The Hunger Worm: reviews

Finally, as promised, the long-awaited joint reviews of Worm and the Hunger Games trilogy. So bear with me while I put my analytical hat on and dissect the hell out of this.

First up: Worm: The Story of the First Digital World War by Mark Bowden.

 The set up of this journalistic, non-fiction book is that of a 'real life' investigation, where the bare facts have been put into a narrative framework with added background and context to make it interesting and give some more colour to the story. Bowden previously wrote Black Hawk Down, which was also based on a true story; people who've read that will be familiar with the style. It has to be said that though colour has been added to the story, there is enough supporting documentation that I feel relatively confident in saying that this is how things actually happened.
The events in the book occurred in 2008-2009, and kick off with the discovery of a new type of worm virus; this is a type of virus that infiltrates your computer completely unnoticed and takes control behind the scenes to send replicas of itself to other unprotected computers on the same network. Some worm viruses spring into action immediately (like sending people spam emails in your name, or DDOS attacks), while others wait for a command from the creator. These 'sleeping' viruses can infect millions of computers at once, and thereby form a so-called botnet, which waits for instructions from the botmaster.
A small number of computer experts in the world has a day job discovering, identifying and destroying viruses and botnets, and identifying the botmaster behind it so they can be arrested. Some are with official organisations, others are singular, benevolent 'white hat' hackers, who view it as a personal challenge or a sport.

The particular worm that this book is concerned with received the moniker Conficker, and was the most sophisticated thing to date. By its rapid multiplication (finally halted at around 8 million computers) Conficker caused concern in all corners, except governmental ones. This forced the normally solitary computer 'geeks' to come out of anonymity and form an elite team - they called themselves the Cabal - to fight the botnet, which had a real capability to generate such a large attack on the internet as a whole that it could be damaged to its core and severely destabilise modern society.
These days, everything is reliant on computers and few understand the breadth and depth of this reliance. Governmental digitalisation, news agency interconnectedness, stock markets, flight schedules, you name it, it's all reliant on the internet and other computer networks. Conficker had even infected the Pentagon, which astonishingly did not seem to alarm the US government over-much: No one seemed able to grasp the far-reaching implications except for the Cabal.

Bowden presents these generally nerdy and antisocial geniuses as a sort of 'X-men', drawing parallels with superheroes in an obvious bid to make them look 'cool'. This is a shame, as the real facts of the story are already so mind-blowingly awesome that it seems a bit unnecessary to use this gimmick.

Interspersed with the main storyline concerning the battle against Conficker - which basically consisted of preventing the botnet from contacting the botmaster and receiving instructions - is the creation and history of the internet and the background stories of the members of the Cabal. This adds some variation to the narrative, and explains techy things that many of us take for granted ("it just works!") but of which we don't know the inner workings. Especially in a time when the actions of hacker-coalition Anonymous are frequently in the news, this is useful knowledge. Sadly, Anonymous itself and its DDOS attacks are not addressed. This would have made the book even more interesting and up to date; I'm hoping for a sequel or an expanded version to increase the timeliness of the book.

But the most mind-blowing about it all is, that there was almost no support from governmental agencies, especially the US government. There is still a shocking lack of knowledge of how the internet works and impacts the lives and safety of citizens, even beyond the cliché of 'Cyber Warfare' from China. The Cabal was ridiculed and forced to rely on the private sector (Microsoft's internet security section played a big role), and the fight was almost over by the time the government got the memo. For the time being, they have stabilised the worm and have it cut off from the botmaster. But everyday the botnet seeks contact and must be circumvented by the Cabal's protocols. The purpose of Conficker is still unknown, but speculation is rife. Another incomprehensible fact is that this has not been in the news anywhere (not in 2008, not now either) except for a small piece on WIRED, I believe. People are not aware of how precarious safety on the internet is, and how it is very like the American Wild West in terms of rules, structure and possibilities. There are people who penetrate the depths of the internet and can basically read and write in binary code: a mere string of incomprehensible 10101101's to the rest of us.

As to the book itself: it is not very long, every chapter starts with a quote from the X-men comic books (either you like it, or you find it corny), and the technicalities are explained in a very accessible way so that anyone with a basic notion of computers and the internet can understand what's going on. I read the e-book version, and sadly it does have a number of typos - especially in the titles and opening quotes. I haven't been able to confirm whether this is the case in the hard copy as well, but it unfortunately lends a cheap air to the book and makes you doubt its factualness and journalistic quality.
Despite this, I have to say I really enjoyed Worm and would recommend it to anyone with a fascination for hackers and the true, hidden heroes of the internet (not Steve Jobs or Bill Gates, as it turns out), or who wants to know more about the inner workings of the web.
The Kindle edition is priced (at the time of writing) at £7.43 and I definitely encourage you to get it!

Next up: The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins.

Something completely different from Worm, but thereby no less enjoyable. The trilogy of the Hunger Games, Catching Fire and Mockingjay is the well-written young adult literature alternative to Twilight, and I would not feel outraged if it was put on the reading list for secondary school. Not being a teenager myself, I still found it an engaging, action packed, suspenseful and exciting read. The intrigue is not as much a secret to the reader as it is to the heroine, Katniss Everdeen, but this we can forgive her because she is preoccupied with not getting killed for most part of the books. Even as an adult, I don't think you have to feel embarrassed for enjoying this series.

As for the plot: there are definite influences from previous books and films such as Battle Royale. However, I think this extends mostly to the first book, which incidentally is the only one that has as yet been turned into a feature film. The other two instalments add many more layers to the story and change its direction, so that any accusations of 'copy-catting' are rendered obsolete, in my eyes.
As for the film: read the book first! Personally, I'm already in favour of reading a book before seeing the movie, as books tend to have room for much more complexity and sub-plots than films have (unless you're Peter Jackson and you're allowed to turn even one single book into three movies). But especially in this case - as explained in this video - all the complexity that made the book worthwhile is stripped from the script to deliver a simplistic action movie where the heroine must choose between two guys while trying to stay alive in the process, and sleeps in a lot of trees.
There is so much more to the story, and the brutal reality of such a dystopian future and its societal implications are thankfully rarely sugar coated in the way that is annoyingly common in children's/young adult literature. Bit by bit you learn more of the history and cruelty of the country of Panem, which spans the former North-American continent. Additionally, if you read between the lines there is actually some striking social commentary to be found.

The only thing that really annoyed me about this trilogy was the ending. I won't spoil it for you, but I felt that the last quarter of Mockingjay was rushed and not fleshed out enough to be a worthy conclusion to the story. The epilogue was also immensely dissatisfying to me, and in my opinion seems to be the simplistic choice of a writer who just wanted to be done with it, finally. This is a great shame, because up till then it felt like great care was taken with the story, only to be devalued by a lacklustre conclusion.

Despite that, I still think this is an eminently readable collection of young adult literature, and much more worthy of your time than the Twilight trilogy; if only for the fact that Katniss stands up and fights for what she believes in, and Bella merely goes catatonic for three months when her boyfriend goes away. Not to mention that Katniss does the rescuing while Bella is the quintessential damsel-in-distress. For someone like me who is all for female empowerment, the choice is easily made.


So there you have it! Finally, the reviews to books that are neither especially hot off the press nor must-read literary classics, but which a large number of my immediate social circle still haven't read. Therefore, I deem the choice of material justified and appropriate. And as always, my opinion is the one we'll be following here.
One of the perks of being the sole author of this blog, you might say.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my treatment of these books and will consider picking them up if you haven't read them yet.

Next blog post will contain an update of my appalling lack of progress in NaNoWriMo so far, and how I fare in my new job - which ironically requires a lot of phone calls (but is still pretty fun), which blog history can testify is my most favourite thing in the world, not.

Snorlaxing couch potato

It may seem as if I have done exactly nothing in the past three weeks (which is mostly true), but a lot of things have changed since then.
My 'jobhunt tally' became obsolete almost immediately, due to a spontaneous job offer from Cardiff who urgently needed a Dutch speaker. In the space of 6 days I had the interview, the call-back and the contract. Done and dusted, and entirely serendipitous. In the same week I have found a place to live, for which I will be signing the lease and getting the key tomorrow.
In the grand scheme of things this means that I have achieved my primary goal: gaining employment before becoming completely destitute and having to retreat back to my parents' basement across the Channel and leaving the boyfriend all by his onesies. As this crisis has been averted, there is currently much rejoicing and good times are being had by all.

So, while my absence in the first two weeks can not be justified by anything other than shameless impersonations of Snorlax and Mr Couch Potato, the last week has been legitimately too busy to blog.

Basically how I spent October: like a human burrito.           (image credit)

But now I've risen like Cthulhu from the sea, and have started the rest of my life as a responsible, productive member of society (or an approximation thereof). I'll sadly be getting up at the ass-crack of dawn everyday, but on the flipside there is no more homework (ever.), and thereby enough time after work to write, read, play games and faff about completely guilt free. Seems like not such a bad trade off, as for once I'll be paid to do it, instead of paying some prestigious institution for the privilege of attending class. I'll be swimming in cash before you know it!
Well, not really, but a girl can dream, right?

So, as the battery of my laptop will be dying soon (scumbag battery), I'm afraid Worm will have to wait another day. I think I'll actually make it a joint review post with the Hunger Games trilogy, as I did manage to read that this month - the only real feat of note, to be honest. So more on that next time!

On the NaNoWriMo front, I have some sort of idea of a plot and a main character, but I need to flesh it out some more before November 1st. Currently it's not much yet, but I can say that it's not a continuation of my earlier works, so as yet every piece of fiction I've ever written remains unfinished. Kind of like every Zelda game I ever started. And every Dragon Age. And every Mario Bros.

I'm starting to sense a theme here, to be honest. But all that is past now! Now, I have time after work, and money, and will man the f*ck up and finally finish some console games without button-mashing with my eyes closed or cheating by having my little bro do the fights for me. I swear, really!

But I digress. I posted a word counter in the side bar, so you can keep track of my NaNo progress this year, which will hopefully be less abysmal than last year and secure a third Win on my record. So along with my moving house, Gishwhes madness (check it. Like, srsly), job and NaNoWriMo, the next little while will be just as busy. However, this will ensure that I haven't become a boring adult just yet.

But in all honesty, I do think I've turned a page in my life. I've left the post-student-limbo I've been in for the past month, and while this job is by no means the final destination career-wise, it gives me some security and a solid starting point from which to build my CV, hone my skills and get the corporate experience I so desperately lacked before. Not to mention the income that will allow me to stay in Cardiff, and hopefully move to London in the future. While things were by no means dire yet, they do look much brighter now that I have a job, a home and a more solid foothold from which to start my post-uni life. And at the moment, that is all I could ask for.

It seems we're ending on a more serious and/or philosophical note, but I think that's allowed once in a while.

Here are some silly Catvengers to lighten the mood:

Enjoy, and until next time, comrades!

Freedom

It is done. Finito. Over. Complete.
Finally, I finished my dissertation. It took 4 months, 1360 articles, 17.000-odd words, hours of SPSS trial-and-error for 12 measly graphs and assistance from a variety of lovely people to churn out this devil spawn of an assignment. Thankfully, it has now safely been bound in a spiffy blue leather hard cover with silver lettering (after the hell I went through it better look pretty), and I am finally rid of it.
 And have, at the same time, turned my back on higher education. This has officially been my very last assignment for Uni ever, concluding a grand total of 6 years at various institutions. Now, it's time to make a foray into the real world. This is very strange for me, because I've only ever gone to school, and am unsure on how to do anything else. I do believe I deserve a bit of time off before I get seriously started on a career, but money doesn't grow on trees and we all have to eat, right?
Cue the start of the most epic jobhunt ever (likesrslyomg). To motivate myself, I shall keep a regular tally of applications/replies etc. on this blog so that you may all witness the rollercoaster I fear this endeavour will inevitably become. So, without further ado:

8 October
Applications sent: 4
Applications acknowledged: 2
Negative replies: 1
Positive replies: 0
(after 4 applications sent on 6 October)

Not bad for a first start, I should say. Well, we'll see how it goes. As one of our football greats always says: "If you never shoot, you'll always miss".

In other news: I finally finished reading Treasure Island, after a long dissertation-induced hiatus. It was enjoyable, but rather short. Sometimes I found my mind was drifting a bit, especially at the lengthy descriptions of Jim trekking through the jungle. Other than that there were no big moments of boredom, and I couldn't find any horrible plot holes. It was amusing to realise that all the pirates I've seen elsewhere (*cough* POTC *cough*) have been inspired by Stevenson's portrayal of Long John Silver. Who is actually quite an intriguing bastard of a character, I found. As this is a children's book, you can't really expect much deeper character development, and therefore I didn't find it particularly profound. But since that is not at all what it pretends to be, I'm not complaining; it's really entertaining when you just want a bit of light reading.
I realise that most of you will have read it ages ago, but in my country it's far lesser-known as a classic, and isn't considered a staple in every household. We had other icons, like Thea Beckman, Marc De Bel, Annie M.G. Schmidt and Tonke Dragt. None of whom will ring a bell with anyone outside my Dutch/Belgian audience. Still, I think there are translations of Thea Beckman's work out there; worth a read or a look. Not a fantastic movie, but it is an illustration of how big a name she is in Dutch children's literature.
Next time, the long-awaited review of Worm, and why it's great or not so great.

I'm rather tired today, so I'll leave you with this last announcement: NaNoWriMo starts in 23 days!! Time to flex your literary muscles and join in the writing madness this November. For the fifth year in a row I will attempt the challenge of writing 50.000 words of a story in one month; I succeeded in 2008 and 2010, and failed abysmally in 2009 and 2011. In keeping with the trend, it's time for another win this year! If this sounds interesting to you, let me know; we can cheer each other to the finish line.

Edit: Just noticed that the widget for my social media buttons comes with ads now... sorry about that. Anyone have a good alternative?

Still alive!

In the famous words of a video game character who shall not be named, I am indeed still alive (Can I get a 'yay'? No? Okay.).

I am also very busy at the moment, as the mewling quim* that is life has snuck up on me in the form of a rapidly approaching dissertation deadline, impromptu job interviews and a need to move house. And some other bits and bobs, but I doubt those would interest you.
Bottom line is, the (I'm sure) muchly anticipated book review of Worm is a bit delayed, as is any other shenaniganery of mine.
A month, give or take, and yours truly will be up and running again, from a brand spankin' new location that is as yet undetermined.

In the meantime, I leave you with the reason for today's title, which is stuck in my head:

The cake is a lie!

*if it's not censored in a PG-13 movie, it's not swearing.

Of pink dolls, blue cars and lots of frustration

I hadn't planned on posting again so soon, but I have to discuss this.
Today, in the Magazine course Fb-group of my uni, this picture was posted. It is from an American magazine dedicated to One Direction, and is so saturated with vitriolic bitchiness and all-out hatred that I don't even know where to begin. And this is a magazine aimed at pre-teen girls. It is a clusterfuck of every bad message you could possibly send to this age group. It tells girls that the only validation that matters is an engagement ring, that being 32 years old is considered old, that having the merest hint of wrinkles or blemishes anywhere is a capital offence, and that bullying and jealousy of other girls/women who have what you want is the way to go. It's Mean Girls all over again, only even more venomous and without the funny bits.
Thankfully, we weren't the only ones to be outraged about this, as commenting pieces have appeared on the websites of the Independent and the Guardian. They also point out that the feature is solely concerned with the hated woman's part in the relationship; the One Direction member that was involved isn't mentioned anywhere, and isn't deplored at all for his choice of who to date.

Sexism

Now that I think of it, this same trend can be seen in the coverage of the whole Kristen Stewart and Rupert Sanders cheat-fest. While she is called every foul name possible (and her ex-boyfriend Robert Pattinson is consoled as the dupe) for 'seducing' Sanders, her director in Snow White, he is nowhere near attacked as much as she is. Though Sanders is the one with the wife and two children. Even worse, apparently he will still be directing the (supposed) sequel to Snow White, while Stewart has reportedly been booted off the cast.

This brings me to the underlying issue: sexism. Roll your eyes all you want, but our first-world, technologically developed, filthy rich society is saturated with it. And I'm not talking about the overly religious fringes of that society.
Whether it's Lego coming up with a new line of 'Lego Friends' to cater to what they think girls have been missing from good ol' regular Lego, every women's magazine on the planet being drenched in pink, or boys being told not to cry because "they don't want people to think they're a girl, now do they?", sexism is omnipresent - and going both ways, too.

The article from the Guardian I mentioned earlier connected me to the Everyday Sexism Project, a website where people (specifically women, though men do comment) are invited to share their experiences of sexism.
It must be said here that apparently sexism here is linked exclusively to women being negatively impacted by it, when of course men are also pressured into the 'manly and strong' gender role that society has set for them. But it cannot be denied that these stereotypes for men are often empowering and uplifting and less about oppression than female-oriented sexism is. Women are often dumbed down, objectified, infantilised and generally considered not equal (and weaker) to men.
That sounds like quite a list of grievances, but it's a sad truth that many of us do and say sexist things without even thinking about it. Reading through the list of reactions on the Project, I realised that where I had previously thought I wasn't a victim of this, I had in fact been subjected to it myself in the most inane ways.

When I was about 7 years old, a girl in my class had just joined the girls' football team in my town. When I asked my mother if I could join too, she told me football was a boys' sport, and it would give me ugly (bruised) legs.
A short five years later, we had moved to a place where most of my female classmates played field hockey. This I was allowed to join, as it has a long record of being a sport for both men and women on a high level. Never mind that field hockey is just as much if not more brutal than football is; I don't see football players wearing a mouth guard.
And then there's the more recent examples of being hissed at when walking down the street ( brilliant documentary about that here), having my ass grabbed in a club, and being patronizingly patted on the shoulder that "don't worry, you'll find a boyfriend soon". Not to mention the looks I get when I buy a dedicated gaming magazine.

Not just ass-hats

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Judging from what I read on the Project, I can count my lucky stars I never had to wear a school uniform. It seems to be an inexorable attraction to all manner of Creepy McWeirdos, no matter that the girls wearing them are invariably underage.

Still, I know there will be people who jump immediately from the sexism branch to the feminism shtick, citing all sorts of ridiculous examples where women go batshit crazy when you hold the door for them. That's not what this blog post is about; I'd like to address the big issues, like female doctors often being mistaken for nurses (and male nurses for doctors, for that matter), women being asked at a job interview whether they plan on having a baby soon, and assault/rape victims being asked first of all what they were wearing when the raping/assaulting occurred.
For a detailed and very 'nail on the head' analysis of what's wrong with today's views on women, read this decidedly more serious article on Cracked.com and get enlightened. Granted, this article focuses heavily on men and generalizes quite a bit, before I get any rabidly insulted men on my hands here. A lot of sexism is unconsciously done, while the worst excesses are only perpetrated by entitled ass-hats and douchebags who think they're funny when they ask for a sandwich.
Also, the article brilliantly explains why most guys who complain about 'friendzoning' are just completely wrong. Sure, the woman doesn't need to take advantage of your feelings, ridicule you or be a bitch about it, but she has a right not to go out with you.

But the real problem of sexism lies in the fact that we, women, ourselves do it. Women are raised in an environment where the division between 'girl things' and 'boy things' is so far-reaching, that we sometimes don't even register that it's there.
It starts at birth, where boys are blue and girls are pink. As a militant pink-hater since the moment I realised there were other (often non-sparkly) colours to choose from, I am angered by this automatic classification. It's like infant baptism: completely disregarding the wishes of the person that baby will become, and a massive impact on the child's identity. If (see I said 'if', not 'when'?) I ever have a child, the nursery will be yellow. Or green.
Another obvious case is the toy store with the aisle markers "boys' toys" and "girls' toys", not once stopping to think that a girl might like Lego or a Hot Wheels car, and a boy might want to play with play-doh or - heaven forbid - a doll. I bet that would go over well with his father... unless there is the loophole called 'action figure'. I hear that gem saved G.I. Joe, Action Man and Transformers many a time.
Thirdly, the sad fact that women call each other sluts, bitches and whores, and all with the same strangely envious vitriol we saw in the One Direction article. We talk about sexual equality, but where an older man is still applauded for catching a young, attractive woman, in the opposite situation an older woman is called a cougar or just desperate, and is not praised at all. And let's not even begin to cover sexual promiscuity and romance in general; this is the mother load of double standards, sadly enforced by women just as much as men. Look at any Cosmopolitan cover for the evidence; everything is geared towards meeting the standards "your man" sets for you.
Last example of how insidious sexism is: why do (Anglo-Saxon, as far as I know) people insist on introducing newly-weds as "Mr and Mrs John Smith", as if the woman has suddenly lost her entire name? I know women traditionally changed their last name, but this is ridiculous. But maybe they expect that she no longer has a life independent of her husband and will henceforth be known as "the wife", or "the missus". But astonishingly, when this happens, not once have I seen the blushing bride stop smiling and turn to the speaker to correct him. No, she just waves, throws a bouquet and accepts well-wishes and hopes for a quick pregnancy.

Overboard

If all these grievances of sexism against women are so valid, then why does 'feminism' have a bad name these days? Because some women do go apeshit with it and focus on tiny, inconsequential, nitpicky details that distract from and lend absurdity to the main issue.

For example, I've seen a complaint on the Project page from a woman who objected to the use of the word 'lady' when addressing women, as this conveyed a whole slew of preconceived, paternalistic notions about women. Personally, I don't see what's wrong with it. I'd rather be called "that lady over there" than "that girl", "that hag", or "that woman". Although, it's all a matter of intonation. If the person says "lady" but you can hear that they actually mean "bitch from hell", yeah, I guess I'd have a problem with it.
Or another woman, who disapproved of Sebastian Coe using in his speech at the Olympics the words "mankind" and "countrymen". Also on this bandwagon, someone who complained about a supermarket having "manned tills". THAT'S JUST LANGUAGE! What else do you want them to say?! I suppose "staffed tills" is also a possibility, but what could you possibly use as a non-contrived substitute for "mankind" and "countrymen"? Yes, the phrasing is male because sadly, our society is inherently paternalistic and male-oriented and therefore the language that evolves within that society is as well. But any moron knows that Coe was not exclusively addressing the male part of his audience when he said this.

And these are the women who, in their razor-sharp discernment of what is even the tiniest bit unequal, make the entire, huge problem seem trivial and not worth debating. Because there is still structural sexism present in all parts of society. Whether it's the female employee who always gets asked to make coffee, the wine in a restaurant always being presented to the man to taste, or the construction workers yelling "nice rack" to a woman on the way to the bus stop.
It is also these women who make feminism seem a stronghold of humourless, lesbian manhaters. Features that by no means have to coincide with each other, nor with feminism. Personally, I hate it when people (men) say I have no sense of humour if I don't laugh about the umpteenth joke about woman+kitchen=sandwich, or woman+car=idiocy. If it's funny, I'll laugh. Even about female and male stereotypes. But there is a difference between good-natured kidding, and jokes with decidedly malevolent undertones. Like rape jokes. There is nothing funny about that, and there never will be.

But what a lot of these women also forget is that it's not about creating a new forced mould that women have to fit into: we have to have a career, we have to keep our own name, we have to have equal representation in politics (who wants to be a politician?), we have to have our own finances, etc.
These are just some of the options we're supposed to have; the whole point of this feminism and equality thing is that we should have the choice to do or not do everything we want, same as men should. If a man wants to stay home and care for the kids, he should be able to do so without being ridiculed or called a 'sissy'. If a woman genuinely wants to stay home and care for the kids, she should also be able to do so without hardcore feminazis reprimanding her for not getting a career like an empowered woman should.

Personally, I come from a happy home life where my parents have been together for almost 35 years, my mother is a home maker and she took my father's surname, but I have never seen her as unequal in their relationship. And at the risk of sounding horribly old-fashioned, I kind of like the symbolism of taking my hypothetical future husband's name - unless it is something deeply embarrassing. I like my own last name, but the spelling and pronunciation are impractical in an international environment, and I have two brothers so the name probably won't die out.
But this, along with staying home with the kids - which is something I haven't figured out for myself yet - is a very unpopular view among modern women, and once more enforces the fact that we sometimes are our own worst critics.

Uphill battle

I could go on and on about it, giving examples left and right, but in the end it does come down to people individually, and whether they actively see gender inequality as an existing problem or not. Some will say "boys will be boys", and that it's just in a man's nature to see women as a talking pair of boobs.
But the fact remains that if we ourselves don't speak up and say "hey, this is not okay", no one else will start saying it either. Because there is nothing easier than keeping the status quo. I'm glad that Sofie Peeters' documentary is causing a ruckus in several countries. Not necessarily just because of the unavoidable emphasis it puts on immigrant men, but because it makes decidedly clear that sexism is not a thing of the past in developed, western countries.
To put it dramatically, the battle is far from over, and to be an active feminist is a good thing - though there are pitfalls to avoid. The goal of feminism is not to put women above men, to bring men down to endure the same injustices, or to simply use it to bitch about how "all men are assholes".
The worst that can happen to feminism is that it keeps its negative connotations, and therefore will not be taken seriously by men and women alike.

"I'm Batman."

A while ago I finally went to see The Dark Knight Rises. Yes, yes, I know, I'm a bit late to the party. But I thought I'd share my observations anyway. So if you're even less up to date than I am, beware of SPOILERS in the following text.

There probably are other reviews by people who have read the comics, seen all the animated series and live-action movies, and maybe even own a figurine or two. That is why I won't bore you with an attempt at analysis of the deeper symbolism in the movie; I'm woefully under-qualified for that.
Instead, I present you with a brief bullet list of things that struck me while watching it.

• The person who told Christian Bale to amp up the gravelly quality of his voice needs to have their hearing checked. It's so ridiculously over the top it nearly made me giggle every time Batman started talking. Not to mention Christian Bale must have been drinking Gollem juice nearly non-stop.
• Also, Christian Bale's mouth looks weird in the mask. And you can't. stop. looking. But that's just a pet peeve of mine.
• Alfred is the most heartbreakingly sweet man ever, and Bruce Wayne doesn't deserve him.
• Anne Hathaway exceeded my apprehensive expectations as Catwoman, and the goggles that coincidentally formed the 'ears' were a very nice touch. Great to see her in a badass role for once.
• Tom Hardy as Bane is extraordinarily intimidating; bulk and posture used extremely well, which makes the big revelation at the end all the more tragic.
• I highly doubt that you would dive into bed with some random acquaintance immediately after you learn the dead love of your life may have never loved you at all - even if you are Bruce Wayne.
• The motorcycle with the revolving wheels is awesome, as is Morgan Freeman, aka God.
• When you're in some hell hole of a prison with your back smashed, after a doctor told you that there's almost no cartilage left in your joints, the last thing they should probably do is shove your vertebrae back into alignment by sheer force.
  After which you will naturally be hung from a looped rope as physical therapy until you can stand independently, which is a sure sign that it's okay to start doing push ups, sit ups and any other kind of 'ups.
  Of course you will have lost none of your muscle tone while you were incapacitated.
  Culminating in two escape attempts which by all rights should break your back again.
  Miraculously, a third attempt sets you free, to return to Gotham and seek retribution.
• That hole-in-the-ground-prison is actually not such a bad idea...
• Poor Bane is forced to endure the worst friendzoning in the history of everything ever.
• Joseph Gordon-Levitt has successfully morphed his adorable baby-face into a credible hardened cop, while still making you want to hug him. Evidence!
• The symbolism of the torn US flag waving in the wind, or the 'Star-spangled Banner' being sung right before the stadium is blown to bits is about as subtle as a punch in the face.
• I suspect Christopher Nolan was in a slight rush to finish the film when he chose that particular take for Talia's death scene. People still unconvinced of its absurdity, watch other people do it.
• I don't really think 1,5 minutes before a nuclear bomb detonates is the right time to explore the possibility of sexy tiemz between you and that sexy Catlady thief.
• The mystery of Batman might (imho) have been better preserved if the whole café scene at the end hadn't been included. Also, that would have effectively ended any speculation about the horrifying possibility of there being a Batman-Robin-Catwoman film in the near future. We've all seen where that can lead, and it's not good:

Nobody wants that.

 

So, do you agree with me or am I about to be denounced as a heathen? No really, I actually think it's a pretty good movie, but some things are just too glaringly obvious to ignore.

In other news, I have slightly updated my reading list, and you may expect another book review in the near future. I imagine you're cheering at the news. Not because I really think you are, but because it makes me feel better.

Overall not a very long post today, but then again this was created in a fit of procrastination, so there you go.

Berlin, I love you

Movie title puns aside, Berlin was absolutely great. I managed to finish my business at the library at record speed - my neck and shoulders will contest the advisability of this - and then had two more days to spend in exquisite leisure with my friend M., who is a Berlin native.

Allow me to illustrate my joy thusly:

For once the weather was impossible to complain about - "too hot" doesn't count when the summer has so far been non-existent - so we sat in an assortment of parks, river banks and lake sides drinking what the Germans call 'water', and what the rest of the world calls 'beer'. If alcohol at 2pm is not your thing, the ever-efficient Germans have a golden compromise: radler! A mix of beer and lemonade, it is the perfect beverage on a hot afternoon. Well, I think so, and that is whose opinion we're following here, so there.

And so, armed with my radler, friend M. and a few of her awesome mates who overcame their shyness and spoke English to me as my German is not yet up to snuff, I explored some places in East-Berlin that I hadn't visited before. I've been in Berlin once before on a school trip in the prehistoric past that I call high school, and we did all the touristy bits then. So this time, I was mostly interested in visiting the Berlin that its regular inhabitants experience. I don't know how far I succeeded, as Berlin is absolutely huge and as I said, we spent most of our time lounging about, drinking beer and talking, but I do think I got a bit of a feel for the city.
While Berlin, and Kreuzberg - the district where we spent most of our time - is very busy and crowded, you don't get the hasty, unfriendly feeling you get in other cities like London and Tokyo. In East-Berlin I had a real 'holiday' feeling (helped, of course, by the gorgeous weather), and felt that you were free to do, wear and say whatever you wanted without being judged. As long as everyone minds their own business, no one cares what you look like. As you might think, this results in some outlandish styles, lots of tattoos and piercings, and some congregations of homeless people. But while my small-town self would feel insecure and even scared in other cities, here I felt fine - but maybe that was also due to the fact that I had some Berlin veterans with me. But even so, I never felt unsafe and thoroughly enjoyed myself looking at all the interesting people, and admiring the graffiti that decorates almost every single building.

This experience, along with conversations with M. and her friends, taught me a valuable lesson about tolerance and preconceptions. Like so many people, I pride myself on being open-minded and accepting of people's differences. Yet I was very surprised at the following discovery:
one of M.'s friends, T., looks like your run-of-the-mill, twenty-something metal fan with a facial piercing and gauges in his ears. But he reads philosophy books, is soft-spoken and thoughtful, and is a kindergarten teacher for Arabic and Turkish kids living in Kreuzberg. That just blew my mind, because not in a million years would I have attached that profession to him, and my first impulse was to be surprised that he even got hired for that job, in the current climate of people being suspicious of men spending time with children.
And then I wondered why I was so surprised.
And I felt ashamed, because I had apparently subconsciously already judged him and placed him in a certain box in society before even talking to him, which is not something I was aware of that I did. So many thanks to T., for showing me an uncomfortable truth about myself, and making me reconsider the way I judge people who are different from what I'm used to. Especially, when he, M. and their other metal-head, tattoo-y and piercing-ed friends made me feel welcome and took the time to get to know me while they absolutely didn't have to. I am humbled, and I will try to remember this for the future, and strive not to judge a book by its cover ever again. Because obviously, I know fuck-all about the difference between stereotypes and real people.

Fifty Shades of Awful

In a bid to see what all the fuss is about the Fifty Shades trilogy (by E.L. James) without spending any money, I have read a variety of reviews, excerpts, quotes and interviews.
What I can conclude is that I made the right decision in not flushing my money down the toilet by buying this horrible excuse for 'erotica'; also known as literary chick-porn. As I have not read the books in their entirety - which I am going to avoid lest it force me to claw my eyes out and engage in book burning - I will refer you to the best review of all time. Seriously. Read it, and the two follow-ups, and then come back here.
Read it? Good. Then you're up to speed and I don't have to rehash all its literary deficiencies, as I doubt I could do it any funnier than Katrina Lumsden did.

She is obviously one of the 'con' side, which broadly consists of people who find it obscene and unfit for any audience, people (women) who find it misogynist and/or a misrepresentation of BDSM culture, and people who merely find it a badly written, sexed-up Harlequin novel with vapid characters and non-existent plot.
Of course, if your main aim is good old pr0n, then who cares about misogyny, fake BDSM and a story that's just as cliché as the pizza man with extra pepperoni. Case closed, enjoy the thrill of the 'mommy porn' and giggle about it with your friends at the knitting club.

But, that's not why the 'pro' side is professing to love these books. No, they wax on poetically about the liberation of female sexuality, the blossoming of the innocent heroine, and the ultimate fantasy that true love can overcome sexual pervertedness caused by childhood trauma. Not to mention that to them, this is a pioneering work in the field of women's fiction, and is breaking age old taboos.
Excuse me while I go vomit.
Erotica has been around for a long time, even when it was not labelled as such. Anyone ever read the Earth's Children series by Jean M. Auel, just to name one? Sexual awakening right there, and lots of 'primitive' sex to follow, though I admit that these novels were not branded erotica. Then let me refer you - though I haven't read these, tbh - to the Sleeping Beauty trilogy by Anne Rice: written in the '80s, and apparently widely read in the BDSM community.

So how is Fifty Shades pioneering or liberating? If women want to, they need only Google and there it is, ready for Amazon order. Also, the 'true love overcomes all'-fantasy is as old as time. Though this particular brand of vapid heroine and remote, dangerous (but rich and handsome) bad boy is much more reminiscent of another literary endeavour of questionable quality: the Twilight series.
Surprise, surprise: in interviews E.L. James has said that her story originated as Twilight fanfiction. Kill me now. I have nothing against fanfiction, being that for me it is an exercise everyone engages in whenever they watch a film or read a book - whether they write it down or not. Whenever you finish a work of fiction you always wonder what happens next, or what you wish had happened differently, or what might have happened had a certain character not died (Sirius in HP, anyone?). The only difference with fanfiction writers is that they take it one step further and publish these derivative stories on the internet, sometimes with surprisingly well-written and engaging stories as a result.
But the fact remains that these works are strongly derivative, and are never supposed to be turned into an 'original' work of fiction. Additionally, I personally think that the fact that E.L. James engaged in writing Twilight fanfiction at all does not evoke the image of a woman who knows quality fiction of the kind her heroine ironically enjoys, let alone one who is more emotionally mature than a 13-year-old. It does however lend strength to the characterization of Fifty Shades as the Twilight for 35+.

But maybe that's it: the women who read this tripe and call it the "best book they've read all year" have the emotional maturity of a pre-teen princess, and only call it that because it is the only book they've read all year - or, excuse me Audible, listened to all year. To be honest, I'm guessing the lack of linguistic virtuosity should be even more apparent when you're listening to it and can't skip, but that's just me. And I've tried, but I can't find any reason for almost 20 million sold copies other than awesome marketing and repressed, bored mommies whose last foray into literature was the required kind in high school or college.
Simply put: if you enjoy Fifty Shade of Grey/Darker/Freed for anything other than its (repetitive) raunchy sex scenes, then you are not qualified to judge the literary merits of anything ever again. Ever.

To illustrate I present the "inner goddess", a concept of an inner consciousness that Ana - our 'heroine' - uses frequently to express some form of emotion. The term is used throughout the trilogy no less than 58, 58 and 33 times, respectively (thank you Katrina Lumsden for counting so I don't have to), and results in brilliant sentences such as:

"My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves."
"My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face."
"My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheer-leading pom-poms shouting yes at me."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
All the inner goddess does for me, is remind me of the Gillette Venus slogan: "Reveal the Goddess in You". I also find it the most ridiculously narcissistic, "girl power!"-esque description of some fictitious representation of yourself, illustrating your hidden emotions with cartoony actions.
And most importantly: NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT TALK LIKE THIS! If I had read the book, the main character would have lost all my sympathy the moment this preposterous contraption reared its head. I almost feel personally offended that this contrived Bella Swan knock-off non-character wears Converse sneakers. I friggin' love Converse! It's bad enough that I have to share them with an army of hipsters, but not this vapid wench.

But back to the "inner goddess" (my inner goddess is seething and stamping her little foot) - see how absurd it is when regular people do it?!
What astounds me the most about this phrase, is how it is seemingly universally accepted and goes unquestioned by almost every reviewer I can dig up on the internet. Even the reviewer for the Guardian newspaper (thankfully sensible) only mentions the inner goddess as an example of bad writing. Which it is, of course, but why does no one ask where this monstrosity comes from? Apparently it's not an exclusive idea, because I found this. An honest to god guide to "Finding your inner goddess", available on Amazon. It almost makes me feel ashamed to be a woman.

I hope that the hype about this trilogy will die down soon, and that E.L. James proves to be a one hit wonder and will stick to fanfiction from now on. Though even if you're into fanfics, you don't have to resign yourself to her either; there are many fanfic writers who are much better - though I'm iffy about the Twilight section.

Lastly, a bit of food for thought: I'm guessing half the copies of Fifty Shades that are sold serve to fuel a night of hilarity reading it with friends. Once you get over the absolute stupidity, I suspect it can be extraordinarily funny. I don't think E.L. James meant it that way, though, but who cares.

Ode to Frisbee shorts

Oh Frisbee shorts,

Thou most comfortable of garments,
Made ecologically from recycled plastic, so soft and stretchy.
One might compare thee to basketball shorts, in shape and function,
But 'lo! thy lack of cheap shininess and tacky association with gangsta
are become irrevocably clear at the merest glance upon thy face.

Class exudes from thee, not to be had at any lowly store,
but the virtual establishments of Lookfly and 5Ultimate.
Thy beauty comes in many a shade, though thy comfort ever impossible to deny;
Whether it be to play Ultimate, jog or engage in other strenuous activity,
Or be it to study, to face the searing summer heat or only to lazy about watching telly.

A breeze doth flutter thy fabric softly thus, a cooling caress,
Then settle in place with nary a wrinkle.
No matter the form that seeks to be clothed in thy folds,
The results be never unsightly, and the envy of less fortunate ones
Who lack the wit to recognise baggy shorts' true worth.

Age doth not touch thee, unblemished be thy skin
After a thousand lay out D's.
Thy resilience is proved in washing, no drying needed.
Nor should it be attempted, lest thy praised beauty shrivel and die
Under the unforgiving heat of the crude dryer.

I wear thee now, in silent worship,
As I record the sentiments which doth flow from my heart.
Pray, let me not be led astray by the age-old wiles of pyjama pants
Who are much less fit for public appearance,
And contribute far less to a perceived active and sporty lifestyle.

Judge me not as I acquire more pairs of thee,
As love will be showered on all of thee regardless of colour preference.
I ask only that thy will let me bask in thy heavenly comfort forever more,
Even after I finish University life and give up freedom of wardrobe,
To return to thee always when the workday is done, and reminisce.

 -S.H.








Just a funny bit about stretchy shorts that I absolutely love, and have designated as my default summer clothing on days when 'nuthin' special' will do. And a bit of light humour to compensate for last time's scary rant.


And you know what else? I only just realised my initials are the same as Sherlock Holmes!

BL: blindingly lackluster

As you might have gathered already from the current content of this blog, one of my major interests is books. High-brow, not-so-high-brow, non-fiction; if something strikes my fancy I'll read it. As such you can't make me happier than by taking me to a library or bookshop, and letting me loose in there for a few hours reading back flaps, admiring cover art and fondling thick, sturdy hardcovers in a haze of new-book-smell. But there is one library, no matter how vast, exclusive and beautiful, that I will no longer set foot in. Not even for their original manuscript by Tolkien.

That place, ladies and gentlemen, is the British Library. Yes, the big one in London near King's Cross with the imposing security people. The presence of evil-eyed bag-checkers alone should have tipped me off that this Library (note the capital L) is a prime example of pompous, bureaucratic ineptitude.

I'm sure this sounds like blasphemy, but hear me out. For my dissertation this year - I think you're already as sick of hearing about it as I am thinking about it - I need two Japanese daily newspapers spanning the period of 12 March 2011 to 25 March 2011. I won't bore you with the specifics of why and what for, but it requires copying of some sort of these two weeks of coverage.
So, naïve thing that I am, I searched in the British Library's online catalogue, which is the first stop for researchers. 'Lo and behold: the newspapers, which a person on the phone confirmed to me. Then, just to be sure, I checked copying possibilities, one of these being remote copying, which I tried to arrange, but was then informed that as the item was available in the collection, I had to come to the Library and do it myself.
So, all boxes checked, I followed standard procedure: pre-register for reader's pass; request items from remote storage to reading room (can imagine no one needs Japanese newspapers all that often) taking into account the time it takes for them to arrive from friggin' Yorkshire; get ID-card and evidence of address; book hostel and bus journey. Sorted, I thought.
WRONG.

The trip started well enough, in the sense that I found my way to the library just fine, and finished registering for my reader's pass no problem whatsoever. The trouble started when I got to the African&Asian reading room, and the lady behind the counter tells me that the items I requested are not there. This is strange, as they should only take about 48 hours to arrive, and I requested them 4 days ago. She digs a bit more, and finds a ticket saying that they don't have any files for March 2011. Bit strange.
But she doesn't much care, and it must have been only because I looked quite distressed that they called a Japan expert (the awesome Mr Hamish) from the office in the back. He is just as baffled as I am, and calls directly to storage in Yorkshire. Turns out they can't find it. Or better yet, the searching took too long so they just said they don't have it. Mr Hamish then sent another request on my behalf, which would take another 3 days.

To make a long, tedious story short, I spent 3 days sightseeing in London because I had nothing else to do but wait after I fruitlessly visited the library in the morning - where each time the same lady behind the desk had no idea who I was and I had to explain it all over again.

So, on Thursday I finally get the newspaper Mr Hamish called in for me, but the other one has apparently also been lost in the depths of the Boston Spa storage facility. Seeing as I can't stay in London indefinitely, I decide to cut my losses and settle for the one newspaper, and proceed to copy it.
Where the lady behind the counter tells me I can't take photos, I can't copy it myself on the machines because of the sizing and some more rubbish I don't entirely get, and they can't do it for me either because they're not authorised and would take too long.
She says I'll have to put in an online order for remote copying, which will take a month.

I'm silently boiling, because that's exactly the opposite of what I was told before I came, and no one told me it was going to take a month and cost me at least £80 for 3 CD-ROM discs with scanned pages. But what can you do? So I fill out the online form, and spend another day in London. Yay.

You'd think it was over after that, but no: last week I got an email saying that I need official permission from the publisher of the work for the copying to be possible, in a letter to be posted within 10 days. Try and get permission from Asahi Shimbun Japan in official writing, within a week.
Exactly.

So, I went to my very last option: the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin (incidentally who I had to call in my first blogpost). I was about ready to cry and beg, but they answered my email (phone wasn't picked up - got worked up about nothing) quickly, and succinctly.
Turns out I can make a personal appointment with them, they have the reduced size edition for both papers (confirmed by a real live person, twice) and I get to take photographs as long as I sign a piece of paper saying it's not for commercial use.
Done.
That's how easy it is. German efficiency at its finest, and a real willingness to understand my position and difficulty.
Which enrages me all the more when I think about the bloody British Library.

Where do they get off having such an air of superiority, as if they're the be-all end-all of libraries, when their storage facilities are apparently organised quite badly, the automated cranes are too weak to lift the big newspaper crates (swear to god that's what they said), the online catalogue is obviously inaccurate, and the amateurish "we can't find it" is easily translated into "we don't have it".
And not a single one of them apologetic about it except for Mr Hamish who is solely exempt from all these accusations.

I know my dissertation won't be a life changing revelation, and that they probably have visitors who are far more important than I am, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't deliver on the service that they promise. If you want to stick your nose in the air and act posh, fine, but then you bloody well make sure you've got the action to back it up.
They profile themselves as a reliable institution and research facility, and demand all sorts of security measures from their readers (it's like passing airport security, only worse), and then they display such astounding incompetence. It boggles the mind.

So for my part, I'm sick of the British Library, and will finally end my quest for research material in a week's time at the Staatsbibliothek Berlin. Who, by the way, were quite surprised when they heard that the British Library didn't have these publications.
So I've got a short summer trip to Berlin to look forward to, and the snobs at the BL can choke on their original manuscripts for all I care.

Sexy kilts: the danger of a successful formula

Yesterday, in a bout of dissertation escapism, I finished the novel An Echo in the Bone, also known as Outlander 7, by Diana Gabaldon.
And yes, I am aware that this outs me as a fan of swashbuckling time travel adventure romance in Scotland. But be honest: what's not to like about 18th century buff, kilted Highlanders suffused with clan honour and thick Scottish accents? Especially when it's accompanied by some very decent writing.
Sadly, that is where Outlander 7 shoots a bit short of the mark.

While I did enjoy the story in this latest instalment, I think this was mostly due to the fact that I already loved the characters, and was invested in their future. Let me give you the base facts, just so everyone knows what we're talking about:
In 1946, Claire Beauchamp is a former army nurse who takes a trip to Scotland (Inverness) with her husband. On a hike, she accidentally steps through a circle of standing stones, which suddenly transports her back to 1744 - just before the disastrous Jacobite Rising. There, she gets picked up by a roving band of men of Clan MacKenzie, who take her back to their castle because they fear she's an English spy. What follows is a winding tale of intrigue, war, medicine and romance in which Claire marries and falls in love (in that order) with Jamie Fraser and ultimately decides to abandon her first husband to stay in the past (not a spoiler, because you know that just by accepting there are 7 books). The rest of the massive story arc involves Jamie's family, witchcraft, smuggling, piracy, the American colonies and the American Revolutionary War.

Overall, brilliant stuff, and a very engaging read. Were it not that the use of some story elements and plot devices are becoming slightly repetitive. The language is beautiful as ever, and can create drama without the added melo- or sappy Hollywood clichés, but it is not enough to disguise the staleness of some of the personal descriptions and imagery. For example, we know by now that Claire has untameable, curly hair and that this is considered immodest and slightly scandalous by 18th century men. Both this, the description of Jamie's "bold, striking Viking features" and the fact of their undying love for each other do not have to be repeated at every turn.
Same goes for the plot device where Claire is inexplicably superbly attractive to every single man she meets (even though she's in her 50s in the latest book) which causes awkward situations and humorous jealousy from Jamie. Also, the occasions where Jamie is presumed dead and Claire gets entangled in rash action after she goes through a Bella Swan-like swoon at the news, are - while well-written - slightly overused.

This is a crying shame, because I love the story very much. But Outlander 7 did leave me with a feeling that it was too long (same as 6, really), and could have been told in less text. This is mainly because many of the small sub plots (like the presumed death and its fall-out, and the marriage entanglements of some tacksmen) were not necessary for the main plot and story arc, and seemed just to be there to fill the necessary passage of time until the next big event.
What also struck me as being wrong, is that l enjoyed reading what happened to the other characters more than reading what happened to Claire. An Echo in the Bone uses different kinds of perspective - moreso than previous books - with Claire's chapters being in first person and other people's passages in third person. I personally don't think it's a good sign if readers are sometimes itching to skip the main character in favour of other, less prominent characters, and hopefully Diana Gabaldon will have picked up on that when writing Outlander 8, which will hopefully be finished later this year.

To be fair, I did read all seven books one after the other since last Easter, so maybe these criticisms are more noticeable to me than to people who have to wait 2 to 3 years after every volume. I imagine the rediscovery of beloved characters after such a long wait eclipses the slight repetitiveness, and in that case the longer the book, the better.
So, lastly, I have to say that I still do heartily recommend the series - just make sure you start at the beginning - while I myself am no longer in danger of erupting in adoring fangirlish screams. Though I expect these might return with the release of the next part of the series, you never know. Or better yet, the prequel!
I just hope Diana Gabaldon finally found a reliable French-speaker, so that the teeth grindingly obvious linguistic mistakes (which are corrected in subsequent books) will no longer happen: really, anyone could have told you that 'Germaine' is not a traditional boys' name.

Phone trouble

I love texting.
No, seriously! Okay, I might not do it all that often, but texting (and email, for that matter) has liberated me from the horror that is telephone conversations.
For as long as I can remember I have had an aversion to picking up the phone and calling somebody up. Especially if that someone is a company, a public institution, or even just a dentist. About the only person I can call without becoming a quivering, sweaty (non-sexy) mess with heart palpitations is my mother. Even with friends or boyfriends I find calling to be uncomfortable, although for different reasons; you only call companies and dentists for a specific reason; something you need to ask or arrange or make an appointment about. When there's a random call with a friend either there's no reason - which causes me to flounder for a suitable topic for small-talk - or there is a reason (like essay questions) but you have to jump through interminable social hoops before you can get to the point.

If I want to have a meaningful conversation with a friend or just want to catch up, I make time to see them in person. And if it's not that important or the friend in question is not exactly around the corner, I write an email. On the friend side of things, the reason I hate phone conversations is the 'spontaneity' of it. It puts me on the spot when I'm entirely busy with something else, and it's hard to switch gears like that; I become a stuttering mess and say yes to things I later figure out I should not be saying yes to. And for my efforts I only manage to alienate the other side, since I (so I've been told) sound very unpleasantly surprised and impatient when receiving an unannounced phone call. Not very conducive to friendships, let me tell you. Or love lives, for that matter.

On the other end of the spectrum, as mentioned, are the so-called 'official' phone calls. The ones you just can't get out of, on pain of suffering a tooth ache, paying excessively high electricity bills and not getting the package whose delivery you missed. It simply has to be done. And it is excruciating. Because the people you get on the phone invariably do not enunciate clearly, which means I can hardly ever understand them and sound like a complete moron answering a question far too late because I've only just figured out what they said. And that is when they actually understand what I'm on about. You'd start hyperventilating for less. No wonder that I usually try to avoid this by using email, or (as a last resort) going to see them in person. You'd think the last one would be even worse, but somehow being able to see someone's face when talking to them helps a lot. Though I fear that does not make me seem any less of an idiot.

The reason I felt the need to talk about this little handicap is the fact that I'm currently in the situation where I need to phone a library. In German. About the possibilities of copying Japanese newspapers. Not really an average request, and my German is elementary at best. I would love to send an email, but that would take too long, I wouldn't be sure they actually understand what I need, and I fear the back-and-forth of emails would take far too much time; I'm on a rather tight deadline here. So I've been delaying and delaying (along the lines of: "oh, it's the weekend! Can't call now!" and "Oh, it'll be lunch time! Can't call now!" and "But I need a shower first! Can't call now!" and the kicker "Oh, it's too near closing time and they'll be wanting to go home and not pay attention to me! Can't call now!"), and the window of opportunity is shrinking as I type.
 Tomorrow has to be the day. I can't afford any more delays, or my dissertation will be up shit creek without a paddle.
So, tomorrow morning it is, no more excuses.

By the way, did I tell you that another one of my handicaps is a tendency to procrastination?