Geography IS NOT my forte. Never was, never will be.
This one holds quite a cringe-potential for geographically challenged people like I am.
Scored a meagre 337,448 (travel-IQ: 108 - talk about average)
Everything beyond 90° of eastern longitude is basically terra incognita to me. As if I derived my knowledge from Herodot alone. I blame my field of study for my blatant eurocentrism.
p.s.: How fitting that the Sistine Chapel was the nearest I came to pinpoint a location exacty (19 km!).
p.p.s.: I tried again and didn't even make it through level 7 which made me realize that 337,448 wasn't such a terrbile score after all - obviously resulting from A LOT of lucky guesses.
p.p.p.s.: Then I forced Lukas in front of my computer and he got 363,002 in his first and 432,714 in his second attempt. bastard. Noteworthy that his closest calls were Kingston/Jamaica (56km) and Ocho Rios/Jamaica (38km). Suspicious.
Blog-Lemming, der ich bin, nun auch meine erschreckend gutbürgerliche To-Do-Liste 08:
Den 8. Versuch mich des Französischen zu bemächtigen zumindest erst nach dem plus-que-parfait abbrechen.
Ferritin auf 50ng/ml steigern (Rote Rüben, here I come) und den Nüchternblutzucker auf 70mg/dl senken (BMI - trügerischer Wert - machtest mich glauben, ich könnte mich bis ans Ende meiner Tage von Schokocroissants und Tiefkühllasagne ernähren). Offensichtlich beginnt ein gutes Jahr mit einer besseren Gesundenuntersuchung.
Das Schwimmbad nutzen. Wozu habe ich sonst den 80ties Speedo-Badeanzug erstanden?
Fr. Magistra werden (ha!)
Den Lebensraum des MacBooks auf 25 m2 einschränken. Und auf Anthropomorphisierung verzichten. Der Name ist bloß fürs Netzwerk da. Vor allem nach dem beunruhigenden Wikipedia-Fund National Sozialisten Mainz Bingen.
20 Prozent der Bücher, die ich kaufe, auch zu lesen. Sofort.
Es nach New York schaffen, solange ich mir dort noch meine (unbedingt im öffentlichen Raum zu konsumierenden) Zigaretten mit einem Dollarschein anzünden kann. Dalí-Kirchner-Van Gogh-Miró als upcoming MOMA exhibitions 2008 wispern aber dann doch eher 2009.
... und insgesamt gesittete Umgangsformen zu kultivieren, um auf izas Gartengrillparties eingeladen zu werden.
Still searching for the right thing to delight your beloved ones with on Christmas Eve? Fret not! Let me introduce you to the aptly named titty...tiddybear:
It's 7:57 pm and I've turned on all the light sources in our apartment (which add up to the meager number of 12 totally) and thrown in the oven just for the heck of it (hoping the Vanillekipferl turn out to be reasonably edible).
Take that, you people who thrive solely on symbolic action.
The whole ordeal was actually quite straining, considering the fact that I grew up in happier times of second-wave environmentalism when eight year olds were gently coerced to spend their pocket money on obscure WWF-products by primary school teacher Uschi and everybody bought their milk in glass bottles. Since then I'm convinced to loose a part of my soul whenever I fail to switch off the standby mode of a washing machine.
Oh, the power of education.
Thankfully it left me with an holistic outlook on planet preserving. For all it's worth it doesn't bother me a bit to see furry baby mammals get clobbered over the head, as long as the equilibrium of the ecosystem stays put (which it clearly doesn’t).
Hunde sind bekanntlich phlegmatische Lebewesen, die weder mit bösen Hühnern und schon gar nicht mit von der WWF beschäftigten Außerirdischen mithalten können - dennoch volle Zufriedenheit mit dem gewählten Alter Ego (liegt vermutlich am Reiz der Ohren).
Some time ago Pajiba – a site I tentatively trust with their movie reviews – has compiled the ten Tearjerkiest Moments of the last 20 Years and since it fits my state of mind I decided to follow in a slightly abbreviated fashion. So here they are: 5 scenes that made me cry like a little baby. The reduction in numbers stems either from the fact that I am a cynic badass who isn't easily moved by Hollywood's magic tools of emotional puppeteering or that I just forget too quickly. Considering the choices I could actually remember, I strongly suspect the second.
Dead Poets Society (Peter Weir), 1989
What can I say, I was 14. And if there is any film concocted to infiltrate the fragile, sentimental minds of 14-year-olds it's this one. It pretends to be deep and meaningful (poetry! dreaded utilitarism! dreams! suicide!) when it is just life-lesson kitsch in poor disguise. But back then I felt so grown up, tears streaming down my cheeks, understanding the power of teaching and the beauty of standing up (see what I did there?) for the things one came to believe in. Furthermore I always had a slightly ambiguous obsession with boarding schools (go Hogwarts!), especially of the 1930-ties/1940-ties kind – the books, the halls, the melancholy – it makes my heart ache. Still. Captain, my captain, indeed.
Alias 5.01, 2006
I remember when watching this episode I silently started crying, stood up, went into the kitchen, fixed myself a glass of Whiskey, sat down again and resumed sobbing. My former roommate, who I presume had never seen me in an emotional state like this, stared at me in utter disbelieve. And he had every right to do so. Sure, I may have had a *slight* crush on Vaughn but that is absolutely no excuse to loose it when Spy-Barbies half-french hottie-soulmate goes down in a hail of bullets so unreal that it actually might have been a parody. The whole situation is even more embarrassing considering the scene leading to hottie's dead is one of the cheesiest, crappiest pieces of dialogue and acting ever encountered in a big budget TV production. I'm ashamed of myself.
Land and Freedom (Ken Loach), 1995
Not enough that there is a scattered bunch of volutnteers, singing The Internationale during a comrades funeral – they had to interlace it with this young women, going through the belongings of her grandfather who fought and sang – a long time ago. Even though I'm pretty sure that Mr. Loach, eternal optimist he is, would object with this reading, for me a lot of Land and Freedom's sadness derives from its hopelessness. Once there was promise in the air and it got shattered. A lifespan during which all your dreams have been perverted and/or crushed is a dreadful thing. I never dared to talk with my grandparents about that – and I never sung The Internationale at their funerals.
The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles) 2005
With the flood of 'politically aware' Hollywood productions came The Constant Gardener and on the first glance it is just that – a cheap vehicle of the viewers superficial absolution. But for once this film's saving grace is its more than conflicted love story (whereas it tends to be the other way around, myriads of pictures could have managed to obtain a certain level of endurability without the love). Anyway. Yes, there is big business exploiting post-colonial Africa, there are corrupt politicians, but there is also a man investigating the murder of the woman he loved, but barely knew. In the end, sitting on the shore, silently awaiting his own demise, it is the first time he can really be with her – no doubt, no secrets, no suspicions. Bummer she's dead.
Casablanca (Michael Curtiz), 1942
Some scenes solely work for you in a certain stage of life (see Dead Poets Society), some leave you completely cold if you watch them again (see Alias), some are conceivable only in the framework of the whole picture (see The Constant Gardener), but this one – it gets me every time.
I don't particularly care if Ilsa chooses duty over love or how conflicted Bogart managed to look the whole damn 100 minutes, but I care for those people and their little act of defiance.
"Today the CW announced that Gilmore Girls will air its final episode on May 15." (Variety)
I'm devastated. Truly I am. Who wouldn't want to follow the ingenious, simultaneous ramblings of a straight A Yale graduate with the complexion of a water nymph, born the year I fell in love with MacGyver, about Paradise Lost, her next town meeting, Oompa Loompas, the british post-punk-movement, Madeleine Albright and her alma mater's breakfast cereal-providing system. Who wouldn't?
Rory's bizarre and artificial microcosm was every liberal Democrats wet dream, where all people were entitled to be different, quirky and strange while navigating through an idyllic small town that looked like a 1940-ties Capra set.
I always considered the occasional shot of Rory 'I'm-so-smart' Gilmore's Noam Chomsky dorm-room-poster very fitting for a series that relied predominantly on the spoken word. And my, how they talked. That should count for something.
"Today the CW announced that Gilmore Girls will air its final episode on May 15." (
