This season is getting less jolly every year

Boromir, im Fernsehen: "Gondor hat keinen König!!"
Domonic, 12, VOR dem Fernseher: "Nur Hip Hopper."

Selten beim versammelten Herr der Ringe gucken DIESE Art von Spass gehabt.
Ausser das eine Mal, als Rakil und ich jedes Mal gegrunzt haben, wenn Viggo ins Bild kam, aber das is ne andere Geschichte.

Hope you were all having a merry christmas!

The Spot

Just so you know

I'm still alive and trying my best to kick...
Wiching you all a very merry christmas and a happy new year, wherever you are. I've been thinking of this one song a lot lately:

"Things can only get better!"

Tune in again next year,
bye for now!

The Spot

There's one more thing

which has never been mentioned on this here blog before and which needs mentioning now:

Done.

Und außerdem war gestern St. Andrews Day

so get the Haggis oot and let's strip that frickin' willow!

I'm so looking forward to becoming a teacher and getting loads of this every day - chapter II

Can, 13:

"Manche meiner Mitschüler sind so Waldorf, die haben kein Internet zu Hause!"

oder nachdem ich ihm von meiner bevorstehenden Reise durch die Stadt (Kreuzberg - Neukölln - Pankow) erzählt habe

im wissenden Ton: "Naja, Erwachsene haben immer viel vor."

I'm so looking forward to becoming a teacher and getting loads of this every day

Karen, 14:

"Das Pfotographieren macht dem Pfotographen Spas."

Da wett ich drauf!

Misleadingly close and yet so many worlds apart

Last saturday morning, when I was enjoying my well deserved saturday-morning lie in, my peace was crually disturbed. When I first heard the noise, I thought "Funny! The bakery's flour-truck sounds just like a bunch of drums in a marching band this morning."
I thought nothing further of it and resumed reading. Minutes later, the commotion still hadn't dies down, but was infact increasing and I then realized that what sounded like a bunch of drums in a marching band was not my arch-enemy, the early-morning flour truck, but what really sounded like a bunch of drums in a marching band was, in fact, a bunch of drums in a marching band. I stepped onto my balcony and there I saw them underneath, parading up Sonnenallee towards Hermannplatz:



A bloody Karnevalsumzug! (A Karnevalsumzug, dear non-german readers being the south american carneval's parade's ugly little mutant step brother, hump and all. Imagine a nice parade, take away everything fun and add silly hats and you got the picture...)

I watched them march past, the next band behind the bloody Funkenmariechens playing a sorry little brass version of Ob-La-Di by the Beatles.
In this moment, there was just one piece of information crisscrossing my synapses and blocking every other thought. It went like this:

THIS MUST BE THE SINGLE MOST PATHETIC THING I'VE EVER SEEN!!

...apart maybe from that one time when Boris Becker tried to deny that Anna Whatshername's ugly little ginger baby was in fact his. So, yeah, that might have been even more pathetic, maybe. But apart from that...
Anyways...this parade ranges among the two single most pathetic things I have ever seen.

Picture the scene:
There were about, what?, fifty of them...marching four abrest and waving to a crowd ... that wasn't actually there!!!
People in Berlin don't line the streets for jerks in costumes. Especially not in Neukölln and ESPECIALLY not at nine o'clock on an innocent saturday morning. They even had some old guys in silly hats (you know, the sort with peaks and bells) shoutung "Alaaaf" every now and then. The people here would have been, at the most, puzzled by this kind of behaviour. If there HAD actually been any people.



I can literally hear the conversation in my head when they decided to march up Sonnenallee, somewhere in a Vereinszimmer in Köln am Rhein: "Did you know that there is this place in Berlin called "Neukölln"?That sounds like Neu-Köln! I'd say that's just the place for us!"

And again, merciful (or merciless, depends on your point of view) reality took her sledgehammer and showed some rhineian Frohnaturs what a fucking big difference one "l" is able to make.

...sorry for the inflationary use of "in fact"s...

This one goes without saying

(a single word.)

Times change

and that's why the Batmobile now looks like this:



Sad, innit? Well, we all must move with the times and sometimes even superheroes fall. In this case, one of them fell onto the pavement in front of a citizen's house, (let's call this citizen Johnny L.): THUD it went, or probably more like thud, due to our hero's lack in body weight.

It was a tiny wee bat, let's call him Flitzy, or, for the sake of yet another bad pun: Robin.
So there he lay, on the bat-pavement, his bat-wings crumbeled up around his bat-waste, screaming for help in what sounded like this:



One hour later (due to the bat-cave being mighty big and the mobile being parked awfy darn far away, Neukölln one could say):

Gotham City lies enveloped in night but the streets, skyscrapers and weird monumental statues are illuminated by a zillion lights (like every night); the BATMOBILE careens through the streets, taking every turn at breathtaking speed. In the cockpit: Batgirl and Alfred, united in sombre silence, faces only half visible by the blue light of the dashboard as Batgirl shifts into the next gear up, ever accelerating.

Time presses! But where is our winged, pointy eard super hero?
He lies in his bat-cardboardbox, struck down by some evil turn of fate, covered by the warming bat-newspaper, ever so often uttering a cry of bat-despair which sounds like someone scraping the ice from their windshield.

But wither goest thou, Batmobile? It is to the Tierklinik Zelendorf that the friends are heading. Will they make it in time? Flitzy Robin Batman's life hangs on a bat-thread.

They get onto the highway, pressed into their seats by the sheer force of the acceleration. After what seems an eternity they finally get to their safe haven, the Tierklinik. Engine running, they jump out of their seats and run towards the entrance (where they have to wait for about three minutes, as no-one seems to answer the door).

Finally there's a nurse and out of breath, Batgirl and Alfred hand the bat-box over to her. She takes it into her caring hands and with an urgent tone in her voice, she lets them know:

"Ich stell sie erst mal rein und wir kümmern uns dann später drum." Ok!

Will our hero survive the night? Will Gotham ever be the same place again if he witheres? Who will be there for the poor, the helpless, the powerless?

Only the night knows the answer...

My inner cerebral short circuit

It's been ages, so it seems, but Unilife finally has me back. It's half eleven a.m., I already mastered getting up at ungodly times in order to get here at eight c.t., only to talk about l'identite francaise en crise and somehow helpig myself to a ham sandwich along the way which I cannae really remember where I got it from. Anyways, the annual unicum surprise package kept me going for another hour or so and now I'm finally here. I made it, after all this time, I eventually found my way into what is famously known as *tadadadaaaa* the brain bubble, aka Philologische Bibliothek or wha'eva, and I feel quite forlorn, having hardly been able to remember my bloody password for the frickin' computers. (Memo to myself, it's your immatrikulation number, dumbo.) I'm surrouned by industrious students and studentesses, busily writing away on their dissertations, I just know, when all the time I have to focus on this here keyboard, because frankly, it's doing whatever it bloody wants, gentlepeople, and I have to correct typing mistaks all the time.

I know why they call this monstosity the Brain Bubble (capitals indeed!). I feel like I'm sitting inside my own brain, facing the inside of my forehead in the form of this huge in-your-face-orange plastered wall which I cannot look at for more than one second at a time, because it gives me the creeps and my eyes start watering. Also there are wee eye-like windows, through which one can perceive the world beyond in a somewhat milky kind of quality.

I swear I can hear a hoover, but maybe it's just one of those book scanners or some other cunning device they've set up by the truckload in here to make student life so much easier.

I will go now and sink my teeth into Gelfert's "Wie interpretiert man ein Gedicht?", an opus which I desperately hoped nevir tae touch again, but there you go, life has a funny way and somehow I ended up being a teacher and expected to know about these things when all the time I bloody don't!

Why am I telling you this? Because this place gives me the heebie-jeebies, all the more as I know I have to face my demons and somehow get to the next stage, the next floor of the library of my life so to speak. But at times I feel like the elevator's broke and the staircase is on fire.

Nix nix

nix passiert.
Und davon gibs noch nichma Fotos.

Deep Fried Mars Bar war gestern!

heute ist

Wurstpannekogen onna stick!
Üüüärch...!

Another damn half full bloomin' glass

And no, I don't have a scanner.

Another one of THOSE stories...

Lately I've been thinking (yes, it hurt).
Did you ever notice how you encounter something new, a fact, a story, a film, a piece of music you had previously been innocently unaware of, and how only a short time later, you meet again with said fact, story, film, whatsoever.
Happens to me all the time!!

When I was in Edinburgh, I was zapping through the infinite world of information that my five tv channels provided and I did so with Suny, a very charming girl from South Africa who has the loudest laugh you can imagine, especially in confined spaces, but that's a different story. Anyway, we came across a movie and she screamed ot loud "Aahhhhhhh, the Princess Bride! Haven't seen that in AGES, let us the hell watch it!!" I thought "Never heard of that movie, but what the heck!" Anyways, to shorten this, when I came back to Berlin, some of my friends started gibbering of the Dread Pirat Roberts and it took quite a while for me to figure out where I had heard this name, but finally I found out that it was from that same film I had seen with Suny for the first time in my life and which I had had no idea of for 26 years, but which seemed to be alal the rage everywhere. Well.



Another example ( much shorter one, not to worry) happened yesterday. I was listening to The Sound Of Bacharach, dancing in the shower to a song called "The man who shot Liberty Valance". That same day, when I was watching Das Vierte, there was a trailer for a classic Western with John Wayne and this other one, cannaerememberthename. The film was called Der Mann, der Liberty Valance Erschoss. (by the way: Das Vierte is celebrating the Weekend of the Moustache one of these days! Hooray for Burt Raynolds!)

These things happen all the bloody time and I think it's weird. Life!, what can I say! Why this repetetiveness?? It's always little thing which no-one in their right mind would care to ponder about. But I thought to myself: How the hell come??

The answer is quite simple. See, there's this AFD machine (Automatic Fate Distibuting Machine) and a guy operating it, because the world has gotten so complex and fine a piece of work that God can't do everything by himself anymore and why the heck should He if He has someone to employ people to come up with devices that simplify things for Him?

Anyway, the AFD is a big blue thing (blue being God's favourite colour) that looks a bit like a mix of a cardiological device and a very old gas cooker and it works in a way that can be compared to the way a shredder works, you know, the one you put the files in that can prove you've been steeling money from your company and put it on different accounts in Switzerland and Barbados.

This machine is distributing the fate for all the people on earth ( as you can tell by it's name). Everything that can happen to people is engraved and in this way recorded on big copper plates (copper being God's favourite material (and yopu don't have to be logical about every tiny thing when you're God and you don't have to think about laws of nature because you bloody ARE the bloody laws of nature.)). The copper plates are then inserted into the AFD which slices them into hundreds of ... well, slices and sends them off to earth to as many different people as there are slices.



So much for theory.

Truth is, that there's a very irresponsible guy working the machine. He has got an apprentice who is even less responsible and the apprentice forwards all the work to the intern, so that the intern ends up operating the AFD, because it's a shit job and that's what shit jobs are for: give them to the intern. It's a dull job and loud and horribly blue and it's so unbelievably boring. There's not much to do. Don't forget, we're talking about a machine more or less devised by God the Almighty (or at least by a guy employed by the guy that He employed) and pyhsical work has been abolished in heaven a long time ago. So the only thing the intern has to do is just stand there and watch it, because there has to be someone at least watching otherwise there would be no point in having people there and everybody would lose their job.

...

Actually, ... there's two things: standing there AND oil the machine every once in a while. This has got nothing to do with friction or use or abrasion, it's just something that God decided because in his understanding of technical matters, a machine is only a machine if you have to pour oil in it somewhere every now and then. That's what makes a mchine an ENGINE. (He had a talk with the engineers shortly after he had invented them, but to be completely honest, he wasn't really listening very well.)



Now the dilemma is that the AFDO (Automatic Fate Distributor Operator) told his apprentice about this oil issue once in a subordinate while leaving the office. The apprentice heard and made a mental note about it. Then he took the mental note and shoved it in his mind, somewhere between the items Aunt Mildred's Recipe For Apple Pie and Being Able To Count From One To Ten In Italian. Which meant that the only guy entitled to this information, the intern who was actually AAFDO (Acting Automatic Fate Distibutor Operator) never got it, which is why the engine never was oiled.

Now this has about the same effect as boiling Spaghetti in too little water and with too little oil (see!) AND forgetting to stir.
It clogs.
And this is just what the slices of fate (items, new aquaintances, films, pieces of music etc.) do whenever there's not enough oil. And that's why we sometines get two slices of the same thing in the course of very little time.
The same fact is responsible for the sying that you always meet people twice in life. It's all in the (lack of) oiling.



Maybe you think "but why doesn't the intern ever notice": come on, don't be silly, interns never last for more than a short intermission and they never get payed which means their level of motivation is somewhat not high enough to deal with such matters.

Why am I telling you this? First of all: When did I ever need a reason to tell you anything. And second of all: I just thought you should (and I say should and not migh want to) know.

And why did I put these random pictures in the post?
Just to keep it inters... colourful. As all stories should be. Colourful.

Now you may go.

Außerirdische Aliens from Outer Space

As I told you, this summer, when the singing of the crickets and the sweet scent of meat sizzeling over a myriad of open fires was filling the air, I was abducted by aliens who had landed their mothership on Alexanderplatz.
Now, going through my photos, I discovered that I actually even took pictures of them, a fact that I had completely forgotten, as they have OBVIOUSLY brainwashed me.
But, behold! here is one of them:



And what's more, and I'll have to say this in German so as to emphasise it's pressing urgency:
Die haben meine Wohnung verwanzt! I just know! They're watching my every step, even as I write this ...
And I am going to prove it.
You just wait.

Overheard phonecall

today, 2 p.m., in front of the Immabüro:

"Hittorfstraße? Wie Hitler und Torf?"



Yep.
Genau so. Hitlertorfstraße.

Peace, Bruder...

So ein Fahrrad hat was für sich. Man ist schnell, tut was für die Figur und muss sich nicht mit den Stinkepennern in der BVG rumschlagen. So viel zur Theorie. Diese hat nur einen Haken: Stinkepenner können auch zu Fuß gehen.
Ich möchte das im Folgenden erläutern:

Ich fahre auf dem Radweg in Richtung Grazer Damm, da steht ein Mann am Rande des Radweges. "Bleib bloß da stehen und lauf mir nich in'n Weg", denke ich noch! und da wars passiert. Mit einem recht gedankenlosen Schritt rückwärts war der Typ auf dem Fahrradweg und sein Ellenbogen fast in meinem Gesicht. Ich also Vollbremsung und entgleiste Gesichtszüge über die rechte Schulter. Was kommt mir entgegen?

"Habter keine Klingel, oder was?!"
Macht der mich grade noch blöde an oder wat?

"Hörma, wenn du schon so saudumm auf dem Fahrradweg rumstehst, dann musst du wenigstens deine beschissenen Glotzer aufmachen, du Halbidiot!".
Hab ich gedacht. Gesagt hab ich etwas weniger explizites (wollte ja auch nich gleich eine auf die Schnauze kriegen von diesem Freizeit-Renée Weller), was aber in die gleiche Richtung ging. Mein Blut kochte, Arme und Beine zitterten vor Wut.

Wenige Minuten später hupte mich einer an, weil ich auf der Straße und nich auf dem holprigen, mit langsam fahrenden Mountainbikern übersähten Radweg fuhr, und ich wäre fast vom Rad geflogen vor lauter Schreck.
Ich war kurz vorm endgültigen ausrasten.

Aber:
Ich bin ein friedliebender Mensch. Das hat mir mein Papi damals beigebracht, als ich noch ein kleines Mädchen war, das ein kleines blaues Fahrrad mit Stützrädern dranne hatte.

Gewalt ist keine Lösung, wer einmal haut, der haut auch zweimal und so weiter. Ich kann Waffen nicht ausstehen und Panzer und alles, was mit Krieg zu tun hat machen mir dicke Klöße im Hals.
Ich bin friedliebend.

Aber ich stehe am Abgrund.

Der Nächste, der mir bein Fahrradfahren so saudumm daher kommt, dem hau ich dermaßen eins auf sein Scheißmaul, dass Blut kommt.
Ihr Deppen und Arschgeigen da draußen, seid gewarnt! Ich liebe den Frieden. Aber man sagt auch

Ruhe in Frieden, Arschloch!

As time goes by ...(oder wie dieses eine Lied heißt)

(From left to right: the Organizer, ChocoCharline, Jonathan (French), Raqueloide, Jonathan (Swabian) and some German person I cannae remember the name of right now)


It was our first bank holiday off from school after having worked for only two weeks really when a person hereafter known as The Organizer had us all walking up Arthur in a late summer gale. 'T was then that I met two personae who should become fix entities in my life in Ediburgh.
One was carried by the other, a leather boud (meanwhile tragically deceased) Terere kit and said things like sluuu-ufrrp, the other was an even more talkative lady from the Kingdom of Farfaraway, I mean from the state of Paraguay, who said things like "Lemme jump his bones!". (Not on that particular day, that is, and OBVIOUSLY not referring to the Organizer, but on frequent occasions throughout the following year.)
That was a year ago to the day, I was told. So,


HAPPY FIRST ANNIVERSARY, LADY!!!!!!!!!!

Paralleluniversum??

Was ist los in Deutschland??
Sind wir durch ein Wurmloch in eine andere Dimension geflogen?
Geht ein außerirdischer Virus in Berlin rum?
Liegt es an Umweltgiften?
Oder wie?
Oder was?



Folgende Seltsamität ereignete sich heute in den späten Morgenstunden in einer und wohlbekannten Wohnung in Berlin Kreuzberg (61):
Ich rief also im Immatrikulationsbüro der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin an, weil ich mich bereits im Juli per Überweisung zurück gemeldet hatte und meine Unterlagen immer noch nicht da sind.
OHA! denken sich die Immabüroerfahrenen unter euch, ABER:
das Gespräch dauerte 1:33 min und dann hatte ich was ich wollte. Ohne Gemecker, ohne "da hättense aber früher anrufen sollen", ohne "ick hab grad Pause" und ohne das allseitsbeliebte "müssense vorbeikommen". Einfach so!!! Dit ha'ck ja no nie erlebt!

Immafrau: Die Unterlagen sind rausgegangen und zurück gekommen. Wollense se abholen oder soll ick nomma rausschicken?
Iche: Na, wie lange dauert denn sowas?
Immafrau (empört): Na, ick bin doch nich die Post, junge Frau!... Eigentlich geht det ganz schnell.

Ich erwarte also in Kürze meine HU Immabescheinigung, die mir verhelfen wird, mich auch bei der FU zurückzumelden, damit ich bitte doch nicht exmatrikuliert werde und noch weitere, eherm, zwei Jahre an diesen wunderbaren Institutionen verweilen darf.
Dankeschön.

A nice bit of smooth afternoon racism:

When God created Scotland, He looked down on it with great satisfaction. Finally He called the Archangel Gabriel to have a look.
"Just see," said God. "This is the best yet. Splendid mountains, beautiful scenery, brave men, fine women, nice cool weather. And I've given them beautiful music and a special drink called whisky. Try some."
Gabriel took an appreciative sip.
"Excellent," he said. "But haven't you perhaps been too kind to them? Won't they be spoiled by all these things? SHould there not be some drawback?"

"Just wait till you see the neighbours theyre getting," said God.

Et tu, Tagesspiegel?!

Would you look at this:
Too many weeks of being exposed to unbiased and refreshingly diverse English football coverage had me screaming and yelling at the screen, shaking my fists in the air and swearing an oath of blood to destroy any of those bogey-brained english football-commentating ... dickheads that would be so careless as to cross my path.
I couldn't bear another mention of how England won the Worldcup in '66 and how they would naturally win it again this year and how they beat Germany la-dida-dida, you know the story, I told you, my most faithful readers, at the time in detail.
Anyway, I fled the country, looking forward to German football coverage (yeah, imagine that) and feeling that if I ever ... like EVER have to look at the , eherm, Heroes Of Sixty-Six again, I would oficially go MENTAL, tear out mine or somebody else's hair and set up a worldwide sect in which the use of the number 6 is prohibited and punished by death.
And now that: Tagesspiegel, July 2006:



I didn't get to do the sect- thing, but did you notice how Jo's hair has gotten thinner lately?

Status Report

For those of you who wonder:
I ain't dead.
I caught a bug and it won't let go.
I'm as low as a snake's belly in a pit.
I'm as happy as a one legged racoon on the motorway.
Moving about normally has me huffin and puffin like a wing amputaded fruitbat after a trans atlantic flight.
And as soon as I'm done with silly allegories, I will slowly but surely be working my way back to solid ... food.

05.09.1946 - 24.11.1991

Happy 60th, Fred.

Did you know there was a Freddie Mercury action figure?
Me neither.

Who's the Queen of Rummelplatz?

Mein Freund dagegen mag ja kein Rummel

Jetzt wieder einsteigen, jetzt wieder dabei sein!

(Ja, gucks dir an, Görgens! "Mein Herz schlägt für Hertha BSC"!

Wenn ihr mal so richtig freakig eure Zeit verbringen wollt, dann geht zum Kreuzberg Fest im Victoria Park!
Gähnende Leere auf den Gassen, die LustigesTütenangeln Frau ist sich selbst ihr bester (einziger) Kunde und wohl auch Freund, der Schaustellersohn bei "Caribbean Star" schrickt regelrecht zusammen wenn Kundschaft an sein mit BZ ausgestattetes Häuschen tritt und ist dann so geschockt wenn man zwei Karten kauft, dass er einem gleich mal vier in die Hand drückt bevor er sein Fahrgeschäft zum wohl einzigen Mal an dem Abend in Schwung bringt.

Auch im Flugsimulator ist die Illusion perfect. Der Kartenverkäufer spricht leider nur russisch (er ist es auch, der für die Musikauswahl verantwortlich zeichnet) und hat wohl in den letzten fünf Saisons nicht genug verdient, um die Hydraulikbeine (vorne) von seinem Luke Skyworker richten zu lassen. Aber naja, man hat ja immernoch seine Phantasie.

Der Knaller des Geländes (abgesehen vom Autoscooter natürlich, aber dazu später) ist eine Höllenmaschine namens "Break Dance", ein Gerät, was einen in alle Richtungen schüttelt und dabei wild blitzt und nebelt. Man muss nur aufpassen, dass man keinen bösen Wagen erwischt, sonst meldet sich das Abendessen (und weil wir ja auf dem Rummel sind bestand das aus Schokobanane, Schokotrauben, Lebkuchenherzen ("für Omi"), gebrannten Mandeln, kein Magenbrot, einem halben Meter Bratwurst, Schaumwaffeln, Liebesäpfeln und Zuckerlippenstift).

Unangefochten jedoch, wie auf jeder Kirmes, ist nebenan: der Autoscooter. Am Familientag gibt es 10 Fahrten für 7,50€, was ich nicht gesehen habe, waren Familien.
Hier wird konsquent die nächste Generation der 3er BMW Asitürken herangezüchtet, die einen schon bevor das Horn zum losfahren schellt, mit Verbalinjurien vesorgen, gratis!
"Eh, isch werd disch essen, isch werd disch so essen!"
"Isch werd disch stoßen, wie disch noch nie einer gestoßen hat!"
Oder auch mein Liebling: "Deine Muschi wird rausfliegen!"

Jungs, kommt ihr mir vor die Stoßstange! Es dauert noch 5 Jahre, bis ihr einen Führerschein auch nur von weitem seht, und bis dahin fahren im richtigen Leben Autos mit 120 PS auf der Straße herum, die eure kleinen Kinderärsche einfach auf dem Asphalt zerquetschen, wenn ihr mir vor die Zielvorrichtung lauft. Dann gibts mal Autoscooter in realtime...! (Und bis dahin könnt ihr mal warten, dass euch Schamhaare wachsen.)

Aber das aller aller aller seltsamste am Kreuzbergfest war diese komische blaue 80er Jahre Schirmmütze, die überall auftauchte.








Freakig, wa?!

A year ago to the day,

almost to the hour, I sat at Jamie Bollands breakfast table after spending my first Scotland night. Many more were to follow and my mind's eye was gazing out in impatient expectation of the events wich were to be thrown my way.



A year has passed since. I met wonderful new people, made new friends and learned a lot about myself and about teaching. I am now able to swear in Scots. At pupils if need must. I am no longer intimidated by my choice of profession. For that and many more things, I thank ye, Caledonia.
I'll keep an eye on you!

aaaand there was much rejoicing!

It took me a while to upload the pics, but here's what happened when the Whole Bunch was reunited.

At the end of the day it was I who took the smooching-others-than-your-regular-smooching-partner trophy, but being a decent girl I made a point of the camera being switched off...;)

This one just about sums it up and so I let the picture speak for itself:

Sharpen your pitchf ... ears!

Here's another story by moi, the Queen of Uninteresting Anekdotes!
Last night I had a dream, in which I met a friend of a friend. I showed him around town and later, we went dancing. That's about all that happened, and although the dream was quite realistic, this is not generally speaking spectacular, I know. But for the fact that the person in question was in fact this guy:



And I don't mean somebody who looked like him, no, it was him. I pretended not to know him, just to wind him up and in order not to appear a groupie. Later that day (or was it night?), we compared our scottish accents. (I lost.)

Now what do I make of that? Just that:
I love brain movies!
Maybe in the sequal he'll be naked. You never know.
I think I'll go to sleep early tonight, just in case... ;)

Argh...there goes another one!

So there I was, just minding my own business when all of a sudden ... IT HIT ME - a most terrible fit of homesickness. You might think that I actually AM home and I couldn't argue with that, but all the same, it's just not that simple a case for my brain. I guess it was all my fault, because I was feeding my brain with this:

and that:

Which is not to say I'm not happy to be here. Berlin is great and quite frankly back to normal with a rather rainy August after July saw the fiercest heatwave ever since temperatures were recorded. I'm soooo happy to have my friends back that I could sing and dance and cry at the same time ALL the time. But for ten months I was at home in Scotland and it's a good kind of homesickness that I feel once in a while. I reckon part of me will always long to go back there. And, who knows, one day it might.
Together with the rest of me.

Stories witsch se life rote

Jo zu Robert: Bist du eigentlich nach Robert Zimmermann benannt?
Lena: Nee, nach Bob Dylan!
Robert: Auf dein Zimmer, sofort!



Eine kleine Excursion in die Musikgeschichte:







Robert Allen Zimmermann alias Bob Dylan wurde am 24. Mai 1941 in Duluth (Minnesota) geboren. Als Sohn eines Händlers für Haushaltsgeräte verbrachte er seine jüdisch orthodox geprägte Kindheit und Jugend im Grubenrevier von Hibbing, einer Bergbaustadt in der Nähe der kanadischen Grenze. Er spielte ab dem 12. Lebensjahr Gitarre, verehrte Hank Williams ebenso wie Little Richard und versuchte Ende der fünfziger Jahre, mit der Band The Golden Chords in der lokalen Countryszene Fuß zu fassen. Von 1959 an studierte er Kunst an der University of Minnesota, trat abends jedoch auf Folkbühnen in Bars wie The Ten O'Clock Scholar auf und änderte seinen Künstlernamen von Elton Gunn in Bob Dylan. Wenige Monate später brach er sein Studium ab, reiste nach New York und spielte seinen ersten wichtigen Auftritt am 11. April 1961 im Vorprogramm des Bluesveteranen John Lee Hooker.
(...)

Hear this, Robert Zimmermann...!

Hier...

'ch hab was gemalt.

Ich war neulich mit Staffelei und Leinwand an der Havel um ein bisschen Öl-auf-Leinwand-action zu machen. Damit mir alleine mit der Natur nich so langweilig wird, hab ich mir ein paar entfernt bekannte Typen aus Köln eingeladen, die sahen so ungefähr aus:


















oder so:

















und der war auch da:


















Dann hab ich drauf los gemalt. Das erste Bild sieht so aus:


















Danach war meine Orange alle und ich hatte nur noch blau.




Oli hat kritisch geguckt





















und ich hab mich gefreut.