I Think The Computer Melted My Brain
I've been scouring the internet for maps of Manchester, things to do in Manchester, flights to Salzburg, flights to Salzburg from London, flights to London, AHHH! I've been here a mind-numbing (literally, I can't feel my neurotransmitters anymore)four hours. I want to go home, but some sick desire to plan out every moment of the next four months have seized me and is shaking me violently, occassionally slapping me a little.
To unwind, I will take my internet-induced spastic frustrastion out on foriegners and Americans alike.
Oh, and Oliver Niland? You get it in here too.
P.S. That title is being toyed with. Here goes.
I had only been in the shower for perhaps two minutes when the water inexplicably stopped pelting my soap-slathered body. Sudsy and confused, I stared up at the unresponsive shower head. The shower was turned on initially by a small round metal button that pushed into the wall. When I blinked at it, I realized it was no longer recessed into the wall in the 'on' position, but sticking out again in a taunting and defiant manner.
Cheeky bastard...
Experimentally, I pushed it. The water returned, and the button had been vanquished. Hooray for me and my triumph. Until, approxiamately two minutes later, the water stopped again.
What the...?
I realized eventually that Ireland and Europed are full of saving devices like my hostel's little shower, which every two minutes shuts off and compels you to stop wasting water and finish cleansing yourself. I notice it everywhere now, and hand in hand with this, I see my own country's obsession with excess.
For example, take our cars. Everyone's heard the harp on the SUV, vehicles of mass eco-destruction. But really, let's face the true, overwhelming absurdity of it. It isn't as though there's some sort of trade; our reasoning is, "Yes, well, it may be bad for the environment and resources, but...look how BIG!" When in the life of the average SUV owner will he or she ever need even one tenth of the features those monster mobiles boast? "Look! THREE sunroofs! Sixteen windshield wipers! It takes thirteen gallons to go three feet! This car is essential to my happiness, which, p.s. is protected by the constitution so gimme." What rugged terrain could your Hummer or Navigator or Land Raper possibly conquer in Northeast Philadelphia? Unless you're plowing down rabid hobos or those drunken ugg-boot sporting sorority girls, the sheer size in just superflous. When you need a trampoline to launch yourself into your vehicle, it's simply time to stop.
In contrast, the car of choice in Europe is characterized by a diminuitive stature and modesty. Trained by my American upbringing to recognize as masses of manly steel and grease with cupholders, I cannot see these mini mobiles as anything but...cute. Parking in Ireland, I assure you, is never an issue. Upon finding your destination, you pop out of your volkswagon and stretch, then shove your car in your pocket and carry on. The windy season is awful here, I myself have ducked at least three wind- blown European cars. Not that they would hurt very much as small as they are, but my hair gets mussed enough as it is. Furthermore, besides being more cost-effective, better for the environment, and less purely obnoxious then American cars, they can also be very entertaining. Watching upwards of six drunk Irish boy s no-so-deftly clamor and crawl in and out of these mobiles with the minimum of skill and grace can be very gratifing.
And as we all know, it's not the size that counts, it's how you use it.
The cars are not the only items which have been reasonably sized. Upon my arrival at our apartment, I was boggled by the size of our fridge. It wasn't taller then myself, and was just barely wider (motivation, I decided, to hit the excercise DVDs all the harder). Damn, I thought. Where the hell am I gonna store that full grown cow I slaughtered from dinner? It made me pine for home, the good old days when my cousin and I would sit in the refridgarator in my home and simply, no pun intended, chill. Alas, the days of appliances of ludicrous proportions where gone.
Even the proportions of the food were sensical. At a local fast food resturaunt, I orders a small fry. I then received a small fry. I immediately demanded to speak with the manager. Apparently, a "small", and not an extra large, constitutes a "small". I sat and ate my fifteen or so french fries, which had not, as is customary in the states, been left soaking over night in a delicate blend of cow fat and salt (and at some locations, a dash of crack). Indeed, I could not discern the usual layer of crystalized white coating each fry--and no salt shakers in sight.
No wonder the clothes, like the food, rarely come in anything beyond a large.
Which is a shame, as my compatriots and I find ourselves in a constant need of clothes. You see, we've all seen those pre-beaten, worn jeans that are so very popular with the ugg boot clan. Luckily, the apartment my companions and myself occupy is equipped with the very machine used by prestigious designers to gain that desired my-clothes-have-had-the-shit-beat-out-of-them appearance. How exciting. It is in the place a washing machine might usually occupy.
So far this machine has claimed the innocent lives of three shirts and a skirt. It operates in manner that is both foriegn and frightening to all who choose to use it. It spins your clothes violently for four seconds--exactly four; we've counted. It then lets the clothes sit in a soaked little lump for about 16 seconds. Then, spastically, in a seziure of effectiveness, it spins again frantically, only to give up once more. It continues this bi polar behavior until it, in a fevered attempt to become a washing machine, it enters into the phase we refer to as "take-off". At this point, the machine spins angrily, as it had never spun before, with dizzying speeds and ferocity, plastering your clothing to it's metallic sides, screaming loudly in the struggle and rendering conversation or even thought impossible.
And then the machine takes a nap and lets your clothes bake. This is supposedly the drying function, but as the clothes do not come out dry by any means (although nicely creased), we are unsure what to title this function. Our drying rack is a permenant fixture in our kitchen, and I know just how long eveyr article I own takes to dry.
How exactly this saves anything, I haven't quite pinned down yet. The prevailing theory on the subject is that it saves our land lord the expense of a washing machine.
We know our landlord has been about because every light is off. In a tribute to our motherland, we keep every light on 24 hours a day. It ws difficult, at firstly, to sleep with both the night stand lamp and two overhead lights blaring, but then I would remind myself that I was being wasteful, and was then instantly lulled into a lovely slumber.
I am enjoying Ireland immensely thus far, and am awfully glad I came. However, I already have several plans for when I do finally arrive home. Firstly, a trip to MacDonalds for a double big mac, extra large biggie super sized fries, and a gallon of Coca Cola--and that's breakfast. Then, upon once again having a vehicle to transport me, I will break both my legs so as to never walk again. I will then drive in circles for four hours. Finally, I will dry already dry clothing. Why, you ask? Why should I be so blatantly wasteful and greedy? Why should I take more then I need? Why should I cause damage for an immediate, mild, convenience? Because I say, fuck the grandkids, I want a car as big as a house now--and I'm not talking mobile home, buddy. Because, if it's only three tenths of a cent more for a larger size, then it's worth the coronary blockage down the road (that's then, of course, and this is now). And most importantly, because, god damn it, it's America, and because I can!
Hope you enjoyed. P.S. I won the FanSci Society writing contest this week. 50 more euro for Leyla! Someone gets to eat this week, and I think it's me.