Catch a whiff of this!

Hey y'all, just wanted to share one of those silly moments with you that keeps me amused for hours on end. "Confessions of a fevered mind", maybe...

(Morning and a foggy sunrise, snapped waiting for a connecting train on Monday)

While in situ in our small room the other day, my eyes strayed upon an aerosol air-freshener that lives underneath the washbasin. Lo and behold, this is the brand name emblazoned across it's top:

(courtesy, naturally, of www.barfin.de)

Best of all, my particular can says "Barfin' Line" on it. And there's a picture of a bobbing dolphin beneath it (I tried to take a picture, but my camera is rubbish). Whether there is any relation between the bobbin' and the barfin is beyond me, of course... Sad, sad, sad, I know. But hey - it made me laugh, so I thought I'd share it with you. Enjoy! And just imagine the small talk at parties: "So, what do you do all day?" "Oh, just the usual - barfin' aerosols & cosmetics, designing new smells and the like...".

'Cos you're beautiful, no matter what they say...

Flawlessly integrating (read: nicking other people's ideas without asking) what Parlancheq has done into my own befuddled musings, here's a fun thing.

Your Hair Should Be Purple

Intense, thoughtful, and unconventional. You're always philosophizing and inspiring others with your insights.

What's Your Funky Inner Hair Color?

So, readers mine, what's your colour?

Blogorhea - binge blogging while I can

And another one (can you tell I'm on my own tonight?); wanted to share with you how I was reminded of how cruel humans can be, even as children. Coming home from uni earlier this week, I was walking to my bike when I came upon the following scenario: a little dark-haired girl of maybe three years was crouched on the edge of a grass patch next to the train tracks, whimpering in apparent terror. Fifty yards away, her older sister (I assume) of maybe six or seven was standing by the fence that separates the grass from the rails, holding a bright yellow ball (presumably the little girl's) over the top of the fence and repeatedly motioning as if she were going to drop it onto the tracks beyond where it would have been irretrievably out of reach for both girls. The smaller girl (who looked stunningly like pictures of my beloved C at that age) was pleading with her older sister not to do what she was feigning to, while the older girl was taunting her. After about half a minute (in which I watched, dumb-struck), the older girl tired of the game a little. Her younger sister picked herself up off the grass, ran over and, after much pleading, was given the ball back (I think the older sister had noticed me glaring at her by then) and the two walked off, the older sister still bullying the younger one and teasingly attempting to take the ball away again and again. The older girl was clearly stronger and quicker than her little sister and was obviously finding satisfaction in making the her younger sister's life painful. I tell you - my heart went out to that younger girl so much - my first instinct was to go and giving the older one a right good shouting-at for being so mean. I'm still not sure whether or not I'm glad I didn't do so. Anyway, it highlighted so vividly to me how cruelty is inherent in human behaviour from the earliest stages of life. I'm sure the older sister is lovely and every bit as worthy of tender affection as her younger sibling seemed to me at the time - that's the sad bit somehow. We all seem to have this in-built capability to act evilly, regardless of who we are most of the time. Hackneyed sayings about dog-eat-dog and the like spring to mind by the dozen, of course... In a sense, I'm almost amused at the extremeness of my own reaction to the observed. I mean, mocking each other is something kids will do all the time (as will grown-ups, I suppose) and certainly, there could have been worse things than losing a small plastic ball. Nevertheless, I was completely overwhelmed with sympathy for the younger girl and flaming anger at the older one. Funny how small things can affect you sometimes...

Honesty, is such a lonely word

I've had a guy (who I'm pretty sure doesn't read my blog) tell me three times that I'm a bit fat recently. He does so in no uncertain tones (though he did do a kind of shimmy-and-dance, trying to make it sound less harsh routine before actually saying it today) and doesn't seem to worry whether or not this might offend me. And no, aspiring stiff-upper-lipper though I am, I don't think I managed to conceal my, err, displeasure at being told his opinion. Thing is, I like the guy and I know he isn't saying it to offend, he's simply saying it because it's on his mind and what he thinks is what he tells you, willy-nilly. Shame, really - I don't have the heart to kick him back, neither verbally nor otherwise(even though that would be blatantly easy). So, I do my best to forgive and love him for what he is. But it ain't easy sometimes...

The "no fair" airline

Hey y'all. No song lyrics in the header tonight, no sirree. Yours truly wishes to express annoyance with this post, and I wanted to make that clear right from scratch. I'm hacked-off. Okay, not quite that bad, but I do feel a fair amount of indignation, and whom better to share it with than you, my loyal readership? Okay, so here's the story.

(obviously, this is from www.mal-nach-Marokko.de, as are the other pics)

At the risk of repeating myself, I have been closely following the exploits of my good friends Johannes and Gundula, who set out earlier this year on a bicycle tour from Germany to Morocco. (here's the link to their travel website) In fact, I've had the privilege of having been able to assist my friends with some minor logistical issues during their travels. I knew they must be pretty near their destination, so was all the more surprised when Joe skype-called me late last Saturday night (we'd been up watching a movie with C's sister, who was visiting) to ask for help. Their dilemma was the following; they had booked return flights to Germany from Marrakech with a certain low-fare carrier of Irish origin, planning well ahead and taking advantage of online booking facilities. Now, while they were already on the road, an e-mail arrived informing them that the airline in question was not going to fly them home after all "due to an outstanding Open Skies agreement" that meant their flight was cancelled. So far, so dandy. They were offered a refund or the option of rebooking to another destination. This was what Joe was asking me to do; to liaise with his Dad on getting all the relevant information, then basically make sure a rebooked flight would get them back to Germany in time for several important appointments. Now, the airline in question only flies to one German airport and, with all flights on that route cancelled until further notice, I was going to need to get them to another European destination like, say, Barcelone or London, then get a connecting flight to Germany. I assumed that, since the cancellation e-mail expressly stated rebooking was possible, it would be the easiest thing in the world. I was wrong, of course. So, after gathering all the information necessary (it transpired that a flight to one London airport, then a connecting flight from another, would be the only feasible option), I rang the booking/information hotline. After having listened to an easy two minutes' worth of call-centre drivel (and getting kicked out of the queue), the Irish voice at the other end made it clear in no uncertain terms that there was, in fact, no way this airline was going to get my friends home from the Sahara. Yes, they would re-book the flight from Marrakech to London, but wouldn't do the connecting flight, let alone the bus fare for the airport transfer. My protests that hey, they had screwed up and therefore it was (kind of) their responsibility to get my friends out of the Sahara desert, that both my friends and I had been loyal and frequent users of the airline, etc., fell upon dead ears. Nope, there was ab-so-lunkly no way they were going to budge from doing the absolute minimum they could. And no, they didn't care whether or not we would ever use the carrier again afterwards ("that's for you to know, sir"). How nice is that??? I don't remember ever being told to eff off before, but that's, I think, as close as I'd care to get to it. Grrr! I was very tempted, I'll tell you now, to try and incite some sort of revolution - to ask all of you to spam the helpline with a scripted phone call pressuring them to help my friends or something. To start an "I'll never fly with you lot again - here's my vote" website or something. Shame I'm such a craven polite backer-down, really. Anyway, at least I've told all of you how I feel - it's a start, eh?

Three, that's the magic number

So, here's a first for me; I'm going to pick up a meme from Parlancheq's blog. More specifically, the Three by Three Childhood Moments That Made Me Me meme really appeals to me somehow (I probably don't want to think about why this is so), so here I go. Sorry if the formatting (line breaks, etc.) doesn't come out right - if somebody wants to explain to me how I can get Blogger to believe my html tags, please feel free to comment. Okay, here goes: I. Infant and Toddler Years

1. I'm told I was a quiet, earnest sort of kid, unlike my older sister who cried and fussed a lot, apparently. An aunt of mine used to worry about both of us, though - I can remember her long and melancholy face leaning over us saying "SUCH solemn children, I don't know..." I don't remember her ever hugging me or doing anything to actually improve the situation, but then almost all my memories of aunts and uncles are of somber, grey-faced distant people I was told to be quiet around.
2. I learnt German in kindergarten (my parents only talked English with my sis' and me until the age of three) from the other kids. I remember none of this, but I do remember answering the question whether I was protestant or catholic with an insistent "I'm German!" and being confused. I can remember being terrified by German carnival (it was celebrated with a fancy dress day at the kindergarten), crying and wanting to go home. Then again, I was the only kid without a costume 'cos my parents didn't believe it was a good thing to celebrate carnival, so maybe I just felt left out.
3. My best friend Kai lived in the flat right above my parents' one. The only thing we didn't do together was when I fell off the top of his bunk bed head-first and got concussion (he didn't join me on that one). Yes, I know that explains many things (having dinged my bonce so hard so early in life)... He and I were inseparable until my parents bought a house and we moved away.

II. Elementary School Years

1. Not wanting to sound too melodramatic here, but I "didn't get out much" as a school kid. My Mum made us stay at home and play on our own quite a lot. This was (I understand) because she believed it would be good for us to learn to enjoy solitude and our own company at an early age. I suppose it was influential in giving me a wild-fire, lively imagination and thinking about it, maybe it's one reason for my habit of talking to myself when I'm alone, which I find immensely irritating... I guess it also helped me discover and foster my love of books, which has to be a "pro". Also, I really, really value time spent with friends now - that may also be an offshoot.
2. One of my clearest memories from primary school is of standing up to a teacher who I felt was doing me wrong. Quite where I found the courage to do so is beyond me, but this lady would always call me "Eduardo" in a fake Spanish accent, which I hated. I know I had asked her not to do so politely and quietly before (I remember her as a wily character who would act pretty much at random, throwing chalk and sets of keys at pupils when angry, etc. She once hit me on the head with those keys - do you see a recurring theme here? Cranium-hard stuff interface seems to have been influential in my development). Anyway, she did it again, making the whole class laugh. Okay, so I probably hadn't been paying attention. But anyway, I got up and told her right there that if she called me "Eduardo" again, I would call her "Biene Mayer", a comedy version of her surname. This time, the laughs were on my side and, though I can't remember her immediate reaction, I know that she stopped hassling me after that. Today, I can not fathom for the life of me what gave me the gall to face off with her in such a way, but I swear I did it then - ask my parents!
3. I know I was a terrible liar as a primary school kid. I told all my friends loads of lies about places I'd been on holiday, exciting stuff I'd done, etc. Where I got the ideas/inspiration for my stories I can only guess as we didn't even have a TV at the time (my parents' philosophy again), but I know I felt inferior to many of my class-mates and I guess imagining stuff was my way of compensating.

III. Adolescence Years

1. I loved most of my years as a teenager. And no, I don't believe there's too much nostalgia tinging that comment. There was some awkward stuff, like having spots and being rebellious, but overall I have overwhelmingly positive memories. I guess that in itself ought to give one cause for concern... I had a large group of friends (no more stay-at-home enforcement) whom I loved, I finally got to play drums like I'd always wanted, etc. I think I really was that most unlikely of oxymorons, a happy teenager. Now, how weird is that?
2. Speaking of love: I was madly in love with the daughter of our town mayor, a crush that lasted for several years. Needless to say, my affection was unrequited - she went on to move to California and marry a millionaire (no, I'm not making this up). Efforts made to impress the target of my youthful affection included, as I remember, drawing countless pictures of horses for her (she liked horses) and firing a paper wad from a rubber-band slingshot that ricocheted off the blackboard mere inches from the English teacher's head. That certainly got me into trouble...
3. Trouble. Maths. Me. More Trouble. Third in my list of head-related moments (and the most irritating) was the treatment bestowed upon me the headmaster of our school who taught maths in Year Nine. So yes, I was the class dunce in arithmetics, no competition. I doubt, however, whether slapping the back of my head repeatedly whenever he was near me and happened not to give a correct answer helped much. "Light rapping of the head increases your thinking ability" was his mantra. For fairness sakes', I fear he simply didn't know better - he was quite an unhappy person prone to bouts of uncontrolled anger and feared by colleagues and pupils alike. And yes, I have forgiven him, so we're okay (he passed a few years ago).

Right, that's all, folks. As far as tagging other people, I'd love to tag a.ndy, but doubt I will be granted the honour of a response. Oh yes, kneecaps, you're tagged, of course. Anyone else please feel free to write a comment, in which case it'd be a pleasure to tag your, err, tail... Cheerio!

People get ready, there's a train coming

Well, great. My very first day on public transport trying to get from our sleepy little commuter town to university in Tübingen and presto, the Deutsche Bahn is dishing up a spicy potpourri from it’s limitless repertoire of possible glitches. Now, of course you hear about such things all the time when talking to train-riding commuter friends here in Germany, but I happen to be half-British, which by default makes me a bit of an eternal optimist. Also, the fact that Germans love few things as much as an excuse (ANY excuse) for a bit of a moan has made me, let’s say, a little suspicious of the overbearingly negative view people seem to take of our train system.

(this little beauty NOT courtesy of Deutsche Bahn. www.fraenkische-schweiz.com is a steaming hot site, obviously)

Soooo… I got there early (a good start). Then, the ticket machine wasn’t having any of my money and kept telling me the note I was trying to use was not a quantity it accepted. Irritatingly, this message was accompanied by a flashing arrow pointing me towards a sign that said the machine would accept exactly the type of note I was holding. Anyway… I made it to a second machine, then up onto the platform with a minute or two to spare. I dare say I was surprised at the amount of people milling about there (we’re only a small town after all). This was explained when I finally realised that the subtle whispering noises emitting from a loudspeaker were in fact announcements to tell everyone that all trains this morning were expected to have about 20 minutes’ delay “or more”. Yay! Dig it! Fortunately, I had been wary enough to leave myself over an hour’s buffer time in the journey, meaning that I’m now on my connection train which, though also late, will deliver me to my destination with just enough time left for me to pedal frantically to uni on my 80-year old (yes, really!) pushbike. Woot! Standing around in the freezing cold earlier, I have to say thoughts of “grrr… take the car again tomorrow” did flit through my mind. However, these have been banished on the grounds of wanting to protect the environment and not spend a whole wad of cash on my selfish indulgence every morning. Rest assured that I will take any (ANY) excuse to make exceptions to my self-inflicted rule, though… Tübingen, here I come! Chugga, chugga, chugga…

so put your hands in the air

Soooo. It's Friday night and I'm wasted. No, not from substance abuse or anything - from a long weeks' studying. Yes, I know that's kind of boring. Yes, I know you're all thinking "what the heck is he doing blogging on a Friday night when everyone else is out partying?" (Okay, so maybe you weren't thinking that, but that would make me feel even worse about my situation, so I'm not going there right now) Well - A) C's out at an impossibly boring social that I simply could not bring myself to join her for. Suits and the German idea of small talk ("so! You are a student, ja? Why? Why not have a proper job? You are old enough, no?") are a combo that somehow lacked appeal, especially on a night like tonight when I'm feeling cranky and worn-out already. Plus, I don't drink beer, so would have stuck out like a saure bratwurst at a veggie party (eugh! That one was so half-hearted, even I didn't laugh). Okay and B) is that we're going out tomorrow night with friends and that'll be so much fun it'll make up for tonight, easy. Well, I certainly hope so at least...

(More juicy goodness from the forests of Ebersbach, y'all)

Isn't it funny how sometimes there's tons of stuff you've wanted to blog about all week, but when the time has come to do so, your motivation suddenly goes into freefall? I mean, I haven't even finished telling Parlancheq about Extreme Wheelbarrowing (it's like freestyle BMX riding, only with wheelbarrows. Quite boring unless you're a professional wheelbarrow pusher), let alone talked all about the glorious, hulking big, wheezing Hammond organ that now finally sits in my living room. And then there were some observations I wanted to share from my daily commute (undertaken as yet in the speed and luxury of our car) about cars, drivers, road behaviour, etc. Or I could tell you about the accident I witnessed yesterday and what I did to help. Finally, there have been a series of incidents that have caused me to think about globalisation and our reaction to it (including a post by Web Gamin that I found thought-inspiring if highly controversial). All this and more, and yet what am I doing? You guessed it - zip, nada, none of it. I'm sorry, people - I promise to try harder tomorrow or whenever I can muster the energy. Right now, here's signing off and wishing you all good weekends. Ta da!

saving it up for the weekend

This one's for kneecaps; on the traffic news last night, there was warning of a "Nachtbaustelle" (nocturnal roadworks). Both C&I thought you might like the idea - we were thinking of your favourite German phrase, "Gute Nacht" and your translation of it... No, we didn't drive down and investigate. (BTW, your profile says you're still in KY) Cheers!

Come back, yes-ah, with me colour TV

Blog, blog, blog! Finally I'm back after a somewhat turbulent weekend spent entertaining friends at our house while simultaneously fighting the system... okay, fighting to get my DSL connection back after it was cut off erroneously by some unthinking office jobsworth good-fer-nothing hack - alright, alright, I'm calming down already. Wow! You know you must be addicted to the internet when not being able to blog or download e-mail makes you develop several nervous tics and tourette syndrom-like verbal outbursts at even just the sight of a computer. Anyway, everything's back to normal, the marriage counsellor says we should be alright in the long run, the evil voices in my head have gone and here I am FINALLY blogging again. Ahhhhhhhhh...

(Finally, a picture of my own again - this taken while out walking in the woods above my house)

And it had all started off so well with a comment from the wonderful and seriously über-blog-tastic PARLANCHEQ that had me positively itching to respond. Oh flattery of flatteries, she had even read my profile! Or should that be taken as a sign of her concern, maybe even worry over the kind of people who'd been leaving comments on her blog recently? Whatever the case, I was (to use a Briticism) well chuffed and in a hurry to respond. See, the question was one that, I feared, might be speedily answered grace of the powers of Google if I were not quick enough. In my profile, I somewhat rashly mentioned the twin interests of Extreme Ironing and Extreme Wheelbarrowing, neither of which I currently practice. Okay, so for fairness sakes', I've also never speedluged unless you count trying to kill myself on my best friend's skateboard going flat-out down a steep hill on my back. However, I am addicted to speed and dangerous sporty stuff - you should have seen me breaking the guy on the motorscooter's nose when I hit him while trying to overtake the UPS van on my first day as a bike messenger. Okay, so anyway, what is extreme ironing, then?

(This one, clearly, courtesy of www.extremeironing.com)

Well, like many whacky and not-so-very-sane things I believe the sport was invented in Britain where a bunch of students (Tsk! Students...) came up with ways of making the chore of ironing clothes more exciting by spicing up locations and circumstances under which ironing might be performed. So, with battery-powered irons and boards in tow, they set out to steam-press shirts and the like on the top of tall buildings, in trees, underwater, etc. Obviously, proof of their achievements could only be obtained by having pictures taken while ironing. This in turn caught the attention of the media (at least in Britain and Oz) - a book was published highlighting some of the most outrageous ironing forfeits and sold mildly successfully about two years ago as a novelty coffee table item. From what I can tell, there have been no major changes in the sport since then, as the stagnation of the various "scene" websites would appear to confirm. A harmless, gimmicky sport that fits well with other Brit pastimes such as gurning, cheese-rolling or bog snorkelling, is probably adequate as a summary. As for personal involvement in the sport, I really wanted to take my ironing board with me on my first ever skydive, but my instructor wouldn't allow it. I do plan to iron while hanging off the side of our apartment at a 90° angle someday... Oh dear. This post alone has taken me almost two days (I don't have much time at the mo'), so I'll cut it short here and complete my answer to Parlancheq's question tomorrow (I hope). Meanwhile, cheerio!

All I wanna do, is have some fun

Yagshemash! Wednesday lunchtime, the day after Helloween and I'm nursing only the slightest of hangovers. We had some very civilised visitors over last night, so were very sedate and merely indulged in a few glasses of Merlot, the remnants of which I am trying to swirl out of my blood system with copious amounts of vanilla nut-flavoured coffee. Today is dedicated to nothing more exciting than cramming Hebrew (it's a public holiday here, All Saints' Day), so I'm relishing this opportunity to flee into blogland. Anyway, what did I want to tell you about? First of all, Ricky Gervais, Steve Merchant and Karl Pilkington are running a series of three free podcasts between now (today, November 1st) and Christmas. Having been a big fan of the original (free) run of 12 casts and having refused to pay for their recent series of "pay-per-casts", I was, of course, curious and quick to subscribe. Overall, I must say I don't think I've missed out on much by not going for the pay-per-series - listening in now, it doesn't sound like anything's changed or the humour has evolved greatly. However, this is not a bad thing, so check it out by surfing to the Guardian's website and downloading/subscribing.

(this image unsurprisingly courtesy of www.timminchin.com)

Right, what else? Oh yeah, blogfather and overall wiseguy a.ndy once again pointed me in the direction of Something Very Good by telling me about Ozzie comedian/musician/rock'n'roll star Tim Minchin. Check out his website and get an earful of some of his stuff - I think he blends a very rare mix of fine, self-deprecating humour with sarcasm, irony and occasional twists of the profound to great effect. His "Peace Anthem for Palestine" has to rank among the funniest and best-executed pieces of musical comedy I have ever heard, bar nothing. I wish I had an audio feature on here so's you could just listen right in... Right. That'll have to be it for today. Sorry if I'm not managing much in the way of more profound or personal posts these days. I dunno, mebbe some day soon. Anyway, be safe and cheerio for now...