Just a few things I bring up for class discussion.
Britney Spears - "Remember when she was bald? Her mom, I think, is bad, using her to be famous and make money." - "I think they both knew, umm, agreed to the book." - "It is strange"
Prom, American Pie and getting laid - "That is American. That is America, I think."
The Jonas Brothers - "They're virgins aren't they? Why do they say that? It can't make them popular."
Depeche Mode - "My ex-boyfriend wanted to look like Dave Gahan. He spent an hour getting ready before we went out...My boyfriend now has short hair." and "People love Dave Gahan. Depeche Mode fans have their own parties. Everyone is Dave Gahan."
Reality TV - "I have seen this show Cheaters. It is bad, the lowest show, very trashy...The cameras do not have time to stop the fights" - "I like the MTV show, about 16 birthday parties. I want to have one...We do not have those here."
Bathing - "I get the bath with water, and light the candles. But I think all the germs in the water reproducing."
Internet dating - "I tried it when I was 25. You type and write emails, but you do not know the person. Then you decide to meet, and it is awkward and you have to stay for 20 minutes to be polite."
Massages and spas - "I don't like it. Lying naked on a table and a stranger massging my tits."
Shakira - "You like Shakira? No, no I do not like her. I saw Bjork in concert and it was good. She changed outfits all the time."
Madonna - "I do not like Madonna or her fans. They all look and dress like her in the eighties, Like a virgin. This was good song, but the fans, mehh, I do not like."
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Letters to President-elect Obama
Dear Mr. President-elect Obama,
You might want to start thinking about what you are going to get me, 'cause I just solved the energy crisis. That's not stigmatism or ear wax, Mr. Almost-President, you heard me right. Buying me a Landrover or jet might be slightly inappropriate, but books or money always make great presents. But before we get caught up in wild celebrations, let me tell you the plan. Oh goodness, then Mr. Obama, then we can really start to party, just like back in the '70s.
The answer to the energy crisis is called the Bus-ride Boyfriend Plan. Excited already, are we, Mr. Gonna-be-president-right-around-the-corner? Good. Me too.
Now, this plan is concentrated on the public transportation system. It's not used widely all over the nation. I mean, lets look at Houston, Dallas, LA. Very few people speak about taking the bus. If only we could make people maul each other just for a chance to stand in line for a bus. Well, dream no more, Barack - is it ok if I call you Barack?
I know how to make everyone want to line up for the bus in every city in the grand ole USA. Every attractive male by law will not receive a driver's license and instead must ride the bus. Hand over your license, Mr. Obama, you will definitely be getting on the bus. Before any male signs up for a driver's license or driver's education, he must submit a photo of himself. From this photo a panel consisting of, well, to be honest, whoever you want, will mark the male either bus-rider or driver.
Now, I know you might be thinking, Lindsey, this is going to cause some self-esteem issues in a country already being overrun by men acting like pussies. I've thought about this. One, men need to man up. Two, the ugly guys get to drive a car. The girls, who would have never glanced at them before, will be after them because they can drive. The attractive guys, oh, they will be on display on the bus for everyone, not just the elite club of rich and goodlooking. My gosh, I want to go out and buy enough bus tickets to last me a lifetime.
And here's another fun twist. If you want to become attracitve as a guy through surgery or merely lifestyle change of working out and eating properly, well, you're going to have re-submit a photo. If you are now attractive, that license is getting taking away. Step on the bus.
Mr. Obama, you might be thinking, why not women, too? Isn't this plan sexist. No, Mr. You're-not-president-quite-yet. The plan is econimical. The largest consumer demographic is women. If you question this, look at the success of Twilight.
Also, women get taunted, whistled at quite enough. It's time to turn the tables, boys. I'd cover up your bums, 'cause on these buses, some of the women might try the ole brush up. Like you haven't tried that Mr. Obama. Let's just ask Mrs. Obama.
You might now think, Lindsey, if the auto industry goes the country will be in dee guck. It's already going. Plus, the fleet of buses will be growing at exponential rates. We're going to need new buses, roads. Construction managers, higher your crews back. GM, I'd be looking at only making buses from now on.
More people on public tranportation, less wrecks. Hardly any drunk driving accidents for teenage boys. This is a life and planet saving plan. Plus, lots of teens get preggers in the back of a car. Gonna be hard to do that in a crowded bus, eh Obama?
It's hard to believe the answer was so simple, isn't it, Barack?
In all the sincerity of energy debates,
A concerned citizen
You might want to start thinking about what you are going to get me, 'cause I just solved the energy crisis. That's not stigmatism or ear wax, Mr. Almost-President, you heard me right. Buying me a Landrover or jet might be slightly inappropriate, but books or money always make great presents. But before we get caught up in wild celebrations, let me tell you the plan. Oh goodness, then Mr. Obama, then we can really start to party, just like back in the '70s.
The answer to the energy crisis is called the Bus-ride Boyfriend Plan. Excited already, are we, Mr. Gonna-be-president-right-around-the-corner? Good. Me too.
Now, this plan is concentrated on the public transportation system. It's not used widely all over the nation. I mean, lets look at Houston, Dallas, LA. Very few people speak about taking the bus. If only we could make people maul each other just for a chance to stand in line for a bus. Well, dream no more, Barack - is it ok if I call you Barack?
I know how to make everyone want to line up for the bus in every city in the grand ole USA. Every attractive male by law will not receive a driver's license and instead must ride the bus. Hand over your license, Mr. Obama, you will definitely be getting on the bus. Before any male signs up for a driver's license or driver's education, he must submit a photo of himself. From this photo a panel consisting of, well, to be honest, whoever you want, will mark the male either bus-rider or driver.
Now, I know you might be thinking, Lindsey, this is going to cause some self-esteem issues in a country already being overrun by men acting like pussies. I've thought about this. One, men need to man up. Two, the ugly guys get to drive a car. The girls, who would have never glanced at them before, will be after them because they can drive. The attractive guys, oh, they will be on display on the bus for everyone, not just the elite club of rich and goodlooking. My gosh, I want to go out and buy enough bus tickets to last me a lifetime.
And here's another fun twist. If you want to become attracitve as a guy through surgery or merely lifestyle change of working out and eating properly, well, you're going to have re-submit a photo. If you are now attractive, that license is getting taking away. Step on the bus.
Mr. Obama, you might be thinking, why not women, too? Isn't this plan sexist. No, Mr. You're-not-president-quite-yet. The plan is econimical. The largest consumer demographic is women. If you question this, look at the success of Twilight.
Also, women get taunted, whistled at quite enough. It's time to turn the tables, boys. I'd cover up your bums, 'cause on these buses, some of the women might try the ole brush up. Like you haven't tried that Mr. Obama. Let's just ask Mrs. Obama.
You might now think, Lindsey, if the auto industry goes the country will be in dee guck. It's already going. Plus, the fleet of buses will be growing at exponential rates. We're going to need new buses, roads. Construction managers, higher your crews back. GM, I'd be looking at only making buses from now on.
More people on public tranportation, less wrecks. Hardly any drunk driving accidents for teenage boys. This is a life and planet saving plan. Plus, lots of teens get preggers in the back of a car. Gonna be hard to do that in a crowded bus, eh Obama?
It's hard to believe the answer was so simple, isn't it, Barack?
In all the sincerity of energy debates,
A concerned citizen
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A day in the life of an illegal alien English teacher
A typical day in my life here, it’s ruled by confusion, slight terror, and a cloud of unknowing, which I do not feel is bringing me any closer to the mystery of God. [then again, doesn’t everything?] What I know is that I’m going from point A, the apartment, to point B, some business where I’ll teach. Then, if I need to accomplish more things, I will go to those other points, but already, I’m getting complicated and thinking about it tires me and that miniature Lindsey in my brain has kicked up its feet, opened a beer and said fuck it.
Getting to point B usually starts in the morning. General rule of thumb for me is leave at least 40 minutes before hand, however, this is only enough time if everything goes as planned, which is how things go roughly 30 percent of the time. The rest, well, I have to put down the beer and figure that out. Let me tell you, I don’t much like setting down my beer, so, instead of pulling out a map and finding out where I am and what streets I should take and where I should turn and what bus I want to be on the lookout for, instead of doing that, my brain sips on the beer and I stroll. If I’m late, I might walk at a swift pace, swift enough to pass by old women and men pulling along their carts of groceries and other miscellaneous items. I try not to look back at them, not to look straight at their face and into their eyes. It’s not Polish, and I’m not sure if it's considered civil in any country. But I do. Their neon pink lipstick caked on, they could suck on a baby’s bottle, eat a birthday cake and make out with Justin Timberlake and they’d still have half a tube of lipstick on. Perhaps this, the tendency to stare at so many people and be utterly shocked by the lives I imagine they live, is whyI miss turns, get on the wrong trams and busses. Of course the reason could be that I'm in Poland. Either reason, I pass by these women, and walk, stroll, try to find something I recognize. I walk and hop on buses and trams until this happens. I try to avoid older men that mumble as they walk. They'll walk up to me and ask something, "nie, nie," I say, not knowing what I said no to. Then I stare away like a grade-A jack ass. I swear, one of these days one of these old men is going to shiv me.
On Thursday, I got up, dressed, put on my huge green jacket – which I’ve been informed is not as cool, attractive and rockin’ as I think – and walked out the door. The apartment building is cement, a long, upright rectangle of cement, like just about every other apartment building in the cities of Poland. Way to go Stalin, Putin, Yeltsin, you assholes. The stairwells are narrow, the elevator is shoved-to-the-corner crowded with only four people. There’s no handle on the door at this floor, so you can ride it up, not down. No need, I consider this run down my everyday workout. Sometimes I outdo myself and complete this exercise a couple times a day.
I walk out into the normally gray day. The asphalt and cracked sidewalks have puddles of grey and brown water, flyers for hookers and strip joints wet and stuck to them. There’s a play ground, bright crayola colored poles holding up a miniature house painted to look brick. It’s tilted, falling into a big bush. There are never kids playing when I walk by, too early or too late. I seem to never pass during play time. Either this Thursday or Friday, there were two men smoking outside the apartment. They were talking loud, I understand the following words – very, fuck, good, thank you, she, he, day, yes and no. The past time of listening to other people’s conversations is not a possibility here. I tried with a group of three Americans when I first came. They spoke about money, the exchange rate, like they were stealing from the country of Poland and their genius was behind it all. I walked on. The one conversation I get, it’s business school students.
I walk to the stoplight. I like to pretend that I am listening to headphones– which I am not because I have no media device for that – I pretend this so no one will try to talk to me. I wait at the street light, the market across from me. Old woman, young women, boys and men with knitted hats and gloves will try to sale me garlic and dried mushrooms. If I’m walking to the bus stop on Bitwy Warwasaw past 8 am, there will be the man with no legs sitting inside a Warsaw Uprising statue/monument. I’ll pass him by, pretending to be listening to music, hoping he doesn’t try to say anything to me. I wouldn’t mind talking to him, but I’m embarrassed I can’t speak their language. I feel bad, and it’d be useless. In general, no one wants to talk to me. For as close and snug as people get in public transportation, sometimes I can’t move my arms, people all pretend that no one around them exists. The exception – being with a friend. Isn’t that always the exception? It should be. Everything is acceptable when friendship is involved. So people don’t want to start conversations with me; no one is interested in complimenting my French braid or shepherd’s coat – also, not a fashionable garment in the Poles’ opinion.
However, several times while I’m waiting for a tram, the subway, or most commonly a bus, someone who, surprisingly, looks much more confused than me taps my shoulder, stresses their face, and says something very quickly. Their eyes look so rushed and concerned, it seems to me they’re asking something about whether this particular bus stop is where they wait to escape the end of the world. What they’re actually saying, that will remain a mystery. I say “nie” or “nie rozumium” or my favorite, I shrug my shoulders and wag my head. At this point, they wave their hands at me, as if throwing me away, saying to some god watching the interaction Next, please, and this time, not an idiot.
That didn’t happen on Thursday, though. I waited at the bus stop, leaning against a waist-high pole. People, of all ages, while waiting, like to walk to the curb and look in the direction of oncoming traffic. Normally, when one person does this, something is invisibly triggered, and almost everyone waiting walks forward to the edge of the curb. After waiting there 2 minutes and no bus coming, a few walk back to their former waiting spot. Sometimes I join the herd at the curb, just to feel like I’m part of the herd. But I move with the herd at a risk. One, I will ended up waiting in a line that might be for nothing, and two, someone might mistakenly think I know what the hell I am doing and ask a question.
On this Thursday, the bus came, and I got on, there was a seat available. Taking a seat is chancy. If after you are seated, an older woman gets on the bus, if you don’t get up, she’ll make you. But I sat down, there always seems to be enough seats on this bus. There were a few businessmen, several elderly and a strong, pungent smell of shat pants. As my brother and his former construction colleagues would say Cago! – that’s I shit my pants! From what I smelled Thursday, it must have been a couple days with that load riding in their pants. After dropping some students off, the buss puttered, jerked, stopped, was turned on, then off, and then the doors opened. Nothing was said, but it was clear Everyone, get the hell off the bus, this puppy won’t be getting you anywhere. So I walked. The streets didn’t look to familiar, the sun was beginning to shine and since this is such a rarity, I have no idea where I am in the sunshine, it's like I took some drugs. The bus might have taken me to Russia and I wouldn’t have been anymore confused. But this is Poland, so there is always a herd of some type to follow, so I followed. I waited at the tram, but the herd had broken off. The businessman who I had liked the looks of on the bus had taken off. His pace was too quick, business too important, I would have had to break into a trot to follow. Even if your brain’s the only part of you drinking a beer, it's hard to maintain a trot while your brain’s sippin’ on anything. Thus, I followed the shat pants group who were going a little more at my speed. I followed to the tram and waited. After a bit, I did an about face, and began to walk. A tram wouldn’t get me anywhere. The bus, I wasn’t holding my breath for that either. I had my feet, so I looked for anything familiar. I saw a church I recognized and headed straight for it. I was apart from the herd, walking the bus path alone. I walked for 40 minutes and arrived at the advertising agency late.
“That’s alright,” the woman said. “I don’t think I’ll read it out loud today,” she later said of the article I gave her. It was on a spa in Israel that puts snakes on people for massages. I didn’t care, so I said that that was fine. She understood most of it, and in my opinion, has no need of me.
I am the chatty-cathy doll for people learning English. Pull my string and I’ll speak in native, 100% U.S.A. English. I’m pretty sure my students are starting to pick up I’d prefer they stay the fuck away from string.
At this class, with one girl who I found out is 33 years old, she ended up giving me life advice. “If I could do anything over, if I could be 23 again, I’d have kids first.” This is the only time I’ve heard this. Most, tell me, “Do it [meaning anything and everything some asshole like a boss, loan shark or spouse will try to stop] while you’re young.” This woman, Magda – one of the four female names in this country – was telling me, “do it while you’re young.” But by it, she meant have babies. “I could have 2 kids right now, and they’d be old enough, I could go back to studies and a job. At my age, at this point, I’m never going to have it.” It seems that my appearance automatically brings to people’s minds their regrets of their past, the romantic tales they could have lived. Her tale, traveling and beginning a family, then worrying about a career. She was honest with herself, she would never have it. She had chosen her path, become content with it, and the only liking she had of the other path was a romantic nostalgia of what could have been.
I don’t know what I taught her, but it must be more than my Monday lesson. The class which is supposed to be 9 students, only one showed up. “I can’t stay all class and no one else is here.” Konrad couldn’t stay because of a doctor’s appointment. “I got very sick earlier this year…I got cancer…of the testicles…they are just like your breasts, you have to check them.” My response, you’re just like Lance Armstrong, congratulations Mr. Celebrity. If he can say testicles correctly, don’t think my services are that necessary. However, my services are pretty much only talking - because I couldn’t give a shit about this job or lesson plans or if my students walk away knowing any new words. They know what wacky means now, thank God. Up next week – bag of dicks.
What happens on the way back – oh boy, that’s an entirely new load of confusion I’ll get into later. I’ll give you this little hint – the confusion has to do with pretending to have a made up world of my own by reading and missing my stop. Sounds like fun doesn’t it? It’s everything romantic and green that your life could have been if you had just taken the jump. Boy, did you mess up and miss out...sucker.
Getting to point B usually starts in the morning. General rule of thumb for me is leave at least 40 minutes before hand, however, this is only enough time if everything goes as planned, which is how things go roughly 30 percent of the time. The rest, well, I have to put down the beer and figure that out. Let me tell you, I don’t much like setting down my beer, so, instead of pulling out a map and finding out where I am and what streets I should take and where I should turn and what bus I want to be on the lookout for, instead of doing that, my brain sips on the beer and I stroll. If I’m late, I might walk at a swift pace, swift enough to pass by old women and men pulling along their carts of groceries and other miscellaneous items. I try not to look back at them, not to look straight at their face and into their eyes. It’s not Polish, and I’m not sure if it's considered civil in any country. But I do. Their neon pink lipstick caked on, they could suck on a baby’s bottle, eat a birthday cake and make out with Justin Timberlake and they’d still have half a tube of lipstick on. Perhaps this, the tendency to stare at so many people and be utterly shocked by the lives I imagine they live, is whyI miss turns, get on the wrong trams and busses. Of course the reason could be that I'm in Poland. Either reason, I pass by these women, and walk, stroll, try to find something I recognize. I walk and hop on buses and trams until this happens. I try to avoid older men that mumble as they walk. They'll walk up to me and ask something, "nie, nie," I say, not knowing what I said no to. Then I stare away like a grade-A jack ass. I swear, one of these days one of these old men is going to shiv me.
On Thursday, I got up, dressed, put on my huge green jacket – which I’ve been informed is not as cool, attractive and rockin’ as I think – and walked out the door. The apartment building is cement, a long, upright rectangle of cement, like just about every other apartment building in the cities of Poland. Way to go Stalin, Putin, Yeltsin, you assholes. The stairwells are narrow, the elevator is shoved-to-the-corner crowded with only four people. There’s no handle on the door at this floor, so you can ride it up, not down. No need, I consider this run down my everyday workout. Sometimes I outdo myself and complete this exercise a couple times a day.
I walk out into the normally gray day. The asphalt and cracked sidewalks have puddles of grey and brown water, flyers for hookers and strip joints wet and stuck to them. There’s a play ground, bright crayola colored poles holding up a miniature house painted to look brick. It’s tilted, falling into a big bush. There are never kids playing when I walk by, too early or too late. I seem to never pass during play time. Either this Thursday or Friday, there were two men smoking outside the apartment. They were talking loud, I understand the following words – very, fuck, good, thank you, she, he, day, yes and no. The past time of listening to other people’s conversations is not a possibility here. I tried with a group of three Americans when I first came. They spoke about money, the exchange rate, like they were stealing from the country of Poland and their genius was behind it all. I walked on. The one conversation I get, it’s business school students.
I walk to the stoplight. I like to pretend that I am listening to headphones– which I am not because I have no media device for that – I pretend this so no one will try to talk to me. I wait at the street light, the market across from me. Old woman, young women, boys and men with knitted hats and gloves will try to sale me garlic and dried mushrooms. If I’m walking to the bus stop on Bitwy Warwasaw past 8 am, there will be the man with no legs sitting inside a Warsaw Uprising statue/monument. I’ll pass him by, pretending to be listening to music, hoping he doesn’t try to say anything to me. I wouldn’t mind talking to him, but I’m embarrassed I can’t speak their language. I feel bad, and it’d be useless. In general, no one wants to talk to me. For as close and snug as people get in public transportation, sometimes I can’t move my arms, people all pretend that no one around them exists. The exception – being with a friend. Isn’t that always the exception? It should be. Everything is acceptable when friendship is involved. So people don’t want to start conversations with me; no one is interested in complimenting my French braid or shepherd’s coat – also, not a fashionable garment in the Poles’ opinion.
However, several times while I’m waiting for a tram, the subway, or most commonly a bus, someone who, surprisingly, looks much more confused than me taps my shoulder, stresses their face, and says something very quickly. Their eyes look so rushed and concerned, it seems to me they’re asking something about whether this particular bus stop is where they wait to escape the end of the world. What they’re actually saying, that will remain a mystery. I say “nie” or “nie rozumium” or my favorite, I shrug my shoulders and wag my head. At this point, they wave their hands at me, as if throwing me away, saying to some god watching the interaction Next, please, and this time, not an idiot.
That didn’t happen on Thursday, though. I waited at the bus stop, leaning against a waist-high pole. People, of all ages, while waiting, like to walk to the curb and look in the direction of oncoming traffic. Normally, when one person does this, something is invisibly triggered, and almost everyone waiting walks forward to the edge of the curb. After waiting there 2 minutes and no bus coming, a few walk back to their former waiting spot. Sometimes I join the herd at the curb, just to feel like I’m part of the herd. But I move with the herd at a risk. One, I will ended up waiting in a line that might be for nothing, and two, someone might mistakenly think I know what the hell I am doing and ask a question.
On this Thursday, the bus came, and I got on, there was a seat available. Taking a seat is chancy. If after you are seated, an older woman gets on the bus, if you don’t get up, she’ll make you. But I sat down, there always seems to be enough seats on this bus. There were a few businessmen, several elderly and a strong, pungent smell of shat pants. As my brother and his former construction colleagues would say Cago! – that’s I shit my pants! From what I smelled Thursday, it must have been a couple days with that load riding in their pants. After dropping some students off, the buss puttered, jerked, stopped, was turned on, then off, and then the doors opened. Nothing was said, but it was clear Everyone, get the hell off the bus, this puppy won’t be getting you anywhere. So I walked. The streets didn’t look to familiar, the sun was beginning to shine and since this is such a rarity, I have no idea where I am in the sunshine, it's like I took some drugs. The bus might have taken me to Russia and I wouldn’t have been anymore confused. But this is Poland, so there is always a herd of some type to follow, so I followed. I waited at the tram, but the herd had broken off. The businessman who I had liked the looks of on the bus had taken off. His pace was too quick, business too important, I would have had to break into a trot to follow. Even if your brain’s the only part of you drinking a beer, it's hard to maintain a trot while your brain’s sippin’ on anything. Thus, I followed the shat pants group who were going a little more at my speed. I followed to the tram and waited. After a bit, I did an about face, and began to walk. A tram wouldn’t get me anywhere. The bus, I wasn’t holding my breath for that either. I had my feet, so I looked for anything familiar. I saw a church I recognized and headed straight for it. I was apart from the herd, walking the bus path alone. I walked for 40 minutes and arrived at the advertising agency late.
“That’s alright,” the woman said. “I don’t think I’ll read it out loud today,” she later said of the article I gave her. It was on a spa in Israel that puts snakes on people for massages. I didn’t care, so I said that that was fine. She understood most of it, and in my opinion, has no need of me.
I am the chatty-cathy doll for people learning English. Pull my string and I’ll speak in native, 100% U.S.A. English. I’m pretty sure my students are starting to pick up I’d prefer they stay the fuck away from string.
At this class, with one girl who I found out is 33 years old, she ended up giving me life advice. “If I could do anything over, if I could be 23 again, I’d have kids first.” This is the only time I’ve heard this. Most, tell me, “Do it [meaning anything and everything some asshole like a boss, loan shark or spouse will try to stop] while you’re young.” This woman, Magda – one of the four female names in this country – was telling me, “do it while you’re young.” But by it, she meant have babies. “I could have 2 kids right now, and they’d be old enough, I could go back to studies and a job. At my age, at this point, I’m never going to have it.” It seems that my appearance automatically brings to people’s minds their regrets of their past, the romantic tales they could have lived. Her tale, traveling and beginning a family, then worrying about a career. She was honest with herself, she would never have it. She had chosen her path, become content with it, and the only liking she had of the other path was a romantic nostalgia of what could have been.
I don’t know what I taught her, but it must be more than my Monday lesson. The class which is supposed to be 9 students, only one showed up. “I can’t stay all class and no one else is here.” Konrad couldn’t stay because of a doctor’s appointment. “I got very sick earlier this year…I got cancer…of the testicles…they are just like your breasts, you have to check them.” My response, you’re just like Lance Armstrong, congratulations Mr. Celebrity. If he can say testicles correctly, don’t think my services are that necessary. However, my services are pretty much only talking - because I couldn’t give a shit about this job or lesson plans or if my students walk away knowing any new words. They know what wacky means now, thank God. Up next week – bag of dicks.
What happens on the way back – oh boy, that’s an entirely new load of confusion I’ll get into later. I’ll give you this little hint – the confusion has to do with pretending to have a made up world of my own by reading and missing my stop. Sounds like fun doesn’t it? It’s everything romantic and green that your life could have been if you had just taken the jump. Boy, did you mess up and miss out...sucker.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
i've got pictures
These pictures were all taken in Anna's hometown of Ciechanow.
The castle, that was built in the 14th century. The Castle of Mazovian Princes, or some such thing. Inside the walls, in the toweres, there are pcitures and drawings of its history. From when it was used as a fort, to protect, to keep prisoners, and then the late 1930's and early 1940s show up. They brought all the Jews to the castle, before they send them out. Suddenly, pretending to be a maidservant in a castle tower doesn't feel the same.
The castle, that was built in the 14th century. The Castle of Mazovian Princes, or some such thing. Inside the walls, in the toweres, there are pcitures and drawings of its history. From when it was used as a fort, to protect, to keep prisoners, and then the late 1930's and early 1940s show up. They brought all the Jews to the castle, before they send them out. Suddenly, pretending to be a maidservant in a castle tower doesn't feel the same.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Climate Change
The 14th Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, AKA Poznań Climate Change Conference, began today in Poland. A source from the inner-department working has just informed that they do not care who AL Gore is. This has come as quite a shock to Al Gore. For the past decade Gore has been under the impression that he is an intrical part of the working of the world, Poland included.
Poles admit that giving him an honorary doctorate from the University of Poznań probably did not help this faulty image.
"He was just so happy when he got it," says president of the University. "Like a little puppy." The president went on to explain that the doctorate was awarded to Gore by accident. "We were talking about all the work that went into receiving our doctorates when Al came up and said, 'Man, sure would like one of those.' We thought nothing of it, but the next day his publicist called."
Though dishing out honorary doctorates is generally against the university policy, Gore was given one because "he would not let it drop" and threatened to "ruin the conference if you fat-heads don't give me a degree!"
The ceremony will be at the conclusion of the climate change that conference.
Those involved in the conference have said they will be thankful when the conference is over so they can "stop using so much energy and making copies."
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