not surprisingly, when I moved out the first thing that happened was three weeks of potato anything. And today I just bought another three pounds. God damn. If you see me on a low carb diet you know the potato famine is back. Ain’t no other explanation.

They Looked Like Nice Little Old Ladies But They Were Actually…

So for the past few weeks there were people ringing my doorbell in the early morning (as evidenced in posts here and here) and I never opened because, like hell am I going to open the door for strangers when I’m home alone.

But then I thought, what if they’re debt collectors? What if they’re just making sure they have the right address? What if they break down my door and take all our stuff because they have the wrong address and I never corrected them?! (Don’t laugh, that happened, the family had to buy all their own stuff back at auction, their stuff that the state effectively stole.) Okay, admittedly, I have a habit for paranoia.

But nevertheless. What if they just sell magazine subscriptions? I can just say no thanks! What if they sell anything else? I can say no thanks! What if they’re from house management? I can say it was the neighbours!

So I sat myself down and told myself, the next time they ring I’ll open and see what I’ll see.

Today was that day. The doorbell rang. I check through the door viewer and sure enough, it’s them. Two little old ladies, still decked out in their winter gear with trademark huge old lady handbags. I have a day off, so I yell “Just a moment!” while I struggle into some clothes and hunt for my keys.

I open the door, just a smidgen, ask them to identify. They hand me a piece of paper.

It’s not a note of debt.

It’s not a subscription.

It’s not even a business card.

I look at it and my face falls. How do I react now? It don’t feel right being rude to old ladies, so I play along.

“We’d like to invite you…”

I smile and nod.

“…this is the most important day…”

I smile and nod and brace myself.

“… the day that Jesus died…”

Whoomp, there it is.

“…the death of Jesus is the most important event…”

They hand me a pamphlet and sure enough, it’s the Watchtower. They want me to come to their Easter gathering.

When I was younger I used to have my fun with Jehova’s Witnesses, telling them we’re a family of Satanists, that we’re looking for willing sacrifice, sometimes I’d just act possessed. But I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m a grown woman (say it with me like Beyonce: groooown woman), the only Watchtower I want anything to do with is this Jimi Hendrix song, and I feel sorry for these poor lonely people ensnared in a cult that gives them the sense of community and purpose missing in their lives.

So I’m being nice. I thank them. I tell them I read the Bible four times already (What? It’s true. Know your enemy and all.). They say they’d be glad if I came to their meeting. I tell them I’ll think about it and bid them goodbye, wish them a nice day. I think the three of us already know I won’t be going. We’re screwing each other in good understanding.

But what can I do? I’m not even a Christian and I have no intention of ever being one. I have intention of being a researcher. Science is my religion substitute. If anything, I was getting ready to prepare a libation to Ostara, Ishtar, Astarte and all their related incarnations for Easter. I mean, it’s Easter. Even if you have no knowledge of historical linguistics you should be able to see how those names are related. They all go back to an Indogermanic word meaning dawn. That’s why the sun rises in the East, it literally means ‘hey, dawn’s that way’. It’s literally older than Jesus.

(You may also have noticed the absence of bunnies and eggs at the crucifixion. That’s because they have nothing to do with it but are in fact tokens of much older feasts. Eggs have always been associated with fertility and March and April is the mating season for hares (you may have heard the phrase ‘mad as a march hare’, they’re mad because they’re horny), which is why they’re also considered symbols for fertility. Which is why they’re associated with traditional spring festivals all over Europe. Pretty powerful symbolism too, seeing as it has survived the switch to a completely different religion.)

So that’s the mystery of the doorbell ringers solved and you learned another little titbit about etymology! Now how’s that for a twist?

“Easy for you to talk, I have to live here!”: Christmas Edition – A Brief Survey (And Damn Long Post) of Christmas Traditions in Austria

Ah, Christmas.

Ah fuck, Christmas! And I haven’t even started my Christmas shopping!

After I did the Halloween post back in October I thought, hey, that was kind of fun, being all high and mighty and lecturing people. So, since I couldn’t do an episode of how-we-do-things about Thanksgiving in Austria, I decided to do one on Christmas. Why? Because Thanksgiving doesn’t exist here. Stuffing our faces is part of our lifestyle and doesn’t need a holiday of its own. Also, we didn’t have pilgrims, nor did we have native inhabitants to kill. We are our natives, ever since the Indo-Europeans made their way to Europe a good 3000 years ago. Ergo, no reason to celebrate.

So Thanksgiving doesn’t make much sense. We do small local harvest feasts at the end of summer, though. Fresh must and cider, now that’s something to be thankful for.

I think everyone, all over the world, is very familiar with stereotypical American Christmas. I mean, we’ve all seen so many movies about it, right? So why not think about how we, all us non-Americans, celebrate our christianised solstice? So this is what this segment is for. Keep in mind that this is a secular and very limited perspective, locally speaking, I’m only talking about Vienna here.

Okay, so Christmas, yeah, of course we have Christmas. Even though about half of people under forty identify as atheists, and every second child in 2013 was born out of wedlock, we’re not some sort of godless heathens (as far as you know, and you can’t prove a thing!). Also, food. FOOD! Nothing better than cheating on your diet with “But it’s Christmas time!” and have that extra gingerbread, that extra cookie, that extra piece of roast, that extra ANYTHING!

I mean, I assume you already know this, but on the off-chance that you don’t: Christmas has been celebrated way before Jesus and way before it was called Christmas. The Christians moved their festival to the day of the winter solstice, which has been celebrated since humans in this area discovered, hey, the days are getting longer again. Knowledge like this, the solstices, the equinoxes, have been vital for our survival in the past and should rightly be celebrated because they are useful, especially in an agricultural context. The gods came later. Nothing wrong with keeping them about, but just remember, they’re not the reason for the season. The season is the reason for the season.

The most interesting part about Austrian Christmas traditions is perhaps that the action happens before and after the Christmas date. On Christmas itself, you just stuff your face, maybe go to church if you have to. But mainly, you eat, exchange presents, pretend to be delighted, try not to pick a quarrel that results in a mighty family feud again, and fall into a food coma as soon as you’re home.

Now first things first, the date. We usually celebrate on the 24th of December. Can be midday, can be afternoon, can be evening, that depends on every family’s tradition. Like, me and mine, we usually get together about late afternoon, because my mother said, and I quote “I’ll be damned if I get up at 6 am to start cooking!” (She tried this a couple times when I was a kid and the family was still well enough to visit, and she was not happy.) Families gather together to eat and exchange presents and have coffee and sweets and maybe engage in group food coma. There’s family drama and debates from god-knows-when and tears and whiny children and drunk grannies telling their first dirty jokes in years. Hey, some people (especially in rural communities) even go to church for midnight mass! All in all, pretty usual stuff.

After food there’s usually the traditional exchange of peace gifts presents which may or may not involve sending the little children of the house off into a different room while the parents get their Xboxes and iPhones (or whatever it is kids get these days) out of their careful hiding places and arrange them around the tree, then ring a small bell to pretend the Christchild has made his delivery and shove the kids back into the room. Magic! Aren’t you just so surprised, our Franzl?

Someone might even choose to torture the entire family with Christmas music. Christmas music falls into two variations: the traditional and the imported British and/or American stuff. I still can’t decide which is worse. Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht, Alle Jahre Wieder, Es Ist ein Ros Entsprungen, Leise Rieselt der Schnee, O Tannenbaum, Kling, Glöckchen, Klingelingeling, or, the very worst, Es Wird Scho Glei Dumpa, all those songs from the early 1800s, when everyone was suddenly into family values, family religion, and family Christmas. If anyone, and grandmothers are infamous for this, insists on hearing “something nice for once” or, worse, something “besinnlich”, you know you lost, because the above mentioned are what you will hear until your eyes pop and your ears bleed. Youtube at your own risk. I’m going to hear this all month.

On the other hand we have your foreign classics like Rudolph, Jingle Bells, Winter Wonderland (uuuuugh), Let It Snow, Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, Santa Baby, and the worst Christmas song in the history of ever, Baby It’s Cold Outside (seriously? If someone asks “Hey, what’s in this drink?” how is that not a rapey red flag?! Yeah, nothing says peace on earth like the prelude to sexual assault.) for the more open-minded cosmopolitan and, most importantly, younger crowd. And also every store everywhere ever, and I’m about ready to shove an oboe up my auditory canal. No one ever plays the funny songs like Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.

And since eating is so important on Christmas Eve, what do we eat? Again, depends on the family tradition. Some have goose (still very popular, but hellish to make I hear, takes forever), some have roast pork, some have roast beef, some have fish, some have duck, some have chicken, with a range of sides like various aggregate forms of potatoes (cooked, mashed, fried, french fries, oven grilled, pan grilled, do you even know how much you can do with potatoes?), green beans, salad, cooked vegetables, gravy, and so on. Some have something different every year. Some say, fuck it, and book a table at a restaurant and no shame, a lot of people do that. Like, book a table a week or a month in advance. Then there’s the cookies. Oh, the cookies. Non-German-speaking world, do you even have Vanillekipferl? Linzer Augen? Zimtsterne? Spekulatius? Kokosmakronen? I dare you to google pictures!

Okay, before you drool all over the keyboard, let’s consider the word itself. Christmas consists of mas, meaning “feast” (see also mass and German Messe), and Christ, so the feast of Christ. Weihnachten, the German word, comes from ze wihen nahten, a Middle High German phrase first found in a 12th century sermon that basically means “at the blessed/hallow night”. It is not a plural form, a question I sometimes get from people who are in the process of learning German. (German has so many damned different plural forms, it’s okay if you get them confused sometimes.) Anyway, only the part about “blessed night” survived, and tada, a new word.

Everyone together say “Uuuugggghhhh”.

 

Let’s now consider the word besinnlich. Old fashioned cards and old people like to wish you “besinnliche Weihnachten”. This is probably one of the most German words EVER. A dictionary will tell you it means reflective, contemplative, or tranquil, but it’s all of those and more. It draws you right back to the time when Germany could rightfully claim to be the country of poets and thinkers (“Land der Dichter und Denker”, notice the alliteration and compare Ireland’s “land of saints and scholars”. It’s aaaall marketing.), back when Kleist and Heine were big shots of the German literature scene, the time of the Bildungsbürgertum, the intellectual and economic upper bourgeoisie, in the late 18th and early 19th century. It’s like this state of mind you should reach around Christmas, this kind of ur-Christian feeling of being a) thankful, b) believing, c) reflecting about your life and the universe and everything, possibly in context with your flavour of Christianity. It’s the kind of feeling that you should experience listening to Silent Night, Holy Night, that insufferable song I’m going to hear until New Year’s that doesn’t make me feel besinnlich but more like homicidal. So it’s a pretty rare feeling, I’d say. It’s not something you’ll readily feel while hunting through the malls and shopping streets, checking off many an item on an ever-growing list. Then again of course it developed before malls and shopping streets. Nothing besinnlich about shopping unless you’re a real fashion victim.

Do we have Christmas trees? Well, duh, where do you think this tradition comes from? Dragging evergreen plants into your home is about as Germanic as you can get without drinking ale out of your enemy’s skull (for some reason that’s frowned upon these days). It used to be for magic purposes (however the hell that was supposed to work) to bring spring back, or, on a more psychological level, as a green beacon of hope to make people endure the cold and patiently wait for the next spring without too much of a nervous breakdown. Now we just hang balls and garlands on them. Or X-wings, depends on the people and their personal fandom. Most people still buy a new genuine tree every year, because plastic may be cheaper and less hassle and less needles but it is just. Not. The. Same. Sorry, we’re a bit too traditional for that. Needles are a bother, yes, but on the other hand, a real tree feels better and smells better. And, well… do you know how many pines and firs and other coniferous trees grow in this country?

But who puts presents under those wonderfully smelling trees? We don’t have Santa Claus. AT best we have the Weihnachtsmann, but he’s only been moving in for the past 30 years or so (thanks, America). We get our presents from the Christkind (Christ-child), which is basically baby Jesus, not only come back from the dead but also suddenly a lot smaller. It’s like Jesus is a Time Lord and he regenerated shortly before Christmas and something went wrong and he didn’t take an adult form and that’s how the legend was born. Okay, it’s baby Jesus merged with the holy spirit merged with an angel like thing with blond hair and wings. Blame Martin Luther and the Protestants who didn’t want to continue the Nikolaus tradition because worshipping saints is too close to polytheism but angel-like things from heaven that are inspired by local nativity plays are a-okay.

The Christkind doesn’t crawl through the chimney. First of all because no one has fireplaces anymore, and second because, well, it (he? No, I think it’s an ‘it’.) can just appear if he wants. It doesn’t need any reindeer pulled sleighs either. It’s also shy as hell, so if you try to sneak around the house and spot it, it won’t come and bring you presents!

Now, if you’re a kid in Austria and you grow up with the tradition of the Christkind AND somehow got an impression of the Santa Clause tradition, you might have a period of confusion before putting two and two together and surmise that either a) they work together, or b) DOUBLE PRESENTS! Let’s just say parents of small children around here have some ‘splaining to do this time of year. (If kids these days even still believe in anything, because I’ve overheard 6-year-olds making fun of their peers for believing in such figures as the Christkind. Like, everyone knows it’s your parents, dude, we’re all just playing along to spare their feelings. Then again, if there’s presents involved, kids can be very believing all of a sudden. Or at least pretend to be. Sneaky little secular bastards.)

Also, if you’re an Austrian child and you know that the Christ-child is more or less baby Jesus, who is male, but on every Christmas market you see a post-pubescent woman in a blond wig parading around as the Christchild, you’re going to have a long period of confusion, and your parents will haven even more desperate ‘splaining to do. (“But if the Christkind is Jesus, why is it a lady?” – “Because the Christkind is a baby, after all.” – “But she doesn’t look like a baby! Babies are very small and can’t walk!” Ah, children. They know when things don’t add up.)

Then there’s the whole business with St. Nicolas (who we call Nikolaus or Nikolo), an old man in a bishop’s robe and a giant beard, and Krampus, a devilish lookin’ fella with horns and hooves. (In the Netherlands, he’s called Swarte Piet, “black Peter”, and apparently there was some postcolonial controversy about that recently.)

“Ho, ho, ho, would you like to talk about our Lord and Saviour?”

Remember Gandalf? This is him now. Feel old yet?

No reindeer here either. Both are part of our pre-Christmas traditions. The Krampus’ feast day is on Dec 5 and Nikolaus’ on Dec 6. And if you’re not from Central Europe you’ve probably never heard from them. Which is a pity, because Nikolaus is one of the bases for Santa Claus, as is obvious from the name alone. It’s not a state holiday here, though, and it’s more important for example in Finland and Spain. There are various theories about the origin of Nikolaus  and all make a certain amount of sense, but which one is accepted usually depends on where in Europe you are. One of the established and long-going theories is that Nikolaus himself is based on Odin (also known as Wotan in the south), himself a bearded old dude, but during the Christianisation he merged with a bishop (hence the name) to include him into the new religion. (It was vital to make this tradition extra-Christian because early Christians in German-speaking regions were so afraid of the old gods, we don’t even have Odin’s name in our names for the days of the week. English has Wednesday, “Wotan’s day”, German has Mittwoch, “middle of the week”.) Bishop Nikolaus of Myra, who apparently gave three young women gold for their dowries and did similar things that made him fit for the role of… bringing small sticky children chocolate to make them even more sticky. (Used to be oranges and nuts, but you know how kids are these days.)

What do we do on Nikolaus day? Well, before Christmas gift giving became a big thing in the 1800s, Nikolaus was the traditional gift day for the kids. Nowadays they get chocolates in various forms, sometimes still traditionally to be found in their shoes in the morning, and usually Nikolaus- or Krampus-shaped because gimmicks sell. All through the schools and day care facilities children are forced to sing cheerful songs about the joyous reason for the day (Kling, Glöckchen, Klingelingeling, fuuuhuuuuck youuu….). People dressed as Nikolaus and Krampus run around desperately trying to impress our increasingly unimpressed children. Usually they visit the local kindergartens to give out candy. Sometimes, in the evening, parents blackmail an uncle (or Mom just forces Dad) into dressing up and giving out chocolate to the children of the family, who usually already know who’s trying to hide under the not-at-all-convincing beard, but hey, free chocolate. And if you can scare your little siblings/cousins by telling them how they are going to be punished, hey, more power to you, kid.

Us grown-ups sometimes participate in the festivities ourselves, to varying degrees: chocolate,  sexy chocolate, other sexy things for when the kids are long asleep (because there’s nothing sexier than being bad and we’ve all been naughty, oh, very naughty indeed, “oh, Krampus, are you gonna spank me?”. Don’t. Ask.). Some just stuff a jute sack with chocolate, peanuts and marzipan and try to stuff it into their boyfriend’s winter boots (hint: boots can never be big enough, it seems).

There are many Germanic traditions surrounding the time between the winter solstice and the early days after New Year’s Eve. You may have heard of the Twelve Days of Christmas? That’s the twelve days between Dec 25 and Jan 6 now. (Feast Day of the Three Wise Men, very big in Spain as well.) For ancient Germans, this period was called “Rauhnächte”, and it was a baaad time to venture outside, because Odin and the dead (that’d make a great band name) went a-hunting, what was called the Wild Hunt.

What Odin also supposedly did, either during the Rauhnächte or on St Nicolas’ feast day, depends if we’re talking before or after the missionaries made their move, was to reward good people by bringing them presents of food, and punishing bad people. People were also supposed to put carrots in their boots and put them outside for Odin’s eight-legged horse (which Loki gave birth to – Germanic mythology, ladies and gentlemen!) to have a snack, and Odin would then deposit gifts where the carrots had been. Sounds familiar yet?

The Krampus, known as Knecht Ruprecht (“servant Ruprecht”) mainly in the protestant regions of Germany, especially in the north, on the other hand, is of a more obscure origin. He’s on the punishing side of things, rattling chains and brandishing a rod, or at least he was before people started to be all “Won’t somebody think of the children!” Now there’s no more spankings and you can buy chocolate effigies of him as well. (Funnily enough, when people dressed as Nikolaus and Krampus come to visit kids in kindergarten, as is practised, kids are usually more scared of Nikolaus.) Krampus, in a Christian context, is basically Beelzebub, a stand-in for the devil, a lesser demon who can punish children on Nikolaus’ command. (Remember, kids, devils need heavenly permission to whip you stupid. Isn’t that a comforting thought?)

“Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me.”

Such a jolly time of the year!

In a pre-Christian context, Krampus has a lot of roots. The parallel to the devil is more than obvious, but that came later, with the Christianisation of the continent. He is associated with the Wild Hunt, and his outer appearance resembles the Perchten tradition, which we’ll come to later. The name Krampus comes from a Middle High German word meaning “claw”. He carries either a sack or a wooden tub to carry off bad children. He usually is clad in fur, has a tail and has cloven hooves for feet, again, see devil depictions, it’s not far off. During the Early Modern period until about the 17th century it was actually forbidden under penalty of death to dress up as Krampus, because a good Christian could of course not dress up as a demon or diabolic anything. Nevertheless, some people just carried on with the tradition like they just didn’t care and so it survived and was re-established somewhere around the Enlightenment period. When the Perchtenläufe came back in full force and quickly gained popularity again all over the Alpine region (southern Germany, Austria, Switzerland, you name it) at the beginning of the 19th century, a time marked by a general return to traditional German values and customs, a want for some good ol’ Brauchtum, the Krampus’ appearance began to resemble theirs.

Perchten are a very Alpine thing. Just look at this:

“Hello, we’re the Millers, just moved in next door.”

Google it if you like. Google pictures. Things like this could only ever be conceived in the Alps, because if you get right down to it the Alps are fucking scary as hell. Bitter cold, biting snow, sun sets too early, harsh winds, echoes everywhere, one false step and you fall down a cliff, just imagine how it must have been for people living there 1000 years ago or even longer.

Perchten are not just some weird hairy things. In a real Perchtenlauf they have roles, and those roles and their costumes vary sometimes greatly from region to region. In such processions you might also find people donning what looks like gigantic hats made of fruit, flowers, or mirrors (also known as Schönperchten); other people with wooden tubs strapped to their backs sweeping the streets; others still with giant feather headpieces; some decorated with pine cones; people dressed as exaggerated representations of old women or witches; generally you can say that the hairy horned Schiachperchten symbolise evil spirits and the Schönperchten, who in the procession follow after the Schiachperchten, symbolise the good spirits of fertility and spring. Pretty simple concept, really. It’s all traditional, but no one is really sure anymore how or why it was started.

Few things ignite so much debate as the custom of Perchtenlauf, giant processions through the village and/or adjoining fields by dozens of pretty fellas as those you see above, all during the twelve nights. Some communities have a fixed date for this, and apparently it varies by region. We don’t do it in Vienna, it being more of a rural west part of the country thing, so it’s pretty alien to me, too, but it seems to be slowly gaining interest. I’ve seen Perchten on the subway, probably on their way to perform a show for us town folks, and it’s kinda surreal. (And not a single kid screamed! Kids are weird.)

There are a lot of theories about the name. The name itself has been used since the Middle Ages. The most popular one sees the root in an Old High German word, berchttac, the old name for the holiday of Epiphany. It’s definitely the root for bercht, a Middle High German word meaning bright. If those words have anything at all to do with the custom, however, is up to debate.But then again, just because you didn’t call it Perchten back then doesn’t mean it didn’t exist.

There is also a lot of discussion about a possible pre-Christian origin, because the first written statements about Perchtenläufe date from the 16th century. Again, maybe people just didn’t write much about those weird mountain folks living in regions you hardly ever wandered through if you could avoid it. There are some ancient Roman reports from the 5th century about parades of masked people running about Alpine towns around the time of the solstice, expelling winter and evil spirits with noise and bells, stomping all over the fields to break the ice on the ground, and invite the good, nice and most importantly fertile spring spirits back. Well, I mean. Look at those masks. Let’s just say good Christians aren’t usually that creative.

Another big point is the supposed worship of Frau Perchta. There is a theory that a goddess of that name or a similar one was once one of the main deities in the region. There’s not much evidence for that, though (well, duh, not like people did write a lot until a few hundred years ago), so this theory not taken very seriously. Granted, the Perchtenlauf role of Frau Perchta/Witch exists. There definitely is a mythological figure know to the Alpine and some Slavic regions of that name, though in how far there was any worship involved ad any time is unknown. She might be the result of centuries worth of cultural contact and fusion between Celtic, Germanic and Slavic tribes. Then again, there are similar figures of different names (Frau Holle (the fairy tale of the same name is based on her) in the northern part of Germany, Frau Fricke/Gode towards the Netherlands) in German-speaking regions, so it might be a case of an archetype. Maybe this figure is old enough to have travelled with the Indo-Europeans.

According to mythology, Perchta is a witch-like figure who punishes bad housekeeping and bad farming practices, punishments ranging from nightmares to plain ol’ bloody death. Like… she hacks people to pieces. Or disembowels them. I told you the Alps were scary. On the other hand, she rewards diligence, hard work, and helpfulness, so if ever an old woman in the Alps asks for your help you better go and do what she asks, it might be a test. During the Rauhnächte she flies through the houses to check that everything is clean and orderly (might explain why we do Big House Cleaning Action shortly before Christmas, maybe it’s not just for the visiting relatives) and WOE BETIDE YOU IF IT’S NOT! Excuse me while I go find my swiffer kit.

Maybe we should return to less violent matters? During the Twelve Days of Christmas, but especially on Jan 6, you might also find what we call “Sternsinger”, people, mostly children though, dressing up as the Three Wise Men (or as we call them, “die Heiligen Drei Könige”, the Three Holy Kings, again, they’re really big in Spain and Spanish-speaking countries), going door to door to sing and collect for charity. This is a relatively old custom, dating back to the 16th century. This explains a lot. Like, why sometimes one of the kids is in blackface. Well, Caspar has been represented as a black man since the 13th century, that’s not our fault! And certainly no one thought anything about it in the 16th century! So if you’re a tourist, maybe hailing from the Americas, be assured no one means to offend, just trying to be historically and religiously accurate. And because we’ve always done it this way and we don’t like change. “But why can’t you just get an honest-to-God black kid to play Caspar?” Because there are not that many black kids here, sorry. And isn’t it kinda racist to ask the black kids to play the black character just because they happen to be black? What? I’m sure I already put my foot in my mouth so I might as well chew on it. There are not that many black people in Austria in general, seeing as we never had oversea imperialism or slavery (and, for the sake of completeness, minstrel shows or what you call it, I just learned about them this year). Sorry? We have a really good black soccer player, though, we get points for that, right?

What you might have noticed if you’ve ever been to Vienna is that some houses and apartments will have a date written in chalk above the door. This is basically a “we were here” graffiti of the Sternsinger.

When you think about it, Christmas is really all about the kids while the adults rush through work, Christmas shopping, and a million item to-do list. There is so much stress involved about:

  • the food: One doesn’t eat that, the other doesn’t like this, Grandma wants her traditional meal that she used to cook before she was to weak to hold a pan, Aunt A is allergic to X thing, while Cousin B is experimenting with vegetarianism, etc.
  • the grocery shopping: What with all the stores being closed from Dec 24th noon to Dec 27 7:30, because holidays, which sucks really bad this year because the 26th falls on a Friday, probably making Saturday a bridge day, and before you say, oh, just do your shopping on Sunday… nothing is ever open on a Sunday here.
  • the family: Let us feel pity for the big families where it’s always guaranteed to be two people who cannot be in the same room together without killing each other. Then the feeling that you, as the host, have to please fucking everybody adds a dozen extra layers of stress. But even in small families, where everyone hates everyone else, you’ll have a million words to swallow just to keep the peace.
  • the presents: No one has any damned money anymore, and everyone has everything they could possibly need already. So what do you get them? Then there’s the kids who can never have enough of the new expensive anything and somehow despite very careful explanation still believe that money grows on trees; the teenager who doesn’t know what they want aside from a different life, less embarrassing parents, the new iphone, and a hundred items of designer clothing; and the older person (aunt, uncle, grandparent, anyone) who just complains about everything.
  • the gathering: Who will host? Who will come? What will be eaten? When will be the gift exchange? At least two people don’t know if they can make it, then show up just as the food is on the table, kids everywhere, teenagers who would rather be in their rooms masturbating, someone started talking about politics, throw alcohol into the mix and merry nervous breakdown.
  • the time: There is never enough damned time. Consider all those things: Deciding on the host, deciding on the food, sending out invitations, calling everyone three times to make sure everyone’s on the same page, planning the grocery shopping for the feast and the following holidays, preparing the food, buying a tree, decorating said tree, buying presents, wrapping presents, maybe even decorating the house, baking cookies, possibly with whiny children, cleaning the house, washing and ironing your and possibly your immediate family’s nice clothes, because Grandma always tuts if you show up in sweatpants… all this while you still have to work, pay your bills, do your household stuff, maybe take care of children, maybe go to school, maybe take care of sick or old relatives, maybe all of those…
  • And then after the holidays are over you sit yourself down and start telling yourself how you will do it all differently next year, how you will start preparing earlier, how you will not be influenced by the judgy stares of your in-laws or own family members next year. Guess how well that works out?

Sometimes I wonder why we still do it every year. If you objectively look at it, Christmas sounds like utter madness. First people worship the sun, now they’re having heart attacks over their child’s presents and their in-laws’ opinions. Insanity! Lunacy! What fit of frenzy made us think this was a good idea?

Ah, well. At least there’s gingerbread. Can’t argue with gingerbread.

Earworms, Tygers and Cheeses, oh my!

I hate prompts like this: You’re asked to recite a poem (or song lyrics) from memory — what’s the first one that comes to mind? Does it have a special meaning, or is there another reason it has stayed, intact, in your mind?

This would be the perfect time to recite all my gathered knowledge from my years of being a thrall to the study of English literature and poetry, and you’d think I’d start, with appropriately pretentious actor’s heroics, to belt out “TYGER, TYGER! BURNING BRIGHT!”, or “ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT DREARY”, or “SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY BECAUSE THE 12TH OF JULY WASN’T BAD!” and shit, but what is the first thing that comes to mind?

It’s not a poem. I don’t even like poems, unless they’re funny.

It’s not a song. Okay, it is a song, but not exactly a good one. It’s not even one of my beloved 80s anthems. It’s not Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, which would be obvious. It’s not Everybody Wants to Rule the World, which I keep singing to myself at the most inappropriate moments. It’s not even Automatic Man, which I have legit listened to 127 times this week alone.

Nope. If you’d ask me right now, or any time really, to recite a poem or song… if I was at a party and someone were to say “Hey, this girl here knows a lot of things that rhyme, let’s hear one”… if I was an ambassador of Earth at an intergalactic conference and aliens would ask me to recite a piece of Earth poetry…

I would be like, “Wer hat bloß den Käse zum Bahnhof gerollt!”

You probably have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, which is probably for the better. Because this song… it’s a German Schlager from 1927. And it sticks in your head like crazy glue. And because I want you to suffer as much as anyone who ever has to hear me sing, here, have some audio:

Like most German onestep songs from the Twenties, this one is dumb as hell. It has about six lines of text and it’s really stupid, but it’s so funny.

The text itself goes like this:

Wer hat bloß den Käse zum Bahnhof gerollt?

Das ist ‘ne Frechheit! Wie kann man so was tun?

Denn er war noch nicht verzollt!

Die Polizei hat sich hinein gelegt,

Jetzt ist sie böse sehr und grollt,

Weil man hat einen Käse zum Bahnhof gerollt!

 

Here, I’ll do a rough translation for all you non-German speakers (but it’s much funnier in German!):

Whoever rolled the cheese to the station?

The nerve of it! How can you do something like that?

Because it was not yet cleared!

The police have investigated,

Now they’re really angry and resentful,

Because someone rolled a cheese to the station.

 

This is literally the dumbest shit ever, and yet… the music is insanely catchy, for one. And for another, the mental image I have of a bunch of men in 1920s suits and hats rolling a giant swiss through the city to the next train station in the dead of night just to fuck with the police is too good to let go. If you want to majorly troll someone, this is what you do.

(And it’s not too far from reality either, because apparently once a year hundreds of people gather in a small English village to roll cheeses down a hill. Of course they look much classier doing it than a bunch of Germans, because duh, it’s the English.)

For good or for worse, if you ask me for the first more or less rhyming thing that pops into my head, this is it. Also for good or for worse, this is by far not the most inane song text the Twenties had to offer. I mean, just try Tante Paula liegt im Bett und isst Tomaten or the classic Heinrich, wo greifst du denn hin?.

(No, you don’t want to know why I know so many stupid songs that are about as old as my granny.)

Easy for you to talk, I have to live here: Halloween Edition

Hello and welcome to another possible semi-regular feature of this here blog-thing where I tell you interesting and mildly infuriating things about my home town. You’re really getting swamped with my posts this week, aren’t ya? Well, it has to be today, because posting something about Halloween is the cool thing to do.

Now this bitching about my loverly little city is aaaallll my personal opinion of course, and as we all know, a person is entitled to their wrong opinion. I mean, with your home town,  it’s a bit like with family. You love them and you know they love you, and nothing is ever going to change that because after all you’re family, but sometimes they do something so abjectly stupid you just have to vent. So here we go.

Some days I’m absolutely convinced that the cause for all my troubles lies in the fact that I was born and raised in a small city full of bitchy people who do nothing but complain all day.

Okay, so Vienna is maybe not that small. 1.7 million people. That’s a decent enough size for a central European capital. I mean it’s no London but we can’t all be London. But let’s just say it’s not the most popular or populous city in the world. It’s not going to be the staging ground for the next evil overlord/alien invasion/zombie apocalypse, nor is it going to be blown to bits in the next big Marvel anything. (Seriously, how are they rebuilding NYC so fast every time? And the people living there must be like, “Welp, another superhero fight, time to hit the bunker. Hope they don’t blow up my office again.” Does New York have superhero insurance by now?)

Maybe there’s something in the water. I mean, people have been living around here for a good 100,000 years, were they all bitchy and complainy too?

Maybe it’s just an inferiority complex, because there’s nothing left of the Grand Austrian Empire(TM) that lasted for millenniums about 600 years, give or take, I mean, it depends on what you count as part of Grand Austrian Empire(TM). Wasn’t always that Grand. Or that Empire-y. And now everyone keeps thinking we’re Australia and we have to sell shirts with helpful prints in the hopes that this year’s batch of befuddled tourists will finally stop asking where the fucking kangaroos are. (Although maybe we should arrange a sort of cultural partnership with Australia just to fuck with American tourists. They send us kangaroos, we send them dirndls and beer and some decent fucking mountains, don’t worry, there’s plenty and to share.) And if it’s not a case of mistaken identity, no one knows we exist. So, yeah. I guess Austrians are big on inferiority.

And in that spirit, let me tell you fun stuff about us wild mountain fellows.

Like, Halloween. We don’t have that. We don’t really do Halloween. Which is ironic considering it likely originated here.

Jep, you read that right. What’s that? The Irish made it popular, you say? Where do you think the Irish come from? The Celts came to Ireland about 300 BC from mainland Europe. Central Europe. Hell, their own mythology puts their origin close to this our general region. Did you know that Irish mythology has stories about a bunch of people called Túatha Dé Danann? Did you know that this means “people of Danu”? Did you know that Danu is apparently the name of a goddess? And that the word is related to “Danube”? You know, that river that flows from the Black Forest riiight through here all the way to the Black Sea?

So there’s a good chance that at least some Irish Celts were starting out as misplaced Austrians. This is a very depressing thought, I’m sure.

It’s also really ironic, I mean, whole Celtic tribes apparently wandered from here all the way to Ireland in 300 BC, then in the 5th-7th century AD they came back for the vengeance to bring us their newly acquired Christianity. And had to deal with a bunch of suspicious Germanic clans before they could establish monasteries here. (With help from the Romans. Mainland Europe during the Migration Period was like a free-for-all of peoples.)

But we don’t do Halloween in Austria. There’s evidence that local Celts had their share of end-of-summer, be-nice-to-the-spirits death festivals around that time of year, complete with laying out food and wearing costumes so they wouldn’t be recognised by the original evil dead. But then the Irish party pooper monks came and suddenly it was called All Saints’ Day ‘n shit and no more booze or costumes. I swear, we never get any fun holidays around here.

I mean, Austria has a lot of great things. Clean water. Health insurance. Good food and alcohol. Drinking age of 16. Those are all great things. But holidays… nope, we have to borrow those, if at all.

I think one of the reasons for the complete lack of Halloween spirit around here is because most of us only know the US movie version of the holiday. It’s a holiday for kids, people say. And we can’t do it like they do in US movies. First of all, most parents around here are very uncomfortable with the thought of their kids running around strangers’ houses. Not kosher. Not to mention in Vienna, most people rent flats. Owning a house in or around Vienna usually means you’re loaded, whether you admit it or not (or you slept with your estate agent, in which case name and business address please, or you’re eating nothing but pasta so you can afford your show off house). If people are not comfortable with their kids running around strange people’s houses, guess what they have to say about kids running around apartment buildings, especially in certain parts of town. Apart from the fact that we all were beaten about the head with the old “Do not talk to strangers, do not accept things from strangers” when we were children. Now you expect us to do just that. Inner turmoil!

Another reason is, well… it’s become a holiday for kids. That usually means no alcohol. Austrians love their booze and will use any and all excuse to get buzzed. Any event, if there’s drink to be had you will find a happy Austrian right in the middle. There is a reason why Oktoberfest has become so strangely popular, even though it’s a German holiday. (Austria-German relations are complicated, like any dysfunctional family.)

Then there’s the weather. Sweater weather in Austria means three sweaters. Under a coat. This year has been an absolute exception. We’ve had a real Californian autumn until mid-October with temperatures reaching up to 24C (and now it’s getting cold. Like, really cold. Yes, right before Halloween. Vienna weather, ladies and gentlemen!). That is very unusual. What is usual is you freezing your toes off bang on time on October 1st and you don’t even want to leave the house by the end of the month. So not only would Halloween in Vienna mean to let children be around strangers, but they’d probably come home with a cold because you can’t fit three sweaters under those costumes, and wouldn’t that be a nuisance.

Lastly, I think the fact that we already have an event that encourages fancy dress and consumption of copious amounts of alcohol (as well as questionable life choices at around 3 am) may stop Halloween from getting its big break around here. We have Fasching (Carnival), which is basically an excuse for partying all February long (okay, until Ash Wednesday, but who the fuck even remembers when that is? Especially after the third round.).

And Carnival has less death about it. Not that we mind death. After all, the morbidity of Vienna and its people is the stuff of legends. Also, Vienna is home to one of the largest cemeteries in Europe, 330.000 graves and counting. Someone even wrote a song about it (not a good one, but hey, a song). Actually, a feast as morbid as Halloween would be perfect for our weird local sentiments. After all, by celebrating the dead you are simultaneously celebrating that you are alive, and it is generally agreed that being alive is better than being dead.

But people here like to at least pretend to have some decency or decorum, and decency and decorum means to don their appropriate frowny faces at any funeral, which usually lasts until the exact moment they set foot in the restaurant chosen for the funeral feast. We like to keep up appearances. So no frolicking about in our best horror garb for us. With Carnival, however, you are basically given free rein to be as merry and drunk and horny as you like, go find someone like-minded and enjoy yourself.

Problem is of course, Fasching is way less fun if you don’t like being drunk and you have to be completely shit-faced to deal with all the horny drunk people, rampant stupidity, and bad music at parties. That’s why I would prefer if Halloween could finally take root here. Halloween has always been my favourite holiday and I never got to go trick-or-treating as a kid. No, I’m not still bitter, why would I… oh, that’s preposterous… now, listen, you… no, you shut up….

Let me tell you about my weekend! (Now with shitty cellphone pics!)

And now for something completely different.

It’s the weekend AGAIN?! How the hell did that happen?!

So after my initial shock (what happened to the week? There was a week! I know I saw a week around here and now it’s gone!) I decided to make the best about the fact that time just doesn’t stand still and went museum hopping.

But before we get to that, a word from our sponsor: When life gives you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade; but when life gives you old rotten bananas that you bought two weeks ago and then forgot about, you make cookies.

Tada! And now for the museum thing: Every October, there is an event in Vienna where you pay for one ticket and you can visit as many museums as you can fit into the 7 hour span of said event. It’s practically and all-you-can-look-at buffet, and I always use it to visit all the small museums that either are not usually open to the general public, or that I wouldn’t want to spend that much money on, because museums are hella expensive (knowledge doesn’t come for free, so bend over).

So I’m officially old now. I go out on a Saturday night to go to a museum, don’t even have a single drink, and go home at 1 am. Yup, that’s my exciting 20s right there.

(No museum pics for you, btw, because I was either not allowed or too lazy to take any. That’s the weird thing about museums, they won’t always let you take photos, but they don’t sell postcards either, all like “This whole picture business will wreak havoc on your memory!”)

And in case anyone asks, no, I’m not being paid by the department of tourism to write any of this. Sometimes I actually go out and do things.

The entire city was alive and running on Saturday. Between Long Night of the Museums and the usual weekend traffic of dance-happys and barflies there were also a good many events pertaining to the infamous Oktoberfest, aka the weekend everyone gets drunk and blames it on the Germans. So as I stepped outside my door, I was immediately greeted by the sight of various folk attired in Dirndl and Lederhosen, ready and eager to break it down to German Schlager, drink overpriced beer, and generally have themselves some Hüttengaudi (some of them evidently already regretting their choice of dress because it was going to be a cold, cold night).

Fun fact: Long before the Oktoberfest became popular beyond Germany, the word ‘Dirndl’ used to denote nothing more than the type of working dress worn by female farm workers in the Alpine regions. It comes from the German word ‘Dirne’ (which, in turn, apparently comes from ‘*þéornōn‘, a Germanic word meaning ‘unfree woman’ or ‘female servant’) which used to mean ‘girl’, but soon acquired the meaning of ‘prostitute’. However, with the added diminutive of ‘dl’, Dirndl is still used as ‘girl’ in rural regions of Austria and Bavaria (Upper German dialect continuum). So remember, kids: diminutives make girls less whorish.

So off we went. My ingeniously planned program ran thusly: Planetarium, Police Museum, which is only open for this specific event (because it’s a regular station otherwise), quick coffee break, film museum, and Roman museum. So after we learned about the history of astronomy complete with computer generated night sky it was time to go bother the police. On the way through the inner districts we found many an interesting thing, like the Soviet War Memorial:

We also found about a hundred young human females selfie-ing away at the fountain, as well as a dozen or so tourists armed with the type of heavy-duty cameras that tell everyone that they mean business with their vacation. Anyway, Police Museum. Hundreds of officers everywhere. Is it only me, or does anyone else ever feel guilty when in the presence of police officers, even though you haven’t done a thing? Does anyone else do that? I always feel like they feel like I’m up to something.

At any rate, coffee break time! So off we pranced to Starbucks because that’s the only coffee place that’s open at 10 pm. I have some sort of love-hate relationship with pumpkin spice lattes: I love them and they hate me. I know, everyone who is remotely American will now groan, because pumpkin spice?! You are probably sick to death with pumpkin related anything and it’s not even Halloween yet, but to me, that shit is downright exotic. We don’t have that over here! We don’t make pumpkin pie! (I tried last week and failed!) We don’t have pumpkin spice, much less pumpkin candles! I don’t even know what pumpkin pie is supposed to taste like. You know what we use pumpkin for around here? Soup. That’s pretty much it. So in the four weeks that Starbucks actually has pumpkin spice lattes I try everything in my might to get a hold of a cup of delicious overpriced pumpkin-flavoured mostly-milk.

And not only me, because it’s always sold out. (See? Exotic. That’s what makes it so popular.) Or I’m a week early. Or a week late. At any rate, pumpkin spice lattes apparently hate me because they won’t let me drink them. They flee. They hide. They probably laugh at me.

Also, according to the Internet I just outed myself as a typical basic white girl. Okay. Whatevs. I can’t even with that definition, like, totally.

(Before anyone asks, no, I don’t own a pair of ugg boots. You know why they’re called that? Because the first time the designer presented them, the audience went “Ugh! Ugly ass boots!” (Hehe, ‘ugg’ly. ‘Ugg’ly, get it? Geeeet it?))

What were we even talking about? Oh, yeah.

The film museum regaled us with the delightful topic of 100 years of WW1 by showing us real footage from 1914 soldiers and the declaration of the First Austrian Republic and so on. After that, because Vienna is tiny, we walked to our last planned point, the Roman Museum (don’t bother with the homepage, it hasn’t been updated since 2010, even though the entire museum has been renovated, like, twice in the last five years. That should tell you something about mine beloved countrymen and their attitude towards technology.). Here’s some pics from our walk:

Dun, dun, DUUUUN! Church all up in your face!

Vienna is a place of magic and light shows.

Even more church!

So, Roman museum. Boyfriend tries to re-enact Asterix the Legionary with the two poor dudes guarding the entrance dressed as Roman soldiers. Inside, there’s stones. And more stones. Stones, stones, stones, lotta stones. You might say the museum was stoned. (Haaaa, lame joke is lame, five bucks into the lame joke fund, please.)

And information. Lots of information about Roman life in Vienna some 2000 years ago. And sometimes I think Vienna really is something, like, historically. I mean, every European city is, but I was born here, so, you know? There have always been massive amounts of vastly different people in Austria, all kinds of folk all running around. 2000 years ago there were Celts to the South and West, Germanic people to the North, Slavs and Magyars to the East, and Romans fucking everywhere in between. And in the middle of all this a small Roman outpost which was many other peoples’ settlement before that. And the bigger streets they used, they have different names now and decent pavement, but mostly they’re still the same. Same goddamned street, same direction and everything.

And then I had my philosophical five minutes, which happens every couple of months, and suddenly my thoughts ran a little something like this:

“On the streets that I walk everyday, people have walked for over 2000 years. People have taken the same roads thousands of years before we were born and we are looking at their remains, studying, trying to understand, and maybe 2000 years onwards someone will exhume our computers from the rubble of these same streets and wonder.”

And then Boyfriend was like, “Do you think they ever excavated a Roman bordello?” aaaand it’s back to reality. And I was like, “Suppose they have, all the hookers are dead as dust. How would you even know what that place was? You think they wrote it on the door? ‘Park your biggus dickus here’?”

And on our way home our talk was the usual mix of comic book characters, the incalculability of public transport, and That One Time I Almost Got Run Over By A Police Car.

Sunday, I have decided, is pancake day. It’s also Sleep For Twelve Hours day, but we have to be flexible, right? When I was growing up every Saturday was pasta day. I kept with that particular tradition (which of course has nothing at all to do with pasta still being one of the cheapest food stuffs out there as well as goddamned yummy), but I also believe in adding my own. So, pancakes. Because… pancakes! Look at the cute widdle baby pancakes!

I call this one “Still Life with Hungry Man in the Background”.

Boyfriend didn’t even like pancakes until I started dressing them up a bit, because as we know, it’s aaaalll in the presentation. Now he feels indifferent towards them. Food is food, he says.

Then it was time to play mind-numbing MMOs, watch some episodes of the thankfully last season of Babylon 5 (why, Boyfriend, why?), and that was my weekend. Now it’s Monday (weeeell, it’s midnight, so yeah, technically it is already Monday). Mondays are generally dontwanna days with a side of meh. Let’s see what this week has to offer. Oh yeah, classes start on Wednesday. Joy.

Also – and I’m writing this with one hand while my other one is knocking on wood vigorously – I may or may not have a job.

Deck the house in puffs of bug spray, falalalala lalala…aaaaahhh!!!, or Linguistic Woes and Other Stories

“So long and thanks for all the blisters”, I wistfully said to my sandals, as I took them from their spot on the floor and returned them to the shoe rack. The view through he window presented a gloomy, not to mention cold and windy, outlook, and it seemed I wouldn’t have need of my trusty Roman styles in a very, very long time.

Jup, it’s autumn alright. Every autumn I return my designated walking shoes to a place where they won’t be in the way and think “Dammit! It’s officially cold now!”

Also every autumn, as if I’d send out invitations, golden lettering and engraved envelopes and all, the bugs return.

I live in a house that was built in 1930. The windows have never been changed, just painted over and over with white paint. Those windows are… well, for lack of a better word, they’re leaky. (Stay in school, kids, this is what happens when you’re poor.) Everything gets through. I dread every storm because I have to rush to soak up all the water building on the wooden inside window sill before it seeps into the the cracks, making them bigger. And apparently, there’s gaps big enough for giant, nasty, annoying bugs to climb through.

I have no idea what kind of bugs they are. They are about two centimetres (a bit less than an inch for my non-metric peeps) long, they’re a dark brown, and they’re annoying. They seem to be some kind of tree bug things but I’m not going to check their catalogue number before screaming discretely and diving for the can of instant-death-to-bugs. Forget catching them and throwing them out. I tried; those things have wings and just come right back, as if they think I’m just playing a game with them. “Weeee! Throw me again, human!”

Bug killing is the only thing where my usual procrastinational (that’s a word now) tendencies do not hit me. Like, for obvious reasons. And speaking of procrastination (cower before my segue powers!), that brings us to today’s Blogging101 thing, because The Metamorphosis of a Wallflower hit the nail on the head with her post about this well-known topic. And then I ran around her blog for a bit longer and found a post about her fight with the IPA chart, which is relevant to my interests or lack thereof. (See here)

And my face flushed and my heart raced and like a nightmare from beyond time itself….

For once upon a time, I was an English undergrad struggling to understand the diabolic nature of Linguistics. I hated it and sucked at it, so my only choice was to become very, very good at it to pass the tests and then never hear about it again (or so I thought, until I checked the curriculum for the Master’s programme. Let me shake my fist at you, English department!).

[Random personal aside] I also flunked the pronunciation course three times. You see, the curriculum is just a teensy bit stupid: In the intro lecture for Linguistics they tell you over and over how most adult people cannot, even after years of living in another country, successfully change their natural accent. Then, two semesters later, they stick you in a course all like “Here! Do exactly what we told you is not possible in just three months!”

This was hell. This was also one of the reasons it took me so long to finish my degree. Because for some reason, speaking RP or speaking GA is SO IMPORTANT that they’d rather you drop out (and yes, I’ve seen it happen, and my thoughts go out to all my fallen brethren and sistren) than not be able to, y’know, change your natural accent to another one. I’m a German native speaker. Of course I’m not going to sound like some git from Oxford, godammit! You, person teaching the course, are a native speaker of German, and you sound it. Don’t tell me what to do. [/Random personal aside]

I have this theory that the field of Linguistics was started by engineers, because the whole idea of the thing sounds like something my dad would do. “Hm, how can we make it easier for people to learn a language? More importantly, how can we make it easier for academics to sound clever and academic-y? I know, dress everything in confusing symbols that do not at all represent what a sound might look like, slap some arbitrary not-always-the-case-but-sometimes rules on it and derive some formulas, I mean, it works for maths, right? Efficient communication is now rendered impossible but who needed that anyway? If you want to communicate, that’s what 1’s and 0’s were made for.”

Anyway, the poor Wallflower apparently has to learn the entire IPA chart. For anyone who has no idea what we language nerds are talking about here, it’s a chart of symbols that supposedly represent the sounds of human speech. No, I have no idea how that was done, seeing as there are some 5000 languages being spoken on this planet and some of them sound like they consist entirely of clicking sounds. Actually, learning symbols is not so much the problem as recognising them when they are spoken. Now, when they are spoken in isolation, that’s still sorta easy. In a sentence… not so much, especially in a language you don’t know.

Or even in a language you know, because in German? You’re lost. Sometimes I’m lost, and I’ve been speaking German for more than two decades now. Unlike British English and American English, German does not have an established spoken standard (RP for BE, and GA for AE, if you’re interested). I know people believe what we call “Hochdeutsch” (High German – misleading name if you as me) to be the standard, but it’s not official. Apart from that, speaking Hochdeutsch gets you beaten up in Austria anyway (trust me, I speak from painful experience). So spoken German is basically a hotchpotch (what we might call “Sammelsurium”) of dialects, and as we all know, dialects have different pronunciations as well as grammars.

But a problem all of them share is what we call “deutsche Auslautverhärtung” (German final devoicing. Man, you’re learning a lot today, aren’t you?), which is the reason most of us have so much trouble in English (besides “th” sounds and the vowel in words like bird) and which despite the big scary words only means: we mumble. Terribly. You know your consonant pairs like p-b, k-g, t-d? They are not readily discernible in German. In English, for example, tank and dank don’t sound much the same (okay, they sound the same except for one sound – what we Linguists call minimal pairs!). In German, you have to rely on context to find out what the flying fuck that German speaker just said, because the t and d somehow merged into one entity. (And yes, I know the same phenomenon exists in English dialects of every continent, but I’m talking about German here, so shut up and lemme finish.)

Interestingly, you have a better chance at distinction towards the north. Towards the south, once you cross the borders of Bavaria and head ever further down, forget it. “Bank” (bank) will be the same and “punk”. You think they’re trying to say English “dish”, but what they mean is “Tisch” (table). You come to the border and wonder if the custom officials are starting a band because they keep asking for your “Bass” (okay, it’s only funny if you know that passport is “Pass” in German.)

The distinction is supposed to be clearer in Hochdeutsch, because after all, it’s a northern variety. But even here, if you come from a language that has a very clear distinction, you might have trouble.

And that’s only a few tiny facts about pronunciation in German. Now multiply that by all other human languages. So to Wallflower I say, stay strong, hang in there, make your ear a warrior, because by damn, you’ll need it. And hope to a deity of your choice no one will make you pronounce stuff.