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New Year's Resolution

For me, keeping new year's resolutions is about as hard as getting up early in the morning on Sundays in the interest of "being productive".

Much like getting up early, a resolution seems like a noble cause to aim for, but once the time comes, it seems so much easier to pull the covers over your ears and ignore the nagging voice in your head urging you to, at least once, live up to the promises you made to yourself, not long ago.

Thus, due to what economists call θ, or "time preference"* I will no doubt find myself, as millions of my commiserates on earth reneging on my oh so well meant promises.

Though this year will undoubtedly be no different, I will attempt to circumvent the problem by using a "shock and awe" approach: brainstorm so many resolutions, that by force of sheer statistical probability, I will be bound to achieve at least one.

1. Re-start blogging

2. Learn Sailing

3. play (more) violin

4. re-discover the art of writing (to illustrate the depth of my destitution, it suffices to say that it took me 2 minutes to properly formulate this point)

5. attend more political events (like book clubs).

6. focus, instead of just on input-related activities (reading the Economist, going to museums), also on output-related activities (writing, painting)

7. refocus on core values (like living for knowledge, insight, conversation)

8. develop a certain positive attitude to work

9. do something crazy

10. learn to cook

11. continue to attempt speed reading

12. ...aaand the obligatory last point: go to the gym more often

Note the way, however, you might only know about my success at points 2-12, if I don't break resolution 1. And, as we know, that one can be a hard enough resolution to follow

* (and what is tellingly in essence just another sort of egotism enjoyed by homines oeconomici - this time against their own future selves)

Very Random Comeback Post about Fitness Studios

It is my strong belief that there is a tiny lesson in each and every situation life serves up, if one just looks hard enough. Okay, so I really had to squint to make out the following observations, but it was all well worth it, for now I can present to you all the lessons that one can learn from one visit to the local Fitness Studio (name of fitness Studio omitted in fear of legal litigation / blows-of-fist from muscle-laden, involved parties).

Lesson I: Those lessons we learn as children can be valuable also when we think that we are no longer children.

Remember all the books we used to read - or, to be truthful: look at pictures in - as children? Those fascinating books that tried to make a complex world more understandable by stressing all the fascinating, hidden connections at work in this existence?

I mean, of course, the Where's Waldo series we used to peruse. They propagated the notion that there will always be, behind every topsy-turvy situation, a little bit of "meaning" -- embodied in the fact that there was somehow, somewhere always a guy wearing a striped shirt. (One of the reasons I actually humbly suggest the renaming of the series from "Where's Waldo" to "There's Waldo Again").

Of course, little did we know at the time that this immensely simplified notion would turn out to be wildly correct, though after visiting the fitness studio for the umpteenth time, I can definitely state that Waldo does not wear a striped shirt. Instead, the real Waldo is an older, oriental-looking man with a beard much like the one I am currently touting, with short black pants and a gray shirt, whose exentric body movements automatically identify him as being present each and every time I visit the gym - whether he is powerwalking out of the dressing room, preparing to mount a "Milon Circle" machine (one of those contraptions with the bizzarre, proturding antaenne that are meant to be pumped in a rythmic fashion in a fusion of man and machine so perfectly ridiculous that I can only but refrain from indulging); or at the end, popping up at the automatic doors with his eerie smile, just as I am about to sneak out hoping not to have spotted him, just once.

Lesson II: Cute, innocent-looking girls prefer macho supermen.

Okay, so maybe some of you took less time than I did to figure this one out. I for one, grew up believing those "love is..." caricatures, where the boy and the girl are roughly of the same size, or at least of the same size category.

Alas, the cruel reality of the gym teaches us otherwise. Witness Mary and the Incredible Hulk, a staple presence at the freeweight section almost as omnipresent as Waldo.

I remember the first time I saw this duo in action, in essence a tragedy (at least from my perspective) in three acts:

Foreplay:

I go to the free weights section, chest-press 2*10kg+the bar (!), and am instantly proud of this small lift for man, giant-ass lift for someone who is essentially a boy. Enter cute blonde girl, who proceeds to said freeweight session, notices and endorses the 2*10kg+the bar with a smile thrown in my direction & I wonder whether I need to revise my preconception that I never have the luck to meet and date hot chicks from gyms.

Act 1: The tragedy takes its course

Enter giant steroid animal, who proceeds to add, to my 2*10kg, several*10kg (+the bar), upon which he receives a wonderful cooing pat from the above cute blonde. This incredible concentration of testosterone and muscle tissue now proceeds to be as rough with those poor weights as those weights are usually rough with poor me. His grunting is accompanied by general condolences ushered by said blonde chick.

Act 2: the sweaty catharsis

The WTF!8???!*20kg are now removed from the bar, and the giant belt girdling our Adonis is unlatched with the same ceremony as if it were some heavy weight boxing title. Our meat monster then proceeds to help said cute chick lift the bar several times, probably some sinister allusion to the fact that my 2*10 kg was something pretty close to what his girlfriend lifts.

Act 3: the happy ending (only for 2/3 of involved parties)

The drama closes with the two kissing, just to make her presumable conviction most blatantly obvious to me: the fact that her "partner" could snap someone like me in two goes some ways to addressing her need for that feeling of security she's seeking in an exciting and fulfilling relationship.

Lesson III: Never, ever believe the official sauna pictures (or: actual content may vary)

Okay, it's not like I went out and bought my fitness abo based on this:

I didn't, because although I do still believe in some things (like the FNAC salesman who told me I needed a $125 gold-plated cable to connect my DVD player to my beamer), I no longer believe in other things, like "heaven", or "truth in marketing".

In real life, the sauna is built of a dark, sweat-soaked wood, more ruddy in character; and instead of young, beautiful naked women, there are old, hairy, albeit naked men.

Finally, unlike what the picture seems to insinuate, I no longer expect enlightenment, in the form of a satisfying bright radiating beam, to touch me at the sauna.

Apparently, an internet site called 123people.ch has made it its mission to gather pointless, confusingly garbled data about me for all to find and cherish as the first thing in sight when you google my name (uh-oh, so I just gave myself away...). Unfortunately, the lack of love with which the facts were assembled hints at computer involvement.... Apart from an assortment of photographs of random strangers who apparently, for some reason, come to the computer's mind when it thinks of my name (one thing they all have in common is that they all look French and kinda sleazy), there is quite a revealing "tag cloud", which I recommend to all of you who really want to start understanding me (it has this sort of "portal to my unconscious" flair, especially because I don't get it, either):
Bayern Design job Eth zürich Martin Aktualität Hungary Contest Abschluss Teilw Unisg Flies Projektes Car design Blogging Graph München Austausch Best car Darst Boesch Mecon


as you can see, you were right, all along... and all those years you kept on telling me that I should just listen to that part of me that wants to burst out... you were talking... of course... about Teilw!!!

Let's get this baby started again.

Yesterday, I was smoking a cigarillo in my bathtub with the lights out, treating* the room with Chopin from a stereo perched perilously close to the water...

In the bathtub, a little rhyme occurred to me:

In the darkness, there's a light:
a cigarette burning in the night...

and with that, welcome to the understated, hush-hush, yet nevertheless significant relaunch
of dead flies, orchestrated, heh heh, from my bathtub.


* The wonderful German word "beschallen", is, according to Leo, translated as "to treat with sound"

Humble new beginnings.

I have been fantasizing about re-starting my blog for a couple of months now. This post will be the first step in that direction. So, hello world. Here I am again. Wiser? Well, older, for sure... It's been a while...

I'm thinking of getting a Harley-Davidson...

I admit that with trends in the family, it's often like the America-Europe paradigm for us in our family: my brother seems to be ahead by 3 years or so with every trend. About that much time ago, my bro bought himself a Speed Triple.

Today, he got free tickets to the Swiss Moto 08 and I trepidatiously agreed to go with him and Ildi to check out what the fuss was about.

Amm... ehh... look behind you...
Adam and Ildi trying some Honda Cruiser
Me on the Harley I would consider my favourite. I already had infos sent home... A slight detail is that I would have to learn how to actually ride a motorcycle. I have already talked to Adam's instructor and he told me step one is to go to a trial lesson, to see how far I am already. I think I'll do that, once I'm in Basel and I have some time.


Road trippin'

My new flat in the heart of Basel

Tomorrow, I'm signing the documents for starting my new existence. I got real lucky, and found a charming, over 70 square meter flat in the historic city, literally 20m from Basel's heart, the Barfüsserplatz.
Arrows point to the flat's windows, and to the right, the Barfüsserplatz can be seen.

The staircase...

The living room, with the outjutting bay window. Im planning to buy a projector, so I can show movies on the large wall to the back ;)

The bedroom

The roomy kitchen

The kitchen panel

The bathroom

Madrid, Marylin, Marry Moo Year 2008.

Ayayayay.... Here I am, back from vacation in Madrid, and all I got you is a lousy post card:


with Marilyn Moo-nroe. If it helps any, I'm probably committing a blatant act of copyright infringement just making this picture available to you, so if you don't agree with its message, then you at least have the peace of mind that I might get sued. I must say, I found this card to be absolutely hilarious. Not in the ha-ha type of way, but in a genuinely cute and funny kind of way; and if you don't agree, well, sucks to you, cause I, and all of us, ought to be preparing for a happy Moo Year 2008, whatever the hell that means.
What could it mean? The new year will bring us higher oil prices, an unstable Pakistan with nuclear weapons, another opportunity for the US to bless us with a loony president, and more global warming which seems, contrary to its promise, to make summers and winters alike colder, at least here in Switzerland.

So what I, Berti, will be doing is looking for the "island" in the chaos, and I sense that that will require, besides great perseverance, an XXL sense of humor, as shown on my final postcard from Madrid:yes monkey that's, XX bloody L.

And because there will be enough challenge not just for me, but for everyone in 2008, I wish all of you, too, an XXL humor, and a very, very happy (2)mOO(8) year.

random picture & I'm going to Madrid.

just as it seemed like my life had deteriorated to flying back and forth between Frankfurt and Zürich, increasingly revolving around trainings, partying with colleagues, and indiscriminate money spending, suddenly the holiday spirit set it and I found myself re-catapulted into family life around the Christmas tree. However, just as things were getting too cozy, I realized one of the grand truths of my new life: that suddenly, I had lots of money and little time, instead of lots of time and little money (if you're looking for deeper truths, check my other blog). Thus was born the idea to go to Madrid for new year's, to give birth to a few new entries on my impressions of the Iberian peninsula. Iberian peninsula, here I come...

My Blogging Helps You Cope.

au lecteur - to the reader.

as you arrived in my blog's belly
an extra hit did my counter tally
my dear, you err inside a thread
where wise men truly fear to tread!

but I console you with a fact,
that your mind (till now) truly lack'd:
that though Peer Gynt an onion peels
as man himself for the core reels

There is no core of this entry!
no truth- but jest, there is plenty!

However, as long as there is still more time,
there will always be a rhyme
and another lay'r to peel away
and another stupid thing to say!!
[otherwise, try peeling something with
more of a core, like an avocado, or visit www.nietzsche.de]

evocation of my Muse.

Oh, somewhat be-muddled muse of all things blogged
haunting the molten plastic perfum'd blogosphere!
You, passionate one, who kisses our eyes, CRT-flogged
to us, bastard sons of an electronic Narciss, be near!

...as we yet again luggage our Facebook profiles,
with the sweet URL siren-call of our irrelevant blogs,
in the vain hope of catching, what out there lies:
another key-bor'd-potato, whose soul already sogs,

be-moist'nd by the wish
for another "easy" dish:
the Saran wrapp'd TV-dinner
of the internet age: the "blog".

Oh you vixen Muse, hear my call!
Make many, many ... for me fall!

don't be ashamed: being deep inside my blog is just as obscure a place as visiting www.wired.com

An Ode to the blogger.

Oh! You bloggers, who your secrets
from your parents keep,
with the fanatic determination of viperous Cerberus;
but are unashamed to exhibit them openly
to 2.5 billion other people!
To you goes out this ode, and to all
the under categories of you, whose tendencies
Google is so happy to index
to the detriment of those just trying
to find niche internet porn.

Let me start with, you, sweet girl bloggers,
who adorn your sites
with such star-trailing cursor magic
& perfuming pink style templates
that the visiting man
cannot but faint from its overbearing insense!

Then to you, oh bards, you sharers of deep experience
Tell me, which shops you visit, and musics you listen to,
which sounds play from your electric harp-proxies.
Are you currently listening to an underground group
called Monkey Idol? Rest assured, I care,
though alas, today I've forgotten my pen...

And you, bricoleurs, you hobby reviewers of digital trinkets!
Tell me, how you cleaned the CCD on your Sony DSC-P200!
Tell me, how you can boost the range of Bluetooth mice!
May God grant you the Odysseuses you seek
who crave precisely that knowledge
in the wild nihil of the internet, which your site doeth graciously, (with pictures), provide!
[And please, review the iPhone!]

Then, oh , you desperate souls, you melancholically inclined,
Tell me, like a Polar bear surrounded by global-warm'd melting ice,
how your lives have no more meaning,
but please, spray your entries with the misty insence of self-loving eloquence
Maybe then, on the next party, that you and I attend
Between the small talk, to your necrophile tendencies I can attend!

Oh, and you, baby bloggers, wrapped in delicate swaddling clothes,
who put the glint back in our eyes with their first and only entries:
"Welcome to my new blog, where I will from now on post random thoughts
and impressions on my life. Yeah, so this is my first post"
dated 2006 february.
please, write another entry, so we know that blogging is alive and well!

Oh bloggers, bloggers of the world unite!
Let us show where people need to search
the pulse of eternal life
in this internet age!

"This is Barbecue"

It is an open secret that my other blog has been more active recently. However, because I also want to entertain those for whom finding my other blog remains too daunting a challenge, I will now proceed to sharing a completely random anecdote.

When I was in Regensburg, there was an intern from Belgium, (let's just call him Mr. G...) who loved to smoke good pot. As much as he liked to indulge himself in aforementioned (in-)activity, Geoffrey had admittedly a more difficult time in actually getting the pot:

In Prague, at four-thirty in the morning, a dealer had cut him in on four centimetres of supposed premium hash compressed in a saran-wrap tube; for twenty euros, each five euro'd centimetre would actually have seemed somewhat a bargain, at least when high at five-thirty in the hostel; alas, fate would have it that the there-puffing Geoffrey went quite fast from the declaration, "mmm good shit" to "strange shit" to "this is not shit!" as the first one-millimeter layer of shit wore through to the tobacco filling.

Alas for Geoffrey, this would not be his last close call with Mary Jane; an even closer one indeed is what motivated this entry and its clou, which has since become a kind of redewendung for me. (It was no doubt partly this final adventure that sent Geoffrey packing back to Belgium, somewhat closer to the centre of European weedendom):

I also had a friend called P... (this time omitted because I actually have forgotten his name) who was considerably more successful at finding sources than poor old Geoffrey. My adventures with P... also form the butt (or shall we say, blunt) of several anecdotes, but alas, these cannot be the topic of today's post. It suffices to say that on one evening, when Geoffrey and I were again forced to face the quality (or lack thereof) of our navigation skills by not finding a certain party, which is a complicated way of saying 'one evening when we were lost in Regensburg', we randomly met P... . Now, not only did this radically increase our chances of actually getting to the club before the party was over; it also put tender, teary hope in Geoffrey's eyes of finally, as he put it, "connecting to the Galileo satellite" (evidently, besides being a fan of substance, Geoffrey was also a great fan of the European Union). Indeed, no sooner did I share with P... Geoffrey's preferences, than P... nodded understandingly and pulled out a small satchel and some papes, and proceeded to roll one. Though Geoffrey's vision was obscured by joyous, expectant tears, I saw clearly that what P... was rolling looked more like dried carrots, onion and ginger root than some of that real "sticky-icky". When confronted by my nagging doubts , P... shot back: "ja, es handelt sich hierbei um die beste Imitation, aus Indien. Fast so gut wie echt, und zehnmal so billig." "Fuer deinen Kolleg ist das eh gesunder", he added with a smirk, while handing the roll to Geoffrey. (Oh! And shall we mention, that as fitting of a tragic hero, Geoffrey had skipped most German classes that he had been offered by the university). Poor Geoffrey was thus left with his tears of joy and a hand greedily patting down his coat for a lighter. Soon, it was lit and the first expectant tokes were taken; we all eyed him questioningly, foreboding the final, tragic fall of our hero. Mouth agape, we were not dissappointed.

Said Geoffrey:

"This is not shit!... This is barbecue!"

So I leave you with this post tonight, which was not really brilliant, but also, I hope, not completely barbecue.

I read your blog entry...

The more I read other people's blogs, the more I freak out. I'm freaking about the kinds of friends I have:

suddenly, a tough-guy I know for his confidence and "bring it on" style reveals himself a gentle poet slash crybaby; a girl with a world-renowned smile reveals a heart more tormented than a fat man doing bodyPump(TM); and a colleague known for a clear head and analytic standpoints churns out blog entries slaloming between obscure new-age music discoveries and contemplating suicide. Guys, let me just ask you: why don't you tell us these things up front, so we can help? Is it because of the conviction that no-one reads your blogs anyways, so you might as well, or because you somehow feel these things so embarrassing that you'd rather give it to us in writing, and then shut your eyes and hide behind a pile of coats? The thing is, if you write it in your blogs, it's kind of public. So from now on, beware. I might just throw in a question about your foot fetish, just *bam* in the middle of the small talk you seem to prefer when you're not around your computers.

In Zürich.

Ok, so dead flies is dead. It wasn't "the people" who killed it, much the way it wasn't really "the people" who killed typewriters or good taste; they just got replaced by cooler things like computers and MTV, and left with their heads hanging.
Ok ok, so I admit it, the fact is dead flies died because I killed it. But I have an excuse, which is that recently, my life has been reduced to sitting at home with my shirt off, either working on my thesis paper, or watching TV while drinking liters of "high C" orange juice, only to use the empty cartons as projectiles to hit the channel change or volume adjust buttons. While engaged in such deliciously duotonous (as in, paradoxically, two times monotonous) activity, I would sometimes drift and slumber, and before I would wake myself with my own hideous first snore, I would dream of those times when my blog got tons of visitors, with enough third-party comments to actually bathe me in the illusion that people were actually, God knows why, taking their time to read my absolutely random rantings. So in this second before the snore, I made up my mind, however childish and insignificant it seemed, to strike a blow towards whatever my blog represents by again blogging something. And while this post seems to demonstrate that you actually CAN make something out of nothing much, it also demonstrates that that something then, due to the infinite justice at work in the world, actually ends up adding up to nothing much.

Rümlang Bodyflying

Paris... one more time

It breaks my heart to see the counter on my page creep up, while the number of weeks since I haven't posted just keeps increasing. It seems like a pyramid scheme doomed to fail in the long term. To keep all those dead flies fans alive, here a few commemorative "good-bye" snapshots of Paris, courtesy of Marc's telephoto lens.

Bretagne!

Continuing a dear dead flies tradition, the computer ate this post the first time I wrote it.
So I wrote it again, because I know that the computer likes seconds.

Ah yes, the little squares of Rennes, teeming with life, booming and echoing with thousands of chatting denizens who should actually have been hard at work in plastic-and-steel cubicles, improving France's disappointing first-quarter GDP figures.

After Rennes came the first true highlight of the trip: Le Mont St. Michel; the approach was designed for maximum effect, with the majestically towering fortress throning over the landscape from miles away... the parking lot gets flooded every high tide, so we kept our cars under surveillance from the many small windows of the monastery. Interesting note: the very top of the Church was finished in the 20th century and added via helicopter.

Inside, a surprisingly serene atmosphere...

the monastery hall..
...the visit effeting our entourage to the point that they reenacted the dead WWI soldier stance on a field nearby, shortly after leaving for Dinard...

On the way to another highlight, another highlight: the forest in Huelgoat, alias the devil's bowling alley. We climbed down into the caves below, where light is thrown in thin beams into the musky darkness.

Then, finally, the cliffs of Crozon, our final destination... the view below...
Tamas testing his life insurance.
Who knew France had these treasures, other than the Guide Michelin?
On the way back, we stopped in several picturesque towns, above the Roman/early Gothic Pleyben, home of the Pleyben cookies.

Menez Hom, supposedly the best panorama in the Bretagne, overvalued in our opinion (see picture)

the obligatory beach picture, keeping in tradition. Above: Tamas running from seaweedman. (Seaweedman not pictured) A flower, courtesy of Katrin, which sprang about at an evening BBQ session at a backpacker's hostel somewhere in Bretagne.

And then: just us, and the sea.


The adventurous eight. From 1' o clock: Paul (CAN), Celia (CAN), Tamas (H), Euripides (BRA), Mika (SWE), Kathrin (SWE), Gustavo (BRA) & Yours Truly.