Damaged collaterals

When I did the advertising for a big German company producing household appliances like washing machines a couple of years ago, they came up with the idea of cooperating with a maker of fine lingerie. We designed a brochure that approached the quite unsexy subject of washing one's dirty underwear from a very feminine, delicate and sensual side: with lace patterns and poems. The client first loved it, but then decided that the tone of the copy was too personal, too sexy and too masculine and that they wouldn't do it. What a pity, but what a great compliment! Here's one of the poems I just found in the depths of my "killed by client" file.

If I went to watch the movie "Valkyrie", I would probably see this scene.

While das Volk is still cheering for Hitler, Graf von Stauffenberg is working on his plan to assassinate the Führer. 

But actually I think I'm not going to see the movie. So all I have is my imagination. Looks quite realistic to me though.   

Why go out to meet new people?

Weekends are great for tidying up, especially when it's cold and dark out. I started on Saturday with cleaning the bathroom, then I went through the box full of old photos and letters, rearranged my closet, threw the thrash out, ironed some shirts and finally I tidied up my brain. Look whom I found there: Paul, the fox! He was sitting in his rocking chair on the back porch of my head smoking his pipe. He is a very laid-back guy, intelligent but kind, and though he doesn't talk much he has a good sense of humor. I'm not sure about his age, I know he's been around for a while but he is so good-natured - just like somebody who has never experienced anything bad in his life. But maybe he has. Anyway, I'm happy to know him and I'm looking forward to spending a lot more time with him. 

Today my camera passed on. And off. And on.

Now that I finally own a new flash card and a waterproof aquapac case, my camera died. Bad timing, little Canon Digital Ixus, very bad timing. I was hoping to take some cool underwater pictures on my next trip to... let's say: the Bahamas, dreaming of colorful fish and corals, white sand and shipwrecks – and now it's just "E18". When I push the "on" button the camera really tries hard to extend the lens, but to no avail. At least I'm not alone in my grief. www.fixya.com/support/t102982-e_18_problem for example gives detailed pictures showing how to fix the problem yourself. But I'm not sure: Do I really want to do this and fight for its life or is it just time to let go? What's the most loving decision here?

What if we don't buy into The Crisis?

What if we don’t invest any thought in feeling poor, helpless and threatened? What if we believe in the fact that we are indeed powerful, wonderful and significant? What if we stop being at war with ourselves? What if we stop believing we have to be better? What if we accept the fact that we are perfect already? What if we believe we are not separate from the world? That we are not alone? What if we just decide to be happy? Wouldn’t that cure The Depression?

When the candle started dripping, Mary-Lou didn't quite know how to react.

Give me more Moors with walls

Sometimes I wonder about words. (Which actually is not my job. People pay me to find the right words and forge them into genius headlines. Or copies. Or tv commercials. So please don’t tell anybody.) Where was I? Ah, yes. The wonder of words. Sometimes I stumble upon a word, it gets me thinking and I can’t stop until I have found out where it came from, what it means in Urdu and how people used to spell it in the 16th century. My last wonder word was „more“ (which - by the way - sometimes is „nose“ when you type it into your cell phone). More. The funny thing about „more“ is, that it means „sea“ in Russian. (As in „Cornoje More“ – Black Sea for example.) Now: the English „sea“ in German is „Meer“, in French it is „mer“, which sounds a lot like „mehr“, which means „more“ in German. And then „more“ has a pronunciation very similar to the German „Moor“ which means marsh or swamp. Of course „Moor“ also is the old name for people from Mauretania („maurus“), who had a darker skin than most Europeans and were therefore called blacks („mauros“). Maurus reminds me of the German „Mauer“ which means „wall“ in English. But: If you use the German word „Wall“ nowadays, it rather means „rampart“ than „wall“. And then there is another word for „wall“ in German. It’s „Wand“. Do you understand what I mean? It’s so hard to stop this!

Dancing in the liquid moonlight

I meet you, strange bird,
every night, all night, 
by the icy pond in the park.

And we dance in the liquid moonlight
– beak to cheek -
all eyes, feathers, hair, pounding hearts.

My feet are freezing, but I smile.
I hear you whisper:
"El tango no está en los pies. Está en el corazón."

The hottest new Mac application ever. Don't miss the keynote address!

While rumors run wild about the new iMac and its cooling system, thousands of miles from San Francisco's Macworld a young, gifted German advertising specialist comes up with a groundbreaking new application for the MacBook Pro: the heating system. After 10 hours of use (mainly WORD and skype), the laptop gets so warm, it can actually substitute the analog hot water bottle. A wonderful innovation for those who suffer from cold feet at bedtime! Odds are Philip Schiller, Apple’s senior vice president of Worldwide Product Marketing, will unveil the secret of the new iBed-application during the opening keynote for this year’s Macworld Conference & Expo. The keynote address will be held at Moscone West on Tuesday, January 6, 2009 at 9:00 a.m. Don't miss.

End of the season

The turkey vulture was tired. He had discovered a bald spot under his left wing earlier and wasn’t really feeling that well. Seeing signs of aging was always depressing. He was used to the constant pain in his knees and his claws but losing feathers – that was a different story. He looked out over the swamp. The reeds danced gently in the wind, bowed to one side, then to the other, skinny black figures against the orange-gray light of the setting sun. Stupid reeds. He had not seen a single turkey all day. It was late in the season, but not too late, and the little suckers should be out there catching the last rays of sun before winter drove them back into their holes. He took a deep breath and stretched his wings. Maybe that climate change thing was affecting them too. He had heard other birds talk about it, especially the migrating folks seemed to be pretty concerned, but they always talked a lot. They loved hanging out together, showing around pictures of their grandkids at barbecue parties and yard sales, and you could be sure that wherever they settled for a couple of days there would be a bingo event. The wind picked up a little and fluffed up his feathers. He wished he had a cigarette. On nights like this, when you have no reason to stay out and no reason to go home either, except for the fact that you were expected to go home, he had always enjoyed a good smoke. Kinda kept him clean. Kept him from thinking. Thinking had never led anywhere as far as he was concerned. Maybe that was why he didn’t get along well with women. Women always wanted to know what you think and why and how you feel and they were always so upset when you didn’t answer. But what could he say? He wasn’t holding back anything. He just wasn’t thinking all the time, that was it. He had tried to have something in store in case the question popped up, something emotional and sensitive, but it just didn’t sound right and he had given up on it. He looked at the fine line of sunlight that still hung over the horizon. It sure was getting chilly early this year. He liked being with Nancy, she was warm and kind, but sometimes he thought the whole concept of „having a relationship“ was something women had simply made up. A strange invention. He was sure that - if nobody had ever mentioned the necessity of having a relationship - he would be out here, right here, watching the clouds and smoking and wouldn’t miss a thing. Well. He shrugged. That was just how life went. He looked at his watch. 8 p.m. Time to go home. As he spread his wings and took off towards the darkening sky, he saw a group of small turkeys scramble into the reeds. Ah, fuck it. He turned his head, circled a couple of times over the swamp and then headed home south.

For the convenience of our customers we keep this train a joke-free environment.

Germany really did her best to give me a warm welcome. My train passed through icy landscapes glistening in the afternoon sun, small towns greeted me with their Christmas decoration and even the Deutsche Bahn coffee was hot and strong. I leaned back and enjoyed the ride. After one hour two women took their seats in my compartment, and when you listened very carefully, you could hear the slightest suggestions of a "hello". Or was it even two "hellos"? Tiny little, shy hellos? I wasn't sure. Maybe it was just the squeaking of the door I had heard. But that's okay. I don't have to talk ALL the time. But for one reason or the other I like to establish some kind of contact with my fellow citizens when I share a room the size of a my bed with them. Silence. Never mind. I had the beautiful landscape and a good book to entertain me. The Intercity Express was zooming along. I was slowly drifting off. Hello dreamland... Hello jetlag... Then suddenly the train braked and slowed down. The change of speed sent my sweater flying from the hat rack. Then it dropped right in the middle of the table, as if it had fallen from the skies. Everybody looked up - and nobody said a word. And there it was. I could feel it coming. I would make a joke. I could see him, my sweet unborn joke, as he fluttered around my brain, teasing me, tickling me, waiting to be set free and fill the world with joy. So when I picked up my sweater I looked at the woman across from me with feigned indignation and said to her: "Did you just do that?" Then I gave her a big smile. Which she... did not return. Instead she snapped at me: "Of course not!" and turned her head away. Nothing feigned about her indignation! She had killed my lovely little joke in midair, and it fell dead to the floor, his shiny gossamer wings broken. I couldn't believe it. Could someone really be this literal? Could someone really have absolutely no sense of humor? Could somebody really feel so bad about herself that she expects people to accuse her of something? The answer is: yes! I really didn't want to think that this was "typical German". But I did. And that is probably "typical German" too.