Mountain biking is so dumb.

 

Yeah, that was me. I said that, partly because I think it's true, but mostly to get the goat of Mike and Ian, two of my favorite mountain bikers who were in the room when I said it.

I've always been a roadie, you see. Even when I owned a mountain bike and rode it, the smile on my face was mostly forced; there to mask the grimace underneath. Mountain biking looks fun, but it's so ... bumpy and dirty. Ew! Yucky. Tires slide. Trees and bushes reach out and poke, ticks and poison ivy are standing by just waiting to attack. And there are bugs. Lots and lots of bugs.

When I was racing road in college, I decided to give the mountain biking thing a try. Mike, Ian, Tom, Kenny  and basically everyone else on the planet really loved it. I don't remember how I got my first bike, but it was a year-old Specialized aluminum Stumpjumper hard tail. It had a pretty light "metal matrix" frame. It might have been the fancy and very racy S-Works model. We built it up with a decent set of components, I bought shoes,  pedals, and a Camelbak, and off we went into the beautiful mountain sides of San Luis Obispo.

And it was fucking terrible! Sure the bike was light-weight and it looked super cool. But it was also hard as a rock, like federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison. The suspension fork was hard and rubbery. The seat was also hard and rubbery. Every ride on it made me wonder why anyone would want to do this. There were roots and ruts strategically placed to suck the fun out of every ride, and there were even more bugs than I thought. So many bugs!

And to make it even worse, I found mountain biking to be  EITHER steep uphill OR steep downhill. But the thing about that is: I was a terrible climber (compared to all my awesomely talented cycling buddies like Mike an Ian, who seemed to have been born not from a womb so much as an altitude tent) so I got dropped on all the climbs. And the only thing that I was worse at than climbing? Descending! So I would get dropped on the climbs AND the descents!

Thankfully that bike was stolen out of my garage not too long after the first ride. Here's how much more popular mountain biking was than road riding at that time: the thieves didn't steal my Dura-Ace laden Kestrel 200Sci which was parked right next to it. What a bunch of self-mutilating morons.

About two years later it was time to graduate from college, and finish my road racing career. I was pretty burnt out on road riding, and by this time the latest and greatest mountain bikes had dual suspension. It seemed a bit excessive to me, but Mike and Ian convinced me to give it a shot. And it seemed like the kind of thing that would prevent the bike from trying to insert itself into my rectum. I got a screaming deal on a Specialized Stumpjumper FSR XC.

I barely finished test riding it in the parking lot when Mike snatched it away tossed the stock tiresreplaced them with some wider, cushier downhill tires (this was before downhill tires turned into fucking motorcycle tires).

Back at home Ian sat me on the bike and pumped up the rear shock to the appropriate level, and off we went. And holy motherfucking shit, it was a revelation. Suddenly, the bike wasn't trying to eject me from planet earth like a bull on Red Bull. The rear suspension did indeed take the hit out of all the bumps, roots, and ruts, the tires gripped nicely instead if ricocheting off of every little pebble. It didn’t change the bug situation, but I actually sorta kinda started to enjoy being out there on a mountain bike.

I was still living in San Luis Obispo at the time, which will always be a fabulous, beautiful, perfect place to ride both mountain and road, and I was surrounded by several mountain biking friends. I bought full fingered gloves and my own shock pump. We went on epic night rides through muted moonlit forests. And yet mountain biking never really set my heart on fire. Maybe I was burnt out on cycling in general after all that road racing. Maybe it was all that dirty dirt, and the fact that every damn ride I did really was uphill both ways.

Eventually I moved to the Bay Area (also fab for riding) where I sold my mountain bike to my friend Brian. Then I loaned the ol' road bike to Ian to take to Australia. I took a long cycling hiatus.

Fast forward to today - I've moved to Switzerland and started riding road again. I bought a fancy new road bike and have been riding once or twice per week. The hills around the mountains are a welcome change to the unending flatness of northern Germany. Road riding is celebrated here, and the mountain biking is supposed to be some of the best in Europe. And guess what I've had the urge to do! Yeah, that was me who said Mountain biking is so dumb. But now I'm in Switzerland and it seems I'm going to have to eat those words (and a lot more cheese).

I started poking around the bike shops here, beginning the investigation into mountain biking's current state of affairs. And I’ve found that it’s reached rather impressive technical heights. Everything is lighter and more solidly made. The bikes are turning into well-integrated cycling units, as opposed to a frame with a bunch of rattly crap hanging off of it. Specialized bikes basically have active suspension. It’s mechanically active, but with the rise of Di2 and power meters and wireless cycle computers that can all talk to one another, you just know that eventually the suspension is gonna wanna get in on the action.

So yeah, the bikes are better than ever before. But now there’s a thousand categories of bike to choose from. I remember when there was one category: mountain bike. Then two - with and without front suspension. Then there were hard tails and soft tails. But now, it’s Cross Country, Trail, Singletrack Trail, Technical Trail, All mountain, Gravity, Recreational, Race, Sport, Gravity, and Dual Sport.

Then the web sites asks me what kind of rider do I want to be and what kind of riding I want to do. Well obviously I want to ride cross country on a trail with some technical singletrack across all types of mountains, with occasional use of gravity for my own recreational purposes while feeling very sporty. But no racing, and only one sport at a time. So that narrows it down, I guess. Also sixteen inches of travel seems a bit excessive.

Price is a good way to narrow down the field though. I set myself a limit of 4000 Swiss Francs. Ideally that’ll cover the bike, shoes, and pedals. I’ve begun the investigation at several local bike shops. The good news is you can get a hell of a bike for 4000 Francs, and all the shops will let you take a bike for the weekend to try on the local trails. And I can go with my pal Pablo who lives nearby.

So far, these are looking promising:

Price Marathon

Specialized Epic

Specialized Stumpjumper

Canyon

The Santa Cruz Superlight also looks intriguing. But for some reason its price doubles on the plane ride over. I guess it flies first class or something.

And I guess mountain biking is looking a lot less dumb than it used to.

 

 

Workspace Wuv.

 

Watch this:

http://www.imaginaryforces.com/featured/10/502

It's beautiful, isn't it?

There's a romance about the workspace that seems to have popped up over the last few years, spawning blog entries, entire websites, contests, documentary films, overly deep discussion, and serious self reflection that takes itself FAR too seriously (this little ditty, for example). And I am such a fucking sucker for this stuff, that I have bookmarked it all, clicked through every picture, watched too many movies, and all too often found myself perusing the workspaces of others like some sort of binoculared pervert perched in a tree. And it's always, always while sitting at my own desk avoiding the very work that would go a long way in bringing the fantasy to completion.

What fantasy is that? I think it's the delicious promise of productivity. For me, that would be ideas conjuring up words, words forming sentences, forming paragraphs, sliding onto the page and magically transporting the ideas in my head into someone else's. Easily, effortlessly. And looking cool while doing it, of course.

When you're working well, really well, really into it, there's that feeling of time disappearing and leaving you alone for a while. And when I see the right combination of windows, surfaces, tools, and wall color, I feel that possibility. An open MacBook. A perfectly placed Moleskine. A cappucino with latte art. I know, I know, BARF-O-FUCKING-RAMA, right? I'm right there with you.

And yet I can't help it: every time, I just keep clicking, picture after picture, putting myself in there for a moment and wondering if that 8000€ stainless steel hanging pendant lamp would help me be a better, more inspiring, and more inspired manboy.

I seek the perfect work space, a perfectly solid desk, not too heavy, but never flimsy, the right amount of sunlight, a lamp that says I have taste, but don't take this stuff too seriously (because that would be so embarrassing) and a chair, designed by someone you may have heard of, that holds my ass in a perfect balance between style and comfort.

SIDENOTE: Aeron chairs with that mesh material, insect-like design, and a seemingly cult following have never worked for me. They always feel like a slingshot that's trying to press my ass cheeks into a single unit. Is that just me?

It is the perfect setup, the perfectly set-up space that I crave. A well organized (that's how I roll, YMMV) group of beautiful things that make others say (as I have said so often) wow, your workspace is so inspiring! And then I want to sheepishly grin and pretend that it's just something that sort of happened. When in reality it's been a subject of life long study, made easier by the internets for making it possible to sneak around the offices of famous people, and by a higher income, which make it easier to buy things not made by Ikea. And pursued with the (mostly) genuine belief that designing and executing the perfect workspace will have a positive, measurable effect on my output.

And I know it's all bullshit. Massimo Vignelli can talk all he wants about his deskular situation, and how he loves it and it loves him (oh, hot productive man-on-desk action!). But we all know that it's just a bunch of ginned up romance and that his desk is, relatively speaking, a transient part of a long successful career based on talent, luck, and a lot of hard work. This is not like how 51% of the reason Nigel Mansell won the '92 F1 championship was because he had the best car. This is more like Picasso having basic access to decent paints and a brush that didn't stab him in the eye.

So I'll keep watching and clicking like some kind of fucked up office voyeur. And I'll keep dreaming of my MILK desk and wireless peripherals, VESA-mounted hi-res display and a sleek and silent laptop. And surely over time I'll spend an unwarrantable amount of money on all of them. And they will make me a little bit happier.

But I know that really, I should just write more.

Lancing Free.

 

So, I'm a freelancer now. Funny to write that after approximately eighteen years of being an official member of the official workforce, and always working for someone or some organization. I've always been a full-time or part-time employee somewhere; somewhere that determines my working hours, pay rate, start date, career direction, and daily activities. When is it okay to go to lunch? What format would you like the documents in? Can I have a nicer computer? Can I have a raise? These are all questions I used to nervously ask my employer.  And invariably, they would answer in a fatherly tone Hmm ... we'll have to think about that.

Not anymore.

Well, that's being a bit dramatic, I suppose. I may have worked for corporations, but none of them were very blood sucking or Matrix-like. But it can't be denied that with freelancing comes a certain breezy, romantic freedom. It's a bit cowboy-esque: look at him - a lone gunslinger, a hired hand, a bounty hunter, on the hunt for creative ideas that solve a problem. He can be air dropped anywhere in continental Europe within twenty four hours (though he prefers the train). He brings his own tools. Just give him a network connection and tell him what you need.

None of this is out of the ordinary - each place I've worked has had its share of contractors, freelancers, and consultants. But it's certainly new for me. Freelancers were always other people. The ones who showed up Monday morning with their rolling suitcase and their (always fancier than whatever the company had given me) computers and sat quietly in a makeshift office while they waited for a brief. We all whispered about them - who they were, why they were here, whether they were making double or triple the money we made. We were annoyed that they just trotted in to "help" us and we looked forward to watching them fail. They were, after all, an implicit declaration from our bosses that we weren't good enough.

And now I am one of them (minus the rolling suitcase). I'm a freelancer. Me.

Yep. That's me at that one lonely, forgotten desk, the one that hasn't been occupied since the layoff. It's empty except for a few leftover pens and pencils, and a dirty phone to which no one knows the extension. Mysteriously, the voicemail light is blinking. If it rings, I won't answer it either.

That's me sheepishly asking the regulars how to connect to the printer.  And then asking where the darn thing is.

That's me with the annoyingly specific questions about the project timeline. I'm done on Thursday, you see, and I've got a train to catch.

That's me in the meeting that you didn't get invited to. Sorry. I just go where they tell me.

That's me using whatever software I want on my laptop because it's my laptop and no IT gestapo jerkoff is going to stop me from putting whatever software I want on my laptop. Yeah, sorry, not sure what to tell you about that annoying problem you're having with MS Word ... because I don't use MS Word anymore.

That's me, not coming in to the office on the Friday after Thursday's all-nighter because my booking is over. If you want to torture yourself, go ahead and picture me drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice off the room-service breakfast cart at my hotel. Though we both know that I'm just sleeping.

These are some of the glorious (and exaggerated) benefits of being Founder and CEO of the Oneself corporation. But there are disadvantages too, which I will list out and embellish upon, even though you already know them and the whole thing may sound a bit whiny.

So far I've been to Frankfurt and Hamburg, neither of which are Berlin, where I live. Traveling for work is fun! and exciting! ... for the first twelve seconds of the first trip. After that it's just one frantic jog to the train station or airport after another, with too much luggage in tow, and consequences for being late.

And every move I make costs me money. My money, out of my own pocket. And not only do I have to pay for my own travel, I have to book it too. You know what's more fun than booking travel? Everything, including paper cuts.

And it's easy to look at each bus ticket, train ticket, plane ticket and taxi fare as just a miniscule percentage of my awesomely high freelancing rate. (I'll take a taxi to the taxi stand! I am invincible!) But that shit adds up fast, and that awesomely high freelancing rate is half taxes. So keep your little financial feet on the ground there, fantasy boy.

And it's not just the moving that costs money: the eating does too. And the sleeping, when you think about it. Basically I walk around and hear that cash register KA-CHING! sound all day in my head. Though walking is one of the few things I can do for free. I'm working on solutions to the cash flow problem, and I'll write about them later. Until then, I guess I'll try to take the bus and eat apples from the reception desk.

Still, it's a net positive experience so far. And there's this addictive mentality to freelancing ... this ability to walk away at the end of a project, no strings attached. I limbo right under cheap office politics, and slink right around the office gossip on my way to the candy machine. Don't like my work? That's fine. Go ahead and kill all of it - I'll make more. You cannot hurt me. I am a freelancer. I'm here until one of us decides that I'm done. Now where do I send my invoice?

 

Six wonderful things that have happened since the last time I blogged, in no particular order:

1. Moved from Hamburg to Berlin with Caroline.

2. Left Jung von Matt after almost four years and became a freelancer.

3. iPad Wifi, iPhone 4.

4. Film shoot in NY and LA.

5. Taught at Miami Ad School Hamburg.

6. Week long bicycle trip through the French Pyrenees.

Back in the saddle again.

In August I officially came out of retirement... out of retirement from my nonexistent cycling career, that is. I rode in the Vattenfall Cyclassics, the "biggest bike race in Europe", held right here in Hamburg. I'm not sure which of its attributes makes it the biggest... but it's probably the number of amateur riders like me who participate in the "Everyman" category like I did. I don't know for sure, but I think there were over 15,000 participants. That's a lot of legs.

There were three distances for us wannabees: 55km, 100, and 155. I signed up for the 100k, figuring that it's only 62 miles, and I used to do that in college all the time. It would require some training - a few rides per week should do it - but I could find 62 miles in these old (hairy) legs, no problem.

Naturally, the training didn't have what one might call military-like discipline. To be fair, it rained A LOT in the months leading up to the race, way more than it should in July and August. And even when it wasn't raining, well, I still worked in advertising, which means late nights. Oh, and the riding here is a bit uninspiring, what with the lack of mountains or even hills, the endless sprawl, the bridges closed to cyclists, yadda yadda yadda. What other excuses can I make? I only had one jersey, and some evenings after work that fucker needed to be washed, and I don't mean perhaps. Can't ride without a jersey right? Right! Pass the ice cream, bitches.

Anyways, I figured out that the ride I managed to do about once per week is about 50k. In the middle are two small 2-3 minute climbs (gawd that sounds pathetic) that I could suffer on, and then turn around and do two or three more times to get that climber's body I've always dreamed about. And the thing about that is, I wasn't the only one making recursive pilgrimages to these tiny little Earth bumps - each time I rode there I'd see a bunch of dudes riding up as I rode down. Then I'd turn around at the bottom, ride back up, and pass them as they went back down. Turn around again, and repeat. And we'd smile at each other - that smile that says "Isn't this silly? I know, right?"

It felt pretty good though, and slowly I felt my condition getting better. I even had a ride or two where I felt really good - dancing on the pedals, you might say. Then it rained and work got busy, and I lost a little. But then I got back into the training rhythm again and started feeling better and then holy toe clips Batman, the ride is tomorrow!

Dirk and his friend Thomas, both Dutchies from Amsterdam, came to Hamburg to ride with me - Dirk and I went to school together, and Thomas is a friend of his. It was a perfect Sunday morning for a ride - bright and sunny and warm. And at 8:30am, the three of us non-German amateurs lined up in our starting block of 500. And what a mishmash of cyclists it was - there were groups wearing matching jerseys, and even some with matching bikes. And right next to them would be a lonely solo rider, trying to avoid eye contact with everybody, trying to stay cool, but obviously wishing he had a mate to pass the time with. There were 7000 dollar bikes and one or two 70 dollar garage-sale bikes, and everything in between. I saw carbon wheels and shaved, veiny legs... and the goofball in front of me who took at least two hundred meters to get his size 50 German tennis shoes from the eighties into hot clips and straps from the seventies. I would have given him a hand, but I didn't want to touch him - I might catch dorky.

Caroline was kind enough to escort us down there, take the jacket I decided I wouldn't need, and even wait up the road to cheer us on after we rolled out... onto the fully blocked-off roads of a professional cycling course. My friends, if you ride, you've gotta do a ride like this at least once so you can experience the awesome beauty of a car-less, pedestrian-free, roadway where all you see are bicyclists riding in the same direction. It was like flying. It was fantastic. Rolling around corners knowing there was plenty of clean road and no risk from cars was like crawling naked into a warm bed with someone you love over and over again for three hours, with a feedzone in the middle (Powerbar anyone?).

So we rode and rode down these beautiful empty roads on a perfect sunny day. There were 15,000 riders spread out on 155km of roads which is enough to always have someone to draft behind (oh those giant square-shouldered Germans!), but enough of a spread to never feel too crowded. And the second best thing to all the people on bikes were all the wonderful people on the side of the road cheering us on. How lovely of them! They yelled and whistled and spun those clackity noise maker thingies and held up signs as we huffed and puffed and hauled our fat asses all over southern Hamburg.

Fifty kilometers is where my body is used to climbing off the bike and spending the next half an hour cramming 47 pieces of toast down my throat while I have an internal argument about whether or not I should actually be taking a shower right now (Answer: HUNGRY! FUCK YOU!) But of course this time fifty kilometers was only halfway, and I certainly felt it. The second half of the ride was noticeably slower and more sedate. No more mad dashing through the streets and much less fighting for position; we went from "We're on fire!" to "Are we there yet?" It was a bit more of a slog, but still exquisite. With twenty kilometers to go, we climbed and crossed the Köhlbrand bridge, which is a tiny bit like the Golden Gate, except it's blue and a lot more modern and designy. More importantly, it's normally closed to cyclists, so it was a real treat to ride across it. Plus, going up and over it is the biggest climb in the whole route. Only in Hamburg would the King of the Mountains competition be decided on a fucking bridge.

It was a fairly epic way to finish off the ride though. From there we twisted and turned our way back into the city. I had lost touch with Dirk and Thomas - one ahead and one behind - so I rolled in in a straggling group of fifteen or so. The crowd was five deep at the barriers by the finish line, and everyone was cheering like we were in a bunch sprint on the Champs-Elysees as I crossed the line. Epic.

After a shower and some lunch, I went back to the race and checked out all the booths set up at Jungfernstieg and Rathaus Markt. I got to try electric shifting of Shimano's Di2. I tried it on a stationary trainer, and it actually wasn't shifting perfectly - the rear derailleur needed some adjustment (or perhaps some new firmware? Maybe a fresh reboot?) but it was obviously just a matter of adjustment to a system that is obviously the wave of the future. Like index shifting, integrating the shifting into the brake levers, email, twitter, and YouPorn, kids born today will one day ask us what life was like in the dark ages when dinosaurs roamed the earth and bicycles had cables that, like, moved things mechanically? OMG WTF DAD!

There were tons of other booths there too - exotic carbon bikes from Pearl and friends, and all the local bike shops, one of which had the Trek Madone I've had my eye on marked down even further. Sadly, of all the problems I encountered over the 100 kilometers - aching muscles, sore ass, tingly toes, mild oxygen debt, low blood sugar, thirst, getting passed by fat people, etc. - not one of them can be attributed to the bicycle I was riding. Which is unfortunate, because there just doesn't seem to be any justification whatsoever for for me to buy the Madone. Or one of these! Or one of these! Or this pretty titanium one! Or maybe something in stainless steel! And that's a damn shame because I so want one with its ultra lightweight carbon everything, and its more upright geometry (maybe that would soothe some of my old-man aches and pains?!), and its ten speeds (one more cog to get over the hills of Hamburg? I mean if there were any?). I'm thrilled to say that I'm so old and slow that even low-end components are plenty high enough for me, which brings nice road bikes down from catastrophically expensive, to merely stupidly expensive. Still, due to my current bank account situation, it seems that if I'm going to scratch my cycling itch, I'm going to have to do it with actual riding on a bike that is not only perfectly adequate, but still a little awesome. Pooooor me.

Karma killin'.

You know what's hard? Trying to write a TV script that links Kofi Annan and a high-priced four-door luxury sedan. A link that isn't so nauseatingly advertising that I want to jump out the window. A link that kind of actually makes sense. Maybe a link that's even intelligent and meaningful. In approximately 20 seconds.

But I suppose if intelligent and meaningful were on top of my writer's priority list, I wouldn't spend my days in an ad agency trying to use an important peace maker to hock a car that will be en-vogue for a matter of months among perhaps 2% of the world's population.

No match for ________.

In our bathroom, we have a bunch of matchbooks. It's an impressive and ever-evolving collection. And I'm always impressed with how many different ways there are to contain a bunch of match sticks.

But next time you find yourself in our bathroom, take a look around and notice that there isn't a single candle, pilot light, BBQ, campfire, cartoon bomb, firecracker, spliff, cigarette, crack pipe or trail of gunpowder in sight. Yes, the dearth of flammable material in our bathroom is simply undeniable.

But everyone knows why people really keep matches in the bathroom. And the thing about that is, that's not really what matches were invented for. So my question is: what percentage of these consumable tools for lighting a fire under controlled circumstances on demand are actually just used to cover up the smell of poop?

And if that percentage is as high as i think it is, how come no one has created scented matches? Like a miniature, localized scent bomb (that should probably be kept out of reach of children). If no one's ever seen that, let me know, and let's make our million.

Things I learned this past week:

Sleeping on the balcony on a warm summer night is fucking fantastic. It was fresh air and the quiet of the sleeping city mixed with soft sounds from the harbor all night long, followed by bright sunshine and birds chirping in the morning. It was my favorite kind of camping - outdoors but with a full-on mattress and bathroom easily available. Go ahead an call me a pansy. It was wonderful.

And in other summer news, I bagged up my poofy winter clothes and shoved them under the bed, safely out of sight and mind. Symbolic! Satisfying! Space saving!

There's hardly any heroin in my life. We went to the park for a little pre-theater impromptu picnic in a park in a part of the city with a bit more character. As we were walking along the grass looking for a perfect spot, she (only half jokingly) said Be careful not to step on any used syringes. and I chuckled just as I turned my head to see a guy shooting up under a huge oak tree. He had the strap and the inconspicuous look and everything. I realized that I'd really only seen that sorta thing in a movie, and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad. On one hand, it's not the most pleasant reality in the world. On the other hand, it's real life baby.

Apparently I'm not an Economist reader. This makes me feel stupid. I was suprised to find the latest issue - in English! - in my local grocery store. So excited, that I tossed it in my basekt, genuinely interested in inflation and why it's back but not where I think. So far I think I've read about three pages of the thing. I just can't get excited about the world this week.

The AK-47 assault rifle has only seven moving parts. It's that simplicity combined with devastating firepower that has made it such a well recognized symbol of both revolution and terrorism around the world. I've been reading a very interesting book about the history of the AK. Maybe that's why I haven't been reading The Economist.

Having an office at work with a door I can close makes me happy and more productive. And upgrading from a eMac (single hamster) to an iBook (hamster duo) didn't hurt either. My new favorite position is: feet up on the windowsill, laptop on corner of desk just a few degrees from my center, watching the big maple tree wiggle to the wind ouside our big ol' windows, while thinking thinking thinking and writing writing writing.

I can make my own salsa, and making my own salsa makes me happy. It's delicious! I don't know why I didn't do this sooner. The thing about salsa is, you just can't get it (at least not the fresh, non-jar stuff) anywhere around Hamburg. So I looked up some recipes on the web, and found what I should of realized from the beginning: that it's just a bunch of veggies chopped up in a bowl. Duh. So I got a bunch of veggies, a bowl, and a knife, and made it happen. Here's my silly recipe, which I proudly call Salsa1 (sounds like it comes from the Mexican space program):

4 big tomatoes chopped into little pieces.
1/4 cup white onion chopped into little pieces.
1/2 cup cilantro chopped onto little pieces.
1 clove of garlic chopped into tiny pieces or mashed in garlic press.
Some spicy pepper of some sort... enough so it's spicy but not ridiculous.
Mix everything together.
Eat.

Upon further eating, I've decided that I may need to add another quarter cup of onion and one more clove of garlic. And maybe some more spicy pepper. But damn, son - that shit is good. Fresh salsa rules!

Why I must leave this country immediately.

I brought my baseball glove and baseball to the picnic on Saturday, but for a while we couldn't play catch because Sergio, the only other person in Germany with a baseball glove, had to leave for a bit to go look at an apartment and the glove was in his bag. Though really it wouldn't have mattered if he left it, since he's a left, and this was an otherwise right-handed shindig. We're not prejudiced; it just worked out that way.

But then Sebastian had a brilliant brainstorm: why don't we hop on our bikes and ride down the street to the sporting goods store and buy anther glove? I expressed skepticism. It's hard to find a baseball glove in this country - I know because I've tried. Love for baseball seems to be limited to America, Japan, and a few countries in South America. I've looked around a bit, and never found a good source. Oh come on, said Sebastian. Of course they'll have them.

So we hopped on our bikes, rode through the park, out onto the street and into downtown. Weaving with precision between mere pedestrians, from street to street to the bike rack, we locked our bikes with the clink-clank efficiency of a machine. I began to feel optimisic. My search before had been lazy at best. And we were going to a real sporting goods store. This would be easy. We were unstoppable! We entered the mall and bounded down the escalator into the underground store. All the signs of success were there. Racks of Gore-tex, shelves of shoes, balls of all shapes and sizes. This is going to be brilliant, I thought. In a total of ten minutes, we will have acquired a second glove and a beautiful game of catch will ensue. And in the corner, on the bottom of the rack, I saw the baseball gloves.

Kneeling down towards our prize, I could already deduce that these were not the finest gloves in the world, but that their reasonable price (a mere 17 euros!), decent construction, and lack of baseball experience amongst my compatriots would ensure that one of these gloves would fit the bill nicely. It was perfect. I extended my eager hand. But there was something wrong that caused me to pull it back. Some disturbance in the force. A million voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. This was a left-handed glove. And so was the next one. And the next. They were all left-handed gloves! I was kneeling in front of what could possibly be every single baseball glove in the country, and they were all lefties. How could this be?

For those of you who don't know because you are with the terrorists, the thing about baseball gloves is that you wear them on your non-dominant hand. So if you're right-handed like me and most of the world, you put your oh-so-non-symmetrical baseball glove on your left hand, and you throw with your right. If you're left-handed, you can't just strap on a standard baseball glove; you need a left-handed glove that goes on your right hand. I know, I know, it's confusing daddy. But this is just the way it is and always has been. My right-handed glove goes on my left hand. My brother's left-handed glove would go on his right hand if he were a bad-ass catch-playing motherfucker like myself*. But of course, since like 99.99 percent of the population is right-handed, it's really hard to find a left-handed glove (or a suitable chair/desk combination when it's time to take smeary notes in class). If this had been Larry's Left-Handed Sporting Goods Store, I wouldn't have been so shocked. But it wasn't.

As I uttered expletives, as the shock set in, Sebastian started off to find someone to help us. But of course the store was suddenly devoid of help. He found one tall guy standing next to the information counter and dove in, asking for "baseball handschuhe**" I don't sprechen, so I don't know for sure, but it seems like the conversation went something like this:

Sebastian: Excuse me, do you guys have baseball gloves?

Salesguy: No.

Sebastian: Oh. Well, we found some over there, but they're all for left handers.

Salesguy: Oh. Well, those are all we have then.

Sebastian and I looked at each other. This was a rather unsatisfying bit of dialogue coming from a guy I wasn't sure we could trust. He lacked a certain dedication; his pasty white skin and oddly baggy sweatshirt betrayed any sporting confidence he may have had. He wasn't exactly what I would call athletic. And I'm pretty sure he rolled his eyes when Sebastian said the word 'baseball'. Attitude! In fact, neither of us were sure if homeboy actually worked at the store.

This just can't be, I told Sebastian. Do you know how hard it would be to find FOUR left handed gloves in The States? And this place has ONLY THOSE FOUR! What we needed was some knowledgeable in-store guidance, and pronto. So we hightailed it over to an older woman with bifocal glasses, a price scanning gun, standing behind a cash register. She looked at us and her eyes said BRING IT ON BITCHES! So Sebastian asked about the baseball handschuhe. She tilted her head back slowly, letting the challenge sink in, no doubt considering her options. This was our girl. She grabbed the phone and sprechened the Deutsch, machine gun style to whoever was on the other end of the line. Ten seconds later, she hung up and told us to meet a guy right over there who could save us. She found us a guy. Our guy. I wanted to kiss her on the mouth. I refrained.

Unfortunately, this guy was no better than the first. Short and pudgy, with facial hair that was trying way too hard, he looked like the kind of guy who would tell you all about the latest carbon fiber cycling accessories, but then smoke a cigarette while he rides. I would guess he was about sixteen and has never seen the world outside of the tiny German village he came from, and the utopian embrace of Hamburg. And he most certainly didn't know a damn thing about baseball, or helping customers for that matter. We stepped onto the mound with questions and needs, he saddled up to the plate like an overweight catcher with a hang over and an impending divorce.

Sebastian: We're looking for baseball gloves.

Pudgy: Yeah, right over here.

The Pudgster waltzed over to the four lefties, and slid one on his right hand.

Sebastian: Yes. But those are all left-handed gloves.

Pudgy (looking at the glove on his right hand, and then at us like we were the idiots): No. Look. Right hand.

Waterboarding is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. This was torture.

Sebastian: No, look, it says here on the tag that it's a left-handed glove.

Pudgy: That tag must be wrong.

I'm not making this up. If there were guns in Germany, I would have gone on a shooting spree. I tried to explain.

Me: No, see, if you're right-handed like me, you wear the glove on the left hand, and throw with your right.

I mimed the CATCHING and the THROWING. Pudgy looked at me. He looked at the glove. He took the left-handed glove off his right hand and tried, like a monkey with a rubiks cube, to put it on his right. Obviously, it wouldn't work. I wondered if he was going to stand there (slouch, really) and tell the American how a baseball glove works. Fortunately for all of us, he changed his strategy.

Pudgy: We don't have it then.

Yeah, thanks for the update genius.

Salesguy Number One had recommended another store to try, so with our proverbial tails between our actual legs, Sebastian and I walked back out into the world, without a whole lot of optimism. The second store was fancier than the first, but yielded nothing. We looked around ourselves, found nothing, and then asked a sales guy. Before Sebastian got to the second l in baseball, the guy was already shaking his head with a smirk.

I'm sure that when a young Ghandi first stepped (bare) foot onto western soil, at some point there was a moment where he realized that it just wasn't the place where he belonged (what tasteless advertising asshole blogger compares himself to Ghandi, even as a joke? This one, apparently). I dare say I have a decent understanding of how he must have felt in that moment. I have lots and lots of love in my heart for Deutschland, but there's this feeling I get every time I have to explain why I don't like beer. Or what the word 'douchebag' means. Or how a baseball glove works.






* He doesn't play catch, but he has other bad-ass motherfucking qualities, BELIEVE YOU ME.

** That's right the word for 'glove' literally translates into 'hand shoe'

Summer singlespeed update.

tubes
tires
those anti-flat-tire-strip things that go between the tire and tube (I put some on my Bergamont commuter a year ago, and haven't gotten a flat tire since - totally rad!)

Purchased and installed! I bought Continental 26" slicks and a thing of baby powder to make everything slide together and stay dry. In my (limited, wimpy) experience, it really is the secret weapon when it comes to tires and tubes as it is the original "dry lubricant". Only problem is my roommate Birgit is going to think I'm slinging cocaine since I'm tracking fine white powder all over the apartment.

fork
headset
stem

On order. Or at least the fork is, and the nice guy at the bike shop down the street said he had to order the fork and that the stem and headset are always in stock. I got to choose the color - matte black - and it'll be the correct length for a frame built for suspension. It'll have V brake mounts. Yay! It'll be here in two weeks. Boo!

The rest of the list is looking a lot more manageable since Ricardo sent me a link to Singlespeedshop. Holy crap, they've got everything! All I need to do now is learn the German terms for all the bike parts.

Gabeln = forks
Ketten = chains
Kurbel = crank
Innenlager = bottom bracket
Lenker = bar
Naben = hubs
Ritzel = cog
Steuersätze = headset
Vorbauten = stem
Zubehör = accessories

At the moment I'm filling my spare time up by looking for a crank/chain/cog combo. But I'm having trouble figuring out what width bottom bracket axle will create a proper (whereby 'proper' I mean 'straight') chainline. There seem to be hardly any options are a bunch of options - from 100 to 130mm - and I'll have to get the right one the first time since, there isn't any room for adjustment in this setup.

And once I get the bottom bracket, I add the crank, and who knows where it's going to put the chainring in relation to the chainline? I'm skeered!

The bikes of summer.

MikeAndTiff have a garage full of bike parts and lots of love in their hearts, so when they heard me waxing economical about my difficulty in finding a single speed bicycle that is both super cool and reasonably priced, they offered to donate a frame, wheel set, and more to the Dan P Mobility Fund. So as I type this, my new-to-me, well-loved Santa Cruz Chameleon frame and a pile of parts are hanging out behind me, waiting to become a part of something a little more meaningful.

I'd like to state for the record that this is exactly the right way to add a single speed slash fixie bicycle to one's stable. Since this style of bicycle is so incredibly popular right now (man, who could have seen that coming?) it's getting harder and harder to build one out of used parts, and easier and easier to buy a brand new one from a big bike company. And there's certainly nothing wrong with the latter option - I considered it myself. In fact Kona nearly took 600 of my euros to the bank in exchange for a copy of their Paddy Wagon. I went as far as scheduling a test ride and waiting around the bike shop on a busy Friday evening for someone to help me get it out onto the sidewalk. I left my wallet as collateral, and took to the sidewalk. But it just didn't feel right.

It's a very nice package, the Paddy Wagon. It looks good and rides solidly. I'd switch the drops for a set of narrow flat bars, get it fitting right with the right stem and saddle, add some mounts lights, and ride it all summer long. But there was something missing.

And something is character. A bike you buy at a shop is delicious and filling, but it would take months for it to be as satisfying as something I've built up myself from a combination of old parts from my closet, old parts from MikeaAndTiff's garage, and the shiny new ones I'll buy myself. It's the difference between baking from a box and baking from scratch.

Anyways, parts not in that pile that I'll be purchasing in the weeks to come include the following:

fork
headset
stem

tubes
tires
those anti-flat-tire-strip things that go between the tire and tube (I put some on my Bergamont commuter a year ago, and haven't gotten a flat tire since - totally rad!)

saddle
seat post

crank
bottom bracket
chain
cog
pedals

brake pads
cable and housing for front brake

(Man, I didn't realize how many bike parts there are on a bike until I started building one up piece by piece)

Since I'm a girl on a budget, I can't buy everything all at once. So I organized the parts into groups so I can do the purchasing in phases. I figure the first thing I need to do is take the frame to a bike shop so they can figure out what (rigid, inexpensive) fork is best for the geometry, and then I'll just buy the front end stuff, and have them install the headset cups. I'll put stuff together and bring the frame back home. Then it'll just be one group of stuff at a time until I can ride that mofo home.

The thing about building bikes is you need special tools - a press for the headset cups, wrench for the bottom bracket, chain thing for the chain, others that I can't think of because I've never really done this before. I have to figure out which of those tools are worth buying based on how often I plan on building up a bike. Good tools are pretty expensive of course... and once I get the tires and tubes on the wheels, it'll be easy to just roll the thing back and forth between home and the bike shop. So for the moment, I think I'll just wimp out and have the shop do it for me. Then again, self sufficiency is a virtue. Then again, a pile of heavy single purpose tools may conflict with my somewhat nomadic lifestyle.

Anyways, the only time I really get to hang out at bike shops is on Saturdays. If I can tackle one group each Saturday, then it should take about five weeks to put the whole thing together. Then again, my experience with the local bike shops in Hamburg is that they never have what I want, but are happy to order it for me and call me when it arrives in a week or so. So this may take a while. But no matter - I've got a (mostly) working bike to ride around in the meantime, and it'll be fun to watch the little dude grow into an adult bicycle with some pizzaz as the weeks go on. Exciting!

Now that Spring has sprung.

Slept until nine this morning, woke up to blue sky, sunshine, and stillness. Opened up all the windows in the apartment. Made a perfect cup of coffee, made brownies for the picnic that we're having this afternoon. Sergio said bring your baseball glove to the park. You can be sure I will. Listening to music.

Had a solidly good first week at the new job. Starting to think that maybe things really are okay. Maybe I'm the only one with control over my mood, my destiny. And maybe...

just maybe...

I'm

(gasp!)

happy.

(and that sunshine sure does help)

Decisions, decisions...

A few months ago my friend Caroline convinced me that one should always take a day off from work on one's birthday. It didn't take much convincing... in fact all it took was a simple demonstration.

So here I am sitting in my room in my pajamas with my feet up on this, my day of birth. It's Tuesday, and the sun is shining in Hamburg. The sky is blue, there's a cool breeze blowing, and I have the whole day ahead of me. What am I going to do with it?

I'm writing and re-writing a list in my head of possibilities and desires; there are a few things that keep popping up consistently: do a little writing (check!) go outside, and buy something fun for myself. As long as I go shopping in the real world and not online, the outside part will be taken care of, so that leaves me with this question: what should I buy?

Top of the list is a PlayStation 3. Tom came to visit and we drove to the Nürburgring and got a ride around the track, and ever since, the car guy in me has been jumping up and down in my brain trying to get me to play with him. Seated in that black 911 GT3, hugged by six point harnesses and watching german forest fly past me at great speed, I began to form a plan that would enable me to drive the track and feel good about it. The plan goes like this:

1. Buy a PlayStation 3 and Gran Turismo.
2. Pick a weekend several months into the future, book a rental race car and a spot in the BMW Ring Taxi.
3. Drive the virtual Nordschleife over and over again until I have it memorized.
4. Go to Nürburgring and drive the rented race car on it, feel like a god, and fulfill a life-long dream.

The good news is that Saturn, the Circuit City of Deutschland, sells the PS3 and Gran Turismo 5 Prologue as a package! But there's a bunch of bad news:

* That's the prologue, not the complete game, which won't be out for a few months.
* The prologue doesn't have the Nürburgring. GT5 will have it, but no one seems to know when GT5 will be released
* It's 399 euros. That's a lot!

Still, one look at the videos of GT5P is nearly enough to convince me to shower up and head on down to Saturn RIGHT NOW. Oops, I just watched video that opens the GT5P site, and now I'm thinking of skipping the SHOWER. Could there be a more perfect birthday present for a 32 year old kid to buy himself? Maybe I'll just ride my bike over to Saturn and check it out... maybe I'll bring my big shoulder bag just in case...

A day of firsts.

Today is the first day I've made coffee on my own in quite some time. And the first time in a long time may not TECHNICALLY be a first, but it's been long enough that I'm sitting here thinking damn, I should have done this years ago even though TECHNICALLY it's only been weeks. Sometimes everything is a matter of technicalities, I suppose.

What happened weeks ago that made me make coffee was this: Tom came to visit me, and in doing so became the first person in the friend, non-family-member category to come see me in Deutschland. And we had a great old time. Okay, so maybe he didn't come just to see me, maybe he really just came to pick up his brand new, silver, four-door, BMW 335i (see? technicalities!)... but he drove it to my house and we hung out for four days, which was totally rad. We went to the Nürburgring via the autobahn, which was also totally rad.

Tom gets major points not only for the quality of his purchase (that's a pretty sweet ride), but also for understanding that even though my friend from a hundred years ago was in town and sleeping on my futon (technically, it's my roommate's futon; NOTE TO SELF: buy Birgit flowers), a brother still has to go to work every day. Indeed, if I had asked JvM for a few more days off in what is already major vacation time, no doubt they would have offered a few days + the rest of my career, you slacker lame-ass. So GO TOM for a) understanding and b) entertaining yourself while I was doing the work thing.

The other first (I've already finished the coffee; it was fantastic, and in a very small glass, which is probably for the best) is this: I'm starting work at a new group within JvM today. After a year-and-a-half or so in one unit, it's time for a change of scenery. The new group differs from the old group in many ways, including the following:

1. it's way bigger. Like 80 people instead of 15.

2. It's way more German. As in they sprechen the Deutsch all the time, as opposed to just when arguing during meetings (which I understand... it's way easier to argue in your native tongue). Obviously, this is going to be quite challenging. In fact it may not work at all.

3. It's way more machine like. Meaning they pump out work like some sort of caffeinated, 24-hour advertising factory as opposed to the lazy/crazy/lazy/crazy up-and-down-ness of my old spot. Peek under the hood of this machine, and you'll see lots of internal competition, high revs, and lots of pressure. And the occasional flame-spitting backfire.

So this is why I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night, which is why my little eyeballs popped open around 6am, which is why I had plenty of time to make coffee, and contemplate this day of firsts. So much has been going on with me lately* - trip to Italy, Ritter Sport Challenge, VIP passes to the German Touring Car Championship at Hockenheim, Tom's visit, two weeks in America, Spring finally springing, etc. - that it would be easy for this coffee thing to slip under the radar. But after a few weeks of GO GO GO, it's time to for a little home-made coffee and contemplation. Technically speaking, it's exactly what I need.


* I plan to blog on all of this**.

** Promise***.

*** No, really.

Ritter Sport Review #4

Flavor:

Marc de Champagne (Milk chocolate with champagne filling)

Sweetness: 0 out of 5

Yuck! Gross! Blech! I practically spit this one out the moment I opened the package (dramatic!). I don't really like alcohol flavor in chocolate, and I don't like champagne at all. So I suppose you could say that my relationship with this chocolate bar was doomed from the start. Nevertheless, I popped a square into my talking hole as a conciliatory gesture; an effort to preempt any ill-will between me and this chocolate. What a mistake. I should have tossed it out the window. The aroma is BAD, the flavor is BAD, the aftertaste is BAD. The chocolate is okay, but the filling is awful, and the whole thing is so sharply sweet it was like chewing on tacks. And there must be a lot of alcohol in there because it does that thing that alcohol does - it wafts up into your sinus cavity and stings. Bah! Fuck you Marc de Champagne!

Texture: 4 out of 5

Okay, so despite the fact that this bar is basically disgusting, I can't fault it's texture too much. The milk chocolate is soft, but not too soft. The champagne filling is a little too soft (boo) but at least it's not liquid (yay!). Liquid _whatever_ in chocolate usually bugs the crap out of me. So given all that, I'm bestowing upon this bar four points for texture. It should probably be three, but I'm feeling a little guilty since there are so many zeroes surrounding the four..

Devourability: 0 out of 5

I didn't even finish this one. I think I had two squares. Ew.


Frequency: 0 out of 5

Yeah.

Overall: 4 out of 20, but only because I'm a nice guy.

Ritter Sport Review #3

Flavor:

Pfefferminz (Dark chocolate with peppermint filling)

FULL DISCLOSURE: This is already one of my favorites.

Sweetness: 4 out of 5

Hot damn! The combination of dark chocolate and perfect peppermint delecticality makes for a near-perfect balance of sweetness. If I at too many squares at once, it would probably be too sweet; but one at a time, and it's like little squares of heaven.

Texture: 5 out of 5

The chocolate has exactly the right bite, and the peppermint is smooth as hell. It's minty perfection. It's refreshment times sixteen. I want to fuck this chocolate bar.

Devourability: 4 out of 5

Yep, this one didn't last too long, though like i said above, I can't eat it too fast. But that's really more of a beauty mark than a mole.

Frequency: 5 out of 5

I could eat this every day until the end of time, if only because it makes my pee smell like peppermint. Seriously.

Overall: 18 out of 20

Ritter Sport Review #2

Flavor:

Erdbeer Joghurt (milk chocolate with strawberry yogurt filling)

Sweetness: 3 out of 5

Wow, this mofo is sweet. The chocolate is sweet, the fruity filling is sweet, it's all just a tornado of sweetness stabbing me in the throat. Not as obnoxious as some cheap POS chocolate bar, but too sweet for me.

Texture: 4 out of 5

The chocolate is creamy, the yogurt is creamy, and the crispies are crispy. Crispies? Yes. What I thought were little rice crispies are in fact, according to Ricardo, who always seems to know about these kinds of things, dried strawberries. Clever! And a delightfully contrasty addition. I like. The whole thing feels light and Spring-y... though ironically, it's not part of the Spring collection.

Devourability: 2 out of 5

It's tasty, but a little too sweet for me to want to shove the whole thing in my gullet all at once. This one needs to be enjoyed in small bits over time.

Frequency: 1 out of 5

You know what doesn't belong in chocolate? Fruit. Here, they've done a nice job of putting together two things that don't go together... but still. No.

Overall: 10 out of 20

Yeah, this was a fun little trip into girly chocolate territory. But I'm ready to take off the dress and have a Halbbitter.

Ritter Sport Review #1!

Flavor:

Mandelsplitter Bio (milk chocolate with chopped almonds, organic)

Sweetness: 4 out of 5

I'm really a dark chocolate guy, but I dig Ritter Sport's milk chocolate because it's not too sugary sweet (like Milka) and it tastes like real chocolate, and not like chocolate's plasticky cousin from LA who visits for the weekend to mess up your apartment and do drugs on your coffee table (like Hershey). So I'll give it a good sweetness rating because for milk chocolate, it's the right level of sweetocity.

Texture: 2 out of 5

This bugged me - the almonds are chopped too fine, and there are too many of them. Too many almonds! It was like having a mouth full of ground up wood (I've always found the almond to be the woodiest of nuts). The chocolate texture was perfect, though. Like I said, Ritter Sport does milk good.

Devourability: 3.5 out of 5

Despite the texture issues, once I started I couldn't stop. Maybe it's the mix of salty (the almonds, of course) and sweet (the chocolate, duh) that kept my fingers in a strict back and forth pattern. My half bar only lasted as long as it takes to walk from my office, downstairs, across the street, and up the elevator. About four minutes, I think.

Frequency: 2 out of 5

Yeah, I'm not going to be buying this one too often. Or ever, I think. But if you have one, I'll take a square or two. Thanks in advance!

Overall: 11.5 out of 20

I liked it, but it didn't change my life. It had a one thing going against it from the very beginning - that it's milk chocolate instead of dark. And adding almonds and making the whole thing organic just couldn't overcome that hurdle.

And here's a link to Shelley's review.

The Great Rittersport Challenge of 2008

I'm pleased to announce that both Shelley (fellow former MAS'er, current co-worker, long-time bad-ass) and I have decided to join together and take our love for all things sweet, more specifically our addiction to chocolate (the first step is admitting it to yourself), to the next level. Starting today (Monday), we are embarking upon our very own Ritter Sport Challenge. The goal (if you could really call it a goal) is to eat one Ritter Sport candy bar a day until we've tasted allannals the Ritter Sports that Ritter Sport currently offers. It's an undertaking that we're willing to... er... undertake because we love you, dear reader, and we want you to know what all the flavors are, if only vicariously through us. You're welcome.

But we're not just going to try each one, we're going to keep track so that each flavor will be properly (ha!) documented and entered into the annuls of human history as is befitting of such a righteous candy bar. Which is a fancy way of saying that I'm going to use this as an excuse to blog, and Shelley's going to sketch stuff with her superfly illustration skillz.

So if we're going to rate each bar, we need some sort of criteria, right? Right! We'll rate each one with the following criteria:


Sweetness. Is it sugary and sweet like someone from San Diego, or is it dark and bitter like a JvM employee?

Texture. What does the chocolate feel like in your mouth? How does it 'bite' and how does it melt? is it gooey or crunchy or both? And more importantly, do you like it that way?

Devourablility. Are you satisfied with a little nip every now and then? Or do you want to cram that motherfucker in your mouth as fast as possible?

Frequency. Is this the kinda thing you're going to eat everyday? Or is this a once-in-a-while, just-because-it's-Tuedsay sorta thing?


So each day, we'll try a flavor, write down what we think rate it with the criteria, and post it. In the end, we'll have something approaching a complete review of the entire Ritter Sport product line, which I think we can all agree has been needed for some time now.

And since this is a web-based endeavor, I've created a FAQ for your viewing pleasure; partly to answer any questions ya'll might have, and partly because I just think it's funny to have a FAQ containing questions that no one has actually asked; I just made them up completely. Irony alert!


FAQ:

So, you're just doing this so you can eat chocolate everyday and not feel bad about it right?

Yes. That and both Shelley and I share a genuine desire to taste all the different flavors RRitter Sport has to offer so that when we're with friends in the grocery store, and they ask if we've tried this flavor or that, we can say "Yeah, sure, I've tried that one" and dismiss it like some super hipster chocolate god.

Are the flavors really that different?

We're gonna find out. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, with/out nuts, fruity, alcoholly... there's a lot of flavors. And each package is a different color. Pretty!

Come on Dan, we all know you eat one Ritter Sport per day. Haven't you had all the flavors by now?

It's true, I eat them all the time. But I'm not just a gluttonous pig - I'm also a creature of habit. That means I've really only sampled a few flavors often enough to really form an opinion about them - Marzipan, Halbitter, Edel Bitter, Mousse au Chocolat, Pfefferminz are the ones I eat all the time. The rest are like Ringo Starr songs: I have an idea of what they'll be like, but I'm pretty sure I won't like them.

Well, how many flavors are there?

33! That's a lot!


Okay, we ordered (from Ritter Sports fab website http://Ritter Sport.de/) the Kennenlern-Paket (the "get acquainted package") which comes with the 19 standard flavors...

Voll Erdnuss (milk chocolate with whole peanuts)
Knusperflakes (milk chocolate with cornflakes)
Weisse Voll-Nuss (white chocolate with whole nuts)
Cappucino (milk chocolate with coffee flavor filling)
Voll-Nuss (milk chocolate with hazelnuts)
Knusperkeks (milk chocolate with caramel and a cookie)
Trauben Nuss (not sure what this one is)
Dunkel Voll-Nuss (dark chocolate with hazelnuts)
Halbbitter (bittersweet)
Rum Trauben Nuss (rum chocolate with nuts and raisins)
Marzipan (dark chocolate with marzipan filling)
Erdbeer Joghurt (milk chocolate with strawberry yogurt filling)
Edel-Bitter (dark chocolate - 71%)
Nugat (milk chocolate with nougat filling)
Vollmilch (whole milk milk chocoate)
Aplenmilch (milk chocolate made with milk from the Alps?)
Pfefferminz (dark chocolate with peppermint filling)
Dunkle Vollmilch (dark and milk chocolate)
Ganze Mandel (milk chocolate with almonds)
a la Mousse au Chocolat (dark chocolate with mousse filling)
Cocos (milk chocolate with coconut filling)
Joghurt (milk chocolate with plain yogurt filling)

Plus, there's the Frühlingssorten (the Spring assortment), which we're going to have to buy on our own.

Marc de Champagne Trüffel (champagne truffle)
Eierlikör Trüffel (egg nog truffle)
Ramazzoti Trüffel (Ramazzoti truffle)

And then there's the Diät (diet, of course) flavors, which we'll reluctantly try, and sneer at because if we were into this half-hearted lightweight low impact diet bullshit we probably wouldn't be doing this whole shindig in the first place.

Diät Vollmilch (milk chocolate)
Diät Nugat (milk chocolate with nougat)
Diät Joghurt (milk chocolate with plain yogurt)
Diät Halbbiter (dark chocolate)

Last but not least is the Bio selection. This is a recent addition to the Ritter Sport selection. "Bio" is German for organic and fair trade, so these are the Earth-friendly Ritter Sports, I suppose. Curiously, the bars are smaller (65g instead of 100g), and even curiously-er, Shelley seems to think that the Bio bars and the Diät bars are the same. Not so! New group. And here they are:

Mandelsplitter (milk chocolate and almonds)
Vollmilch (whole milk)
Trauben Cashew (still don't know)
Feinherb (dark chocolate)


So that's it for now! I look forward to posting a fresh new Ritter Sport review soon. Delicious!

344 words on why my new-to-me Porsche jacket is awesome.

As part of her never-ending quest to get rid of everything, mom gave me one of dad's old jackets. It's this totally awesome black, lightweight, poofy, wind-proof jacket with a fake fur collar, multi-colored piping, and a Porsche patch. The reasons I love this jacket are as follows:

1. It's actually really vintage, and I know this is true.

You know how you go into the vintage clothing store and you see all these clothes that you love because you think they're from a different era, and have had a life leading up to the day you find them? Well, how do you know this is true? Call me paranoid, but since the vintage crazy began, I've had an image in my head of devious shop owners buying new clothes that have been made to look old, roughing them up, adding a few patches, and jacking up the price. And even if that's not true*, what is true is that you don't know the history or even if there is a history. The elbow patch on that intriguingly worn army-issue jacket may be covering a hole that developed from frequent masturbation to "mature" porn. WELL, there are no such shenanigans here! This here is a genuine 80's-style jacket from the actual 80s. Dad bought it and wore it for twenty years.

2. The fucking fat/phat fake fur collar is both fun and functional.

Looks great, keeps my neck warm, feels oh-so-nice against my soft and girly skin. And no cute n' furry animals died in the making.

3. Porsches are rad cars.

This is indisputable.

I wore it for the first time today; it kept me toasty warm all the way to the Knuth Cafe & Bar where I am currently sitting. I didn't see any other jackets like this one on the walk over... having an un-trendy father is most certainly a blessing.

* or perhaps I should say even though this notion is completely ridiculous