Ok, so I'm gonna get to the summer music part, but first lets talk about the number '1' in french. Sometimes, I like to pretend that I know more than I actually do. And usually, this manifests in pretending i'm multilingual. And usually, it doesn't work out.
What happens is this: when I'm trying to make something that's already exciting MORE exciting (like a summer music post), I might introduce the topic in another language. (I usually pick french because I do actually know like about 17 words in french AND "but then, french is a much chicer language, EVERYone says so- parlez vous français?" you get a GOLD STAR if you can name the musical and which character says it) This is done in an attempt to send my partner in conversation/blog reader into a frothing, raving state of frenzied excitement about the information to come.
"ZOMG, I CAN'T WAIT TO RECIEVE THIS AMAZING ENLIGHTENMENT OF OBSCENELY AWESOME INFORMATION!!1!!!!11!!1! I MEAN, HE JUST ANNOUNCED IT IN FRENCH! I'M NOT EVEN SURE WHAT IT MEANS, BUT I AM ***SO*** EXCITED," I imagine them to say, and then squeal "PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE HURRY UP AND TELL ME NOW OR I MIGHT DIE!"
But this rarely occurs. (One would think I would learn, but no, no I am apparently impervious to clear and often blatant messages)
So instead of the desired raving near-worship I hoped for, I get "Il parle du français ! Comment merveilleux. 'Ces anglais n'est-il pas Seulement des haut-parleurs un raseur ?' " OR "¡Habla francés! El probablemente sabe español, también. ¡Cuán internacional! '¿No es estos inglés Sólo altavoces un aburre?' "
FML.
And then I have to explain that I don't actually speak french, I just know like 17 words and I like to toss them in when I can. (And my spanish is even more dismal, ESPECIALLY since I live in Texas and Mexico is like, across the street and all) And whoever it is feels let down, and they've forgotten to be excited about whatever it was that I was trying to get them excited about in the first place, and the whole thing has gone down the tubes.
(P.S. I totally used freetranslation.com for that phrases above, so apologies to those who CAN speak/read french/spanish and it sounds stilted or awkward)
ALL OF THAT SAID, I was going to put the title of this post in french, which, according to freetranslation.com, is 'La musique de l'été, l'un séparer,' which, for the casual un-french-speaker, would be hella confusing (I mean, I know like 17 words, so I practically speak the language, and I only recognize 'musique')
(that's a secret, by the way, of the frenzy-inducing: the reader/conversationalist you are attempting to impress has to be able to pick out at least a couple of words so they have a general idea of what you're whipping them into a frenzy about- I digress...)
So I decided to just do 'part one' in french, but that's "Summer Music, l'un séparer" which still sounds like I might be breaking up, or at least tearing things, neither of which I have any inclination towards. Ok, so final title: Summer Music, Part ... wait. 'One' in french isn't ' l'un ,' it's 'une,' right? I ask freetranslation.com:
Translate: One
From: English
To: French
>>free translating goes on<<
Translation: Un
Un, No. Good try, freetranslation.com, but you aren't going to fool me. I know like 17 whole words in french and one of them is the word for 'one' which is 'une.' Nevertheless, I try to have backing when I make a claim in a language that isn't my first, so I go looking further on the interwebs.
At wikihow.com, I type "how do I count to ten in french" and here's what comes up:
> It's easy, so give it a try now.
No duh, wikihow. As I've said, 17 words, I know french. Just tell me how to spell 'one.'
> Have patience. It might take a while to memorize all the numbers.:
I don't want to be patient, I don't need all the numbers! Just one. The first one.
> The first number is un. It is pronounced like someone has punched you in the stomach. "Uh!"
What?! No, that can't be right.
But it was. I also checked Wikipedia, but it was pretty half hearted because I knew in my heart I had been defeated. Sadly, I titled the post "Summer Music Part UN!"
and then I stared at the screen for a while, totally crushed. There may have been a single tear or so, I don't know.
Typing this has been pretty painful (I only got excited about the part in all caps, and also the french and spanish phrases poking ironic fun at myself), so unfortunately, the summer music post will probably have to wait. Je suis fatigué. (SEE! I DO KNOW SOME FRENCH- I SWEAR I KNEW THAT, AND I ONLY COPIED IT FROM FREETRANSLATION.COM BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TYPE THE 'E' WITH THE TIC MARK ABOVE IT!)
Showing posts with label lying bastard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lying bastard. Show all posts
Friday, July 2, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
My Life, Sans Bars
When I took the job I currently have, I did so knowing that I would have to relocate. And not just any relocation. I was moving to WEST TEXAS.
Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.
For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.
Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.
Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.
Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.
The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).
I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).
As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.
I'll repeat that for emphasis:
NO. BARS.
There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.
To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.
Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.
'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'
And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.
I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.
I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.
As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).
Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.
And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'
And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?
Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.
For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.
Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.
Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.
Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.
The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).
I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).
As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.
I'll repeat that for emphasis:
NO. BARS.
There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.
To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.
Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.
'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'
And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.
I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.
I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.
As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).
Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.
And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'
And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?
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