...you really never know what you are going to get.
That's a problem if you ask me. I love chocolates, as a matter of fact I love chocolates so much that people from the office have begun bribing me with 'souvenirs', when they return from a trip, be that a trip to Tesco. It's really a bit sad that they feel the need to do so, given that I do get paid for the work that I am doing. Fact is, it does raise my motivation and it does create guilt, but in most unexpected ways. How do you say no to doing that quick little task for someone who just trekked back from Montenegro, realizing he has forgotten to bring the local speciality, as a result hits the duty free on their layover and returns with Serbian chocolates to make up for it. You end up doing two things. Firstly you will do that little little task and you will do it with a smile and secondly, you will eat the chocolate. This should be the easy part.
Take the Serbian chocolate as an excellent example of why this is not as easy as it looks. It turns out you really don't know what you are going to get and that's a problem when you, like me, like chocolate but are narrow minded about the definition of said substance. Banana flavored goo in a dark chocolate coating in, this is important, a pretty pink shiny wrapper is not chocolate. White, undefined goo in white chocolate coating, again, in pretty pink shiny wrapping paper is not chocolate. Nougat goodness in milk chocolate coating, you guessed it, in pretty pink wrapping paper: that's chocolate.
Eating the wrong one and spitting it out into your hand: that is guilt.
Now how to solve the dilemma? One might imagine reading the description on the box might help. It does not, language barrier aside. Quality Street has begun a good campaign to outline the flavors on the box, but even they have green mystery triangles and surprise blue squares and guess what, those are the ones left in the box till the end because nobody wants to end up spitting white goo into their hand, especially not when everyone is watching, smiling, observing how much the child loves chocolate and the child is me. Back to the Serbian dilemma: they do have hearts, triangles, squares and funny looking towers, BUT that does not mean anything. For a while I was imagining the left side held more true chocolates and the squares were also a safer bet, at least within that left side territory, but I was proven wrong. Again and again.
The closest to a strategy I have come to is the above eluded to "observe, memorize and repeat" series of steps. Observe what economist 1 just shoved into his mouth, memorize the shape, wrapper (if, mind you, if they choose to differentiate), positioning and then repeat the action.
It works so well I just came back from a trip to the neighbors rubbish bin ("just gotta run out, anyone need anything from the post office?") and my hands are still sticky. Boo.
Friday, 30 November 2007
Thursday, 29 November 2007
flickr set me straigt
I went to a prep school. It wasn't my choice. I guess it's never really anyone's choice. I was fresh off the boat, an anarchist at heart but unsure if that meant the same as socialist or the opposite. I was wearing flannel well into the mid 90s, and I tried to be bad, I really did, but didn't know any insults in English (until you can swear competently in a language you shouldn't do it; things like "it went to shits", "I f*** you" and "I am pissing for you" will result and people will think you are cute and your mission of insulting and being bad will fail). Tried dying my hair all kinds of crazy colors, but I like my hair and the craziest I dared was red and it turned out orange and apparently they figured that was close enough to the required 'natural color' and let me be. Because I couldn't really talk much at all, I was nice and polite and even with a lot of effort did not manage to break the dress code. I wanted to but I didn't like short dresses because those were not deep, dark and secretive at all and nobody seemed to care about the flannel, which retrospectively I consider cruel and wish that someone would have done something about that. Thanks facebook for making sure I can never forget (note: please help your foreign exchange student and don't let this happen to anyone else). So yes, I did graduate and now I can speak of the horrors of private education in the USA.
One day the rough path that life had set out for me gave way to a brief interlude of freedom. Or so I though. Possibly to justify the school fees or possibly because the school was not entirely designed to be a conspiracy against the young and anarchistic minded, whatever the reason, we had a darkroom and the luxury of taking photo classes to help us broaden our horizons (and get into the right colleges). Under normal circumstances I might have missed the announcement of photo classes due to energy spent engaged in loathing of the people who had done this to me, but my fortune was good. Maybe to show this foreign exchange student that there was life outside of flannel, a nice boy took me to the photo lab to help me beat out of the way the hoards of art-expression thirsty students and got my me on the list for the class. I am sorry I forgot your name. It's all a bit of a blurr. The first day I showed up with my snapshot camera only to be introduced to this really complicated machine, which appeared even then to set us back ages in terms of technology: an old fashioned SLR camera. This is obviously way pre-digital. German girl needed a dictionary first to translate the explanation of aperture and f-stop and generally got the feeling that once again they were going to undermine any creative musings. I got that feeling when the first lesson was on not touching your face before touching the film or photo paper because apparently your face is greasier than anything in that whole darkroom. Really? The second lesson was on what not to take pictures of.
Cutting to the chase: No puppies, babies, kitties, ponies and also no nudity (see above paragraph on the repressive culture of the school). Funny; that rule really stuck with me.
The very first thing I did in college was a project on nudity (incidentally my photo teacher, apparently not entirely deranged, had predicted that this would happen to all of us) but for years I stayed away from puppies, kitties, ponies. I took many crooked and definitely dark, deep and secretive shots of the homeless, the drunk, the funny looking, the badly dressed, badly shaped and generally down and out. Really getting that 'angle' into their lives seemed to be the answer. If you are in one of my early pictures, be very concerned. A bit later, poverty in general seemed like a good place to find inspiration: not cute, not fluffy. So instead of offering a hand or dollar or something for crying out loud to the old nice ragged man in an unnamed Andean country carrying a bundle on his head that was larger than my dorm room, I held my camera into his face (at this point outfitted with a zoom lens that rivaled even his load) and the charmingly rustic hut he calls his home. Following that, I did so many self-portraits that I can trace the exact pattern in which each freckle of mine evolved over the course of a given summer and can now use this for future predictions; I did self portraits in bath tubs, on beaches, in pools, on couches, tried the swing set but failed and I was totally into disconnected, random shapes (ideally dark and with a bit of poverty oozing out of them), eventually took the plunge and photographed kids, but not babies, and only if not cute and this is starting to annoy me, but yes, poor and maybe even a bit dirty, after that tried landscapes and even today I can really do a great reflection on a serene lake or that autumn alley, leafs on the sides of it, leading into seemingly unending forests, but all this time I followed the golden rule: no puppies, no kitties, no ponies and I sure love ponies, and kitties and puppies for that matter are growing on me too but taking pictures of them is cheating. Cheating was a big one in that school code. Unlike in that European country where I received my primary education, you just don't cheat in school. Don't. Really. Believe me.
Lets fast forward a few years. It's 2007, memory cards have taken the place of film, you can set your ISO to 3200 with a simple flick of a button, you never have to spend frantic afternoons trying to roll your film onto those horrendous wheels when developing it; and somehow it seems that everyone, prep school or not, got into photography, real photography, at some point. I have been told that Kiosk ladies in Russia, business men in Japan and everyone in between ('between what' I guess is the question? I simply mean everyone, everywhere) when probed will list their most creative hobby as photography. Where better to watch the democratization of this art form than on one of the many picture posting forums? The great realization I came to thanks to flickr is that life is nothing like prep school. I also realized that people LOVE babies, ponies, kitties and doggies and they are not at all shy about it, as a matter of fact they act like it's not even cheating to have an entire career in photographing only the aforementioned subjects. I have to admit I did once, not that long ago, post a picture of one kitty and one puppy (I promise, only one and it was only to show off the pretty beach and the rucksacking through Turkey activity on our part, which obviously is perfectly legit to photograph) and guess what? They are my top scorers (right after that picture I tagged 'nude models' and 'school girls').
One day the rough path that life had set out for me gave way to a brief interlude of freedom. Or so I though. Possibly to justify the school fees or possibly because the school was not entirely designed to be a conspiracy against the young and anarchistic minded, whatever the reason, we had a darkroom and the luxury of taking photo classes to help us broaden our horizons (and get into the right colleges). Under normal circumstances I might have missed the announcement of photo classes due to energy spent engaged in loathing of the people who had done this to me, but my fortune was good. Maybe to show this foreign exchange student that there was life outside of flannel, a nice boy took me to the photo lab to help me beat out of the way the hoards of art-expression thirsty students and got my me on the list for the class. I am sorry I forgot your name. It's all a bit of a blurr. The first day I showed up with my snapshot camera only to be introduced to this really complicated machine, which appeared even then to set us back ages in terms of technology: an old fashioned SLR camera. This is obviously way pre-digital. German girl needed a dictionary first to translate the explanation of aperture and f-stop and generally got the feeling that once again they were going to undermine any creative musings. I got that feeling when the first lesson was on not touching your face before touching the film or photo paper because apparently your face is greasier than anything in that whole darkroom. Really? The second lesson was on what not to take pictures of.
Cutting to the chase: No puppies, babies, kitties, ponies and also no nudity (see above paragraph on the repressive culture of the school). Funny; that rule really stuck with me.
The very first thing I did in college was a project on nudity (incidentally my photo teacher, apparently not entirely deranged, had predicted that this would happen to all of us) but for years I stayed away from puppies, kitties, ponies. I took many crooked and definitely dark, deep and secretive shots of the homeless, the drunk, the funny looking, the badly dressed, badly shaped and generally down and out. Really getting that 'angle' into their lives seemed to be the answer. If you are in one of my early pictures, be very concerned. A bit later, poverty in general seemed like a good place to find inspiration: not cute, not fluffy. So instead of offering a hand or dollar or something for crying out loud to the old nice ragged man in an unnamed Andean country carrying a bundle on his head that was larger than my dorm room, I held my camera into his face (at this point outfitted with a zoom lens that rivaled even his load) and the charmingly rustic hut he calls his home. Following that, I did so many self-portraits that I can trace the exact pattern in which each freckle of mine evolved over the course of a given summer and can now use this for future predictions; I did self portraits in bath tubs, on beaches, in pools, on couches, tried the swing set but failed and I was totally into disconnected, random shapes (ideally dark and with a bit of poverty oozing out of them), eventually took the plunge and photographed kids, but not babies, and only if not cute and this is starting to annoy me, but yes, poor and maybe even a bit dirty, after that tried landscapes and even today I can really do a great reflection on a serene lake or that autumn alley, leafs on the sides of it, leading into seemingly unending forests, but all this time I followed the golden rule: no puppies, no kitties, no ponies and I sure love ponies, and kitties and puppies for that matter are growing on me too but taking pictures of them is cheating. Cheating was a big one in that school code. Unlike in that European country where I received my primary education, you just don't cheat in school. Don't. Really. Believe me.
Lets fast forward a few years. It's 2007, memory cards have taken the place of film, you can set your ISO to 3200 with a simple flick of a button, you never have to spend frantic afternoons trying to roll your film onto those horrendous wheels when developing it; and somehow it seems that everyone, prep school or not, got into photography, real photography, at some point. I have been told that Kiosk ladies in Russia, business men in Japan and everyone in between ('between what' I guess is the question? I simply mean everyone, everywhere) when probed will list their most creative hobby as photography. Where better to watch the democratization of this art form than on one of the many picture posting forums? The great realization I came to thanks to flickr is that life is nothing like prep school. I also realized that people LOVE babies, ponies, kitties and doggies and they are not at all shy about it, as a matter of fact they act like it's not even cheating to have an entire career in photographing only the aforementioned subjects. I have to admit I did once, not that long ago, post a picture of one kitty and one puppy (I promise, only one and it was only to show off the pretty beach and the rucksacking through Turkey activity on our part, which obviously is perfectly legit to photograph) and guess what? They are my top scorers (right after that picture I tagged 'nude models' and 'school girls').
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
WHY
I need to get this one off my chest. I am obsessed.
Lets get the obvious part out of the way: my heart goes out to any and every little kid who something awful happens to, anything that ranges from getting lost in the mall, being forced to drink pomagranate juice, being in day care with mean kids, having to wear neon colors because their parents liked the 80s and obviously those who become victim of a crime. Now that this is out of the way, I just need to figure out a way to get Maddie out of my life but I just don't know how. I think I am part of the problem.
On my way to work today I passed not one, no, three stores, regular selling cheap booze and canned peas in Kilburn sort of stores with her picture in the window. Yesterday in the gym (the gym being the only place I get to watch TV due to the fact that we more or less live in a bomb shelter that no aerial antenna can penetrate), Sky News tells me that Maddie has her own category on their channel, no, not only is she not captured under "News" or "Politics" or "Media", all of which would be fitting, but instead she has her very own headline which is listed right under "UK News". So here are the topics in order of importance, "UK News", "Madeleine", "World News", "Pictures" and so on. It turns out yesterday she got 14% of hits on the web version of the channel which makes her a top story. Still. And that after 6 months or so of gone-ness. I don't know if that means that 14% of all Sky News viewers viewed that story or what, but it seems like a big deal. And she manages to hold that position in spite of riots in Paris, Musharraf's dealings in Pakistan, the finding of a book made out of human skin, murder of British student Meredeth in Italy which I had thought would take the lead, lets not forget that a cyclone just devastated entire parts of Bangladesh killing thousands, besides the ordinary UN scandal that is ever brewing (fair enough, I don't even care about that one), other children disappearing (do YOU know their names?) and last but not least the discussion whether or not Mourinho would make a decent England coach. Why? And How does she do it?
Yes, she is cute, yes, her Mom is pretty, yes, the whole family is pleasant and perfectly middle class, no, it's not entirely clear if friends/family know something we don't know, yes, Sir Richard Branson donated money to the campaign, yes, there is some reported tension between the British vs. Portuguese police, yes, the pope gave his blessing, yes, her Mom will get drug tested but why why why do I know all of this?
Because Maddie has her own category, because the media can't get enough, because people like me are the problem. BUT WHY?
Lets get the obvious part out of the way: my heart goes out to any and every little kid who something awful happens to, anything that ranges from getting lost in the mall, being forced to drink pomagranate juice, being in day care with mean kids, having to wear neon colors because their parents liked the 80s and obviously those who become victim of a crime. Now that this is out of the way, I just need to figure out a way to get Maddie out of my life but I just don't know how. I think I am part of the problem.
On my way to work today I passed not one, no, three stores, regular selling cheap booze and canned peas in Kilburn sort of stores with her picture in the window. Yesterday in the gym (the gym being the only place I get to watch TV due to the fact that we more or less live in a bomb shelter that no aerial antenna can penetrate), Sky News tells me that Maddie has her own category on their channel, no, not only is she not captured under "News" or "Politics" or "Media", all of which would be fitting, but instead she has her very own headline which is listed right under "UK News". So here are the topics in order of importance, "UK News", "Madeleine", "World News", "Pictures" and so on. It turns out yesterday she got 14% of hits on the web version of the channel which makes her a top story. Still. And that after 6 months or so of gone-ness. I don't know if that means that 14% of all Sky News viewers viewed that story or what, but it seems like a big deal. And she manages to hold that position in spite of riots in Paris, Musharraf's dealings in Pakistan, the finding of a book made out of human skin, murder of British student Meredeth in Italy which I had thought would take the lead, lets not forget that a cyclone just devastated entire parts of Bangladesh killing thousands, besides the ordinary UN scandal that is ever brewing (fair enough, I don't even care about that one), other children disappearing (do YOU know their names?) and last but not least the discussion whether or not Mourinho would make a decent England coach. Why? And How does she do it?
Yes, she is cute, yes, her Mom is pretty, yes, the whole family is pleasant and perfectly middle class, no, it's not entirely clear if friends/family know something we don't know, yes, Sir Richard Branson donated money to the campaign, yes, there is some reported tension between the British vs. Portuguese police, yes, the pope gave his blessing, yes, her Mom will get drug tested but why why why do I know all of this?
Because Maddie has her own category, because the media can't get enough, because people like me are the problem. BUT WHY?
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
My year in books
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' (now shredded to pieces due to newly acquired hubby's violent reading behaviour) and because I was immediately addicted 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' which made me worried that when things really suck on a regular basis, they suck a bit more if you are a girl. Who is also poor. Interestingly enough being hot or not appeared to be unrelated to exactly how much it will suck. I read these two in a cabin on a beach during a tropical storm with much rum and no way out, so no wonder I could not stop reading, but I think under less exciting circumstances I shall have felt the same.
Now I am trying to make my way through 'The Golden Notebook', which is more work, less fun (and not all that Nobel so far). I feel somewhere in that ranting parallel story business on feminism and communism in the 1950s in London there must be something worthwhile, but being on page 200 I have not gotten there yet.
Shantaram was an early year favorite. I wish I had not read it yet so that I could read it on a wanderlust inspired trip in the future. Would have to be taken into account when calculating baggage allowance, but certainly a favorite.
I also tried to catch up on some motherland literature and managed to hit all young male struggling with their self-fulfillment and physical or mental place in the world sort of books. Lenz' Heimatmuseum, loosely translated as 'Heritage' hits No. 1 in that category, followed by Guenter Grass' 'Tin Drum' and the looser for me is the 'Green Heinrich' by Gottfried Keller. I wanted to kill Heinrich. Thankfully he does that himself, but about 700 pages too late and not even intentionally. Heimatmuseum on the other hand, not exactly cheerful throws in a good measure of the history of Poland/Germany and the story of being caught in the middle when the borders change.
On that note, 'Sophie's Choice' while dwelling disappointingly little on how she makes the choice in question is quite genius in my eyes. I don't believe I am getting genres right, but there is something very 'Kerouak' about the book yet the many layers and lies of the past and present that creep through every sub story make it more than just the musings of a Brooklyn wanna be writer who drinks too much cheap wine and loves the mysterious Sophie.
Now I am trying to make my way through 'The Golden Notebook', which is more work, less fun (and not all that Nobel so far). I feel somewhere in that ranting parallel story business on feminism and communism in the 1950s in London there must be something worthwhile, but being on page 200 I have not gotten there yet.
Shantaram was an early year favorite. I wish I had not read it yet so that I could read it on a wanderlust inspired trip in the future. Would have to be taken into account when calculating baggage allowance, but certainly a favorite.
I also tried to catch up on some motherland literature and managed to hit all young male struggling with their self-fulfillment and physical or mental place in the world sort of books. Lenz' Heimatmuseum, loosely translated as 'Heritage' hits No. 1 in that category, followed by Guenter Grass' 'Tin Drum' and the looser for me is the 'Green Heinrich' by Gottfried Keller. I wanted to kill Heinrich. Thankfully he does that himself, but about 700 pages too late and not even intentionally. Heimatmuseum on the other hand, not exactly cheerful throws in a good measure of the history of Poland/Germany and the story of being caught in the middle when the borders change.
On that note, 'Sophie's Choice' while dwelling disappointingly little on how she makes the choice in question is quite genius in my eyes. I don't believe I am getting genres right, but there is something very 'Kerouak' about the book yet the many layers and lies of the past and present that creep through every sub story make it more than just the musings of a Brooklyn wanna be writer who drinks too much cheap wine and loves the mysterious Sophie.
Monday, 26 November 2007
One more 'out'
A nice tropical elopement like the one we just returned from, if you believe the NYT, is actually the old fashioned way to get married: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/26/opinion/26coontz.html?ex=1353819600&en=edea6bb06d38c5fc&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
Did you hear that?
Given our new world order however, there is that legality part to be taken care of in order for the state to know to whom to dish out all those generous benefits (?) in the case of an untimely death of either one of us.
If you are from Florida this quest for legality has been made compatible with the 21st century marriage doer and is quite easy to manage. Incidentally if you are not from Florida this is even easier. Undoubtedly a scheme to increase tourism in those under 75 years of age. In the latter case you show up at the courthouse armed with 80 bucks and proof that you are in fact old enough to know what you are getting yourselves into. Bring the spouse-to-be and off you go, all stamped and legal. However, if you are lucky enough to have a sunshine state driver's license you will be granted one more "out" in the shape and form of a three day delay until your union becomes legal, at which point you must return to an authorized representative of the legality contingency who can be a Priest, Rabbi, chartered accountant or legal secretary.
The three days waiting period is their way of giving you time to sober up. I am not savvy in Florida stats so I am not sure why Floridians needs special protection, but they get it. In any case, when we do make it back to Miami in a few months we don't have time to spare for return visit to those legalizers as we need to be swimming in oceans, eating Cuban food and focusing on not being sober.
But we did not despair and found someone to certify that we have in fact worried about all the implications of being stuck together way before we will show up at that courthouse, thus qualifying for that immediate stamp of approval. The following procedure is apparently known to ensure that you will be as ready as can be come the big day:
Open google and find yourself an online spiritual leader (I personally especially appreciate the fact that there are Disneyland approved ones) who makes you think about a nice chunk of questions everyone should have asked themselves way before letting their relationship get to this stage. So, well done there. In the spirit of our times, our Reverent makes the religious questions optional, dwells on how to handle each other's family as well as communications techniques and dishes out a stern reminder that a wedding is only to last one day and a marriage a lifetime (now mind you, our wedding appears to be lasting a lifetime too but that is a different issue) and if that was not easy enough, you will be informed that watching a movie with Michelle Pfeiffer counts as having completed the assignment. You then convince your spiritual leader of choice that you have spent at least 4 hours contemplating the above mentioned issues. This get you a 'marriage course certificate of completion'.
The best part is that once we paid your 20 bucks to the good minister, not only did we get the ok to be married asap, but beyond that, we are also promised a discount at the courthouse!
I love Florida.
Did you hear that?
Given our new world order however, there is that legality part to be taken care of in order for the state to know to whom to dish out all those generous benefits (?) in the case of an untimely death of either one of us.
If you are from Florida this quest for legality has been made compatible with the 21st century marriage doer and is quite easy to manage. Incidentally if you are not from Florida this is even easier. Undoubtedly a scheme to increase tourism in those under 75 years of age. In the latter case you show up at the courthouse armed with 80 bucks and proof that you are in fact old enough to know what you are getting yourselves into. Bring the spouse-to-be and off you go, all stamped and legal. However, if you are lucky enough to have a sunshine state driver's license you will be granted one more "out" in the shape and form of a three day delay until your union becomes legal, at which point you must return to an authorized representative of the legality contingency who can be a Priest, Rabbi, chartered accountant or legal secretary.
The three days waiting period is their way of giving you time to sober up. I am not savvy in Florida stats so I am not sure why Floridians needs special protection, but they get it. In any case, when we do make it back to Miami in a few months we don't have time to spare for return visit to those legalizers as we need to be swimming in oceans, eating Cuban food and focusing on not being sober.
But we did not despair and found someone to certify that we have in fact worried about all the implications of being stuck together way before we will show up at that courthouse, thus qualifying for that immediate stamp of approval. The following procedure is apparently known to ensure that you will be as ready as can be come the big day:
Open google and find yourself an online spiritual leader (I personally especially appreciate the fact that there are Disneyland approved ones) who makes you think about a nice chunk of questions everyone should have asked themselves way before letting their relationship get to this stage. So, well done there. In the spirit of our times, our Reverent makes the religious questions optional, dwells on how to handle each other's family as well as communications techniques and dishes out a stern reminder that a wedding is only to last one day and a marriage a lifetime (now mind you, our wedding appears to be lasting a lifetime too but that is a different issue) and if that was not easy enough, you will be informed that watching a movie with Michelle Pfeiffer counts as having completed the assignment. You then convince your spiritual leader of choice that you have spent at least 4 hours contemplating the above mentioned issues. This get you a 'marriage course certificate of completion'.
The best part is that once we paid your 20 bucks to the good minister, not only did we get the ok to be married asap, but beyond that, we are also promised a discount at the courthouse!
I love Florida.
And there she was
I have a name.
It was a bit of a tough decision. My favorite would have involved Schadenfreude and although I can't say that I don't indulge in a bit of that here or there, it sets the bar rather low in terms of expecations I have for myself.
Wunderkind on the other hand seemed too optimistic and Fahrvergnuegen's Umlaut takes this out of the realm of drunk type friendliness.
Let's see where this shall lead me.
It was a bit of a tough decision. My favorite would have involved Schadenfreude and although I can't say that I don't indulge in a bit of that here or there, it sets the bar rather low in terms of expecations I have for myself.
Wunderkind on the other hand seemed too optimistic and Fahrvergnuegen's Umlaut takes this out of the realm of drunk type friendliness.
Let's see where this shall lead me.
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