The postman came visiting. I was here, but apparently the doorbell didn’t ring (right), and so I couldn’t sign for my new credit card. Instead, I found a note in my mailbox, informing me to go pick it up at the bank (this one organization serves as a bank, and as the central post here)… Anyway, at lunch today, I realized I was in the direct vicinity of the branch I had to go to, so I dropped by there to pick up my card. Except they wouldn’t give it to me. I didn’t have my passport on me, and no amount of talking and showing my various other cards, and Ids with my name on them would convince the post mistress, ingrained in bureaucracy and with a red-tape fetish that would make any government official back home blush, to just give me my mail.

I know, I know. She was doing her job. I needed to have my passport, and no other form of ID was allowed. I respect that. But it makes you wonder, is it really better to have such strict rules, and to have everything run in such an orderly, organized and controlled manner? Does that really improve our lives?

Back home, to conduct any bank business, i’d go in, they’d serve a coffee while someone took care of what needed to be done. No trouble. They know you, and they themselves can vouch for you. No IDs necessary. You’re valued, it’s a social experience. It’s what makes us human, somehow.

Here’s the cute catch.This form of business is definitely secure. People know each other, so no one could pretend they were me, but my brother could easily go to the bank and they’d have no problem taking care of some transaction that I’d asked him to do for me. Maybe a big difference is that there are many more people here, but still, the idea is fantastic.
It’s great living by rules, and not all of them are meant to be enjoyable. That’s absolutely acceptable. Between a society governed by unbendable, nonnegotiable rules, and chaos, I’d chose the former. Add the third option, a society where rules are a correct means to an end, and can be therefore be bypassed if another correct means were possible. I’m sold.

disclaimer: corruption, crime, man’s inexplicable tendency to do evil… yeah, I’d consider those if this were a thesis. As it stands, this is a rant - a much lesser form of didactic, and ergo, no science was involved, no hypothesis were formed, and none of the above can be negated. Except by another rant. Which is a manifestation of the third option anyway. So I’m still right.

Opera reignites Islam row after cancelling production. In the play, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad and Poseidon are beheaded. The Deutsche Oper decided to scratch the opera and replace it by “The Marriage of Figaro”, after Berlin officials warned of possible repercussions (retaliations by Muslims, is what they meant, of course).

Personally, I don’t really get modern theater. People wagging their dicks on stage, throwing up, screaming, acting delusional and what not don’t really strike my artistic chord. Some people get it, though. All that doesn’t matter, since slowly but surely a global censorship is being strictly applied to all facets of civilization.

Islam forbids the representation of their prophet, in fear of it leading to idolatry. The question that begs to be asked is, what’s the difference… you idolize a book, or you idolize the main character… so?

Then there’s the matter of the Pope. God’s messenger on Earth. Of course, Alibaba in Pakistan thinks he’s knowledgeable enough to demand an apology from god’s ambassador (voted in by 120 princes of the church, channeling the divine will, naturally). It’s the same old argument, someone says something, some sheikh or imam or whatnot, somewhere, hears part of it, makes his own (naturally, anti-west, anti-christian, anti-everything) deduction, and unleashes the hordes to burn the respective flags, dolls and other representative material.

The irony of it is in plain sight, as usual. The pope quotes a 14th century dude who says that muslims are violent. Muslims feel enraged, and, you guessed it, turn violent. It’s a vicious cycle, I tell you… stop reminding them, and maybe they’ll stop being violent.

God is infallible, apparently, but his representative is not. The pope knew what he was doing, in my opinion. He could have cited Christian violence as an example. But he didn’t. Christians have been apologizing for ages for every misdeed the church commited in the name of christianity. Why not give an example that’s contemporary for a change? Is it not a fact that most acts of violence the past few years involve Islam? Hizbollah, Alqaeda, Basayev, Zarqawi, Sadr, India, London, Madrid, Germany, New York, Sudan, Denmark, Belgium, Palestine, Jordan, Russia, Indonesia, Singapore, etc… The “causes” might be different, but the bottom line is the same.

It’s about time someone spoke the truth. Islam is a younger religion, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the world needs to wait a few centuries for this hot-blooded “young” religion to grow up. The pope hit the nail on the head. Things can not continue this way. It’s about time someone bravely stood up and quoted someone else.

I somehow find myself in a minivan, with some other researchers, heading to a foreign city for a conference. I watch detachedly as I get up at 5:30 in the morning, pack an overnight bag, shower, put on a suit, grab a terrible coffee from the only open place I see, and head towards the meeting point.

A rebelious part of me, the part that refuses in any way to be shackled by life, held back by responsibilities, and let down by adulthood wakes up at some point during the packing. He shudders when he sees me packing a pajama and groggily grabs for his music; a lifeline through the fourth dimension of my existence.He refuses to take it off while showering, shaving, teeth-brushing, dressing, and commuting. At the meeting point, he relents and allows me to utter a few incomprehensible words to my colleagues. The headphones come back on. Skip Ashkenazy playing Chopin and move on to Angra.

Laptop on, browse through photos for flickr. Type up blog post.

It’s been a winding trip that’s led me to this minivan, and this new life. Sometimes, I don’t really understand my choices, sometimes I doubt them, and my abilities. Still, i’m on the minivan, aren’t I?

A 21-year old “LEBANESE” student was arrested on terror charges in Germany a couple of days ago. He was planning to bomb commuter trains in two German cities. Apparently, he was able to place the bombs on the trains, but they didn’t detonate when they should have.

“Terrorism has reached Germany”, as the media would like to put it. I personally was always doubtful of any terror attacks inside of Germany, because these guys have so much free reign over here (what with acceptance and the prevalent anti-anti-racism campaigns) that any attack would only harm their cause.

The question for today’s game is quite simple. Guess the kid’s religion. (hint: It’s one of the three major monotheistic religions!)

“The English may have invented this game (one of these years they’ll actually get around to playing it), but the Italians know all of its tricks, all of its angles, all of its shadows. If Machiavelli was around today, he’d be a midfielder for the Azzurri.” -  The Boston Globe,  July 10, 2005.

Although I disagree in general with the stance this piece takes on soccer and the world cup in general, I couldn’t help but nod along to the part discussing the Italians’ style (or lack thereof). Personally, my interest faded in this tournament with Brazil’s ousting (ze French baztards, heee) and it was over for me when Italy got past the Germans. France vs. Italy in the Finals? The team I vehemently hate against the team you just can’t like? It could get worse than that.

While I respect his talent, I’ve always hated Zidane. Last night wasn’t the first time he’s gone all Clichy-sous-Bois on the pitch. The guy plays dirty, but is smart enough to get away with it most of the time. It was appropriate (and slightly rewarding, I must admit), for me to see him get sent off like this. Sure, it’s a sad way for a great talent to end his career, but then again… Ha!

The Italians are world champions? That’s going to take a while to digest.

Personally, my main thought after the game was: “What the hell did Materazzi say to Zizou?” Damn, something that would make someone lose control like that… that has to come in Handy!

Only in German supermarkets will you find peanut butter in the “non-food” section. Peanut butter. Not food. Sad. So.Very.Sad.

Also, I just saw someone using my old nickname/nom-du-blog… the one I’d had for several years, and had recently stopped using. I said it out loud, and it rang hollow. It didn’t mean a thing to me. A bit later, I felt kinda sad… but it’s as if that part of that phase of my life is a distant experience… not close to a memory… bah. Time.

I have a strange relation to my two-seat couch when using my laptop. I can only work if I’m sitting on the left side… If I try working when on the right side, I fall asleep, or I start a game of cards. If I try playing a game while sitting on the left side, I lose terribly, feel disgusted by the game and stop playing.

Overheard tour-guide in Berlin:

“So, post-war Germany was to be divided between the allies. The Americans took parts of West Germany, the British controlled parts of North-western Germany, and the Russians took parts of East Germany. Then the French said they wanted a part, since they thought they were Allies too… hehe, seriously.”

So, Brazil played in Berlin on Tuesday. God did the Brazilian chicks make a comeback. I can’t believe that I’d doubted them and sided with Sweden for a moment!

On the other hand, it’s a scientifically proven fact that football/soccer goes down well with a beer, but not with women. A female friend (and boy am I going to get my head chewed off for this!) had some interesting questions and remarks during the Sweden/Paraguay game:

“How do they know how much time to add on?”

“I don’t know… they estimate, I guess.”

“Do they round up or down?”

“Umm… I don’t know.”

“Do they have a time limit on the extra minutes they add?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wow, did you see that goal? He wouldn’t have been able to score that header if he wasn’t bald”

“What???? I’m totally blogging this!”

Germany played Poland on wednesday, apart from the predictable fights erupting all over the place, the game was pure madness. I was watching it at home, and I could hear the crowds cheering like crazy on my street… tons of people gathered at every single place with a tv, pubs, cafes, restaurants, grocery stores… this whole town is on fire… it’s seriously an amazing experience.

ps: Tomorrow is a day of major announcements at the realm. Tune in!

Not much to say regarding the world cup. One sad thought: Swedish fans are turning out to be way hotter than the brazilian chicks so far. That’s surprising, and sad. There’s still time to go, and the babes of brazil can still show up and blow me away. Here’s hoping i’m not cheering on the swedes when push comes to shove.

I had this weird dream the other night. I killed someone. Killed them in cold blood. I’d allowed people to be killed before, but had never done it in person. I felt really bad the entire next day… this coming from someone who rarely ever dreams (ok…ok… smartasses… someone who rarely ever remembers his dreams).

In different news, I witnessed the first accident in three years in Germany. A car turned the corner right next to my building. The driver didn’t notice the tram coming and ran into it, was dragged for 50 meters or so, and had her car wedged between the tram and a parked car. This took place right below my window. I was on the phone, and the person I was talking to asked “did someone just break a plate?” And I was like… no… a tram just broke a car.

Anyway, the street was blocked, firemen rescued the stuck girl from her car, and cleared up the mess, I took a couple of photos, and an hour or so later, traffic resumed, and five or six trams passed one after the other.

pretty mundane story for someone living (and driving) in Lebanon, but still… a crash? broken glass? bent metal? That’s exciting news any day of the week over here!!!

My roommate: “Did you see the girl? She’s cute, isn’t she?” That’s why i love this guy.

Some guy called Tempest, who once had a blog, had a disclaimer that stated that all his posts were induced by an emotional state, happiness, sadness, etc… but never when normal. That isn’t true, as I have recently learned.

I went to sleep a couple of nights ago and I heard this women singing. I look out my window and see a black american lady talking about gospel music and singing some songs… THIS is my new neighborhood. Quite a change, let me tell ya.

I haven’t blogged because I moved into a new flat, and haven’t been working for a while. This means no regular access to the net, ergo, no comfortable surroundings to blog. That was the excuse, or the reason that none could argue with. The more honest LeRamz would actually admit that he was going through a rough patch. That is behind me, hopefully. Existential angst and what not… work, university, carreer, and her… not in that particular order, mind you…

Anyway, I restarted smoking… I still want to stop, but I won’t force myself to go through a weird phase just in order to quit smoking. I got wasted this one night and it triggered a chain reaction which culminated in me thinking things through (I admit… thinking sucks… it always lead to negative thoughts… more on that at some point). I thought things through and realised that it was all within my hands… and I took control. Nothing resolved, but all under control. whatever.. i’m not one to philosophise.

I start work again on monday, so I’ll have somewhere to upload my photos and blog posts from… maybe I’ll finally write about rome and the other shit from earlier… maybe I’ll just drink myself to sleep and forget.

This summer is shaping up to be something fantastic, friends coming over, living with my best friends in one of the coolest (hottest?) streets in town [KastanienAllee for you who are familiar with Berlin's Mitte]…

Yup, yup. My window overlooks the street itself, kinda loud but that’s beyond the point. There’s nothing better than waking up, looking out of the window and having two hot Mitte chicks walking down the street look up at you… let me tell ya.

I fell asleep to the singer’s gospel songs…

“I’d choose jesus over silver and gold… silver and gold, silver and gold…”

you realise you’re being assimilated when you run out at 22:07, pass by the store quickly to get a couple of beers, and run to catch the 22:10 bus. two beers,running after bus, and sipping on the beer. You reach the bus and jump in as the driver closes door, hitting you in the head. A few seconds of staring him down later, you say: “I’m ok” to which he responds “yeah… no spilled beer”. You wonder if that is an examle of racism or simple priorities.

You get off the bus and come crashing down to Earth. The two beers the cute store assistant handed you were Alcohol-free. A German would have picked up on that miles away. It took you 10 minutes. Your friends spot you walking with Alc-free beer and recognize the beer almost before they recognize you!

Lesson learned: There is NO alcohol-free Whiskey.

I watched the second round of the Champions’ League knockout stage between Werder Bremen (Germany!) and Juventus… It was an experience… (even makes up for the boring ‘date’)…

Bremen had won in the home stage and could have easily won this won… the Germans went crazy when they scored a goal early on, and held on to the lead throughout the first half… as usual, my outsider mode kicked in, and I was passively taking it all in, not really caring about the game, or the people, or the atmosphere… I don’t believe in forced euphoria… if it comes, it comes naturally…

Anyway, the Italians tied it, some twenty minutes into the second half, and here’s where things got funny… the bar went still… a hundred crazed fans suddenly stopped breathing and synchronized their heart beats to the ticking clock on the big screen… it was all well until two minutes before the end of regulation… the goalkeeper, who had done a commendable job, made a pretty save and decided to add some Hollywood to it… he jumps, twists, hits the grass and rolls… unfortunately, he loses his grip on the ball, and a Juventus player gently drives it into the goal… 2:1 Juventus, Bremen was heading towards an elimination…

The pub uttered a collective gasp of surprise, agony and rage… I had to keep myself from giggling (Giggle LESS!)… It was Emerson, the Brazilian squad’s captain who’d driven the proverbial stake into the german fans’ hearts… to me, it’s always a good day when a brazilian footballer gives it to a german one… the goalkeeper was distraught, the players were spent… the commentator could only repeate “It’s god’s will” over and over again… all around  me, people were cursing… a guy right behind me alternated between “Fucking Torino”, “It can’t be true”, “ShitFuckCrap”, and “I can’t believe it” for the rest of the game, the recap, and the remainder of the evening… someone started sobbing in the background… the bartender stopped serving drinks and just stood there, shellshocked. There was a rush to the toilets; one after the other, the sad fans pissed out the remains of liters of Beck’s (Beer from Bremen!)… I wish I had my camera…

Someone had recently burst a bubble of mine by telling me that I didn’t look italian (Gasp!!!)… I thanked the gods for that… and laughed silently… The commentator had recovered and was going on and on about this being a once-in-a-lifetime situation, and something about the end of the world…

A replay of the lucky goal later on elicited a “This is football at its most brutal… a freefall from heaven into hell… insufferable pain… i’m going numb” from the self-same commentator, Fritz Von Thurn und Taxis…

The barkeeper was well into his fifth beer as we walked out the door.

I’ve been expecting this for a while. It’s happened often enough before that I’ve learned to live with it, to feed off of it, even, somehow, to enjoy it.

It’s been a struggle staying happy and cheerfull. It shouldn’t be that way. I’ve tried forcing myself, I’ve tried convincing myself, hell, I’ve even tried force-feeding it to others…. but enough. It was always hollow… it’s not right when you have to make an active effort to feel joy, satistfaction, relaxation, or passion. It’s just wrong.

Four issues have been weighing me down. Emotional, Carreer-related, Academic and Familial. Between yesterday and today, all four came to confrontations. I did a stupid work-thing out of sheer frustration. I was able to resolve that this morning…. that, at least, will be OK.

I’ve been waiting for my results, which I should have gotten a couple of weeks ago, to no avail. I called today, and it seems that the only thing missing is the grade from the secondary examiner. Don’t know him, don’t know how important his grade is, don’t know anything…. but at least I’m relieved… there was no snag with the first examiner.

Again, I’ve decided to risk it and just talk over my familial issues…. what’s the worst that could happen?

Here’s the thing, I believe in communication. Which brings me to the fourth issue that required some sort of resolution. Strangely, it’s the one issue that really holds me down, and keeps me unhappy. In ways, it’s the least important, but to me, it has occupied center-stage, if only because It’s the one area that can make me feel like I felt yesterday. It’s the only one that can squeeze my heart and not let go until I almost faint. Still, clarifying things up, by itself, is beneficial, regardless of the outcome.

Apparently, she had no idea I was attracted to her. This is where I started laughing. Wholeheartedly… for the first time in a while. I have the unfortunate gift of being able to see through people… and right there and then, I was shocked that I’d even liked her in the first place.

Apparently, the other night didn’t happen… I was laughing even harder…. Suddenly i’m seeing things? Suddenly, everyone around me is seeing things?

I’m secure enough to tell someone I like them, I’m secure enough to put myself out there…. I hate people trying to out-smart or confuse me. I’m good at that game, and that’s why I don’t play it. I can run loops around her as well as anyone else…

I won’t deny it. It hurt. That was to be expected. You like someone for a while, and then you realise it’s not going to happen… it’s not the greatest of feelings. I am able to get over that. But for that person, who you admired, to play dumb and try to put one past you…

Anyway, I told her not to flatter herself, indirectly, and that it was my issue to deal with… she was just a face. Lie. Whatever.

And then, I couldn’t smile anymore. It was another stab in that self-same spot. It aggravated old injuries, and left me weak and faint. I sometimes doubt that I can take these wounds… they’ll never heal, I think… and that’s what keeps me from being truly happy or at ease.

In ways, I’m still a fucking teenager.

I got wasted last night. I’ve rarely ever get drunk. I can keep my alcohol down. I never get drunk just from alcohol.

Here’s yesterday’s recipe:

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Realise that happiness is a far-off idea, that you’re in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

One carnation-instant-bitch.

9 large shots of MGFJ (My Good Friend Jack) downed within 30 minutes or so.

I vomited. I vomited in the bathroom. I vomited in the subway. I vomited on the street. I still am vomiting, on the inside. The vomit covers my wound, again, in something resembling a healing… but I know that wound is just waiting to be ripped open again. I know that I will probably let number four do the exact same thing. And that it will hurt just as much. And that I will blog it. I know all of that. And I vomit inside, at the knowledge.

I’m still vomiting. But that’s ok. I’ve learned to rise from this pain… it motivates me… I have my doubts, and my fears, and they grow every day… I’m not happy, I’m not at ease, I’m not enjoying my life. That’s also ok. I can take it, and more. I’ve dealt with this crap, and I can deal with it again… Each time, I’ll come out from the fight looking fresh and victorious. Each fight drives another nail into my coffin.

I told a friend last night “I’m not drunk… I’m disgusted”. I was drunk, but the only reason I got drunk was the disgust. Sadly, that’s how it’s always been.

M… you’re the best, thanks for being there yesterday.

I almost got run over by a bicycle today… around noon… up early, heading to rehearsals, feeling cheerful (somewhat) and meditating an important decision… listening to the doors…

I step into the bike lane, and at the last second, notice a girl riding a book straight towards me… I step back, dancing, and sing “keep your eyes on the road…” she rings her bell… and I hear her sing as she passes “your hands upon the wheel…”

I get on the subway… I’m so immersed in the music, I seriously missed my stop several times… the first time, I got out, drove back, and went an extra station by mistake… luckily, a friend ran into me, and kept me from getting out at the wrong station for a third time…

I overshot by two stations on the way back home… again, blame Jim… (actually, you can also blame Mr. Jack).

That wasn’t the high (low) point of my day… I did something that took a weight off my chest, but was probably not a very smart thing to do… we’ll see… you’ll hear about it later tonight.

I have a flatmate who knocks on the bathroom door whenever it’s locked. The other one also picked up this habit. I don’t get it. Is there no more respect for the sanctity of taking a dump?! Is it forbidden to bathe in peace? can I still brush my teeth?
I’m soaking in the bathtub after a long day… relaxing in a sort of decadent way… a glass of whiskey, music playing, and I’m having visions when suddenly, the knocking starts.
Knock knock.
“what!”

“who’s there?”
“fuck off. I ask that! You’ve got the joke wrong.”
“who’s there?” (I should note here, that it was a guy knocking and asking, and we’re the only two guys in the flat)
“amos… amosquito”
“what?”
“potty…who do you think it is!”
“oh.”
Another time, I’m up early in the morning, draining the sea monster, when the knocking starts.

“Jesus! What do you want?”
“Are you going to be long?”
“I wasn’t… until you started knocking, blaster. What’s wrong with you people!”
“Umm… I have to brush my teeth”
“And?”
“Are you going to be long?”
I stopped answering…
Where in the book of fucking etiquette is this sort of thing discussed?!

I mean seriously.

ps:Blaster and Potty are ‘fictional characters’ that happen to live with me. Any resemblance to people, dead or annoying, is purely coincidental. You’ll be hearing more of them for the next couple of months.

It don’t work that way… you earn your daily bread… how you eventually accomplish that may be very mundane, or very suprising.

For example, last week, I earned my daily bread translating a movie. Granted, I also earned my daily coffee and cigarettes, and my nightly nightcap that way as well..

Next week, I might earn it prostituting myself. Nothing is given.

I’m behind as always, but I am at ease because this time, it’s not for long. I always talk about the puzzle, well the pieces are finally falling into place. Who knew it would gain a foothold so easily? Who would have guessed it would gain traction so exponentially!??!

Uni-wise, the meeting last Monday was apparently very successful, athough I barely managed seven of the eleven tasks I’d set for myself, and neither handed in the second draft nor demoed the system. My professore said, and I quote: “this draft is the best thesis I have read in a long, long time”. That’s a Prof. Dr. Dr. (two doctors in one!!) saying this. True, I now have to actually do the stuff I’d bragged about doing in the paper, but just finishing those basically guarantees me a good grade, a very good grade. My thesis and system are due on the 31st of January. I defend my thesis on February 8th.

Workwise, I’m working right now, and I’ve got two gigs coming up in the coming weeks that should support me for some time. The plans to stay in Berlin and find my own flat are also now written in stone. It’s all happening, one skip at a time.

All that’s left is clearing out the PhD issues, which shouldn’t be that complex, and that would imply even more funding and financial security. In 13 days, my time will be my own again. I’ll finish this blog’s design, create my website, and start taking photos as frequently as a few months ago. I’ve got a part in a play in may, summer draws ever closer, the soccer world cup is soon as well. A vacation in february or march is all but certain, the first real time off in almost three years…(not really, but close to one, at least)

Yeah it’s good… and it’s all taken or earned. None given.

So much for maxims.

Aren’t homos supposed to be infinitely better dressers than heteros? Isn’t it supposed to be a fact that their fashion sense is envied by everyone else?

I saw a guy today wearing a pink scarf, a red handbag with flowers etched on it and a purple umbrella. What’s worse, he wore a green belt and brown shoes. Even I know that those should have matching colors.

Another cliché down the drain.

I injured myself in drama group yesterday. I haven’t been hurt in ages, but yesterday, while “acting”, I managed to twist my thumb, cut open my upper lip, and bump my nose. All whithin two minutes.
Ok, let me rewind. We start out every rehearsal with some “acting exercises”. Occasionally, these include games. It was during one of those games, with me chasing a girl that I slipped and slammed my face on the side of a chair. The group oooh’d and aaah’d and asked me if I was ok. I said yeah and continued chasing, and caught the girl. It was her turn to run after me, again, I slip, and manage to put a hand out there to save my face. Bam. Twisted thumb. I get up again, finish the game and get back in formation. I actually have a very high pain threshold, and that was doubled due to a little machismo act I was put on for someone’s benefit.

Talk about putting your everything into the part. Yeah!

I guess a week of next t no sleep at all (more on that stuff soon) could be held responsible as well.

Anyway, all this taught me was that I’ve got to be more active again. My pain tolerance is still as high as ever, but the days of playing three hours of gruesome football on the beach, hitting, slamming, tackling, grinding it out against people twice your weight, and returning home all bruised are long gone.

Those days marked my mid-to-late spring, when the ski season would be fading, and the sea would be still a bit too cold for swimming. I miss those violent, bloody, days.

In other news, I’m a confused little boy. There’s a friggin’ babelfish in my head, but instead of automatically translating Venus lingo into Earth-speak (or Mars-speak, in keeping with the cheese), it’s gnawing at the insides, swallowing those few remaining brain cells that overnights and my good friend Jack haven’t dealt with. C’est la vie, eh?