Yiddish!!

I'm at the Dental school today. I'm at work until noon or a bit before. I've been sniffly, slightly lazy and tired, as I had trouble getting to sleep, and my allergies are flaring up. So, as of a half hour ago, I was wading through jello being awake. I was bored, worried about class, and generally irritable. I was thinking alot about people who I don't like in the dental school. For instance, certain Dental assistants seem to think the world revolves around them, will call in things that need not be called in, and are of the opinion that whatever issue they notice should be highest priority. I hate to generalize, but these people are like clucking chickens, gossiping meanly, hating anyone in power over them, without any sort of big-picture view of the world.

I tend to lie to them when they give me these supposedly urgent tasks, telling them I will deal with it soon, and usually waiting upwards of 2 hours at least, or until another day. But that's not really the reason I'm posting. My petty dislikes of people are only slightly funny.

Even better was my experience with Yiddish today. I had to go to the 4th floor, the newest of the new the training grounds for the pre-clinical students. The lab uses many cameras, computer screens, ergonomic chairs, and is generally thought of as the Dean's gem. It gets shown off pretty often.

Today when I was up there it was in the process of being shown off. There were Dental professionals from all over the (mostly affluent) world. There was a lady from Dubai, a group of Russians, a woman from Belgium and a group of three people I immediately assumed were German. I came to this assumption because I heard many German words, but thought their accent was quite strange. Also, every sentence or two there was a word that felt distinctly not-german.

I took more time than I needed to changing out a machine part near them, and listened/looked upon their badges. They were from Israel. This came as a surprise to me because I had forgotten that Yiddish would be spoken at all in Israel. This is of course because of the official languages not including Yiddish. But how stupid to forget that many many Israelis are Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe and Germany who fled during the Holocaust (or if they were lucky, before) or after. The lingua franca of European Jews is Yiddish, and thusly it must be spoken in Israel as colloquial by some.

What this makes me wonder is, what sort of semantic shifts have their been in the Israeli Yiddish dialect. Would it be difficult for an Israeli Jew to speak Yiddish with a New-Yorker? How bout a Berliner? Hmmm

Magical thinking!

Waiting for the elevator at work today I thought about something that has been plaguing my thoughts lately. I've been playing a guessing game with myself regarding the elevators. Every time I wait for the elevators outside our office, I wait a little bit, and then stare at one of the elevators. There are three elevators, so it stands to reason that I would guess correctly maybe one third of the time or slightly less. I've been guessing correctly 4 out of 5 times or so. Of course, the first thing that jumps into mind with such a streak of guessing is ESP. (or at least for anyone who's listened to a lot of coast to coast am and read a fair amount on ESP studies) So, thinking at the elevator, I realized that as a person generally opposed to magical thinking, this was not the simplest or most feasible hypothesis.
So, the fallacy of magical thinking put to the side I began to consider other alternatives. The first and probably most likely possibility seems to be measurement error, erring on the side of the fantastic and interesting. It could easily be that I have selectively not paid attention to the many many times that my elevator staring has come up dead-wrong, and that any that were correct were completely normal based on simple statistics. Also, it's possible that I could be a lucky guesser. It's completely possible for someone to guess correctly dozens of times in a row, as each time I guess there is a 1 in 3 chance of success. It's not the most likely, but it certainly is more likely than any kind of solution that calls for the blatantly supernatural or quasi-supernatural, like ESP phenomenon. If there was more causative proof or biological backing to ESP, it would not be fallacious to posit this, but without a solid physical backing, the chances are infinitely less than a good stream of guesses.
The last possibility that came to mind is by no means extra-sensory perception, but depends on the idea of subconscious perception. A person experiences far more in any given day or moment of time than they ever are aware of on the surface. Suppose I could actually hear the elevator, but it was below the threshold of conscious knowledge? Then I would be bound to guess better than if I had no cues at all. This is the solution that makes the most sense to me.

song of the day: "Kapitulation"-Tocotronic

On edge

At work today, and for some part of the weekend I've been on edge. It's like I'm on high-alert, full of piss and full of vinegar. Every little annoyance that I would normally shrug off at work is becoming a mountain of anger and hate. I'm irritated over minor things from my house, like the fact that my ethernet cable can not be plugged in at the same time that my door is closed. Internet or privacy, just like the days of using my family's computer as a teenager.

I'm a private person, and any assault to that privacy is an affront to me in general. I'm annoyed at work because one of my coworkers insists on annoying me with minor jobs he thinks I ought to do. Since he is not my boss, I don't mind finding out things that I should look at from him, but his view that when he brings something to my attention it should automatically become top-priority is at best idiotic, controlling and single-minded, and at worst the kind of thing a developmentally disabled toddler might do regarding special things they show their parents.

So, when he had the gall to, only an hour after mentioning this problem, ask me if I had completed it yet, (I had dealt with it already,) I decided not to talk to him for the rest of the day, and maybe all day tomorrow as well. I don't need to deal with nearly retired bullies.

I want to deal with myself though. Obviously I'm being belligerent, irritable and stupid. But why?

Witness to a Break-Up

I've been at work for a few hours now. Nothing special about that, but what's interesting is what happened on my brief chicken sandwich and soy milk break. That's what I'm here to briefly describe. (And briefly, cause I'm still at work)

I went to Outside In, the University Hospital's main cafeteria at about 10:55 today. I waited behind two girls in line until I could pick up a grilled chicken sandwich. (very basic, a gross old bun with a small chicken breast or part of a chicken breast on it, no frills.) I then picked out a small bottle of soy milk to drink and went to check out. Checking out, I ended up behind the two girls again, as they cut in front of me. I avoided sitting near them, as I figured they would talk about irritating things, and I'm a natural eavesdropper.

This natural eavesdropping is a result of two characteristics I have. One, is my above normal hearing, which allows me to pick up quiet sounds with clarity from a distance. This can't be turned off, as it's a part of my being. The second is my tendency for gawking, which is part of my too-curious about things package. I've learned to mostly avoid turning and looking at people even though it's all I want to do some of the time. I try not to stare or look too much at people because I know that for many, eye-contact is awkward and too personal. So, when I can't gawk with the eyes, I gawk with the ears.

I sat as far as possible from the girls, near a youngish (28 or so) couple. I think they were medical students due to their clothes and stance. They were sitting next to one-another on the same table, facing the cafeteria instead of each other. They talked in bursts, quiet, but as loud and forceful as they could at that decibel level. The man was breaking up with his girlfriend. He talked about how he couldn't be himself around her. She accused him of mocking her. He talked about eye contact, and they slowly fell apart.

Then I ran away.

song of the day: "Dead Finks Don't Talk" - Eno

Der Schule=Die Nostalgie?

I'm writing an email right now, as I write this blog. It's to an old friend of mine from across the sea, Matthias Emmer. Matthias is one of the more human people I've ever met. The same sort of general humanity that makes a character like Homer Simpson somehow acceptable. Only, in addition to these human frailties (gluttony, lust, etc.) Matthias is extremely intelligent, likable, kindish, funny, confident, and mildly attractive. He and I are returning to email contact after more than a year of silence.

Jon sitze auf ein stuhl. Er schriebst ein E-mail nach der Matthias. Matthias ist ein altes Freund von Deustchland. Matthias hat ein qualitat wie Homer Simpson, aber nicht so faul und dumm, mehr intelligent.

I'm listening to the Libertines, a band I never really listen to. I'm in a mood of sorts, and it's hard to place. It has some nostalgie, and other feelings, the sort of thing that is woken by contact with a past that seemed lost to the mists. Matthias is moving temporarily to Spain to study there for this semester. I'm really happy to hear from him. Also I've heard news about another former major influence in my life, Hisham Khalek.

Hisham is the man who shepherded me through two solid years of Arabic Instruction. He taught me the beauty of the Fus'ha (modern standard Arabic), the poetry of Ancient songs, and the haunting voice of Umm Kul'thum. He's a great professor, who truly knows how to teach, and sees the value in cultural connections.

My news of Hisham came today in my Teaching English as a Second Language class. One of the activities that we had was one of those hideous fake networking things. So, I wandered about the class, asking people what language teaching experience they had, what their L2s were, and their contact information. One of the guys, Nick I think, mentioned taking Arabic. So, I immediately wanted to know if he had taken it in the Twin Cities.

He had, and we proceeded to talk about Hisham. Nick was among the few students to travel with Hisham to his native Lebanon this summer. He lived there at the American University in Beirut, but traveled throughout the country with Hisham. He went from the fundamentalist controlled areas in the North to the Druze mountain villages of Hisham's home, then heading south to view the devastation wrought by the recent wave of Israeli bombing.

This kind of story is the sort to make one jealous. But, that kind of jealousy had little place or time in my heart. The second bit of news about Hisham was significantly more interesting. Hisham Khalek is apparently a virile or quite lucky man. He and his wife conceived another child (at least their 3rd, I know of a high school age daughter and a young son). Conceiving and having a child when in your late 30s or 40s is difficult enough. What makes this more interesting to me, is that his wife had actually just had her tubes tied. He still managed a hat trick though.

School has been pretty amazing so far though. No problems. No alarms, no surprises.

Yeah



song of the day: "Last Post on The Bugle"-The Libertines

Orange you glad...

So I've started class again. Big whoop. Jon now has more places to walk to then previously. He's only gone to two of them so far though. Insofar as actual class is concerned, Syntax and Semantics were rather easy, with big blocks of time for breaks. Semantics is taught by a professor I've had before, who I previously disliked, but with new subject matter I think he's pretty decent. Syntax is less clear, but it's a very intro-ish course, so I don't have much in the way of worries.

Bizarrely enough my back hurts. I don't know what the cause actually is, but I suspect my poor posture when sitting around at home on a wooden chair could do part of it. (Wooden chair is very spare, simple straight out of Ikea) I sat around looking stuff up on Flickr, pretending to read for class, painting, playing with opensource photoshop and writing for hours. I paused to watch King of The Hill, to eat, to read, etc. But I was monumentally unproductive, because I had no source for productivity.

At 12:20 today I have Historical linguistics, which should prove at least moderately interesting. (Learning about sound shifts, how we know about them, etc.) This is followed up by my externship/class in Teaching English as a Second Language, which I hold considerable anxiety towards.. I think though that my only real anxiety is about what it really means to teach, along with a fear of breaking out of the ordinary half-brained class routine. I have this imagined idea that for this course I will need to travel far and wide to various parts of the city and interact with a multitude of people. Plus, I fear that my classmates will all be teachers seeking their master's degrees. (a less likely fear, unless they are on sabbatical)

Also, I have REM's Orange Crush or at least part of it stuck in my head. It's a bit irritating, which is not to denigrate the song, but I only have a small part of the chorus stuck in my head, which is mostly lyrics I half understand, in a fake Michael Stipe voice (unless my mind can copy it perfectly) The problem here is simple, I wasn't even listening to REM.


huuuuuuh

1.5 hours

I wake up in bed. Vanessa is there, her dog Ramona is there. I'm wearing her sleep pants, too short for me, made of a black composite material. There are hearts on the legs. I look at the clock, see that it says 7:20, and freak out a bit. I head out to the kitchen, where most of my stuff is, and frantically start getting dressed. I can't find my underwear. I run to the bathroom, search the living room, and then check in the bedroom. All this time I'm running around wearing a jacket, button down shirt, socks and nothing else. Vanessa wakes up for a second, tries to help me by asking where I changed. I go into the kitchen again, and find my underwear bunched up down the leg of my pants. By this point it's 7:28. I quickly throw it on, kiss Vanessa goodbye (she's more or less asleep), and run out the door.

At this point I take out my phone to call metro-transit's hotline. Looking at my phone I realize that I'd forgotten Vanessa's clock is ten minutes fast. I calm down, look out into the darkness and see the express bus coming. It's hard to make out the numbers at first, but eventually my heart returns to a normal pace, and I stop cursing inside my head.

I get on the bus, and keep walking back, hoping for a seat of my own. This doesn't happen, so I end up sitting in the little gallery area, having to look across at a bearded man reading the Chicago Style manual. To my left is an unmemorable nothing, and to my right a pudgy woman with red hair that is clearly turning to gray or white, clutching one of those open top canvas bags. She glares at me when I make eye contact. The lights on the bus are too bright to allow for any sort of real half-sleep, so I just sit trying to ignore my surroundings.

We travel on 94 then 35 briefly, looking out at the city. The bus stops at Anderson Hall, then Coffman union, and finally in front of Moos tower. I hurry off the bus to find that I'm arriving at work at 7:35, ten minutes before my shift. I walk down into the shop, find Dennis and Rex there. I say hi to both of them, then read the onion until the phone rings at about 7:43.

On the phone is Rose somethingorother, one of the clinic supervisors. She tells me about a sterilizer door that is somehow off kilter, and how it needs to be fixed. I write down the information and try to bring it to Rex. But, he and Dennis are embroiled in a discussion about Randy Moss (how he can apparently get away with anything because he's that good) For a while, I listen to this, then Dennis leaves to his workspace.

Apparently, there is no sterilizer in the room that I was told about. So, the three of us go up to the clinic in question (8S), and ask around. Apparently it's the window gate to the dispensing station. The three of us gather around the thing trying to figure out what is wrong with it. Rex runs his finger along his white mustache, Dennis twists his finger around his dark brown curls. I see the problem immediately, but feel no need to mention it, as I assume they have it covered. It's a simple but not possible for us to fix sort of issue.

Next, I get Dennis' advice on fixing a nasty machine that I've never worked on before, a leaky grinding wheel doodle. I go downstairs, grab tools, head up and have it fixed in maybe 10 minutes following his advice to the letter. When I get back downstairs I'm full of triumph, pride, and am congratulated by Dennis for my accomplishment. Even my boss Joyce appears happy enough to see me as I cheerfully take a work order from her hand.

I go up with the intent of picking up this hazardous waste, but realize it can wait for me to quick grab a cup of coffee from the neurology clinic on the first floor of the adjoining tower, Phillips Wangensteen. I take the elevator down after sneaking onto the skybridge between the two buildings and taking a minute to gaze out to the west, at downtown Minneapolis. (The view from this bridge is amazing) And then descend to the depths. In the waiting room of the neurology clinic lies my goal, a gruesome coffee machine with Styrofoam cups and shakers of non-dairy artificial creamer (powder) and sugar. I take my cup of coffee as a trophy, and maneuver out of the room.

On my way out I pass a liver-spotted man with a countenance much like an elderly, Hmong version of the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. He looks at me for a second as I pass by, and I can't help but imagining him speaking in Gottfried's shrill voice. But then he disappears, and I do too.