Robbed!

I saw Los Campesinos in concert last night. I've been a fan since Hold On Now, Youngster... and had never seen them despite multiple appearances in Barcelona. I like Gareth Campesino's songwriting, and left the show ready to pontificate discuss the performance. Then, at 1:30 in the morning, I got a call from my roommate.
"We've been robbed!"
I returned home to find this:

 

I'm not the neatest person in the world, but this is excessive even for me. This was a gift left by some visitors earlier in the evening, who also generously gifted us relief from owning computers. They made off with three of them, one belonging to each roommate. (Thanks Elise for the loan!) Considering the two Macs that got taken along with my shitty little laptop, I got off easiest. 

Two cops who looked like teenage girls were on the scene last night, filling out the first report. They concluded that the door had indeed been forced and advised us to go to the station to make a formal deposition. As it was after 2am by this point, we waited until this morning.

Bright and early we headed to the station and after a short wait, were escorted into a back room by a remarkably tall, square-jawed officer. He helpfully recorded our story and printed off a report for us to take to the insurance company.

"What usually happens in cases like these?" my roommate asked.

While maintaining an air of professional positivity, the cop explained to us that while there were different avenues of investigation, it was unlikely that anything would turn up soon, if at all.

"But you never know," he offered. "Maybe a neighbour saw something, like a Moroccan guy with a tattoo."

 Well, here's hoping that our neighbours' xenophobia matches that of the police force, and all dangerous looking foreigners (except this guy) have been duly noted and recorded. Our stuff should be back in no time!

 

We Need to Talk About K

How many Ks is too many Ks? Two is fine when making delicious donuts, even if the correct spelling is with C. (Why opt for such a controversial spelling? That will be investigated at another time. Possibly another place. I'm not making any promises here.) Three Ks is definitely too many. I'm pretty sure we can all agree on that one. I'm not into calling people with different opinions names (fucking moron isn't a name, right?) but if you're cool with three Ks, you are probably racist. But what if you have more than three? Like, what if you have twelve Ks? Is that ok? Twelve is a multiple of three, so maybe it's one K too many, or one too few. I mean it's a shame that a bunch of murderous rednecks went and ruined a perfectly good letter, but you can't change the past. Don't cry over spilled milk, stiff upper lip and all that. Agglomerations of Ks are just not cool. No offense, K. If it had been the Pu Plux Plan, well, then P would have had to bear that historical shame, but P got lucky. You didn't, K. You can go stand in the corner next to the number 13 and think about how life ain't fair. But, my poor put upon letter, you can take comfort in the fact that countries which suffered through a murderous civil war, a murderous inquisition and several murderous crusades but not murderous rednecks have no such issues with you. They will put you on beer coasters in the bar across the street to advertise motorcycle repair workshops. Finally, you are reaching your potential, K. Enjoy.

You however, minstrel bookends, are never not offensive.

It Takes a Village Idiot

Do you have turnstiles where you live? I have lived in Winnipeg, Ottawa, Paris, Montreal, New York and Barcelona, and they're in all of those cities, so I figured they were pretty ubiquitous, but perhaps, like my students who assume that every country shares an undying love for a million different types of pork products, I have misoverestimated their popularity. I say this because I go to the airport twice a week for work and every time I see somebody standing baffled in front of the turnstiles that lead to the train. These are not the confusing metro turnstiles with the ticket slot on the left. (Yay for me! I am the 15%) Just the regular, stick your ticket in and go through kind.
I witness all sorts or travel-related stupidity at the airport. Like the inability to transfer from the train to the shuttle bus. (One train, one shuttle bus. Even your mathematically challenged writer figured that one out the first time.) I think that when we travel, we often forget to pack a few of our IQ points. They're right there, next to your socks. Grab 'em.
Today at the airport, I got to see a whole different kind if stupidity: hippie stupidity. It's perhaps the least surprising kind, but one of the most entertaining/annoying brands there is! Riding in front of me on the shuttle, one free spirit, her hair wrapped in an "ethnic" cloth, turned to the black woman next to her and struck up a conversation, asking where she was from.
"Cameroon," the woman replied. At the girl's blank look she offered, "Africa."
"Oh. I have some friends from Benin."
The two countries are separated only by Nigeria, so that displayed some geographical acumen. But then she continued.
"Do you have a favorite dance?"
The middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman looked up from her cellphone, bemused.
"Dance?"
"Is there one kind of dance you like?"
"Like a tribal dance?"
"Yeah."
"Well," she said patiently. "There are a lot of tribes with different dances."
At this point the we came to a halt, and I got up and ran from the bus to avoid strangling the girl.
As I reflected on my exasperation, I realized that what bothered me most. Hippies disguising their one-worldy ignorance in childlike naivety comes with the territory. But what left me aghast was that the hippie girl was Asian. Then I considered my own prejudice: that a non-white living in Europe would have more cultural sensitivity just because of the color of her skin. Granted, this is based on the assumption of a certain experience living in another culture, but if anyone should be aware that your skin color does not solely determine that experience, it's me. I guess everyone's a little bit racist.