CHF

Another casualty of the econo-lypse (real or imagined), I think, is the solvent secrecy of the Swiss banking system. Perhaps I was just a late-comer to the game or didn't insist that matters be handled delicately or perhaps, on opening the account, I was asked if I were famous, I ought to have said yes (that was the only question I was asked by the clerk who set up my account), but I received a strange, lenghty letter from Vaduz yesterday, regarding my status a "non-US person." Wanting to clarify this situation, the bank wanted me to confirm their suspicions that I "was possibly not a non-US person." Unless they received an answer soon, the bank would terminate my account, liquidate my holdings and keep it in their office as a cheque in Swiss francs for me to retrieve at my convenience. Of course, if I really was a non-US person, I should clear up this matter with my agent right away. I wish I really had that much money, non-liquid assets and an agent that this would even matter. It the event that I was not in fact a non-US person, I should complete an American IRS form that they sent and return it to them. What I found most amusing was that the form was an application for a social security number or ITIN (individual tax-payer identification number)--exactly what a non-US person would need to report taxes.

gluckwunsch

Last week, while patrolling my usual beat, I glanced a piece of rather ethereal trash tucked under some leaves of grass. I walked right past it but took a step back a second later, it having registered that it was the receipt for a lottery ticket. To find expired and canceled ballots is not unusual, but I noticed that this one was for an upcoming drawing, lost or accidentally discarded during a long holiday weekend. I pocketed it, and in the intervening hours before I could have it official checked at one of the kiosks, I indulged the weekly lotto-fantasies several fold. Right away, I resolved, that if I had really found the Golden Ticket, I'd author and devote a web-site to finding whoever it was who had managed to lose it--of course, there would be some impossible answers to riddle out, that would present to posteuring claimant a challange as unlikely as winning the actual jackpot (Name three series of numbers, besides the winner--which were surely randomly generated; Name the shop where it was purchased and the clerk's name). Once I was finally able to have it checked--which is never so much of a let down but does put of the fantasy and anticipation until next week, I found that I was only thirty euro or so ahead of the game. Not too shabby, but hardly worth the effort to establish a lost-and-found.

TGIF

I have grown to dread Fridays of late. It never so much seemed to be the case before, but now it is as if all the hardships and calamities choose this day to disembowel themselves and loose chaos on the impending weekend. Already here I've noticed that some people take the better part of the work day to warm-up and have a thought, request, demand not before 1600. The real professionals do one better, taking almost the whole week to plot what disasters can be unleashed when everyone's expecting and sometimes deserving of a quiet end to the week. I remind people that it is Friday and kindly calm the fuck down, but I shouldn't look toward the end of the week with trepidation--too often said, it becomes an affirmation that can spoil the whole day.

unicorn chaser

Last week or so in a sort of Rear Window moment, I found myself watching the old lady with a nice, pedicured patch of green lawn looping bright and colourful ribbons around a frame. I speculated as to the purpose of this project--maybe as a part of belated May Day celebration. I decided (to my personal amusement but I doubt to any one elses') that she would don this fantastic mane, prance about the living room and proclaim herself a rainbow unicorn. She brought the ribbons inside from the balcony, and I thought we'd never witness the ritual. Yesterday, however, the ribbon reappeared, not in some interpretive dragon dance or prayer-banners constantly wafted on the steppes of the Himalayas, but tossed and strewn on to the narrow patch of vegetables, which I can see from the office window. It seemed a rather extravagant and labour-intense swath to just throw on the cabbages as a scare-crow, especially when not propped up like some demented partyicoloured jester but just gently discarded between the furrows.

tuffet

H had no idea that I could be styled quite the pillow affectionado. I was never so fond of having them around myself, stuffed into cornerns and cupboards and kicked off the bed, but I had aquired a few over the years and no good cause to really thin the ranks. Of course I had the occasion to use them as a bit of extra padding while packing, and I suppose they are always useful as insulation, cushions for the clumsy or for the seraglio and don't seem to harbour fleas or moths. Despite the virtue of a cache of pillows, there is the sheer number of them, which seem to multiply given a minute's privacy and will breed anywhere--boxes, cabinets, closets.

we're painting the roses red

US agencies are fronting novel and simple ways to help combat global warming and possibly reduce energy consumption, including the promotion of soft colours. There's a bit of targeted ridicule and scepticism that posits the notion of just painting roofs in cool, reflective white will salvage the polar ice caps, but that's just part of the proposal and it is sound science--though it is sometimes difficult to speak of "sound science" to the lobby that would doubt the veracity of global warming and man induced climate change. Months ago I thought about this modest proposal when learning about the rapid acceleration of the melting of icebergs: white ice reflects back around 90% of the sun's heat beating down on any given area while dark sea water absorbs about 90%, only conflating the problem. Watching vast stretches of Autobahn, I wondered what the impact would be of adding a portion of gympsum to lighten up the asphalt mix, or toting mirrors on the roofs of cars. I personally would like to leave a whiter footprint when I am out and about.

it's time to play transitioning word cloud

The US army, possibly just like all sorts of jingoistic organizations with secret patois, is also fond of making up words--a language by fiat rather than use the perfectly good and precise words and grammar that already exist. Out-processing was conjured up instead of discharge--transitioning came about as a euphemistic short-hand (long-hand, really) for restructuring, down-sizing and closure. There is a high frequency in the recurrance of particular terminology as the Army in Europe prepares to undergo another endless round of base-closures, mostly veteran and old-school terms used: RIF (reduction-in-force), in-direct reporting garrison, non-enduring, table of distributions, standard garrison organization, staffing template, nonappropriated funds. Ah well, time for more fright, edginess and back-stabbing. I have gone through this routine a few times before--but it's not as if I know what to expect. Finishing off large construction and modernization projects are usually a bad sign, a death-knell, since a brand new, high-technology security parameter or a fancy garden pavillion may be installed, only to mothball the whole place the next month. The army must honor its contracts, regardless how long it has delayed and procrastinated and become non-sensical. Also restoration and remodeling are cheaper than leaving facilities in place in disrepair or dismantling totally: it is harder to find fault with a refurbished building (even if it was a building no one particularly wanted) than to pay the costs associated with the environmental impact for tearing it down. The allied occupation has been winnowing itself away for decades now, but seems to take a step back when it comes to the hard-scrabble of placing those displaced