The Exterminator

Here's the latest Swiss movie. No, there won't be mountains in it. Or chocolate, or foundue or a bunch of people being on time. Check it out.

Magnet Video Blog

They say a picture is worth 1000 words. (probably only 750 in my case), but anyway, I thought I would treat you to a little demontration of Switzerland. A little nugget, or microcosm, if you will, of why I go around asking 'why' all the time?

'Why this' and 'Why that'? AND why my co- workers and friends, Swiss and American, are tired of me asking 'why' and have threatened to really kick my ass, or even kill me, if I don't stop complaining.

Without further ado, please click link below. Turn the volume up a bit...Jeez I never realized how fast I speak...it should be audible enough though.

Swiss Efficiency

Lately, I spend my most of my time fighting an entire country. It is fucking hard work and I‘m exhausted.

Switzerland is not a third world nation by any means. In fact, according to some survey, Zurich was just named the City with the highest quality of living in the world for the SECOND year in a row (thank you Howard B for the link). I live in Zurich and sometimes I wish I was in a third world country. The illogic of this place is just astounding. Mr. Spock could never spend one minute here.

I’m doing laundry right now and have been for the last 6-8 hours. I have a Swiss-efficient combination Washer/Dryer. It does neither very well. The only thing it has done successfully since I’ve been using it, is burn my hand.
The instruction manual is 135 pages long, and like everything else, split into German, French and Italian only. The super of my apartment can’t figure out how to work the machine and he speaks all three of these languages.

After washing the clothes for an hour and drying for them three, all that is produced is a hot, still smelling, wet, steaming pile of socks and underwear. It’s a fucking nightmare. And when I have to clean the lint filter, it’s also wet, hair-infested and vile.

It’s the irony that kills me though. They try to be so efficient around here, but it almost always backfires. I end up using the same energy because the thing has to run for entire day. I’m not paying 150 bucks to take it out when I have a machine in my house. Yes, you read that right. $150. I’m not doing it. No fucking way.

Right off the bat, can you imagine me going into the store and buying this ridiculous clothes line type thing shown below. When was the last time anyone of you has seen, let alone used a device such as this? When the goddamn Odd Couple was on in prime time, that’s when. Go ahead, laugh it up at poor old Zipper’s expense, envisioning his fat ass loading this thing with wet, disgusting, gray socks. Where’s the efficiency in any of this, Switzerland? Look at the instrument panel of this stupid thing. Good Will Hunting would scratch his head.

I went to a gay wedding last night. How is this relevant to any of this? It really isn’t, but some of the things that happened during and after the event are. I’ll start with the train ride home. I got a CHF 80 fine for not having the proper ticket. It’s such bullshit the way they do things on the train. I have a monthly ticket, which is good in most places. The wedding place was outside the zone, but we literally had to run to catch the train home or wait another hour at 2:00 AM. There was no time to get the supplemental ticket. That doesn’t matter to them. They take great pleasure that you’re fucked. No negotiation…."Please sign here, Danke Scheon". My boss got dinged too.

We’ve all been steaming about this whole wedding thing for weeks. Look at these costumes we were required to wear by the double-gay grooms.. No exceptions These things aren’t exactly light weight as you can see and it‘s June. They also cost 180 bucks to rent for one night. So now this thing is costing me 260 with the fine even before the gift. Also, the guy who got man-ried left us all with a pile of work . There was one silver lining about this wedding though. This girl in blue here. I advise you to click and enlarge.

This girl was absolutely flawless. Porcelein skin and eyes bluer than this dress. Can you imagine if she was dressed like this back then with all those Marquis de Sade types running around? My Gosh. Turns out that she spent some time in Louisiana and spoke with this sweet Swiss/Cajan lilt. Yes, I did actually speak to her, assholes.

Enough pleasing stuff. Here’s another thing that pissed me off this week. I’m on a softball team here. We played a game the other day and we were winning 11-3 in the last inning. Of course the other team came back to tie. The thing is, we had two separate innings shortened by this stupid 5 run max rule. Logic would dictate that the 5 run rule should be in effect for all innings. Who knows how many we would have scored in those other two. So of course, I argue this to the ump and the other team. They look at me like I’m an obnoxious New Yorker and don’t even really respond. It took this other team 6 innings to figure out that they should hit the ball to girl in right field. You can read the entire game story here, btw as I’ve been appointed team journalist, as you might have expected. But it should be noted that the manager of the team is an editor for the Associated Press and his wife is a writer there.

There is an enormous soccer tournament taking place here in Switzerland and Austria right now. The place is nuts. Cars and houses draped in different flags of the world and I still don’t get why this game is popular. Here’s the best argument I can think that proves it’s dull. They actually count shots that miss the net as an actual statistic/scoring chance. The crowd cheers appreciatively when THEIR OWN TEAM shoot wide. Another thing I’ve noticed is that they have stats on a guy that tracks how much running he done during the game. It’s usually like 7 or 8 km, which is like 5 miles. So basically, this guy has ran around the pitch for this incredible distance and has, in all likelihood, accomplished absolutely nothing. Just like my washing machine.

Check this out. This is so Switzerland.

The Land of Nein

Ok, so I like my creature comforts. Who the hell doesn’t? But the next time someone says people from New York are mean, nasty, unaccommodating or inhospitable, I will knock them on their ass.

Most of you who read this, know that I have moved from New York to Zurich, Switzerland. I have just completed my first two weeks as a Swiss citizen. The image of Switzerland that I always had was one of a peaceful, friendly and eager to please type of place. Uhhm...no.

I want to recount snippets of conversations I’ve had with various people, “service” workers, immigration officials or anyone sitting behind a desk, food counter, etc. Some of these have been embellished of course, but not by much.

The format of this is me asking the initial question, with the aforementioned Swiss personnel giving the answer (in bold).

Excuse me. Do you have Splenda or Equal?
Nein.

Hey, do you carry any softball equipment in this huge-ass sporting goods store?
Nein. Would you like a badminton paddle?

Sir, may I have mustard for my stadium style pretzel?
It’s for Bratwurst only.
Can I please have some for this pretzel?
Nein. One Swiss Franc extra!

Ummmm, weather? We’re supposed to have (coed) softball practice, where I will be able to shag some fly balls, take some B.P. and meet other Americans. Can you not rain today?
The forecast calls for Nein!

Excuse me, are there any Asian girls here?
Nein Asian Frau

Hey, can you wash and press this shirt?
Yes
How much?
CHF 5 ($4.75 for you non-comp nincompoops)

I was wondering if any of these satellite dishes carried US Television?
Only UK, France, Sweden, Findland, Norway, Spain Turkey and the former Yugoslavian Republics.
So no?
Yes, that’s correct. Nein to the U.S.

Sir, my Blackberry doesn’t seem to work. Can you give me a sim-card to fix it?
Is that a 8703e?
Yes.
Then the answer for you is plainly and simply, Nein.

Hey it’s Sunday, can I do laundry today?
Yes you can.
Really?
If you do you, you are either a sinner or a Jew.
I am a Jew.
Please leave the country.

Wow, ten giant stacks of different free newspapers outside every train station. Are any in English?
Ten Times Nein = Nein

Hey, I’m stuck in this overly engineered automated revolving door again. Can you help me?
Give me your ID card please and I shall release you.
I can’t, can't you see I'm pressed inside this coffin-sized glass prison and can’t pass it through, or even move my arms for that matter.
Hmmm... then that is a problem.

Ma’am, Is there a larger size coffee than this pixie cup?
Nein.
OK, how much is the pixie cup then?
Four Francs

The blinds are moving up and down in my office for absolutely no reason. Is there a way to stop it?
Yes. Press that button.
It’s not doing anything.
Oh, I supposed that needs to be fixed.

Excuse me, I have been here for 8 working days without the proper papers. Can I get a temporary work visa?
Nein.
What will be the ramifications if I stay?
The ramifications if you are caught are as follows: Your immediate supervisors will go to prison and you shall be deported, never being allowed to return.
Those are some ramification.
Yes. Indeed they are. But most effective.

I was wondering if it will get a little warmer here, maybe in May or June or perhaps July.
Nein. Maybe August.

Are either of the elevators in my office building working today?
Nein. Please walk up 5 flights of stairs.

This DVD will not play in this machine.
You must use these.
Are any of them in English?
Nein.
Subtitles in English?
Nein.

Is there a station out of these 50 that shows American Idol or Idol Wrap-up at least?
Swiss Idol Only.

Hello, help desk. I just walked in and my computer is totally without any power. Can you come up and fix it?
Yes, four hours.

Hey, at 1:30 am, after staying up very late, do you think I can watch the Met game on my computer, with it's stop and start, grainy, almost completely unwatchable picture on my tiny laptop, provided by the almost utterly useless MLB.com?
For now, yes...but we are working on a way to deprive you of that simple pleasure as well, Herr Zaitz

Excuse me sir, will I be able to keep my sanity for two years in Switzerland?
NEIN!!!!

What the hell did I commit to?

Ok, I was gonna wait until the end of my nine day stay in Zurich to write a blog, but I think I have enough material after only three.

I’m shocked at how RIDICULOUSLY expensive stuff is here. At this particular moment, I don’t give a crap because CS will suck up all of my expenses – wait, hold on a second, let me get another beer from mini-bar – Ok, I’m back. Check this out. A regular Whopper meal at Burger King – are you ready? 10 Swiss Francs. No, try again. 12 Swiss Francs. Wrong. It’s 15 Swiss Francs.

Oh, alright, well you have to take the exchange rate into account, right? It’s 1.05 at the moment. So 15 Swiss = 14.30 USD…for a fucking Whopper, a very small fry and a 12 oz. iceless, practically-bubbleless cup of soda.

And here’s the kicker. I don’t know about you, but with a meal of that magnitude, I’m a three to four ketchup kind of a guy. They’re twenty cents each. So all told, I’m looking at over $15 for something that is like $7 in New York City.

But wait there’s more. You figure that outside Zurich, it might be a little better, like it is on let’s say Long Island. It’s not.

I got lost wandering around (much more on this later) a suburban area called Ruschlikon (every town here ends with the suffixes of kon, wil, berg or dorf) yesterday while looking at prospective housing. I found a Chinese restaurant at lunchtime and proceeded to have a spring roll, Kung Pow Chicken and two Diet Cokes – 55 Swiss. At least they didn’t charge me for the fucking duck sauce.

I’m not sure what I’m gonna do. I thought moving here would be boon to my organization and I was going to finally be able to save some dough. But with these prices, it’s just nuts. Gas is like eight bucks a gallon, so getting a car is probably out too. I guess I’ll get the hugest-ass flatscreen I can find and sit around, eating sardine sandwiches for the next two years. They say the tax situation helps out some, but we’ll see.

*****

So, I get off the bus in the suburbs of Zurich in a place called Kilchberg. Now, don’t get me wrong this place and all like it right next to The Lake, is beautiful. The water is brilliant and blue and on the other side of the water, you can see thousands of Hansel and Gretel-esque houses embedded in the hills. As far as the side I’m on, I have to now find the particular embedded house on some tucked away street called Kastenlenweg. It’s raining lightly and and I’m in my typical Zipper uniform of hooded sweatshirt, sneakers and jeans. I have the map, but I first have to cross the grounds of a chocolate factory (not making this up). Fine, I’m in the neighborhood.

Now you have to imagine that all these streets and houses are not laid out in any pattern. They’re just all over the place at all different angles and topographies. I’m trying to follow the map, but I keep running into people’s yards. When this happens, I have to back track up or down a hill, so as to not trespass. After the fifth time, I’m like ‘Fuck it, I’m cutting through this guy’s yard. What’s he gonna do, shoot me? So now I’m hopping fences and making moves in the open field like I did when I was 10.

I’m streaking through one yard, and hop another fence and all of sudden this guy opens his back door. I stop. We just sort of stare at each other like that scene in Saving Private Ryan, when the Nazi walks down the steps after stabbing the American and meets that little translator guy named Upham. This lasted for a few seconds and I say in the most non-threatening way “Kastenlenweg 6?!?” He slams closed the door with nary a word or even the slightest lip curl. I continue and finally find Kastenlenwegstrasse. But where the hell is #6?

I see 5 and 7, but no 6. I’m now skulking around the grounds, and to the outside eye, looking more or less like a cat burglar. The rain is getting harder.

Suddenly, from the second story of Kastenlenweg 5, these french door windows blast open and a big old Swiss-German hausfrau starts yelling at me - “Aus dem Weggehen!”, “Aus dem Weggehen!”, which I gather to mean ‘Get off my property, you silly, confused and possibly dangerous Jew’. Again, I use the brilliant and battle-tested “Kastenlenweg 6?!?” defense. This time however, I get another “Aus dem Weggehen!”, which leads me to believe that she still wants me either off the property or maybe even better, dead.

I shout “Bernie Kobel” (the guy I’m supposed to meet and I think also the name of the guy who played the unfunny doctor on The Love Boat). She says something else in German in an equally unfriendly tone and I get the hell out of there. So much for that apartment.

******

I’m enjoying a nice outing in the hotel gym the other day. This place is a little different then most hotel gyms. It’s more of spa type thing. Tanning beds, meditation rooms, candles all over the place, etc, etc.

After my workout, I take a dip in the hot tub for a few and then decide to bake in the sauna a little while. I like going in there to dry my bathing suit anyway. This is not the good part of the story, by the way.

So I’m sitting in there and some deiterschmitt comes in there to adjust something. He spots me and tells me to please remove my ‘swim trousers’. First of all, I don’t like it when a man, especially some skinny little Euro-fag, tells me to remove my swim trousers. Second of all, I don’t feel like being naked in there. I’ve always been hazy on sauna etiquette, but I kinda thought it was naked-optional.

I tell him I’m leaving in a few minutes, I just want to dry the trousers out a little longer. He says they will dry faster if they are off. Ok, so you’re a lockerroom attendant/physicist, dickhead. I stand up and start to comply. Just as my bathing suit is at knee level and my shriveled unit (please remember I was in the hot tub) is exposed, two pretty cute NAKED girls walk in. As is only natural, they immediately see my recessed knob. People can’t help looking at what they usually don’t have access too – just as I looked good and hard at all four of their tits for as long as I could without getting thrown out of the hotel. I felt I was warranted in that due to the embarrassment I just suffered. I know Costanza had this happen to him, but that was a fictional situation. This was real life. And yes in case you were wondering, that was the reason I ordered the Kung-pow chicken that day. I guess I learned the (not so) hard way that the saunas are coed over here.

**********

Other crazy things over here:

Everything is shut tight on Sundays.

They take a 15 minute intermission in the middle of a movie (a big sign comes on the screen that says ‘Time for Ice Cream’, with requisite cartoon characters).

A passenger can get on a train or bus without a ticket and take a chance on not getting asked for one. I’ve been here three times and on the train probably 20 times and have not been asked. That’s 60 bucks wasted and the fine is 50 if you’re caught...hmmmm.

King Tut had it better than me

Nothing like the sound of rustling Hefti bags as someone angrily packs up their stuff in another room at 1:00 am, while you’re sitting in the living room watching a National Geographic special about Tutankhamen’s mummy.

Can you relate?

While I’m now educated in how advanced we’ve gotten in spectral forensic imaging, I’m convinced I’ll never be educated in the psyche of women and just how fucked in the head they really are. I think I’ll take the mummy knowledge at this point, because no matter how nice and pleasing and cool it is to be in relationship, they inevitable crumble because it’s simply impossible (for me anyway) to put up with, argue against, or make sense of the irrationality that is the female mind.

Am I breaking new ground here? No, I don’t think so. Women have been pains in mens' asses since the days of blogging on cave walls. But I guess it’s just my colossal thick-headedness to keep hoping that there is a girl out there who thinks reasonably. I mean, let’s even take someone like Condeleza Rice. Whatever you think about her ability as Sec’y of State, do you think she gets mad at her significant other because he has newspaper ink on his fingers for a period of time longer that 10 seconds? I wonder if she has a hissy-fit if three fluid ounces of water escapes from the dog’s bowl on to the kitchen floor while he is drinking. The poor bastard got his balls chopped off (not at my doing, btw) when he was ten days old – how about letting him drink however he wants, for chrissakes.

I don’t know, maybe it’s me. I try to be as tolerant as I can. I know girls are sensitive if you try to instruct them how to do things, so I try not to do it. I know they like romantic stuff, so I write the occasional love letter or poem – and not just because they like it, but because that type of thing is fun for me too. No matter how nice a relationship is in the first few weeks, chinks in the armour (refrain from Asian jokes, please) inevitable appear. I refuse to be a sap, I’m sorry. I’ll try to modify my behaviour to make for harmony – but only to a point. Is it a menstrual thing? I'm sorry that's a bullshit excuse already. Are you telling my choices here are to either go out with post-menopausal women exclusively or become a chronic masturbator. I know first (ahem) hand that choice 2 sucks and I'm pretty sure hot flashes ain't no picnic neither.

So now I sit here, almost a year to the day when I sat through another late night bag-rustling event (appropriately enough I was watching V for Vendetta on that occasion), and the cliché about men and women not being able to get along is further confirmed. This latest one coming on the day we exchanged Christmas gifts. I’d feel too guilty about connecting this stupid Sony Blu-Ray player now. I guess it doesn’t matter because my TV isn’t 1080p anyway.

And in case you were interested, according to the latest forensic data, King Tut was probably not murdered after all. Evidence suggests he killed himself because his girlfriend was a royal pain in the ass.

U date

Not in a taxicab this time, boys, but the back of a U-Haul truck?!?

Let me start from the beginning. Today I got a call that everyone on fucking Earth dreads – “Can you help me move?”

It’s a rainy Saturday and work has been a bitch for me the last couple of weeks. Do I really feel like making a three-borough, nine hour slosh around town in the metallic innards of a windowless U-Haul? No, I don’t. I want to sit on my couch and watch college football games with teams I couldn’t give two shits about.

Alas, I’ll be participating in such momentous events as tape-gunning, sofa stairwell pivoting, and the giant oak headboard long toss. Just to make it more enticing, I'll have to start my day with a 7 train LOCAL to the very last stop in Flushing (plus a bus). Fuckin’ A.

I get to the move site and crazy (i'll call her) Zelda is the first to greet me. Like me, she's just a helper and is friends with the people moving. As is my wont, I’ll try to be as succinct as possible in describing Zelda, but I’ll take the liberty be as thorough as I feel is warranted. Now that I’ve explained how I’ll explain her, behold:

She’s this little sparkplug of a thing who wears librarian glasses, but likes to scream in the street for no reason and sometimes uses a playful judo kick as a substitute for a hug. She also likes to hug.

I learned today that she came here when she was 9 or 10 years old from Taiwan, even though I always thought she was A.B.C.* (American Born Chinese) *Editor’s Note: The author of this piece likes Asian girls, pretty much exclusively. **Author’s Note: Shut the fuck up, Editor, I’m in the middle of a story.

Anyway, this Zelda, is a championship caliber tennis player, her mother died when she was a baby, and she likes to end statements or questions with a very ghetto-chic “Yo.” For example, she’ll say something like, “I can slap a forehand winner past your lame ass anytime I want, Yo!”

She’s also very cute - but not in the typical Pan-Asian, no-hipped, skinny-armed, high and wide-cheekboned kind of way. She has curves and muscles…and these little elfin ears that stick out at an adorable 45 degree angle. It’s me and her and bunch of furniture in the pitch black cargo hold of a U-haul, headed south on the Van Wyck.

Zelda and I went on a quasi double date a while ago with the two people who are sitting upfront, in the human area of the truck. I say quasi because I was the only one who thought it was a date. Whatever. No biggie. I’ve seen her a few times since, and we’re always friendly. So we’re back there and we start bouncing into each other as the road gets bumpier. There’s barely room for the both of us, as we’re almost fully encased in wood and boxsprings.

“I’m gonna kiss you, Zelda,” I warn.

I move in. She swivels her head like she's fuckin' Linda Blair and gives me all cheek.

“What the hell is that, Yo?” she screams, more surprised than pissed, slowly turning her face back towards me, making sure it's safe.
“C’mon.” (One of those familiar Zipper 'C'mon's)
“C’mon, what?”
“We’re practically in each others arms, we’re involuntarily grinding each other, (which fyi has the same effect as voluntarily grinding), nobody can see us, it’s raining, and we’re in a freakin' U-haul.”
“So?”
“So it’s romantic,” I shrug. “And when they asked, it seemed like you were eager to be back here with me.”
“I thought it would be fun,” she purrs while play-slapping me.
“Yeah…so did I.”

She registers the sarcasm.

“Shut up. It will be fun.”
“Says you, yo,” I smirk.

We spend the next half hour bouncing around, talking, laughing and not making out. She was right, it was fun. I know, not a very exciting climax to the story, but a peek inside the zany shit that happens to me. I know I mention that show Californication from time to time, but I will again. There was a line a few weeks ago in there something to the effect that we all live in our own little romantic-comedic worlds. This was totally one of those moments for me.

Incidentally, almost all romantic comedies have the same exact formula: Act I - Boy meets girl, Act II - Boy loses girl, Act III - Boy gets girl. Act III in real life is hard sometimes.

**********

On a totally different vibe, I had the opportunity to spend a few minutes with an Auschwitz survivor today. It was a neighbor of the guy who was moving.

I'm a little bit of history guy, so hearing some of her stories was more interesting than anything Ken Burns or PBS can come up with. She was Hungarian and was shocked when I recognized her accent. (I pride myself on my accent recognition). At one point in 1944 I think, she pretended to be Romanian so she could get a lift from Poland to Budapest for her and her brother from some Romanian soldiers in a caravan. She didn't verbalize it, but implied to me that the soldiers didn't want money from her, but at the same time, the ride was not free.

One thing that struck me as odd was how eager she was to show me her tattoo, once she found out I that was Jewish. There was something so ominous and powerful about those faded green numbers on her papery-skinned wrist. I was a little taken aback by the weird pride she had about it. I don't know, just freaked me out I guess. I had never seen one of those before in real life. I realized a few minutes later that I also haven't seen 1% of the shit that this poor woman has seen in her life.