Yesterday a close friend of mine told me that I tend to emphasize that I’m unlike people expect me to be. I remember a time during my studies where I felt like avoiding any stereotype just to finally find myself in a stereotype I definitely didn’t want to be affiliated with. I learned that the magic lies in the mixture not in the avoidance of any stereotype.

Over the last few weeks I started to play verbal ping-pong with two colleagues at work. Quick-witted, energetic, observant, and a bit eccentric people. Men. Of course. Our last discourse ended in a statement that I’m always implying sexual stereotypes with a final conclusion that I’m either having problems with men or women. The statement hit me even though it was a classical attack, and even though I’m definitely not the only one in our game playing sexual stereotype inclinations.

Surely I’m still a bit obsessive with stereotypes. I tend to see them everywhere, and wish we wouldn’t follow them like ducklings follow their mother duck, but usually a stereotype exists for some reason. I’m still working on why I have that urging desire to be different than people expect me to be, and I definitely still am working on that “mixture”.

I’m having a conclusion to this post hanging at the tip of my tongue for an hour now. I’ll work on formulating it…


Summertime. It’s hot (or at least sometimes it’s warm…). People switch their footwear from full cover to light cover like flip flops, sandals, and the like. Honestly sometimes I’d wish they wouldn’t. It’s one thing if you have ugly feet, but quite another if you don’t care at all for your feet. Horny skin. Overlong toe nails. One year old nail polish. It’s disgusting.
Please have mercy with your feet.
And me. 


It’s Euro 2008 and everyone becomes nationalistic. For those who already waved their national team good bye, choices are completely open. Since I’m following the European Championships and World Cups I’ve been a tifosi, and I always – just always – need to defend myself for my choice of team. If I’d fan for Germany nobody would ask any questions (as I’m technically German). So I claim my right that I don’t need any reasons.

But finally I’d say these would be reasons enough…



Brief an den Gärtner

Mein lieber Gärtner

Jetzt wohne ich bereits so gut wie zwei Jahre in meiner kleinen Höhle (= Parterrewohnung im Herzen Wipkingens). Letztes Jahr hab ich von Dir sozusagen gar nichts mitgekriegt. Du hast – glaub ich – ab und zu mal den Rasen gemäht und drei Pflänzchen gestutzt, die es sich erlaubt haben, über den Weg zu wuchern.

Heute komme ich also heim und will meinen Ferrari (= mein Fahrrad) auf meiner Terrasse parkieren und entdecke meine bis anhin schon fast urwaldmässig überwucherte Gartenecke sozusagen fast vollkommen “kahlrasiert”. Alle Hecken sind nur noch halb so hoch und alle sonstigen Gebüsche auf ein mageres Gestrüpp mit drei Blättern zurecht gestutzt.

Die Wohnung erscheint nun in hellem Licht… Einerseits ja sehr schön. Andererseits kann ich ja nicht nur wieder raus gucken. Die Nation kann mir jetzt auch definitiv in die Hütte gucken. Ein etwas entblössendes Gefühl.

Muss ich mir jetzt wirklich ernsthafte Vorhänge besorgen? Oder kann ich mich in meiner eigenen Wohnung nun nur noch im Bad umziehen? Oder soll ich mir so ein Raumteilerdings besorgen, was die lasziven Damen im Film immer haben?

Einmal mehr: Fragen über Fragen. Und dabei hab ich Dir nicht mal bei Deiner Arbeit zu sehem können… Gopf!


When I was a young teen, I though Chucks were really cool. Like almost all of my friends and class mates. But I didn’t get any because they were to expensive, and my mom thought that rubber stuff can’t be good for my feet.

A couple of years later I got fake white Chucks, that I also used on the tennis ground. Which turned them into that funky reddish color of tennis grounds.

My first real Chucks I got about three or four years back. Almost into my thirties… And that pair died today. Orange. So I’d like to honor them with a minute of silence…

<a minute later>

But I got myself a new pair already. I thought – at my age – I’d probably go a bit more sophisticated. White leather. With orange laces.


Went to see Sex and the City yesterday. Oh well. It’s pretty long, doesn’t hold many surprises, but reminded me again how precious friendships are. Especially the long lasting ones. The tricky thing with those frienships are that you probably at one point had a lot in common, but with getting older you usually begin to share a deep understanding and respect for each other, but your lives don’t have that much in common any more. And of course from the start you have a different character and especially a different history and family.

What scares me most is the closer you get, the more vulnerable you get within that friendship and the more dependent for the support that friend gives you. And then again you learn the most about yourself with a honest direct friend by your side holding up a mirror. So no matter what, its worth fighting for, but never loose yourself in it.