…because she played the oboe*. (However, she should probably not play with kiddos about).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fi7Y6MFWns“We have spawned the devil!”
* The oboe bit is about halfway in.
Conversations with a German-Speaking bot.
December 19, 2007 by
Naturally, when I saw this, I had to try it. The results:
me: merry christmas
en2de: Frohe Weihnachten
me: are you going to the christmas market?
en2de: Werden Sie den Weihnachtsmarkt?
me: did you bring the camel?
en2de: Haben Sie bringen das Kamel?
Which reminded me of something else I’ll yank out of the rerun file (originally entitled “Use Your Words” and published on September 22, 2004):
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Why is it that the words we remember best in foreign languages are invariably the most useless? Occasionally, I have dreams of polishing the rust off of my French, of expanding my understanding of German beyond it’s current 30-word limit. Sometimes, I even think it would be nice to finally learn Norwegian. Then I contemplate the actual meaning and quantity of the foreign-language words I currently possess. In French, it is conceivable that I could still embarrass myself creditably. After all, I studied the language for about six years (though those six years were many, many eons ago now). I used to brush up my French by reading advanced children’s books like the Le Petit Nicolas series. Then I found the first two Harry Potter books in French translation and thought it would be a good idea to use those to help me refresh my French.
Turns out that wasn’t such a hot idea. It took me ages to get through the first two chapters of the first book, and as a result I now have the perfectly useless word “perceuse” stuck fast in my brain. It means drill. Harry’s nasty uncle is a drill salesman – reading the book in English, I was never aware of the repetition of the word. But in French, oh – I frustrated myself with how often I looked it up. The first time or two I read it and looked it up, my helpfully discriminating brain said, “You won’t need that,” and promptly forgot it. That was a mistake. Having had to look it up a few more times, now I will never forget it. So – if you go to Paris with me, be sure to take me to a hardware store.
I visited Germany in Christmas in 1996. So, if you say, “Fro Weihnachten” to me while offering me gluhwein, we’re good. I can say “please” and “thank you.” I can even say “excuse me.” I can count to ten. I’m like Sesame Street auf Deutsch! While in a train station, I can tell the Eingang (entrance) from the Ausfahrt (exit). (Upon arrival at one of many train stations during that trip, one of my companions said, “I forget – do we gang or fahrt?”) So obviously, I’m a terror in German. Hold me back.
My Norwegian is the most laughable. Thanks to my late Norwegian grandmother, I can tell you I love you. Of far less utility, I can say “bread” and “butter.” I have no verbs with which to ask for the bread and butter, nor can I tell you where to shove the bread and butter. But then again, I can say “thank you very much” after being offered bread and butter. It’s not that useless after all – I can write a little Viking monologue: “Brot! Smur!! Tusen takk.” Applause…
Thank you, thank you – you’re beautiful – I’m here all week. Try the bread and butter.
Update to my post on that cable company whose name rhymes with “bombast”
December 18, 2007 by
- The problem, it was OUTSIDE.
- I got a blog visitor for the previous post from Tamil Nadu, India, linked through Buzzmetrics “Threat Tracking.” They even outsource their paranoia.
Comcast is a Four-Letter Word. (No, really.)
December 17, 2007 by
We have had three different visits from Comcast techs since late November. Three. Two to the insides of our house, which of course requires one of us to wait around during “normal business hours” (read: when we really should be elsewhere) chained to the house so we can let a guy stomp around, twiddle wires, check screens, and finally inform us (again) that the problem is not inside our house.Â
The last visit, coming to some unit outside our home, was supposed to fix things once and for all (ha). Saturday dawned to find us with crippled television service – channel outages, pixellated picture, intermittent sound. We are familiar with these issues, since they are the ones that caused us to call in the past.
One more unto the breach, dear friends, and fill up the wall with our wasted time on hold. I finally get one of the two species of Comcast call-center types: the obsequious-to-the-point-of-condescension “The customer is always right, but I’m going to stick it to her anyway” variety. He informs me that I will need to be home for a visit from a tech.Â
“No.” I say. “We’ve had two visits from techs within a month, and every time it’s not an issue inside our house.”Â
My new friend understands my frustration. He comisserates with me. He needs to send a tech to my house (Comcast’s motto? “Returning to Square One is more than a job: it’s a vocation.”). “No,” I respond again. “It seemed to be fixed when they did the outside work, but now it’s not working again. Nothing has changed inside our house, but I can’t say that the same holds for the outside. Send the techs that work on the outside.”Â
My new friend’s sympathy knows no bounds. He would carry my burdens a thousand miles for me if only he could. He needs to send a tech to my house. “No,” I respond again. “I’m going to be looking into my options with satellite. I have, in two words, had it. Goodbye.”
Those who know me well might imagine fire emitting from my nostrils, bringing gentle warmth to the blue air produced by the sounds coming from my mouth. Not so, say I. For I remained calm. Zen, in fact. Until Sunday.
Sunday dawned cold and rainy. I was the first one up, and noticed the cable light on the modem emitting an ominous blink, blink. Oh. No. Television outage? Meh. We shouldn’t watch so much teevee. We have DVDs. We have books. Inner resources, you might say. Internet outage? No, we shall not speak of it. It is not to be thought of. I reboot the system completely, hoping my usual tech-fu will answer.
Blink, blink.
I am trying to get past the automatic telephone-bot on the internet side of the Comcast empire when John emerges from the bedroom. He objects to my patented method of getting past a voice-activated techbot, which consists of saying things like, “nononono, attendant. f***ing attendant, attendant, attendant. attendant now, f*** you, you piece of s*** machine. attendant.” I believe fervently in the combination of pre-emptive spleen-venting and confusion of the machine and adhere to the faith that it paves a swift path to a human being – or whatever passes for a human being in a Comcast call center (I have some personal theories about feces-flinging baser primates, but they are as yet not completely proven). John finds it distasteful to be subjected to such a foulmouthed rant before his coffee. I can only retort that he wasn’t the one who tried to reason with Comcast yesterday, only to find the problem had worsened overnight. Anyway. I tone it down a notch. My machine-confusing-fu yields a nice, helpful, yet completely useless woman who, upon learning that we’re also having TV issues (every single channel boasts Comcast’s version of the Blue Screen of Death, bearing the legend: “Please Stand by. This channel should be available shortly.” Ha.), informs me that since we deserve to have expedited service due to our history of issues, she needs to put me through to the TV side of the tech house since TV (but not internet) is considered an “essential service.”Â
Excuse me?
On second thought, never mind.Â
So, I put the handset of the phone on speaker and wait. In the latter half of my 1 hour (no lie) wait, John decides he’ll try to get hold of a manager on the internet side of the house and see if he can jump-start something. Here’s what we learned while I was on hold and he talked to Mr. Internet Tech Support Supervisor:
- They play exactly two songs in the hold queue for tv tech service. A saxophoney “smooth jazz” rendition of Burt Bacharach’s Look of Love and some Latin-esque tune with a sort of faux paso doble beat. (Badabadabung… chuggachuggachung… da, da, da, da dumbadumbadumb…)
- The internet people are in Canada. The tv people are local.
- The supervisors in Canada don’t have a direct link to the local supervisors.Â
- You can’t get priority-jumped into a queue, even if you’ve already waited in a different queue.
Here is what the combination of the above three factors leads me to believe: Comcast has constructed an elaborate web of interaction that is designed to drive their customers completely and utterly insane. An extra-padded cell is waiting if you, the customer, have any musical sensibility at all, for the combination of the two pieces of ersatz music on their hold queue is both random and tasteless, leading to the world’s most mind-bogglingly complex and maddening earworm.Â
Finally, a very whiny example of alleged humanity answers and tells me what Mr. Faux-Empathy told me yesterday. She also holds it against me that I told Mr. Faux-Empathy that I didn’t want a tech to come to the house.
“That was when I at least had internet service,” I growl. I ask politely for a supervisor. She tells me that none is available at the moment. I say, “Okay, then – we’re going to wait until one does come available.” She objects to this. I point out that I had to wait on hold for an hour – she has issues with me asking her to wait? My zen is fading fast. John takes the phone from me at about this point, probably fearing that I am going to make like Mona Shaw, only possibly upping the ante to power tools.
John extracts a promise from Ms. Whiny that her supervisor will call back. Said supervisor is allegedly named “Miss Bunny.”
Right.Â
At this point, I insist we get present-wrapping finished and boxes readied for mailing. It is, after all, the effing Festive Season. A few hours later, having no call from the mythical Mademoiselle du Lapin, I reaquaint myself with the works of Bacharach and Faux-Doble. The speaker-handset follows me around the house for another hour as I skein and wash handspun, do laundry, tidy my office, hang myself (okay, not quite that last one). It’s like having a really annoying and not-at-all cute puppy follow you around the house, requiring a constant, faint vigilence to ensure it doesn’t damage the carpet.
Finally, needing a shower and feeling slightly dazed from puppy-minding, I hand the little bleater off to John, figuring it’s well within the realm of possibility that after an hour of this I can probably get clean and dry and still manage to be the one who deals this time with whatever primate the endless Comcast lottery spits out. Ah, but no. John is the lucky one. He manages to get a supervisor pretty fast, and tells our tale of woe again, not omitting the fact that an unfulfilled promise of a return phone call from someone who has a name which sounds like an exotic dancer doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. (No, it’s apparently not her real name, but she does exist and that’s what her employees call her. Again, I say, “Right.”)
Upshot? A promised visit from a tech this evening, not requiring either of us to take vacation time. And it only took half our Sunday. What luck. Who wants to bet against the chance that the problem is outside? Anyone?
Right.
A few short bits about travel.
December 13, 2007 by
This year, the grandmothers in my life are getting simple, airy scarves made from kidsilk haze. Easy to knit, portable on airplanes, and nice warm bits of pretty fluff. I was finishing the second (for John’s Granny – actually out of kidsilk night – a deep lavender with flecks of silver, perfect for her) sitting next to a gentleman who had informed me that he has seven children. I admit, I boggled visibly when he told me he had seven children. At any rate, having finished the scarf and having large leftover amounts of pale pink and lavender sparkle kidsilk, I couldn’t resist swatching them together on the big needles I was using to see what resulted. When I saw the fluffy bit of luxury that was forming in my hands, I turned to Mr. Seven and asked if any of his daughters were into Barbie. When I found out that yes, they were, Mr. Seven went home with a very luxe little stole for Barbie. Perfect for those evenings at the opera, you know.
An airport-bound taxi in Manhattan took me through Columbus Circle, whereupon I saw they have a holiday market at the southwest tip of Central Park. I wanted to stop and wander, because it looked a lot like the Weihnachtsmarkts that I fell in love with in Germany (though surely minus the street vendors selling gluhwein). Unfortunately, there was no time. Always onward.
The last bit is only tangentially travel-related. Author Neil Gaiman was in the Philippines, where he conspired with a fan to help the fan propose to his girlfriend at a book signing via Neil’s inscription in her book. The video link is here. It’s terribly sweet and cute, in that “major life event – what is happening in two seconds to everyone else is clearly taking half an hour in their personal timeline.” Since the video isn’t always very clear, the description of the event by the fiance is here. If Neil Gaiman gets any nicer, he’s single-handedly going to improve the niceness average for the human race by several points.
From the Archives – the First of an Occasional Series
December 7, 2007 by
It’s that time of year again – people are talking about holiday music – their favorites, least favorites, songs of regret and longing, songs of holiday cheer. I’m a bit pressed for time, and I have found that searching my own archives from the old site is mostly borked (why? We may never know), so I have decided to occasionally dip into my past output and re-run it (possibly edited, possibly not). Therefore, I give you the post which originally ran on February 17, 2004, “The Third Bird Carnival” –
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I heard a piece on NPR yesterday in which a Filipino poet explained the premise of his new book. He had apparently misunderstood the lyrics of the Johnny Rivers song, “Secret Agent Man” for years. He thought it was “Secret Asian Man,” and it struck him as particularly apt, even after he learned his mistake.
There is something profoundly human in misunderstanding song lyrics – especially when it comes to rock. It is a universal story – just about everyone seems to have their own reconstruction of some popular song and usually the misunderstood lyrics are ridiculous to the point of absurdity. Somehow our brains seek to come up with some string of words that fit the sounds you can pick out, and wedge them in there with utterly human hubris, no matter how ludicrous the output. It’s the kind of universal experience that makes for good standup or sketch comedy (Cf. Wayne and Garth singing “There’s a Bathroom on the Right” to the tune of “Bad Moon on the Rise”). There is even a book: Marie once gave me this anthology of misunderstood song lyrics, appropriately entitled, “‘Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy.” (And oh – there is a sequel as well… even, appropriately enough, a holiday edition.)
In my own story of misunderstood lyrics, I don’t even have the excuse of thumping bass or yowling electric guitars to explain the misunderstanding: instead, I have to blame two factors: youth and context. I was about three years old and it was Christmas time. Those who know me know that I sing – in the car, around the house, to the animals – but those who have known me for a very long time know that I sang long before I could read. My mother couldn’t sing me lullabies – she has a beautiful voice, it wasn’t that I was a baby music critic – the problem was, as soon as she would begin singing, I would join in and delay going to sleep.
So, imagine: Advent, 1972. I was in church with Mom, and I was singing with all my heart along with the rest of the congregation. Suddenly, my mother started laughing. I was worried: had I hit a wrong note? What was so funny? She was finally able to explain to me in soft whispers that the lyrics to the song were, “Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel…” My misconstruction made as much sense to me as “Secret Asian Man” did to the Filipino poet (still does, actually – if you think like a three-year-old). I had been singing, “Free toys, free toys, Emmanuel…” I believe I thought Emmanuel might be a different name for Santa Claus.
Later on yesterday, after I had breakfasted with a friend and told her about the Secret Asian Man, we went into a Barnes & Noble. Another friend had reminded me of the existence of an omnibus edition of the works of James Thurber, and I wanted my own copy. Since I didn’t find it right away, I sought out an employee – eager to help, but not familiar with the works of early/middle twentieth-century humorists. I explained what I wanted – I told him the title and added that it was a collection of works by the humorist, James Thurber. I spoke slowly and carefully. There was no musical accompaniment, rock or otherwise. He retreated to his inventory computer and typed swiftly. Perhaps he’s a Secret Asian Man, because his search was for “The Third Bird Carnival.”
Overheard at Our House
December 4, 2007 by
“She looks like the dark haired woman… from that tv show that was really big?”
Yeah. That’s helpful.
Holiday Wrap-Up.
December 4, 2007 by
We had an amusing weekend – John’s all for getting a Christmas tree at the earliest opportunity, so we went off to our usual tree vendor and got ourselves a fine, fragrant little evergreen.
Here’s a shot of John finishing it off (he loves that I take a picture of his butt every year).
Of course, having a new kitten in the household means some amount of anxiety about trimming a tree. Over the years we have collected a wide variety of ornaments, and we have a system: the really delicate ones go up at the top, and there is a sort of graduated arrangement whereby the sturdiest ones hang at cat-height. The older cats really couldn’t care less about the tree, but we’ve kept to this scheme over the years just in case. At first blush, Milo gave us his most innocent pose:
“Who, me?”
Then he was clearly intrigued:
“Come to meeeee!”
Then there was the tap-tapping of a wee white paw:
And then, well:
“Nom nom nom!!”
That was about the time we decided we didn’t want seed beads in the cat and threw that particular fancy away.
Milo was back to playing Mr. Innocent in no time:
Yeah. He’s getting bigger.
(Knitting content post-script: yes, those are handmade socks. BMFA “Socks that Rock” heavyweight in the “rose quartz” colorway, purchased at Stitches late-ish so I was forced to go out of my usual color comfort zone. I rather love them. They knit up in about three days and I adore the combination of delicate color and sturdy, warm boot-sock).
Sawdio
November 30, 2007 by
Recently, I introduced Brenda Dayne to the musical stylings of my cousin Britt Sawdon. As I suspected would happen, Brenda found Britt’s work to be her kind of thing and Britt’s permission was secured to play a couple of her songs on Cast-On.
I had been mulling over a third submission to the podcast, but hadn’t quite figured out what I wanted to do yet. The temptation to do something to go with Britt’s song was too great, though, and the Muse handed me an idea that I admit is very Yarn Harlot-influenced. Except maybe it’s sillier. I certainly felt silly recording it, but hopefully it will amuse.
The cousinly production is up over at Episode 58: “Knitting Time.”