Sylvester spoil sport – get those damned fireworks away from me

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The best part of New Year’s Eve? The next morning

New Year’s Eve in Munich is awful. I like almost every aspect of living here, but there are a few things I simply cannot tolerate. What the locals call Sylvester is one of those things. I loath it. A lot. More than a lot, if that were possible. A whole lot.

It really comes down to one thing. It’s not the drunken morons; you get those everywhere. Well, everywhere I’ve ever lived. Even far up in the mountains in Colorado or Austria, they’ve got inebriated idiots. Not as many, but they tend to make up for their lower numbers with more noise.

But it’s really not the drunks. I enjoy a bit of good cheer. Truly, I do.

It’s personal fireworks. Call me a Spielverderber, I won’t take it personally. That’s a spoilsport for the non-German speakers. Or a party pooper. Or a stick-in-the-mud, even. You’re welcome to call me all of those names and more. Doesn’t bug me at all.

For me, fireworks displays are for professionals. There’s a reason why civilised places don’t allow the man on the street anywhere near fireworks. Each year, I imagine the hospitals filled with people who’ve blown off one of their extremities.

When I first moved here, I had no idea that New Year’s Eve was a night for such mayhem. I went out on the street at midnight, and there were people shooting rockets down the thoroughfare. At each other, at the cars and pretty much anywhere they could.

Aside from a few exceptions, like Karnival time or during the Oktoberfest, this place is a model of ‘Ordnung muss sein’ (order must prevail). There are other nights of the year when disorder is tolerated or even encouraged, and I’m totally ok with all of those.

Do I have friends and/or acquaintances who spend a small fortune on their own personal stash of rockets and whatnot? I do. Plenty of my circle of friends are chomping at the bit to light the damned things and run around like imbeciles. They’ll carry on like yahoos at a prison rodeo, and then they’ll go back to being model citizens the next day. As if Mr. Hyde had simply never existed.

Am I tolerant of these folk? Nope, not a bit. Not even a little.

I’ll be up early on New Year’s Day taking my dogs to the park and stepping over the refuse left over from the psychotic frivolity of the previous night. I’m pretty sure I’ll still have both of my hands.

It’ll be great.

 

Bike Thief, Motherscratchers

 

 

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Stuck in a Dream

Ok, so here’s some news:

My friend Patrick White, who I knew as a guitarist, is now a bass player. And a good one. He plays in a band in Portland called Bike Thief, and they’ve got a new record.

Some of you are probably already scolding me, ‘Hey lahikmajoe, they don’t call them records anymore.‘ They do if it’s on vinyl. And Stuck in a Dream is on vinyl. Like a real band or something.

What if you don’t have a turntable?

Well, they’ve prepared for that eventuality.

Go to their Bandcamp website here:

Bike Thief’s Stuck in a Dream

You can load up on all the Bike Thief merchandise you’ve ever desired. Oh and most importantly, you can get the digital version of Stuck in a Dream there, as well.

Just in case I’ve been derelict in introducing the band properly, here’s the lineup:

Febian Perez: Lead vocals, Electric guitar, Acoustic guitar, Synthesizers
Greg Allen: Viola, Violin, Synthesizers, Backing vocals
Patrick White: Bass guitar
Steven Skolnik: Drums and Percussion
Thomas Paluck: Electric guitar, Backing vocals 

Purportedly, they’re on the radio in Prague. If there’s a tour, they might make it to Munich. Patrick has already been warned that even if they’re music is well received in Amsterdam, the band’s name won’t be embraced. As our mutual friend Jodi reminded him, stealing bikes ain’t cool with the Dutch.

oranges aren’t the only meat

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oranges aren’t the only meat 

There are already more photos of Palermo than one can shake the proverbial stick at, but I just can’t be bothered to sift through them yet and decide which are interesting to anyone other than me.

So, I’ll give you one ridiculous shot and a bit of a story. The handful of you who still come here are doing so for the narrative anyway, right? The photos are gravy, I’m assuming.

What’s with the title of this blogpost, you ask? Well, it comes thanks to Elaine (@elaine4queen), with whom I’m conquering Palermo. There was talk of cake, but we’ve not actually found any of that yet. In the process of our hunt for cake, however, we did find these Orange Balls.

We had both heard of these, but the billing didn’t quite do them justice. Nevertheless, until technology catches up and allows me to upload the taste of something on a blog, a description will have to suffice.

It’s a ball of some sort of corn breading with a variety of different fillings depending on the whims of whoever’s cooking. In this case, we were offered either Ham and Cheese or Meat. When I inquired about what sort of meat specifically was involved in the latter, the woman behind the counter looked at me incredulously and said with an odd finality, ‘Meat.’

Some might have balked, but now I was genuinely curious. The decision was snatched away from us, when the woman announced that they were, alas, out of the Ham and Cheese. We were having the Meat, and have it we did.

They were delicious. There’s a reason why numerous people, upon hearing we were going to Palermo, insisted we try the Orange Balls. There’s nothing remotely citrus about them, incidentally. Orange is a colour here, rather than a taste. Yet they were filling and somehow decadent, and even before we were halfway done, it was clear that there would be no room left for cake.

You could possibly be one of those folk who believes there’s always room for cake. To such a person, I’ll only say, ‘Have an Orange Ball in Palermo and get back to me on that one.

toi toi

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There’s a brand of portable toilets in Germany called toi toi, which I thought was odd. In French, ‘toi’ is the informal form of ‘you’, and I wondered if there was any connection. Not that ‘you you’ was a logical name for a portable toilet, but it was the only connection I had to ‘toi’.

Later, I come to find out there’s a phrase in German (toi toi toi) that you use when wishing someone luck. A friend has a big day coming up and you simply say to him, ‘toi toi toi.’ The word here sounds like ‘toy’ in English, so say that three times and you’ve just wished your German counterpart luck in whatever he’s got in front of him.

Back to the name of this particular portable toilet company. It’s only ‘toi’ doubled. Not the customary three times. Almost as if they’re wishing you luck as you go in to do your business, but not too much luck. Reserved luck.