Do you have your papers?

Do you have your papers?

Col. Hogan ! Where is my pocket protector!

Hello Gentle Readers, I write to you from Dusseldorf, Germany.  I love this goofy sounding name.  It is a little known fact that this is where the pocket protector was invented.  Or maybe not.  I have no idea where the pocket protector was invented, but just saying “Dusseldorf” makes me feel a bit dorky.  And I know what you are thinking….”Gee, he must always feel dorky”.  OK, you got me.  I have no right to disparage a perfectly good German city name just because it sounds silly.

I am here to attend an industry function.  I will be here for four days and most likely I will not see anything more of it than the street that runs from the airport to the convention center, which is only a few kilometers long.  It is early December and pretty cold.  It is not snowing, but is very dreary.  I like cold weather, but the short days makes me want to hibernate.  There are good reasons why bears do it.  In fact, I have been working on storing belly fat all year long in support of bear hibernation.

Before I left home for this trip, I shaved off my mustache. If you look at my profile photo you will see I was sporting what many consider to be handsome manly growth.  But I got tired of it. (Not the manly part; the growth part)  I had been thinking about getting rid of it for a while now, so the day I was to depart, it came off.  In honor of going to Germany I shaved all but a short, Hitler style mustache, just under my nose.  I started to goose step into the next room to present my new look to my wife, Fraulein Intrepid Traveler, but I knew she would not be amused.  So I quickly dispatched the last of the offensive facial hair.  I guess I need an updated Glamour Shots photo for this blog, now.  The sad truth is that without the mustache I look like a very old Smurf.

If you are a faithful reader of this blog you know that I, among other things, am a master of foreign languages.  I can quickly adapt to any culture and flawlessly communicate fluently.   At least that’s what I wrote on the entry form when I applied for my new International Man of Mystery Identity card.  I am hoping that when it comes in the mail, I will also receive the disguise kit that includes a fake mustache.  

Anyway, back to language skills.  All my German vocabulary has been gleaned from listening to the Nazis from the “Indiana Jones” movies and from TV’s “Hogan’s Heroes”.  So my repertoire of German words is limited to “Dumkopf !”, “Achtung !”, and “I see nutheeng”.   I think one of the tricks to sounding like a German is to raise one eyebrow as you speak and look suspiciously at the listener, as if you just uncovered his plot to overthrow Fearless Leader.  And consider wearing a monocle.  It may be a good look for you.  

Irrespective of my linguistic skills, the German language is difficult to master.  Whoever invented it apparently just chained together a whole bunch of words into one long word to make new meaning.  In English we refer to that as a sentence.  Seems like a simple concept to me, but these Germans like to control their language as they like world domination.  It used to be their thing to invade another country just because it was sitting there minding its own business.  Take that, Poland! Achtung !  But Germany has finally gotten over that bad behavior.  Americans don’t need a VISA to enter Germany.  In fact, they hardly even looked at my passport.  I was anticipating a short, fat man wearing a trench coat and a sneer, to ask me for my papers.  I guess the control culture does not extend to border protection.  

After I had been in the country for six hours I texted my wife that no one here seemed very Nazi-like.  Getting carpet bombed in WW2 probably cured them of the tendency.  Now Russia’s Vladimir Putin has taken over the role of European Bad Boy.  Since I know fewer Russian words than German, it would be even harder to make fun of that language.  And Russia has their Nuclear Warheads, so I probably shouldn’t poke too much fun at them.  They may know where I live.  That International Man of Mystery disguise kit may be my only hope.

Obama's Wonderland

Sing with me, Cousin Pooky!

I was listening to Christmas songs on the radio the other day and these lyrics just came into my head.
I know you will be singing this tune through out the Holidays now.  My apologies to the author of "Winter Wonderland".

Barack Obama was elected
When Hope and Change was selected
His prior job was a Prof
Now he only plays golf
Welcome to Obama’s wonderland
 
He can’t talk without a teleprompter
Now the Dems are in the dumpster
He has done liberalism in
By being just him
Welcome to Obama’s wonderland

To shrink our Army is his mission
While Russia invades another nation
Obama will not do a thing
The world knows he’s a weakling
Welcome to Obama’s Wonderland

He spends our money like a madman
But wants more via the taxman
It’s to increase his voter base
Which is mostly the black race
Welcome to Obama’s Wonderland

The Tea party is mobilizing
Good old values are arising
Just two more years
Till he exits in tears
Say goodbye to Obama’s wonderland.

Romanian Chicken Death Match Contenders and other observations

Romanian Chicken Death Match Contenders and other observations

Warning:  Chickens are larger than they appear.

I am in Romania to do a field check of some equipment that was recently installed here.  The field location is about a two hour drive from the small city of Medias, Romania, where I am staying.  Fortunately, I am not doing the driving.  I say fortunately, but I wonder about that.  The driver, Fione, is very familiar with the area, but these are winding two lane roads.  The asphalt paving has long ago worn out. And the patches have been patched. I sneak a look at the speedometer and we are going well over 80 kilometers an hour, and we barely slow down for curves.  We are in a small European manufactured car with those tiny 14” tires, and I am fearful that we’ll hit a pothole at these speeds and a tire will disintegrate. We pass all the slow moving vehicles like they were parked, and once we nearly pulverized a dog who decided to challenge us as we sped by.  

Fione crosses himself, as in a Catholic ritual, when we pass certain churches.  With the aggressive way he drives I hope he is building up Catholic points for godly protection. If he continues to pass cars on curves I may start to cross myself too.  It can’t hurt to hedge my religious bets.

On trips like this I tend to spend a lot of time in other people’s cars with drivers that don’t speak English.  There are two guys in the backseat and I am in the front with Fione.  He has one of those cell phones that sticks in his ear, and with no warning, he’ll suddenly starts yakking.  Since he speaks Romanian, with a few English words mixed in, I don’t know if he is talking to me, the guys in the back, or to the phone.  He’s one of these guys who cannot talk without using their hands, so he will begin gesturing wildly and raise his voice for no apparent reason.  I wish he’d just keep both hands on the wheel.  I am getting old, I guess.  I wonder if I should tell him not to run with scissors.

The guys in the back are blathering on in Romanian too.  It always seems like everyone talks at the same time.  Don’t they take a breath?  And there is talk radio on too.  So I am surrounded by voices but completely ignorant about what is being said.  It is easy for me to filter all this out. (I am married, you know). I ignore the voices and daydream in my own world.  For me it is a cacophony of silence.  

The rolling hills are full of the past season’s corn crop.  Either the dried corn stalks are still standing, or stacked in shocks in the field.  I see corn cribs stuffed full of dried ears.  I guess it was a good harvest.  As we drive past the farms, the modest homes have livestock milling about in the yard.  I see milk goats, sheep, cows, and a few horses.  It is common to pass a horse drawn cart that is used as the family station wagon, loaded with feed, or people, or nothing, being pulled by a trotting horse.  I notice that there are very few power lines in this country.  I am told that these homes have running water, electricity and gas, but their power consumption must be low.  

Most homes that we pass have small vineyards, where I suppose they grow grapes to eat.  They certainly could not produce enough grapes to make wine, in the spaces allowed, unless they grow them for a cash crop.  When you live in the country you do what you need to do to put food on the table and money in your hand.  I also see lots of giant free range chickens that seem to be in every yard.  Compared to the chickens that the fetching Mrs. Intrepid Traveler raises on our property, these Romanian chickens are huge.  They look like they would kick her chicken’s asses.  Make no mistake, I do not advocate chicken fighting.  I am not the Michael Vick of the Global Poultry Death Match Competition.  I’m just saying that these Romanian chickens look like they could bench press a Volkswagen bus.  Col. Sanders would be salivating.

I admire the folks who live out here.  The ones walking on the road, or in the villages that we blast thru, are the generation that lived thru the communist years.  They probably grew up knowing nothing but Totalitarianism.  I would love to have a conversation with some of them.  I am very interested in how European cultures live.  The problem is we don’t speak the same language.

I hope that I get our equipment problems solved here on this trip, but I would love to have an excuse to come back here in the summer.  I want to experience Romania when the crops are growing and the days are longer.  This is a beautiful, peaceful place.  Just don’t piss off the chickens.

Up from Communism

1,2,3,4, We are about to blow.  5, 6, 7 Who will we incinerate?

Up from Communism

I can see at least fifty, maybe more, standing there on the short cropped grass.  They stay bunched in a tight group, surrounding a tall, slim man who is carrying a stick.  They react to his every gesture. They undulate around him like a slow moving school of fish.  It is amazing how coordinated their movements are even though the person they are watching seems completely detached from them.  He’s not really paying attention.  He is more intent on examining the turf ahead of him and trying to decide what to do to advance his position.  From my casual observance I’d think the guy did not have a care in the world. Looks can be deceiving.  "Where am I", you ask?  Could I be at a Washington area golf course watching the mindless followers of our nation’s current President? Mesmerized by watching him play yet another round of golf?

No, I am not watching Mr. Obama.  I am in Medias, Romania, staring across a hillside at a flock of sheep, being herded by a staff wielding Shepard, as they slowly meander across the rolling pasture.  I didn’t mean to denigrate these sheep by comparing them to Democrats, but there are similarities:  The wool suits, the vacant stares, the collective intelligence of…, well,… sheep. 

I am in Romania to do some fact finding about equipment problems.  I have an idea of what could be wrong but my theory needs to be validated with facts, unlike global warming, so I came to see for myself what is going on.  But I know you are not interested in hearing about that any more than I am interested in writing about it.  Better to tell you about Romania.

The terrain of Romania reminds me of Northern Italy and Slovenia.  Modest, tree covered mountains with broad, open meadows make it a beautiful place.  This country is just now emerging from the cesspool resulting from Communist control that started when World War II ended. After the breakup of the Soviet Union there was great unrest.  Many of the small countries that had been under the thumb of the Soviet Union were now free.  The Berlin wall came down.  Suddenly these countries could choose how to govern themselves.  Romania is one of those former Soviet satellite states.  The country had been run by strong man Nicolae Ceauşescu, who had ultimate control since 1947.  There was a coup in 1989 and he was subsequently removed from office and summarily removed from the living.

Since then, Romania has struggled.  The transformation to self-rule is difficult when a culture has been accustomed to Mr. Big, from Central Planning, dictating the next five year plan.  But the country now seems to be on the right path.  The day I arrived was Election Day.  A new president was chosen.  But it was not common knowledge from the people I spoke with whether the President has a four year or a five year term.  I was told both.  That kind of information seems like an easy bit of political science that any Romanian would know.  But maybe I am speaking with the same kind of people that are routinely interviewed on the streets of the U.S.  These U.S. citizens might know the size of Kim Kardashian’s ass but do not  know the name of the Vice President.  But, in fairness, maybe that is what happens to a population when there are no elections for half a century. 

The new President has a German last name.  I was told as if I would be shocked by that fact.  It was explained that it was a surprise for him to get elected since he was not Romanian. Huh?  You’d think they’d have written the election law to exclude non-citizens.  Turns out that what was meant by that comment was that a large German population migrated into Romania about 800 years ago….so this new President, being a part of that ethnic group, was a newcomer.  That explained a political banner I saw supporting a competitor and the sign simply mentioned that candidate’s name and Romanian.  I guess that little dig at the German’s heritage was all this fellow thought was a reason to vote for him rather than for that German interloper.  I say “guy” in a generic sense.  There were 14 candidates on the ballot and three of them were women.  The candidate that exceeds the 50% threshold wins.  This Election Day must have been the run off, but that was not mentioned by the person telling me about the election process.

Another lingering relic from the era of Soviet rule that I spotted from the roadway was the cooling towers for a Nuclear Power Plant.  I have since done a little research and learned that it was built with failed 1980’s technology. Now, I am hardly a nuclear power expert, but I noticed there was no containment dome over the power plant. Some of you may recall another famous Soviet Nuclear Power facility, with no containment dome, that experienced a mildly significant event.  This Romania reactor has the same design flaws as the Russian Chernobyl reactor.  I wonder if word of that disaster has reached Romania yet. 

There is much more to say about Romania, but since this post is less funny than factual, I will end it here. I just hope that my reason for coming to Romania on this trip becomes as informative to me as this post will to the reader.  Even if you are the kind of person to play golf when you should be working.