I just realized the title of this post could also refer to "Oh my! Dinosaurs!," which would make a really nifty entry. However, that is not important. Procrastinating on quantum mechanics is.
Math is sometimes confusing, in the same way that nuclear explosions are sometimes a little too warm. Ergo, I present this handy Math-to-English phrasebook for your reference. Feel free to sprinkle the terms contain therein into your everyday conversation to make yourself appear more intellectual. Nothing says 'sexy' like speaking a foreign language (okay, maybe speaking English with a cute foreign accent. But I'm not sure what a math accent is. Though maybe it's because I have one.).
So:
"The proof is trivial": The proof is boring.
"Clearly..." (professor): I have a PhD in math.
"Clearly..." (student): I have no idea how to prove this.
"Clearly..." (post-doc): I have a PhD in math, and no idea how to prove this.
"We will need the following lemmas...": We're not proving anything until next week.
"The proof is one line": Get out your microscope.
"The proof is one sentence": We learned about commas today!
"It's a routine check": I have a PhD in math.
"It's easiest to prove this geometrically": I'm a geometer.
"It's easiest to prove this algebraically": I'm an algebraist.
"It's easiest to prove this using calculus": I'm on crack.
"The proof is kind of cute": I'm a lonely person.
"The proof is straightforward": I have a PhD in math.
"This proof is more enlightening" (i): I don't understand the other one. OR (ii): This is the proof I came up with.
"Claim": A statement proved by somebody else (also, "proposition").
"Theorem": A statement proved by the author.
"Important theorem": A statement proved by the person writing the author's tenure letter.
"It is obvious...": ...to me because I have a PhD in math.
And, of course, "The proof is left as an exercise" (courtesy of Taole):
http://abstrusegoose.com/12
Have fun impressing your friends! Unless they have PhDs in math.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Manifest Destiny
From humble beginnings, this great blog (fine. "great.") has expanded to two whole pages!
Those of you who knew me in middle and high school, well, first of all, deserve an apology and several glasses of wine. Also, you know that I collected quotes somewhat obsessively. Those of you who did not know me in middle and high school now know that in middle and high school, I collected quotes somewhat obsessively. Educational equality for all!
Anyhowdle, I have decided to restart said collection for the duration of the semester, in the form of the aforementioned new page, "Quotables." Fear not (and come out from under that rock!), this is the only obsession from middle/high school that I intend to revisit, I swear on my props table and Fred the Mouse.
From sea to shining CSS!
Those of you who knew me in middle and high school, well, first of all, deserve an apology and several glasses of wine. Also, you know that I collected quotes somewhat obsessively. Those of you who did not know me in middle and high school now know that in middle and high school, I collected quotes somewhat obsessively. Educational equality for all!
Anyhowdle, I have decided to restart said collection for the duration of the semester, in the form of the aforementioned new page, "Quotables." Fear not (and come out from under that rock!), this is the only obsession from middle/high school that I intend to revisit, I swear on my props table and Fred the Mouse.
From sea to shining CSS!
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Hills are Alive, the Tourists, Less So
Monday was a national holiday in Hungary, a commemoration of That Other Revolution, You Know, The One That Didn't Involve Russians*. As I had a test Tuesday, the three day weekend gave me an opportunity to really sit down with my books and learn my history so I could impress my professor. But I went to Vienna instead.
My travel companion for this exotic (omg! Germans!) adventure was Anthony, the Blond(ish?)-Haired King of Fashion. If you're confused by the epithet, see Odyssey, The. Between the two of us, we had quite a bit of Austrian cultural knowledge: Anthony knew about the Hapsburgs and was very into artists of the Viennese Secession movement, while I knew how to say 'Danke.' Armed with this only-slightly-exhaustible well of information, we set out to conquer the City With No Nickname.
After a lovely (read: cheap) bus ride from Budapest, we checked into our hostel and went into the 1st district just in time for the traditional Closing of the Stores. Really, Vienna puts Boston to shame in the area of Inconveniently Early Closing Times, which is not easy. Not ones to be deterred from wasting time, Anthony and I defaulted to a few hours of serious window shopping. Or rather, Anthony was serious about it, calculating and recalculating his purchasing power, while my thoughts were generally restricted to variations on "ooh, that's really cute/shiny/expensive." For the record, "expensive" does not just mean "expensive because I have never spent more than $10 on a shirt." I'm pretty sure that every time I looked at a store window, an angel maxed out its credit card. "Shiny," meanwhile, means this:
Authentic Viennese Disco Skull
Awesome.
Having arrived after the Closing of Everything Ever on Saturday, we were left with one day to Experience Vienna. Altogether, I think we did pretty well. In compliance with the Vienna Tourist Laws, we spent the morning at the Schonbrünn. The Schonbrünn has historical significance as the palace of the Maries Theresa and Antoinette, and social significance as a really big, pretty building with lots of expensive furniture. It's a little bit more subtle than Versailles, but, then again, so is Lady Gaga. Unfortunately, you'll have to content yourself with the disco skull picture, because cameras were verboten (culture! I have it!) inside. Anthony, however, did manage to surreptitiously take one photo...of the king's toilet. Yes. The King's toilet. Moving on.
We did indeed move on, or rather, up. The grounds surrounding the Schonbrünn are as beautiful as the inside, though they smell slightly more of elephant, courtesy of the zoo next door. We realized that we had not yet begun destroying our legs, so we decided to make up for lost time by climbing the hill up to...okay, I have absolutely no idea what is was, but it was in keeping with the theme of OMG Austria is Pretty, and a very nice-looking set of fake ruins. Why you would purposely create ruins is a bit baffling to me; I cannot help but think the Austrians have legitimately ruined *something* in their long history. If not, I'd be glad to help out, although I can't guarantee I'll ruin something in quite so picturesque a manner. Nevertheless, it will be authentic, and heavens knows that's what tourism in Austria is all about. That, and dolls shaped like Elisabeth, the Low-Carb Queen and star of one of the Royal Diaries books I was obsessed with when I was twelve. Yes, even then I showed a passion for history, especially the history of women with cool hair.
Speaking of low-carb, lunch was definitely not (YOU come up with a better transition). As the hill had rendered our legs more useless than rhinestone underwear on a standard dancer, we took the opportunity to take in culture via metro and calories. Hey, in DC, that IS the culture (and, you know, those quaint little museums scattered around and people in traditional black suits). My calories came in the form of a gyro bigger than my head, which I swore not to finish after every bite, right down to the last corner of the pita. At that point, I just swore, since I hate resewing buttons on pants. After lunch, we waddled, er..wandered, around Neubaugasse, for reasons having nothing to do with the fact that 'Neubaugasse' is extremely fun to say. Neubaugasse is also a shopping Mecca...every day except Sunday. Having left our lock-picks back at the hostel, we once again contented ourselves with staring in windows and daydreaming about being able to afford a shirt without having to sell a sibling.
Since we both apparently hate our legs, we walked from Neubaugasse (say it with me: Neubaugasse. Neubaugasse! Neubaugasse?!) to the museum district. We spent the next few hours doing what people typically do in places called "The Museum District" (hint: not rollerblading). In addition to the Leopold Musuem, where Anthony contemplated Klimpt while I contemplated Diet Coke and a hot bath, we looked at a few free exhibits that must have been artistic because I was confused. There was one with a series of screens saying something about Facebook (which is definitely art, specifically, the art of procrastination) and, outside, there were several giant models of human organs with furniture inside. One of them actually had a bar inside, but I really didn't feel comfortable buying a Diet Coke from a guy standing inside a gargantuan colon. I imagine that these are the sorts of things created by people who jump out of meaningful bathtubs holding significant spatulas (spatulae?) while tap-dancing ironically on symbolic starfish. Okay, I think I was just looking for an excuse to write that sentence. But the point holds.
Although at this point my legs were on the verge of secession, our Vienna In A Day tour was not finished. There was still the matter of Jews. Upon arriving in Vienna, both Anthony and I realized we could not leave without seeing the Jewseum (his term, though I definitely wish it was mine), he because he liked saying 'Jewseum,' me because I am my grandfather's granddaughter (and an adept tautologist) and am drawn Spaceballs-laser-style to anything with Hebrew on it. For the record, I was insanely proud of myself for being able to recognize and/or read something like every 20th Hebrew word in the artifacts exhibit (even without vowels! What now!). So Mom and Dad, you can see the four years I spent in Hebrew School were totally not wasted. After the museum, we decided that we weren't quite Jewed enough (really, can one ever be Jewed enough?), so we went looking for the Vienna Synagogue. In keeping with the age-old tradition of 'Why Does This Shit Always Happen to Us?,' the synagogue was almost impossible to find. Indeed, our map placed it squarely inside a stone wall, which would have been hell on the rabbi. Fortunately, we found a subtle hint to the temple's location in the form of a street called Judenplatz. Yes. Jew Place. Awesome. We arrived about 10 minutes before the place closed, but it was enough to get a look at the inside (gorgeous!) and for me to once again deploy my four years of Hebrew School by spending a good five minutes trying to remember if something was a mem or a samech (I don't think I ever resolved that).
After a most healthy dinner of sauteed/fried things (Anthony had been eying a chicken basket since Saturday) and creme caramel, we finally hauled our rebelling calves back to the hostel for some R & R & F (rest, relaxation, and Facebook). Our bus back to Budapest was at 11:20 the next morning, but, out of consideration for Hungarian Standard Time, it arrived about half an hour late, something like 30 seconds before we bought a ticket for another line. Nevertheless, we arrived in Hungary safe and sound, if sleepy, whereupon I started and restarted this entry about five times before deciding to re-energize my creative juices with a nap. Which turned into about five hours. At which point I realized I had not started my topology homework. Oops. At least that didn't require legs.
*Actually, Wikipedia informs me that it did in fact involve Russians, but only peripherally. Peripheral Russians don't count.
My travel companion for this exotic (omg! Germans!) adventure was Anthony, the Blond(ish?)-Haired King of Fashion. If you're confused by the epithet, see Odyssey, The. Between the two of us, we had quite a bit of Austrian cultural knowledge: Anthony knew about the Hapsburgs and was very into artists of the Viennese Secession movement, while I knew how to say 'Danke.' Armed with this only-slightly-exhaustible well of information, we set out to conquer the City With No Nickname.
After a lovely (read: cheap) bus ride from Budapest, we checked into our hostel and went into the 1st district just in time for the traditional Closing of the Stores. Really, Vienna puts Boston to shame in the area of Inconveniently Early Closing Times, which is not easy. Not ones to be deterred from wasting time, Anthony and I defaulted to a few hours of serious window shopping. Or rather, Anthony was serious about it, calculating and recalculating his purchasing power, while my thoughts were generally restricted to variations on "ooh, that's really cute/shiny/expensive." For the record, "expensive" does not just mean "expensive because I have never spent more than $10 on a shirt." I'm pretty sure that every time I looked at a store window, an angel maxed out its credit card. "Shiny," meanwhile, means this:
Authentic Viennese Disco SkullHaving arrived after the Closing of Everything Ever on Saturday, we were left with one day to Experience Vienna. Altogether, I think we did pretty well. In compliance with the Vienna Tourist Laws, we spent the morning at the Schonbrünn. The Schonbrünn has historical significance as the palace of the Maries Theresa and Antoinette, and social significance as a really big, pretty building with lots of expensive furniture. It's a little bit more subtle than Versailles, but, then again, so is Lady Gaga. Unfortunately, you'll have to content yourself with the disco skull picture, because cameras were verboten (culture! I have it!) inside. Anthony, however, did manage to surreptitiously take one photo...of the king's toilet. Yes. The King's toilet. Moving on.
We did indeed move on, or rather, up. The grounds surrounding the Schonbrünn are as beautiful as the inside, though they smell slightly more of elephant, courtesy of the zoo next door. We realized that we had not yet begun destroying our legs, so we decided to make up for lost time by climbing the hill up to...okay, I have absolutely no idea what is was, but it was in keeping with the theme of OMG Austria is Pretty, and a very nice-looking set of fake ruins. Why you would purposely create ruins is a bit baffling to me; I cannot help but think the Austrians have legitimately ruined *something* in their long history. If not, I'd be glad to help out, although I can't guarantee I'll ruin something in quite so picturesque a manner. Nevertheless, it will be authentic, and heavens knows that's what tourism in Austria is all about. That, and dolls shaped like Elisabeth, the Low-Carb Queen and star of one of the Royal Diaries books I was obsessed with when I was twelve. Yes, even then I showed a passion for history, especially the history of women with cool hair.
Speaking of low-carb, lunch was definitely not (YOU come up with a better transition). As the hill had rendered our legs more useless than rhinestone underwear on a standard dancer, we took the opportunity to take in culture via metro and calories. Hey, in DC, that IS the culture (and, you know, those quaint little museums scattered around and people in traditional black suits). My calories came in the form of a gyro bigger than my head, which I swore not to finish after every bite, right down to the last corner of the pita. At that point, I just swore, since I hate resewing buttons on pants. After lunch, we waddled, er..wandered, around Neubaugasse, for reasons having nothing to do with the fact that 'Neubaugasse' is extremely fun to say. Neubaugasse is also a shopping Mecca...every day except Sunday. Having left our lock-picks back at the hostel, we once again contented ourselves with staring in windows and daydreaming about being able to afford a shirt without having to sell a sibling.
Since we both apparently hate our legs, we walked from Neubaugasse (say it with me: Neubaugasse. Neubaugasse! Neubaugasse?!) to the museum district. We spent the next few hours doing what people typically do in places called "The Museum District" (hint: not rollerblading). In addition to the Leopold Musuem, where Anthony contemplated Klimpt while I contemplated Diet Coke and a hot bath, we looked at a few free exhibits that must have been artistic because I was confused. There was one with a series of screens saying something about Facebook (which is definitely art, specifically, the art of procrastination) and, outside, there were several giant models of human organs with furniture inside. One of them actually had a bar inside, but I really didn't feel comfortable buying a Diet Coke from a guy standing inside a gargantuan colon. I imagine that these are the sorts of things created by people who jump out of meaningful bathtubs holding significant spatulas (spatulae?) while tap-dancing ironically on symbolic starfish. Okay, I think I was just looking for an excuse to write that sentence. But the point holds.
Although at this point my legs were on the verge of secession, our Vienna In A Day tour was not finished. There was still the matter of Jews. Upon arriving in Vienna, both Anthony and I realized we could not leave without seeing the Jewseum (his term, though I definitely wish it was mine), he because he liked saying 'Jewseum,' me because I am my grandfather's granddaughter (and an adept tautologist) and am drawn Spaceballs-laser-style to anything with Hebrew on it. For the record, I was insanely proud of myself for being able to recognize and/or read something like every 20th Hebrew word in the artifacts exhibit (even without vowels! What now!). So Mom and Dad, you can see the four years I spent in Hebrew School were totally not wasted. After the museum, we decided that we weren't quite Jewed enough (really, can one ever be Jewed enough?), so we went looking for the Vienna Synagogue. In keeping with the age-old tradition of 'Why Does This Shit Always Happen to Us?,' the synagogue was almost impossible to find. Indeed, our map placed it squarely inside a stone wall, which would have been hell on the rabbi. Fortunately, we found a subtle hint to the temple's location in the form of a street called Judenplatz. Yes. Jew Place. Awesome. We arrived about 10 minutes before the place closed, but it was enough to get a look at the inside (gorgeous!) and for me to once again deploy my four years of Hebrew School by spending a good five minutes trying to remember if something was a mem or a samech (I don't think I ever resolved that).
After a most healthy dinner of sauteed/fried things (Anthony had been eying a chicken basket since Saturday) and creme caramel, we finally hauled our rebelling calves back to the hostel for some R & R & F (rest, relaxation, and Facebook). Our bus back to Budapest was at 11:20 the next morning, but, out of consideration for Hungarian Standard Time, it arrived about half an hour late, something like 30 seconds before we bought a ticket for another line. Nevertheless, we arrived in Hungary safe and sound, if sleepy, whereupon I started and restarted this entry about five times before deciding to re-energize my creative juices with a nap. Which turned into about five hours. At which point I realized I had not started my topology homework. Oops. At least that didn't require legs.
*Actually, Wikipedia informs me that it did in fact involve Russians, but only peripherally. Peripheral Russians don't count.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Or Not, II
Ever notice how when I say "tomorrow," I usually mean "at some point in the future when my head isn't full of regular polygons and/or commutative somethings?" If you didn't, well, start noticing. I will post about Vienna tom...well, you know.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Why I'm Not An English Major
Yes, I'm narcissistic and reposted this from my Facebook wall. I figure if I'm procrastinating, I might as well help others do so as well.
I also just got back from Austria, but I'm saving that post for tomorrow's procrastination since it's liable to take some time. In effect, I am procrastinating on procrastinating. OR DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND?
The following are examples of study guide questions for my Holocaust and Memory test tomorrow:
1. What are the differences between the eschatological and scholarly interpretations? Where is the overlap?
The difference is that "scholarly" is actually a word and "eschatological" is one made up by a drunken college student who fell asleep after looking up the word "eschew" in the dictionary.
2. Singularity and incomprehensibility of Holocaust were challenged by micro-history and post-structuralism. Summarise their arguments!
I would love to "summarise" their arguments, but to me, micro-history is what happens when you study the Bacterial Renaissance and post-structuralism means somewhere, somehow, a construction project was actually completed.
3. What is the basis of relativism born on singularity?
Um...6?
4. What is the Hilberg School? What is the advantage and disadvantage of their approach? What is the synchronic and diachronic focus?
The Hilberg School is an exclusive prep school somewhere on Long Island with the focus of teaching young Jews how to make up words like "synchronic" and "diachronic" so, if they don't make it to law school, they can default to literary criticism.
5. Hayden White and Lyotard… what difficulties do they encounter? What are the consequences of demanding unrepresentability?
I imagine Lyotard encountered difficulties by virtue of being named after a one-piece gymnastics outfit.
6. Evaluate the question: “how should one negotiate transferential relations to the object of study whereby processes active in that object are repeated with more or less significant variations on the account of historians?”
I give this question a 0 for clarity and a 10 for pretentiousness, with a -1 penalty for relying on made-up words like "transferential."
7. Define the consequences of symbolic and metaphoric obsessions?
Symbolic and metaphoric obsessions (n.): A disease originating with one Dr. Smith of Montgomery Blair HS. Consequences include horrible makeup and second-hand narcolepsy (when everyone around you falls asleep).
8. What is the concept of transcendence of Nolte and how does contribute to the revisionist interpretation?
"Transcendence of Nolte" refers to a person's ability to forgive Nick Nolte's appearance in "Hulk" and acknowledge that he is actually quite a good actor. Only revisionists could think "Hulk" anything but ridiculous.
Am I prepared for this test or what? *math-major-suicide*
I also just got back from Austria, but I'm saving that post for tomorrow's procrastination since it's liable to take some time. In effect, I am procrastinating on procrastinating. OR DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND?
The following are examples of study guide questions for my Holocaust and Memory test tomorrow:
1. What are the differences between the eschatological and scholarly interpretations? Where is the overlap?
The difference is that "scholarly" is actually a word and "eschatological" is one made up by a drunken college student who fell asleep after looking up the word "eschew" in the dictionary.
2. Singularity and incomprehensibility of Holocaust were challenged by micro-history and post-structuralism. Summarise their arguments!
I would love to "summarise" their arguments, but to me, micro-history is what happens when you study the Bacterial Renaissance and post-structuralism means somewhere, somehow, a construction project was actually completed.
3. What is the basis of relativism born on singularity?
Um...6?
4. What is the Hilberg School? What is the advantage and disadvantage of their approach? What is the synchronic and diachronic focus?
The Hilberg School is an exclusive prep school somewhere on Long Island with the focus of teaching young Jews how to make up words like "synchronic" and "diachronic" so, if they don't make it to law school, they can default to literary criticism.
5. Hayden White and Lyotard… what difficulties do they encounter? What are the consequences of demanding unrepresentability?
I imagine Lyotard encountered difficulties by virtue of being named after a one-piece gymnastics outfit.
6. Evaluate the question: “how should one negotiate transferential relations to the object of study whereby processes active in that object are repeated with more or less significant variations on the account of historians?”
I give this question a 0 for clarity and a 10 for pretentiousness, with a -1 penalty for relying on made-up words like "transferential."
7. Define the consequences of symbolic and metaphoric obsessions?
Symbolic and metaphoric obsessions (n.): A disease originating with one Dr. Smith of Montgomery Blair HS. Consequences include horrible makeup and second-hand narcolepsy (when everyone around you falls asleep).
8. What is the concept of transcendence of Nolte and how does contribute to the revisionist interpretation?
"Transcendence of Nolte" refers to a person's ability to forgive Nick Nolte's appearance in "Hulk" and acknowledge that he is actually quite a good actor. Only revisionists could think "Hulk" anything but ridiculous.
Am I prepared for this test or what? *math-major-suicide*
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I Found the Beef! (But I still can't eat it)
As a result of being an American Jew who speaks almost no Hungarian, I have become more Hungarian than the average Hungarian (yes, I had Quantum today. Why do you ask?).
Case in point: Food.
Today I had dinner (that's not the interesting part). As usual, when I found myself simultaneously in my lazy and hungry states (Schrodinger's Undergraduate), I defaulted to my favorite 3-ingredient meal:
1. Frying Pan
2. Sunflower oil
3. Stuff
The third ingredient comes in many varieties: Stuff I Need to Use Up, Stuff I Bought on a Whim, Stuff That Was Leftover From Yesterday's Stuff, etc. Today, I used the original flavor, Stuff That's In The Fridge. Since I need a segue to the next part, I'm going to pretend you asked me "What is this stuff?"
I'm glad you asked! Because that's actually the point of this entry (okay, "point"). Stuff That's In The Fridge generally consists of freshly picked Hungarian stereotypes, namely cabbage, potatoes, and sausage. However, this is not because I have a particular fondness for any of these ingredients, rather because I am incapable of buying anything else. Why? I'm so glad you asked!
At the grocery store, the meats are divided into two sections: sausage, and not sausage. The sausages are in the aisles, and therefore easy to recognize and put into the basket without feeling like an idiot. The other meats are usually only available at the counter. Hence, to obtain said other meat, I would have to communicate with an actual Hungarian. In the past, this has not worked out so well for me. Today, for example, I tried to ask for two bags in which to put my sausages, cabbage, and other things. I pointed at the bags and distinctly said "kettö" (two). The cashier looked at me, nodded politely, and handed me one. Yes, apparently I pronounce "kettö" the same way Hungarians pronounce "egy" (one). And don't get me started on the time I tried to get half a kilogram of cheese. I'm pretty sure I would have started WWIII (or possibly bought 7 kilos of broccoli) if Lovely Roommate Stephanie hadn't intervened. Hence, the thought of actually trying to communicate to the man behind the meat counter that I want half a kilo of chicken or beef kind of terrifies me. I would probably end up with a metric boatload (thanks Amanda!) of fish liver. I wonder how that goes with sausage?
Case in point: Food.
Today I had dinner (that's not the interesting part). As usual, when I found myself simultaneously in my lazy and hungry states (Schrodinger's Undergraduate), I defaulted to my favorite 3-ingredient meal:
1. Frying Pan
2. Sunflower oil
3. Stuff
The third ingredient comes in many varieties: Stuff I Need to Use Up, Stuff I Bought on a Whim, Stuff That Was Leftover From Yesterday's Stuff, etc. Today, I used the original flavor, Stuff That's In The Fridge. Since I need a segue to the next part, I'm going to pretend you asked me "What is this stuff?"
I'm glad you asked! Because that's actually the point of this entry (okay, "point"). Stuff That's In The Fridge generally consists of freshly picked Hungarian stereotypes, namely cabbage, potatoes, and sausage. However, this is not because I have a particular fondness for any of these ingredients, rather because I am incapable of buying anything else. Why? I'm so glad you asked!
At the grocery store, the meats are divided into two sections: sausage, and not sausage. The sausages are in the aisles, and therefore easy to recognize and put into the basket without feeling like an idiot. The other meats are usually only available at the counter. Hence, to obtain said other meat, I would have to communicate with an actual Hungarian. In the past, this has not worked out so well for me. Today, for example, I tried to ask for two bags in which to put my sausages, cabbage, and other things. I pointed at the bags and distinctly said "kettö" (two). The cashier looked at me, nodded politely, and handed me one. Yes, apparently I pronounce "kettö" the same way Hungarians pronounce "egy" (one). And don't get me started on the time I tried to get half a kilogram of cheese. I'm pretty sure I would have started WWIII (or possibly bought 7 kilos of broccoli) if Lovely Roommate Stephanie hadn't intervened. Hence, the thought of actually trying to communicate to the man behind the meat counter that I want half a kilo of chicken or beef kind of terrifies me. I would probably end up with a metric boatload (thanks Amanda!) of fish liver. I wonder how that goes with sausage?
Monday, March 8, 2010
Ms. Interpretation
For those of you who don't live in the blogosphere, yesterday was International Women's Day. In theory, IWD is a day to celebrate women's accomplishments, discuss women's issues, burn bras (JUST KIDDING PLEASE DON'T REVOKE MY FEMINIST CARD I'LL RECITE FIVE HAIL HILLARYS!), etc. In Budapest, not so much. Now, I understand the difficulties with translating from English to Hungarian, especially when there are Ws involved (Prof Kuronya: "Let v be a wector"), but I am still baffled as to how "International Women's Day" got translated into "Valentine's Day II," especially because the latter is not even in Hungarian. Somehow, though, it did, so while women elsewhere are protesting the Sex-and-the-Citification of women's portrayal in the media, women in Budapest are being recognized with...shopping discounts, flowers, and chocolate. Paging Sarah Jessica Parker.
Now, I have no objection in principle to giving women chocolate. Especially if by "women," we mean "me." However, I don't think chocolate is an appropriate substitute for respect or equality.* If you think about it, if women were given equal wages for equal work, we could buy our OWN chocolate (!). It's so crazy, it just might work!
Also, really, Hungarians don't need much more practice in sexualizing women. They're really good at that. This is not to say that Americans aren't, rather to say that I'm writing this post while in Hungary and I can't even remember what I was doing last IWD in the US, so I can't make any good observations. But it's kind of troubling how little Hungarian men seem to understand the word "No." Actually, I guess that's not that troubling, but the fact that they don't understand the word "Nem" is. Really guys, even I understand "nem," and I'm as ignorant an American as you'll find anywhere. I'll tell you what: you learn that, keep your hands to yourself, and you can save yourself some forints on flowers. Deal? Good. Have a Hersheys.
*Though I'll admit it comes damn close. Especially dark chocolate.
Now, I have no objection in principle to giving women chocolate. Especially if by "women," we mean "me." However, I don't think chocolate is an appropriate substitute for respect or equality.* If you think about it, if women were given equal wages for equal work, we could buy our OWN chocolate (!). It's so crazy, it just might work!
Also, really, Hungarians don't need much more practice in sexualizing women. They're really good at that. This is not to say that Americans aren't, rather to say that I'm writing this post while in Hungary and I can't even remember what I was doing last IWD in the US, so I can't make any good observations. But it's kind of troubling how little Hungarian men seem to understand the word "No." Actually, I guess that's not that troubling, but the fact that they don't understand the word "Nem" is. Really guys, even I understand "nem," and I'm as ignorant an American as you'll find anywhere. I'll tell you what: you learn that, keep your hands to yourself, and you can save yourself some forints on flowers. Deal? Good. Have a Hersheys.
*Though I'll admit it comes damn close. Especially dark chocolate.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Purim in Pest (and Buda!)
Chag Purim has come and gone...and with it, my hearing, half the skin on my face, and my chances of passing geometry.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning: A few billion years ago, some infinitely dense primordial mass began to expand rapidly, and....you know what? This could take a while. Let's skip to this weekend.
For reasons I will never comprehend, Purim was not at the forefront of my mind those many (one) months ago when I was packing for my trip. Thus, I made the short-sighted decision to waste valuable packing space on pants. Don't worry, I've learned my lesson. In as much as this aside had a point, it was that on Friday afternoon, I found myself facing the prospect of a costumeless Purim. Never one to miss an opportunity to publicly embarrass myself, I eagerly dragged (oxymoron?) my mathematically-exhausted body to the nearest thrift store (what, you expected me to hit a normal store? Do you see any pigs flying?). After picking my way through basically every article in the store, allowing the saleswomen ample time to plot my untimely demise by coathanger, I finally emerged from the dressing room with reevaluated priorities and the cheapest ghost-ish costume ever (90 Ft. FTW!). This is known as 'Shopping While Jewish' and is punishable in most places by pickled onions.
After spending much of Saturday in transit to and from Memento Park (both of which, the transit and the Park, probably deserve their own separate posts), I got home just in time to put on my spook-face run out again to Merlin, where there would be a Megillah reading. It should be noted that at this point I have not started my geometry homework. Merlin itself also deserves a quick note: it bears the distinction of being a club/theatre possessing both an English-language theater series and a staff whose English is limited to "No." To get in, you have to ask "Will you refuse to let me in?" Naturally, I sat through most of the Megillah reading with no clue as to what was actually happening. However, I took comfort in the fact that I suspect very few others in the room had any better idea. You see, the folks at Merlin figured that some of the community would prefer Hebrew and some Hungarian, so they made the clever decision to read the Megillah in both languages. SIMULTANEOUSLY. With both texts projected onto the screen behind the readers, scrolling through the text faster than most people can read, and faster than I could figure out exactly where the vowels were (in either language). Periodically, the two readers would pause so as to belt out "Hámán!" (*stompstompstomp*) in a lovely 6th interval, the Hungarian reader going far higher than can possibly be legal for a man his age. So at least I knew when to be obnoxious. I'm still not entirely convinced they weren't playing a trick on me and reading a modified version of the Tower of Babel, which given the evening, would have made much more sense. Although that doesn't explain the hamentaschen. Not that hamentaschen need an explanation.
Having met up with a few friends, we went to the place where all the cool Jews (hey. HEY. Stop laughing.) were going. After being told that the entry was an exorbitant 1200 Ft. ($6 for those of you who haven't gotten the hang of Hungarian currency, myself included), we promptly did an about-face. This is called Going Out While Jewish and it is punishable in most places by matzah brei. Instead, we went to a BSM party at a friend's flat. In the interest of time, and the interest of not discussing how I was destroyed multiple times in Bananagrams by a math nerd who presumably does not come from a family of compulsive wordgame players, I won't go in to much detail about said party. Suffice to say that I hadn't taken off my cheap costume, so I amused myself by seeing how long people could go on staring awkwardly without asking me about it. For most, it was quite a while. Also, I took off my spook-face and a layer of skin (start keeping track), only to reapply it upon leaving because I was going to...
...Buda! for a party at the White Angel Club, along with Texas Sam (dressed as "himself," but with an awesome cowboy hat). It should be noted at this point that I have not started my geometry homework. As for White Angel, what can I say? Jews know how to party. I SAID STOP LAUGHING. How to describe it...I'm really at a loss for words...
Fortunately, being so has never before stopped me from running my mouth (or keyboard), so I'll start off with 'loudtacular.' The dance floor itself was loudnormous, but by midnight, it was completely elbow-to-loud. The loudmosphere was completed by a model of people sitting around a table ON THE CEILING (which freaked me out EVERY TIME) and the hyperactloud lighting.
And then, there were the costumes. We had, among others, some crazy-detailed characters from Alice in Wonderloud, a creepily accurate Na'vi pair from Loudvatar, and a guy dressed as a box of Camel Cigarettes. A big, pointy, dance-floor-death-inducing box of Camel Cigarettes. He was loud. Now if I could only think of a way to describe the music.
Quick math question: After spending about an hour scrubbing my face after White Angel, how many layers of skin did I have left? Answer: I don't know, but it doesn't matter because the number's about to go down again. Yes, even after sleeping through Sunday (note that I wasn't doing geometry homework), Purim was not over for me. As Hungarians are even more obsessed with vampires than tweenage Americans, Hora Budapest (where I go dancing) hosted a Vampire-themed Purim party that Monday night. Barely was my face beginning to look normal when out came the eyeliner and lipgloss, ready to render me unrecognizable to all but my closest friends and anyone not legally blind. Since most Monday nights contain at least half an hour of me staring blankly while the Markid goes off in Hungarian, it was a great happiness to me to be able to stare blankly while the Markid went off in Hungarian dressed in a ridiculous cape, with a flower, a bee, a tiger, and a vegetarian vampire prancing around behind him. Moreover, staring blankly is, like life itself, vastly improved by hamentaschen. It should be noted that while staring blankly and eating hamentaschen, I was not doing geometry homework.
Since once again my verbosity has led to unclear, inarticulate things, I think I am going to go attack my eyeliner-residue with a jackhammer. I mean, I'm already deaf anyway.
Hope you had a great Purim!
Perhaps I should start at the beginning: A few billion years ago, some infinitely dense primordial mass began to expand rapidly, and....you know what? This could take a while. Let's skip to this weekend.
For reasons I will never comprehend, Purim was not at the forefront of my mind those many (one) months ago when I was packing for my trip. Thus, I made the short-sighted decision to waste valuable packing space on pants. Don't worry, I've learned my lesson. In as much as this aside had a point, it was that on Friday afternoon, I found myself facing the prospect of a costumeless Purim. Never one to miss an opportunity to publicly embarrass myself, I eagerly dragged (oxymoron?) my mathematically-exhausted body to the nearest thrift store (what, you expected me to hit a normal store? Do you see any pigs flying?). After picking my way through basically every article in the store, allowing the saleswomen ample time to plot my untimely demise by coathanger, I finally emerged from the dressing room with reevaluated priorities and the cheapest ghost-ish costume ever (90 Ft. FTW!). This is known as 'Shopping While Jewish' and is punishable in most places by pickled onions.
After spending much of Saturday in transit to and from Memento Park (both of which, the transit and the Park, probably deserve their own separate posts), I got home just in time to put on my spook-face run out again to Merlin, where there would be a Megillah reading. It should be noted that at this point I have not started my geometry homework. Merlin itself also deserves a quick note: it bears the distinction of being a club/theatre possessing both an English-language theater series and a staff whose English is limited to "No." To get in, you have to ask "Will you refuse to let me in?" Naturally, I sat through most of the Megillah reading with no clue as to what was actually happening. However, I took comfort in the fact that I suspect very few others in the room had any better idea. You see, the folks at Merlin figured that some of the community would prefer Hebrew and some Hungarian, so they made the clever decision to read the Megillah in both languages. SIMULTANEOUSLY. With both texts projected onto the screen behind the readers, scrolling through the text faster than most people can read, and faster than I could figure out exactly where the vowels were (in either language). Periodically, the two readers would pause so as to belt out "Hámán!" (*stompstompstomp*) in a lovely 6th interval, the Hungarian reader going far higher than can possibly be legal for a man his age. So at least I knew when to be obnoxious. I'm still not entirely convinced they weren't playing a trick on me and reading a modified version of the Tower of Babel, which given the evening, would have made much more sense. Although that doesn't explain the hamentaschen. Not that hamentaschen need an explanation.
Having met up with a few friends, we went to the place where all the cool Jews (hey. HEY. Stop laughing.) were going. After being told that the entry was an exorbitant 1200 Ft. ($6 for those of you who haven't gotten the hang of Hungarian currency, myself included), we promptly did an about-face. This is called Going Out While Jewish and it is punishable in most places by matzah brei. Instead, we went to a BSM party at a friend's flat. In the interest of time, and the interest of not discussing how I was destroyed multiple times in Bananagrams by a math nerd who presumably does not come from a family of compulsive wordgame players, I won't go in to much detail about said party. Suffice to say that I hadn't taken off my cheap costume, so I amused myself by seeing how long people could go on staring awkwardly without asking me about it. For most, it was quite a while. Also, I took off my spook-face and a layer of skin (start keeping track), only to reapply it upon leaving because I was going to...
...Buda! for a party at the White Angel Club, along with Texas Sam (dressed as "himself," but with an awesome cowboy hat). It should be noted at this point that I have not started my geometry homework. As for White Angel, what can I say? Jews know how to party. I SAID STOP LAUGHING. How to describe it...I'm really at a loss for words...
Fortunately, being so has never before stopped me from running my mouth (or keyboard), so I'll start off with 'loudtacular.' The dance floor itself was loudnormous, but by midnight, it was completely elbow-to-loud. The loudmosphere was completed by a model of people sitting around a table ON THE CEILING (which freaked me out EVERY TIME) and the hyperactloud lighting.
And then, there were the costumes. We had, among others, some crazy-detailed characters from Alice in Wonderloud, a creepily accurate Na'vi pair from Loudvatar, and a guy dressed as a box of Camel Cigarettes. A big, pointy, dance-floor-death-inducing box of Camel Cigarettes. He was loud. Now if I could only think of a way to describe the music.
 Texas Sam is Texan. Go Longhorns! |  Ghost Becca's unfinished business: eyeliner removal. |
Quick math question: After spending about an hour scrubbing my face after White Angel, how many layers of skin did I have left? Answer: I don't know, but it doesn't matter because the number's about to go down again. Yes, even after sleeping through Sunday (note that I wasn't doing geometry homework), Purim was not over for me. As Hungarians are even more obsessed with vampires than tweenage Americans, Hora Budapest (where I go dancing) hosted a Vampire-themed Purim party that Monday night. Barely was my face beginning to look normal when out came the eyeliner and lipgloss, ready to render me unrecognizable to all but my closest friends and anyone not legally blind. Since most Monday nights contain at least half an hour of me staring blankly while the Markid goes off in Hungarian, it was a great happiness to me to be able to stare blankly while the Markid went off in Hungarian dressed in a ridiculous cape, with a flower, a bee, a tiger, and a vegetarian vampire prancing around behind him. Moreover, staring blankly is, like life itself, vastly improved by hamentaschen. It should be noted that while staring blankly and eating hamentaschen, I was not doing geometry homework.
Since once again my verbosity has led to unclear, inarticulate things, I think I am going to go attack my eyeliner-residue with a jackhammer. I mean, I'm already deaf anyway.
Hope you had a great Purim!
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